This Is So Real

slightly mean eddie if you feel so inclined 🥹🫶 like stern kinda like how you do “mean sirius”. i just think him slightly bossing r around or being stern with her is 😍🫶

SMUT 18+ ONLY MDNI (cw: p in v, hard/mean dom!eddie, mostly just rough touches and bossing r around, some degradation, stoplight, all consensual) | fem!reader | 1.2k words

Eddie leans back, looking a tenuous mixture of unimpressed and sympathetic. "Baby, stop hiding." 

You sit with your legs spread over his legs, face pointed resolutely at the happy trail that climbs clumsily up the centre of his abdomen. "I'm not," you say, though you can't lift your gaze to prove him wrong. 

"How are you feeling?" he asks, bringing a hand to your cheek to force your head up. You smile weakly.

"Good." 

"Yeah? You know all your alerts still? What colour is this?" 

"I don't forget them." You let your legs spread wider, hissing as you sink down further on the splitting girth of his cock. "Green." 

As soon as he knows you're okay he gets mean, a subtle cruelty, squeezing your cheek in a too-tight grip. "What did I say before? Stop hiding." 

You straighten your back, hips moving in messy, slow circles and hands braced against his trim waist. You lift your head and try your best to stay up, even when the head of his cock taps into your spongy soft spot and sends a round of pleasure-shocked chills through your abdomen. 

You quiver happily. 

"You liked that?" he pulls his arms down from behind his head to grab your waist, pushing you down hard into his thighs. 

His cock kisses your soft spot again and you feel yourself tipping forward. "Sit up, doll. Up. Wanna see you, wanna see that face you make when I stretch you out." 

He lifts his hips and you gasp. "That's the one," he says, grinning. 

"Too big," you whisper, so full you can't breathe right. You're sensitive to every shift, every drag of his cock, the curve of his shaft as he digs into the pulp of your walls. 

"Say again," he says, pulling your hips into him. 

"It's too big, Eds. I don't think I can take it."  

He stares up at you assessingly. You wilt slightly under his gaze, your eyes half-lidded and lashes heavy with unshed tears. 

His pinky finger is cool as he strokes down the hill of your soft cheek. "Baby, I know how much you can take." He drops his hand abruptly. "So take it." 

He fucks up into you until you're panting, clinging to his waist and wanting desperately to bury yourself in his chest. Every time you try he pushes you back, his annoyed gaze lighting a fire in the pit of your stomach. You try to fuck him how he likes it with your hips rolling, almost bouncing over his length, but the stimulation is overwhelming. 

"Please," you say, hands sliding behind his naked back. "Please, please, Eddie." 

He tilts his head to one side. "You're so fucking clingy. Come here," he says, opening his arms with a well-acted reluctance.

You melt into him, always so relieved to garner his affection. His hands are sweet, roving up and down the length of your back in sweeping lines that soothe you like you'd wanted. "Green," you whisper before he can ask. 

He stifles a chuckle, nuzzling his face into the side of yours. "You're really fucking tight. Do you need something?" he asks. 

You think about it. "Can you touch me?" 

"Try and relax for me, okay?" he asks, hand already moving to the place where your bodies meet, thick fingers searching for the little bead of your clit. He pushes the pad of his thumb into it and draws slow circles. "If you want to take a break, we can do that." 

"I'm okay. Do you-" You gasp as he hits the right spot. "Do you want a break, baby?" 

"No. A break from moulding this sweet cunt? As if." He rolls his eyes, a burning amusement slowly changing to smugness, to mocking. "Why, do you think I need one?" 

You swallow dryly at the character he's become and shake your head. "No, I just-" 

"Just what? Think you know better than me?" 

"I just thought-" 

He laughs darkly. "Ah, and that's where you're going wrong, sweet thing. I don't need you to think about anything besides this," he gives you two sharp thrusts. You wrap your arms tight around his neck, crushing dark curls to your nose. He smells like he always does; cedarwood, a heady cologne sticks to his skin.

You clamp down around him without thinking and listen to him hiss. "That's it, that's it. Fuck. Guess there's some sense in here after all," he says, lips to your forehead.   

Your thighs tighten around him and he's more than perceptive, focusing his efforts on your clit, chasing your climax with tight circles. 

"You gonna ask me?" 

You take a big breath. "Can I cum?" 

He squeezes you tight to his chest and his skin is everywhere, touching you all over, his hands and his arms and his chest, his thighs and his cock rocking into you, as close as he can be. You gasp for air as your high approaches. 

"Be polite." 

"Please," you say quickly, quiet but forceful as you remember yourself. "Eddie, please can I? Please, please-" You squeeze your eyes shut and shy away from his touch, worried you'll cum before he says you can. 

He takes pity. "Go on, sweetheart." 

Everything dissolves. The coil snaps and you really can't breath, biting down on your index finger to stop from squealing in his ear. He pushes you through it, doesn't stop touching until you're over the crest of it and panting again. 

"Good job," he says, and you know he's done playing mean before he says, "Blue. Very blue. How are you feeling?" Blue – I want to keep fucking you, but I don't want to play mean anymore. 

You pull back and feel weak, slouched in his lap, his cock still hard as stone inside you. You do an experimental little bounce. "Blue." 

He beams and you do too, laughing under your breath as you lean down for a kiss. His lips are inviting: so soft, sweet, a short fall from tentative. You brush the hair away from his face as you pull back and take in his cheeks, pink with blush and damp with a sheen of sweat. 

"You're blushing!" you say, ecstatic. 

He groans, covering his face with both hands as he says, "Fuck off, you tease. This is all your fault. You don't know how fucking cute you look trying to climb all over me. How hard it is to push you away." 

You curl your fingers around his wrist and pull them away, pressing a kiss to the back of his hands before letting them drop. "Thanks, Eddie. For playing games with me." 

He blinks. "I like them just as much as you do." 

"I like you." 

"Wait, do you have a crush on me?" he asks suspiciously. 

You burst into laughter. Eddie joins in, though it's strangled as he shifts beneath you. You realise then how close he is to his own release, his chest rising fast. 

"Got more than a crush on you, Munson. I'll show you, if you like?" you ask, working your hips. 

His eyes close as his head drops back into the couch cushion. Neck bared, you watch his throat bob. He moans and it's haunting, you'll be thinking about it all day, a wicked exhale coloured by the deep rasp of his voice. 

"Want me to show you, baby?" 

"Please," he says. 

Through Sea Mist and Shadows (Two) Bucky Barnes x Reader

series masterlist

tuesday, march 13th, 1:06am;

The next morning you're eating breakfast at the kitchen table across from your mother. Just moments ago she had tossed a fat binder of old photos onto the wood, right next to your plate.

"I thought we'd have a laugh looking at these?" She said, and now as you flip through the frayed pages you find she was absolutely right.

There are polaroids of you as a toddler, long before your parents even thought about separating. A blue sand bucket is perched on your little head like a fashionable hat, and the sunset in the background casts gold reflections on the waves. In the following photo, you're swimming on a great big elephant raft, of course assisted by your Dad. In his younger age he is almost a completely different person, aged bleakly at the hands of the Island.

The marred cover of the book holds memories that you don't even remember, the figment of those toddler experiences a distant dream in the back of your mind.

You flip to the next page, revealing you and your big patterned book bag on her way to the first day of kindergarten. Your polka dotted sundress flows at your small calves and a lunch box hangs at your side. A big grin decorates your face and your eyes twinkle in excitement. Next to you stands a similarly posed little boy, with dark brown hair and those salient blue eyes.

"It's little Bucky!" You exclaim, pointing it out to your mom to confirm.

She hums, "Yes, I remember that. I took him with us for his first day because his mom was caught up in work on the mainland. You know, he really does help out a lot, and it's nice to have him around." She smiles sadly, "You know, despite this whole island being involved in everyone's personal lives I never really got to know his Mum. She passed while he was away in Afghanistan maybe four years ago. He was twenty-two, Rebecca was fifteen."

"What?" Your face screws up a little with the news, "That's awful. I didn't even know he joined the service before yesterday, and his mother died?"

"Yeah, after high school he enlisted and left for a while." She nods, "He doesn't talk about it though, so I wouldn't ask. He lost a lot those couple of years, to say the least."

"So it's just him and Rebecca all alone in that house then?" You ask, and you feel your heart cry out sympathetically at the thought.

When you were in middle school together, years before you had left the island, the siblings had lost their father in a freak boating accident. The poor man had been overworking himself and had drifted asleep on deck, out alone on his small fishing boat at dusk. Despite having been the most experienced fisherman on the island, he had crashed into the rocks and capsized, leaving the harbor patrol to find his body in the early hours of the morning after Mrs. Barnes called to ask about her husband.

The memory still felt fresh even for you.

For the first time in the many years of walking to school together, James hadn't met you at the end of your driveway that morning. When he didn't arrive late to school either, you had begun to worry. As soon as the bells dismissed your final class you had rushed out of the building to the Barnes' small cottage home just a few blocks away.

You remember the cop car sitting in the driveway and the front door ajar.

You remember the wailing of Mrs. Barnes as you crossed the threshold of the entrance and James sitting stiffly at the head of his dining room table, his eyes staring blankly at the wall. James never ever cried in front of anyone, but as he locked his gaze on yours that day you swear you felt the dam snap within him, and watched helplessly as the tears streamed from his eyes endlessly.

You remembered the day before this fateful event as well; when Bucky begged his father to take him along that night to check the lobster traps. And to know that the boy had now lost both of his parents hurts your heart in a way indescribable.

Your mother sighs sorrowfully, "Yeah, Rebecca was sent out to foster care in Portland for a while before Bucky came home from over seas and became her legal guardian. She must be around nineteen now?"

"God, I feel so horrible for not reaching out to him." You groan, "I don't even have a good excuse! I'm downright terrible. I can't believe no one told me she passed."

She shrugs at you, "You'll make it up to him. He's never been one to hold grudges, you know that. I assumed you knew, anyway, didn't realize you two hadn't been talking."

It's true. You remember plenty of trivial arguments on the playground, whether it be with you or another child. Bucky has always been loyal and fiercely protective of the people he cares about - protective of himself even - but he's also forgiving.

However, it's not being forgiven that you're worried about. Deep down you knows Bucky would forgive you for anything, that's just who he is.

No, what you're really afraid of is that the time apart has changed the two of you beyond recognition. You worry that despite you're best attempts, you won't be able to repair the damages your friendship took while you were growing up— while you were away. There's so much to say, so much to tell each other and you don't even know where to start. Are you even meant to pick up where you left off?

After all, you aren't kids anymore. That's the hardest pill to swallow. There won't be any more running off to the shore barefooted, bikes discarded in the dunes. Entwined fingers and soft touches are no longer innocent —maybe not even natural—and there will be no more folded notes passed silently during class. No more forts built in the woods with his mother's linen sheets and mossy branches.

It's practically uncharted territory, except the terrain never changed— it's just . . . different now.

Who knows, maybe Bucky doesn't even want that side of you anymore. Maybe you don't either.

~

After breakfast you goes up to your room to fish out some clothes and takes a quick shower to freshen up. You pull on a pair of worn jeans and an offensively purple rain jacket (cringing at your teenage self's outfit choices) before descending down and out to the barn.

The horses nicker at you instantaneously as you flip up the lock and slides open the thick barn door. Though there are eight stalls, the barn only holds four horses currently. There was a time when your mother made decent money training and selling working horses and holding riding lessons for the local kids, and back then there was never an empty stall. Now times have changed, the business has diminished and there's no longer the money for your mother to pour into her horses. She still teaches a few of the kids nearby, and it's just enough to support the existing horses but it's not the same.

You greet the horses one by one and unlock the door to the grain room at the end of the barn aisle. The black notebook sits upon a stack of vet paperwork and other various items, you flip it open and locate the page with the feeding schedule. The grain buckets sit in a neat stack against the wall, which you arrange on the floor and begin to scoop the correct amount of grain into each one, topping them off with the required supplements and powders.

Each bucket is labeled, a thick piece of silver duct tape attached to each bucket with the names scrawled in sharpie marker. You deliver each meal to the respective horse and tidy up the grain room while you waits for them to eat. After a few moments pass, you flip your hood over your head and halter each horse, leading them out one by one to the pastures for turn out just like you used to when you were young.

You must admit, you miss this part of home. You were always fond of the horses and it was one of the few ways you and your mother could bond together.

The rain patters on the rigid fabric of your rain jacket as you walk back into the barn from the paddocks. When that task is complete you focus on cleaning the stalls and starts to head inside when you're finished. There's a sort of strange gratification in mucking the stalls and cleaning everything up, the sweet smell of hay and musk of the horses surrounding you.

You pull open the door to leave the tack room after grabbing your water and shut it behind you, turning to lock it closed as well. As you spins around soundlessly, you're met with a solid wall striking you straight in the chest.

Or rather, not a wall, but a person you realize, looking up with a startled gasp.

"Shit, I'm sorry! I didn't even hear you." You pull back, removing your hands from Bucky's strong chest where you had instinctively braced yourself. His right arm comes up to rub the back of his neck sheepishly, a greeting smile creeping to his lips.

"No, no that's my bad, I snuck up on ya'. Your mom said you were in here."

He's wearing another baseball hat, this one a navy blue that went well with his eyes, and a thick gray sweatshirt under a Carhart jacket, both hoods are pulled over his head. His clothes are wet and you become suddenly aware of the surging rain outside and the thick grey clouds rolling into the horizon through the sky from the half opened barn door.

He towers over your figure almost comically, and you think you've never felt so small.

"Remember when I used to be able to look down at you." You blurt out. You immediately regret the sudden, random statement until Bucky begins to laugh, his eyes squinting and his faint crows feet imprinting on his face. You'd definitely caught him off guard.

"I was never that short." He huffs, "We were like the same height from age eight until like - I don't know, the summer you visited when we were sixteen?"

"Mmm, no, I was definitely taller," You retort, grinning broadly. Bucky begins to open his mouth to disagree, brows furrowed. "But don't worry, you're huge now. You could fight a black bear." you quip, relishing in teasing him just like you used to.

"I do not want to fight a black bear." He laughs, shaking his head with his eyes blown wide.

You huff a laugh, and spin to turn the light off in the aisle, "What are you doing here, anyway?"

"I came to drop off a few packages of fish for your mom, fresh caught yesterday evening after I left here. Whenever I work on the boats I get a share of whatever we catch so I split it with a few people on the island."

"Well, it seems like you do a lot around here. I'm sure everyone is grateful to have you." You respond. He looks away from you, a pink dusting on his cheeks, as if being thanked made him feel uncomfortable. "So what, do you do everything around the island? Fishing, working at the harbor, helping out with the horses. . . You sound busy."

"Yeah, I like it that way." He nods, "I work as a deck hand some days, I go out on the boats with Dad's old friends to fish and sell at the markets. I have my dad's sailboat now, like I said so sometimes I take it out myself on the nice days. I do all kinds of weird jobs around here, sometimes I work at the lumberyard too."

"You're like, the Island's handyman."

Bucky chuckles at that. "Yeah, guess so. But what about you, what were you up to all these years?"

"Oh," You weren't prepared for that question. You could talk about him forever but talking about yourself was a lot harder, "Well, you know, college. Graduated with an art education degree, got my own studio. I ran a small gallery and taught out of it, just spent my time painting and such. Made some good money and met a ton of awesome people." You sigh deeply, meeting Bucky's eyes, "My dad, he passed, and I think I was just ready to come home. It was great while it lasted though."

"I'm sorry about your dad. But why would you ever come back here? You of all people." Bucky tone is teasing, but you can't tell he's been begging to ask the question.

She thinks for a moment before answering with a shrug, "I guess it just felt right."

Bucky nods like he understands, "You see cool things out there?" he asks.

"Yeah." She sighs, "Wish I coulda' shown you. Maybe one day you can come back with me and I'll show you around." You smile, hopefully.

"I'd like that. And I'd love to see your art sometime, too. Can't even imagine how good you must be."

"It was . . . gratifying to say the least." The excitement of selling a piece of work and getting the praise you always wanted for the things you poured your heart into. It was exhilarating really, to be successful at something you love.

"You should open a gallery downtown, and host art nights. There's so many vacancies now I'm sure you'd get a good deal on a retail space." Bucky says.

"You know, that's actually not a bad idea." You agree, thoughtfully. "I don't know how well it would work out though given the population of the island is like . . . four." You laugh.

"Basically," He agrees, nodding. Bucky slips his hands in his pockets, nodding towards his truck at the end of the road. "I gotta get going, I have some errands to run before I pick Beccs up from work. I'll see you around right?"

"Absolutely." You nodd. As the two of you turn around and start to walk out the barn together, you stop, grabbing hold of the fabric of Bucky's jacket.

You don't know what came over you but suddenly, it just felt right to get it out right then and there.

"Hey," you start, looking down at your shoes and shifting your weight on one foot before looking back up to his face. "I'm really sorry, for not keeping in contact. You didn't deserve that." You say, trying to keep your voice from wavering.

"It's okay, doll. I'm sorry, too. I'm sorry for what I said before you left, it was unfair of me."

A lump almost forms in your throat as you think back to the last time you had visited as a teen. You have to swallow it back into your stomach where the energy flutters uncomfortably.

"It's okay. We were kids, right? Stupid kids, at that." You say gently, offering a small smile and a gentle squeeze of your hand on his arm, "Can we just agree to put it behind us?"

"I'd like that." He complies. "But I already have. We were stupid kids, we have all the time to make up for it now." Bucky smiles, hand squeezing gently on your shoulder, soothingly.

As you both step off the concrete platform of the barn's floor and onto the slick dirt path, the sludge of the sticky brown mud squelches under your boots. It's in an instant that the ground is being pulled out from under you like a carpet and you're sent crashing down into the mud with a comically loud splat, the air in your lungs being pushed out in a gasp.

"Shit! You good?" Bucky calls alarmingly. He's holding his hands out to help you up but before you can even comprehend your position he's falling in too.

He manages to catch himself on his hands and knees, unlike you who can feel the cold wetness creeping through the fabric of your jeans from your bottom all the way to the back of your thighs. You grimace, but neither can't help but laugh.

Bucky let's out a boyish laugh from the depths of his chest, "Careful, doll. It's slippery." He grins and for a second you really do feel like a kid again, the clumsy, giggly mess that you are.

You let your pained chuckle overtake you until you're just as loud as Bucky. Your tailbone aches and now your stomach does too as you curls in on yourself, shoulders heaving as you laugh together.

You're all smiles and pink blush as you pick each other up off the ground, the rain drenching your skin and clothes covered in thick mud now.

"God, I'm sorry. We look like idiots."

"We are idiots." You correct, "Come inside, there's gotta be something for you to change into. I'm sure you don't wanna run your errands looking like that. Or even get into your nice truck like that."

"You think my truck is nice?" He asks, eyes glimmering in child-like joy.

"Uh, who wouldn't?"

Bucky shrugs but follows you into the house anyway. You both discard your shoes on the front porch and you call to your mother to let her know you are coming in; mud, rain, and all.

You lead him upstairs and hand him a towel from the linens closet adjoining the bathroom and knock on your mother's bedroom door. She opens it confused, raising her eyebrow at the pair's appearance. Bucky waves a hand in greeting.

"Do you have men's clothes that might fit Bucky? Or a robe while we throw his clothes in the wash? We slipped in the mud."

Your mother laughs, disbelievingly, "You two are always a mess, you never change. Give me a second."

You two exchange fleeting glances, shoulders bumping one another in the narrow corridor that Bucky seems to dwarf with his size. Your mother returns with a pair of dark wash jeans, a small pin-prick of a hole down the seam in the side.

"These should do the trick, they're old as hell though. Let me know if you need anything else." She says sweetly, before retiring back to her room.

Bucky changes in the bathroom while you wait and then you switch out. An almost awkward goodbye is shared in the hallway, neither of you really wanting to depart.

Bucky goes back downstairs and out the front door, stopping to wave at you once more at the top of the landing before you hear the rumble of his truck and start the shower

written 5/17/23 rewritten 5/22/25

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ And I wouldn't marry me, either.

You were Azriel's mate, but it took losing you three times for him to realise.

[this is long. i'm talking 5k words long so i've split it into two parts. anyway, azriel is the best bat boy and no i won't hear anyone out. i'm so excited to write for him and hope you enjoy. it's very angsty but that's what i love. i hope i can write more for him and maybe other characters if you like. it's been a while since i've actually read the series so if any information is wrong, do let me know. also it was my first time using the term y/n and yes, i cringed NOT PROOF READ... enjoy]

warnings: references to sexual assault and references to suicide. nothing explicit but please don't read if this is sensitive to you.

Part 2 soon…

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

The first, was the worst...

You were Rhys's half sister, the bastard daughter of his father. But when your mother had died giving birth to you, Rhysand's mother took you in and raised you with your brother and sister. You were so little and adorable that your sister loved you at once. Rhys did to, at some point of your life, you were sure he actually cared about you.

But when his mother and sister had died, his eyes shifted, he started to look at you with contempt. After all, you were only his half-sister. The worst half. He only kept you around because it's what his mother would have wanted.

And because there was no way Cassian and Azriel would ever let anything happen to you.

Besides, Rhysand knew when to use you.

Although Azriel was his spymaster, you were pretty good at staying swift-footed too. And you were frankly, very terrifying when you wanted to be.

You tread with power through the war camps, all of them looking at you as you went. All of their gazes wrecked with a predatory gaze. They either wanted to have their way with you, or kill you. Or both.

Rhys had said you could handle it, it was only supposed to be a check in. Cassian hadn't liked it, neither had Mor but it was Azriel who had almost- and for the first time- disobeyed his high lord to accompany you. But no, your brother wanted you to do this alone, so alone you would.

Just to show him you could.

'I can come with you,' Azriel had said, standing in your room as you tied your boots up. 'I won't even have to be seen.' At that, his shadows wrapped up your calf.

You smiled at them, as if they were his own pet. 'I'll manage just fine. Besides, i'm sure that's what Rhys wants, me needing a man.'

It had done nothing to calm your friend. The worry was still stuck between his brows, marring his handsome features. You'd held his cheeks, your wings hiding the two of you. His large ones (enough to swallow the both of you) over-lapped yours.

It was the last time you'd feel your wings.

The war camp wasn't as easy as you'd hoped. It was terror and horror in a place. You'd been to the court of nightmares, you'd gone to the slaughter of the spring court after they killed your family. But this, this was hell of another kind.

You had no idea how many days you'd been locked up, wrists bound in chains and hanging from the cell roof above you. Blood rolled down your arms from the force you'd tried to use to get them out. Your eye was swollen shut and your body trembled in pain.

All because they wanted to know your brothers secrets, and you wouldn't budge.

Your check was only supposed to be a day, but you were sure it had been longer. Days of endless pain and torture. Your uniform hung in rags of stripped material, your hair matted with blood and hiding your face.

You'd used the last of your energy to keep your walls up. You weren't anyone's mate, you didn't have anyone on the other end trying to feel what you felt. But should Rhys come looking (though you doubted it) you didn't want him to feel it. You didn't want anyone in your mind.

The gates opened with a sickening clash.

One of the Illyrian's knelt in front of you, his wings hiding those coming in behind you. 'Listen sweetheart. I don't want to make this any harder than it's about to get. All you have to do is tell us your brother's hide outs.'

You grit your teeth, staring down at the ground.

'So loyal, to a man who doesn't care if you live or die.'

Suddenly, your wings twitched as hands grasped them. Brute hands, the sort you wouldn't want touching any part of you.

Fear spiked in you, horror twisting your gut. 'What are you doing?'

'I told you I didn't want to get things messier, darling.'

You whipped your head from side to side, trying and failing to get a look at the assailants behind you. Your wings were being held apart, no matter how hard you tried to bat them away. You knew the sort of people they were, and what they did to girls like you.

That's when the begging started. 'No, no please. Anything. I'll do anything! Beat me, kill me, rape me, not my wings, please!'

'Anything?' the bastard asked, tongue poking out from his lips. 'Then tell me where your lord's hideouts are?'

You should betray him, you thought. He would never lose his wings for you. Perhaps it was stubbornness that kept you from, or maybe you were clinging to the last bit of love you want from him.

The bastard scoffed, 'anything, she says. Your brother has his own bitch wrapped around his finger.'

That's when they started hacking at your wings.

Your screams tore through your throat, blood spitting and dripping down your chin. Tears soon joined when they hacked away at the bone, the membrane, the flesh of it all. The three of them worked through your screams and your tears and your pain, tearing and cutting at it like it was nothing more than paper.

Not your whole life.

Let them hear you. You hoped your brother heard you, you hoped all and every court heard the pain.

Eventually, even you couldn't keep screaming. The only sound was the hacking away at your wings and the drops of blood.

'Now look at these beauties. I've got a perfect spot on my wall for these.'

They left you after that. There wasn't much more damage they could do. It already felt like they'd destroyed your life. You had never really thought about your wings, they were just part of you, as much as your wit or hair was. But they'd took it and now, you felt empty. Never would you fly with Azriel again, or use your wings to smack Cassian over the head.

Rhys, your dear brother, had took that from you.

The days blended in together after that. You were pooled in your own tears and blood, vomiting up anything they forced down your throat. No, they'd made it very clear they didn't want you dead. They just took pride in making it feel like you were.

At some point, you'd stopped reacting to the gate opening. You let them do whatever they wanted with you. Your wrists were still chained, arms still hanging up, your clothes hanging on your thin body in strips of dirt.

'No...' you heard a mumble. 'What have they done to you?'

Suddenly, the chains gave way and you lurched forward, with no strength to catch you. Luckily, you didn't have to, as strong and warm arms pulled you into his chest.

'Hey, wake up, look at me, dammit.'

Azriel.

You'd know the voice in the darkest days, in the pit of your worst nightmare you'd know.

You try to speak but your head's heavy, your lips are stone and your arms can't lift to hold onto him. You're exhausted, you're dying. The only thing you could do use all your strength to try to open your eyes.

'Please, please, look at me. You have to look at me,'

You were trying, you wanted to tell hm, snap at him, but you couldn't.

You felt Azriel shake, or maybe you were. Then, there was wet drops landing on your cheeks- you flinched.

'I'm sorry, i'm sorry. Rhys! Rhys! hurry up, please!' he was screaming. You'd never heard him scream before.

You heard the rush of feet at the cell doors, you knew it was your brother. You knew it from the presence of him, from the shuffling of feet and chocked sob. Your brother didn't cry, least of all for you.

'Her wings, oh mother, her wings,' said Azriel, his voice barley above that of a whisper.

Your wings. You didn't need reminding. They were gone, long and far gone. You were without a part of you, the very part of your soul that loved to be free. Never would you watch the stars up close or fly over everyone. Never race Cassian or make jokes with Az.

No, this would destroy you.

'y/n,' your half-brother called. 'No, y/n. Can you hear me?'

Your lips parted, mumbling. 'Hurts.'

Azriel's grip on you tightened. 'I know, we're gonna get you out of here, just hold on for me.'

You wanted to tell him you would hold on, you'd always need to hold on to him. That, no matter what he asks, you'd do it. To kill, to live, to breathe, to die.

And that's when it clicked. Amongst all the pain and the doubt. In your blood soaked clothes. In the fear you wouldn't make it, there was a tug. Weak and one-sided, but there. You knew you'd be safe with Azriel, knew you would always be with him.

Mate.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

The pain subsided to a dull ache, there and beating but not excruciating. You were warm and covered in a soft material. Nothing like the cell you'd been kept in. Your fingertips sunk into something soft- a bed. Your bed. It was familiar in its lavender scent to you and the silk wrapped around you gave you some semblance of warmth.

Your wings.

Even coming to consciousness was difficult. You were exhausted but light, without the weight of wings holding you down. You'd never realised how much you needed to feel that weight, to feel pulled down in order to be free.

Gone, all gone.

Your hand twitches around something cold, a shadow holding your hand, creeping up your side.

'You're awake, thank the couldron.'

It wasn't Azriel, master of the shadows. It wasn't your mate. Mate. The word replayed like a terrible song in your mind.

How dare the mother do this to Az. How dare he- nothing but loyal and kind- get stuck with a person made in darkness, who bled shadows, who's heart was so full of hate there wasn't room for love. They'd cursed Az, with you.

But luckily it wasn't him, it was Rhysand.

'It really happened,' you whispered, voice hurting from the screams.

He sighed. 'I'm sorry, i'm so sorry. We-we thought you weren't going to make it, you'd lost so much blood.'

In spite of the pain in your shoulders, you made a shift, turning from him as he ranted on about your condition.

'y/n... sister, please,' he said. He'd never called you sister before. He'd always been content to treat you just like you worked for him.

'Leave me alone.' you couldn't bare to look at him, couldn't bare to face him. The shadows at your hand grew heavier, as if more were piling on. You stretched your fingers away from them, trying to get them off you.

'Are you in any pain?' asked Rhys.

'Get out,' you mumbled.

The end of your bed dipped where Rhys settled, hand splayed on the covers, begging for your hand. 'y/n.'

'Get out!' you snapped, body tense and straining. You felt your wounds open up, blood wetting the bandage around you. But you didn't care. You'd happily bleed if you couldn't fly. A part of you, sick part of you wanted to be left there. It would be better than false sympathy.

Be better than your mate being disgusted.

'Get out!' you yelled again, voice tearing through an aching throat.

'I just want to help you! please, let me help you!' said Rhys, standing from your bed and walking around, trying to face you.

'I don't want your help!' you screamed. You reached for the closest thing you could, a jug of water and chucked it toward him. You aim was terrible, marred with pain and exhaustion. 'Get out!'

Though hesitant, Rhysand slowly started walking back to your door. He did it all looking at you, his hands out to show he wasn't gonna hurt you, but you didn't care. You went for the glasses next and chucked them but they landed against the door which he disappeared through.

Before it slid close you caught sight of Cassian , Mor and Azriel. All crowded, all waiting to see you.

You'd be happy if you never let them see you again.

'Can we see her?' you hear Mor ask.

'Give her time,' said Rhys.

The shadows at your hand grew heavier, darker, tighter.

'Go away!' you yelled at them. To anyone else, you probably looked crazy, screaming to darkness. But the shadows understood. They departed, slithering away and under the crack of your door where you could see the shadows of feet.

Tumbling from bed, you stumbled over and locked the door, leaning on it to and catching your breath. Your nightgown was starting to get sticky with blood all over again. When you closed your eyes, you pictured the cell, the rough hands holding you down, the chain keeping you up.

And the pain, it all washed over you. The hacking at your back, the sting of a slap. It hit you like a tone of bricks as you slid to the floor.

There was a knock, rattling the door.

'y/n,' Cassian. 'Please let us in.'

Us. You felt him on the other side. Your mate, his presence lingering. His shadows under the door, wanting to come in but keeping their distance.

He didn't know. It hadn't snapped for him, you could tell. It was one tug on your end, a chord in your heart. At least he couldn't feel what you did. At least you could shoulder it alone.

'Please.' his voice was almost your un-doing. He sounded so sad, so desperate. It hurt you just to think you were hurting him.

Tears streamed down your face as your curled your fingers into a tight fist. You assumed Mor had left with Rhys, leaving you there with the males.

Cass was always like a brother to you. Granted- a brother you had slept with once or twice- but he was your best friend. You'd always been close to him. But you'd always been good, a happy person.

You couldn't be that for them now, perhaps ever again.

It lasted like that for hours. Cassian and Az begging to come in, you curling into a ball with tears down your cheeks and blood down your back.

Eventually, they gave up. You couldn't hear them anymore and the shadows of their boots had disappeared.

Except Azriel's shadows that still lingered under your door. Maybe he'd ordered them to be there while they left you.

Eventually, you managed to find your footing on shaking legs. Your room was large, one of the largest. It was just as much a mess as it was when you'd left for you mission, clothes thrown over the place, books propped open on the pages you'd left them on. Everything was the same but could never be again.

It took you longer than you'd care to admit to get to your windows and throw the curtains close. Candles light at your request, the house looking after you as it had since you were a child.

You caught sight of yourself in the full length mirror. It seemed smaller, everything in the room felt too large and you too small, as if you were being swallowed by the expanse of it.

Your frame was small in the mirror, your hair disarrayed. Your eyes were red and shutting of their own accord from the tears that had drained you. The starving in the cells had made you look weak, made you feel weak.

And your back. There was no more looming black figures there, no more fluttering. There was just nothing. In spite of the ache as you lifted your arm, you felt around your back, feeling the hitch there, the lump from where they'd been torn from you.

You cry. You sob. You scream.

The scars were long and the nightdress was sticking to you by the blood you'd shed. All you could do, was hold yourself up as your body wracked with tears.

A breeze came from your windows, shadows tugging at the curtains.

You felt him before you saw him. You wanted to tell him to leave you but you couldn't talk without chocking. Without feeling like you couldn't breath.

Azriel had you in your arms before your knees could hit the ground. He fell with you, softening your body on the floor. His arms held you into his chest, his legs caging you into his body. His head rested on yours as he held you. He didn't try to talk, he didn't try to help. It was just him, you and his shadows.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

Azriel remembered dozing off with you, his head on yours. His arms holding you into him, as if it was up to him to keep the sadness away and take it for you.

Afterall, you were his best friend. He should have been there for you, and he'd failed terribly by letting you get hurt and your wings stolen from you. He could hate himself every day for it, for letting you down. But it would never amount to what you felt for yourself and that killed him.

He could see it in the way you cried, in the way you were already keeping everyone out. He'd rather die than let you go through all the pain alone.

When his hands had been scarred by his brothers, you'd help heal him, tell him about everything he still was and all the power he still held in his hands. In the worst days, when he didn't let anyone touch him, he let you.

It was always you.

Azriel wasn't sure how long he'd been asleep, or how deep. He was sure he was still with you, still in your bed.

His shadows crept up on him, engulfing him slowly and whispering to him. Your name, just your name on repeat. It was enough to lull him back into sleep, to keep him calm.

Gone. Missing. y'n. Roof.

He shot up and ran fastest than he ever had in his life. It was as if he'd never been asleep but had been fighting a battle with the way he raced over.

He burst through the doors, the cold hight air hitting him.

You stood facing the stars, your bloody back to him. It wasn't as much blood as when he'd found you, but it was still enough to put a lump in his throat.

Immediately his shadows fell to you, cascading down your body and wrapping around your waist. There was a breeze in the air, pushing your hair back and exposing more signs of the pain and torture you must have gone through.

'I'm not gonna jump, if that's what you're thinking,' you said. You didn't even have to turn to him. The shadows probably told you enough.

'Why are you up here?' he asked, walking to you slowly and with careful steps. As if every step closer could you push you away from him.

'I'll never feel the win properly again,' you answered.

Azriel gulped down his own pain. You’d never sounded so small. ‘Can you get away from the ledge?’

'I'm not on the ledge.'

'You're too close for my liking.'

'Leave if you don't like it.'

'Don't do this,' he said.

'Do what?' you asked, folding your arms over your chest. You were cold, out in the hight but you wanted to see the stars. Needed to see them.

'Make me leave. Make everyone leave you. I know that's what you're doing. It's what you do every time,' you could feel him dawning closer. His shadows were all around you, almost drowning you.

‘Every time,’ you scoff, stepping down and turning on him. ‘It’s not every day you lose your wings Azriel! But don’t let me stop you from leaving, flap them and go!’ You yelled, unable to stop yourself, no matter how hard you tried. You didn’t want to hurt him, you just wanted to be alone.

Mate. Mate. Mate.

'You jump and I’ll catch you,' he said. He was a step away, he could just reach out and touch, just a gentle caress. 'I swear it, whatever you do, I’ll follow. I’m not letting you get away.’

He watched your back shudder as he reached out, brushing knuckles against your shoulder blade. He heard your sharp inhale follow.

'Don’t think I won’t follow, y/n.'

Finally, you turned around in his shadows. You couldn’t meet his eyes but at least you could face his chest.

His hands were gentle on your shoulder as he rubbed it gently. 'Can I get Madja to clean you up?' He asked.

You nodded as he led you away. You truly did not deserve your mate.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

Fifty-two years later...

When Amarantha had trapped the high lords of Prythian under the mountain, it hadn't be a conscious choice to follow your half-brother down. How Amarantha had allowed it, you weren't sure, but perhaps she wanted to use you just like her brother, or she thought it would bring more pain for him to see you suffer under there too.

You and Rhysand had barley spoke the last two years.

It had took you almost two months to heal fully enough to leave your room, another few months to face your family again. But even then, everyone knew something had changed in you. You didn't laugh as loud or smile as wide.

Rhysand was careful to ever let you out on a mission. Mor tried to take you out every night. Cassian spent all day every day with you and Azriel- he'd healed you better than any nurse.

Still, you had not told him he was your mate.

Still, you thought he wouldn't want it.

Still, you cared for your brother enough to not want him to go alone.

But being under the mountain, you could avoid your mate. At a painful price.

Until her. Rhys's mate. He hadn't shut up about her since he first met her, much to your dismay as you had to sit around and listen- having absolutely nothing better to do. And it only got worse when she turned up under the mountain. She was declaring her love for Tamlin- again, annoying your brother, and throwing Lucien into danger- which rather angered you. You had nothing against the ginger.

Rhysand had once sent you to find the girl to summon her as part of a bargain he'd made. He didn't want to go, he didn't want to look too forceful. You'd been lucky enough to find the two tangled up in each other against a cold wall, clothes ripped and hips moving together.

'Well, well well,' you'd intterupted.

Tamlin all but growled at you, but feyre was looking over you- evidently confused. She had no idea who you were. You, in your skimpy outfit that Amarantha kept you in (they all dipped low at your back, showing off your scars) and your eyes that were like a night sky.

'Amarantha's looking for her pet and Rhysand is looking for his. Honestly, i'd be a bit more worried if I were you. You know, considering Lucien still has an eye to lose.'

The two parted with your words as you sent Tamlin back to his master, the high lord glaring at you as you went. While Feyre tried to fix herself.

'Rhysand is over there, better not keep him waiting.' That was the first time you met her, having no idea how much trouble she'd be worth. The family that she'd become.

But Rhysand made sure you knew it all. From when the bond snapped in him and he'd stumbled. He ranted and ranted as they climbed out.

If only you were so talkative about Azriel. If only you could talk about him with your brother. But you'd tried not to painfully think about him. Climbing out of the mountain. It was all you could think of.

Maybe he'd have forgotten you? it had been fifty years. He'd probably realised how happy he could be without having to take care of you.

Rhys was allowed out of the mountain, he'd felt the breeze in his hair but you hadn't in fifty long years. You stood there a moment, bathing in the warmth as everyone left, as everyone ran off for their families and courts and the war that was inevitable. Eventually, Rhys offered you his arm. 'Shall we go home?'

He winnowed you there, on the balcony of your home. In a cloud of black smoke, the two of you appeared.

He went first, slipping through the doors slowly- like it could all be taken from them any minute.

You were hesitant, taking a moment to glance at the landscape behind you. It hadn't changed, not at all. The mountains were still there, everyone was still alive. Your home. In the last years it hadn't felt like home, but how could anywhere ever feel so close in your heart.

When you could find your feat again, you managed to slip through the doors. You were suddenly aware of how little clothing you were wearing, just enough to cover your chest and run down your legs. A chill settled down your back, your scars would be on show. What a way to great them all after fifty years.

Mor had her arms around Rhys's shoulders, crying into his shoulder.

Behind them you caught Amren, with something like tears in her eyes. You were just about to tease her before a body barrelled into yours in a blur of red syphons and your feet were lifted from the ground.

'Cassian.'

His arms tightened around you. You shoulder started to dampen with tears, his tears. The last time you'd seen him cry around you was when he'd seen a dog with only three legs. 'I'm keeping you on a leash from now on, stupid idiot.'

Your arms wrap around his shoulders, a smile gracing your lips. 'Is that a promise?'

He held you longer, tighter, not daring to let you go but at least settling you on the ground. He sighed against your head, controlling himself. 'He's missed you, you know,' he said. He was the only one you'd told, about your mate. 'Now that you're back, tell him. He deserves to know.'

Cassian slowly pulled away, holding you at arms length and smiling at you. He kissed your cheeks and then your forehead before parting to Rhysand.

Mor approached you next, slapping you in the arm.

'Ow!'

'Why would you follow him?' she snapped.

You blinked at her before she took you by the arm she'd slapped and embraced you, like a sister would. You dared not looking over her shoulder to find the one who hadn't come to you. Maybe Cass had got it wrong...

Mor pulled away, wiping at her eyes.

Azriel was as beautiful as the day you left him. His hair was the same length, he was the same height. He was just as you left him. It was hard to tell fifty years had passed on him.

And inside of you, tugging in your soul and heart you felt the familiar string of gold throbbing. But you still didn't feel that tug. You'd hoped it would have faded from you after half a year separated. Or at least have snapped for him. But no such relief.

He approached you, slowly. As if he was scared of scaring you away. But you just stood there.

His arms were delicate and soft around you as he brought you into his chest. He still smelled the same, cedar wood and shadows. Shadows that wrapped around you, shielding you from the rest of the room. They caressed you, head to two.

You held onto each other for what could have been another fifty years, but this time, it wasn't so painful.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

Although nobody wanted to part after yours and Rhysand's return, you were exhausted. A trip to Rita's could wait another night or two. The only thing you wanted to do was hide in your room.

Strangely, your room looked lived in. As if somebody had moved in since you'd left. A moment of anger replaced grief. Had they brought someone else and given them your room? but then you smelt it, Az.

Lying in bed that night, exhausted, you couldn't find sleep. You closed your eyes and pictured Amarantha. You'd never been afraid of her, you weren't afraid of anything. But you re-played the horrors. Watching servants beat Feyre, watching Amarantha use your brother and on the occasion, even you. How she flaunted. How the most powerful lords were weak.

Under your door, shadows seeped in, rushing across the room to you. You smiled, watching your hand disappear in their darkness.

'Azriel?' you called.

There was shifting on the other side of the door before he slipped in, clicking it shut behind him.

You sat up in bed, shadows moving with you. 'Couldn't sleep?'

He wondered in, looking around your room. 'Sleeping's been... hard.'

You rolled over, opening the blanket and nodding your head. You couldn't think about the bond, not yet. Not while he looked so.... ruined. Beautiful- the most beautiful person in the world, but sad. As he climbed in next to you, you could see the dark circles under his eyes, his shoulders slumped and his wings too.

His eyes scanned over you. You were in a thin and silk night dress that only brushed your knees, but the way he looked at you, mother you could've been naked. 'Fifty years,' his voice sounded barley controlled. 'Fifty years. You followed your brother down for fifty years? Why would you do that?'

You gulp. 'I would've done it for any of you. Except maybe Amren, she'd probably enjoy the peace for fifty years.'

You go to brush your hair back but Azriel seizes your wrist. He was angry. That's why his voice was rough and his chest rising and falling with barley controlled emotions. Could he feel it? your nerves, your lying?

'You left. You should've stayed, y/n, you know Rhysand didn't want you under there with him,' he said. 'For fifty years I haven't been able to sleep through a night thinking about the pain you must have been going through. After I swore to keep you safe, after I promised to catch you every time!'

'You couldn't have stopped me. You didn't promise, Az.'

His grip grew tighter. 'It went without saying.'

You looked around his eyes, seeing the pain and grief there also. Slowly, you brought your other hand up. He flinched as you took his cheek but eventually settled as your thumb ran over his cheekbone. 'I won't leave again, ok? I promise.'

He gulped, letting go of your wrist and looking down. 'I slept here,' he mumbled, but just loud enough to hear you. 'I couldn't sleep in my room. This was the only place I could rest.'

Your heart stuttered. Your hand dropped from his cheek. This man was your mate. Your mate. Your only love, whether or not the cauldron deemed it.

Azriel took your hesitation. 'I-i'm sorry, you probably didn't want to hear that. I've probably ruined your one place of peace-'

'Stay,' you said, before you could think of what you were asking. 'Sleeping wasn't exactly easy under the mountain either. I just trust I won't have to put a wall of cushions between us.' as if you wanted that. As if you haven't thought about his calloused hands all over you.

Azriel smiled and stayed the night.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

The third time he almost lost you, broke him...

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

Control

Pairing: Bucky x Reader

Warnings: filthy smut with a smidge of fluff, femdom, restraints, blindfold, 18+

Word Count: 1.7k

THE MOOD™ CONTINUES. Inspired by this ask. Oops.

Bucky isn’t one to relinquish control. He needs it like he needs air, needs to be two steps ahead of any situation, needs to feel like he’s ready for whatever might come his way. And when he’s in control, he is. He’s always ready.

Except when you tempt him not to be.

Your lips and tongue taste of fine champagne, tart and strawberry sweet – heady with love and lust and everything he’s ever wanted. When he kisses you a little more roughly, your pretty plum lipstick smears. It stains his mouth, and then his cheek.

Just a peck.

Just enough to disarm him before you shove him down onto the bed. His body bounces a little when he lands on the mattress, and Bucky stares up at you in surprise.

Keep reading

this is eating me alive it's so perfect

— i’m in love with a dying man

rating: mature. or explicit? i’m not sure. angsty study on grief in unconventional forms. (mild) smut purely for poetic reasons

word count: 4,1k

pairing: viktor x gn!reader

cw: terminal illness. several mentions of death. everyone is horny in a heartbroken way, so grab a napkin—but not for the reasons you think. and yes, you may dox me for making you even sadder after whatever happened in ep 6.

—

He licks a tear off your cheek, and it seeps in between the bumps on his tongue, all prickly salt running down your face in two glossy trails of sorrow. Stinging, when his calloused thumb swipes over a puffy eyelid, only to inevitably fall to your lip and tug, nudging your mouth agape. His desperate grip softens when you oblige and arch, letting him grunt over the slope of your throat; wheezier than you remember, raw, rhotic and ravenous. The hard shift of his lungs is palpable under your hand, ruckling heavily in his sternum. It almost breaks down to a cough when he cants his hips into you, slanting one last slow, weak slam. Spilling all his pent-up frustration deep inside you through that bitter orgasm, leaving a clumsy mess of stickiness to dry on your inner thigh. Stilling for you to hold him through that collapse, grateful for the shaky hand that you firmly fist into his hair. Not receding until at least a few kisses are strewn upon your shoulder. 

It’s always like this now. Viktor clings to you, and you cling to him, nails digging into handfuls of him hard enough to draw blood, each embrace so tight your ribs might just break if he doesn’t retreat in time. And god does he wish to let it linger, to drag it out until eternity tumbles in—even if his eternity is reduced to a question of mere months at best, even if he must crawl out of a casket to have your touch back. 

The night you almost lost him still has you in shambles. You remember it all too well—hell, it’s almost like that acute smell of hospitals and doom still coats his skin, more slimline than it ever was, its once ivory shade fading to chalk-like disaster. The utter horror of crushing verdicts, endless heaps of bloodied handkerchiefs and palms so cold that even the heat of your breath fails to make the feeling of him any less chilling. 

The dark humor of sneaky death: she’s right around the corner, the cruelest of all mistresses. Ready to snatch him away whenever your fingers ghost over his spine, stroking a languid count over each prominent vertebrae. And no matter how tight you curl up beside him, she will supplant you, and her proximity can’t be measured in miles, feet, or inches. Because death is a termite—she gnaws at his very heart. And blooms metastases everywhere you still have him. She’s inside him. She’s merged with him into one.

At first, you denied it. Knuckles drummed against the wall in a frustrated fistfight, painting that scabrous canvas bright with your frustration. White and crimson—the speckled pattern of your hysteria. You recall how bad it stung, and how shame creeped up your spine—frightening and so, so sticky. Throttling, when he tended to that self-inflicted disaster, bandaging your smashed hand in motions sick to the core with gentleness. 

And it felt so ugly. Like you’ve grown to loathe everything around you: the doctors, for their disgusting prognosis; life itself, for being hardly fair. And even Viktor. Especially him—for slowly slipping out of your pale-knuckled grip. Well, red-knuckled, more like. That angry stunt did cost you a decent injury. White and crimson, remember? 

Naturally, grief doesn’t always progress by the book. However, denial always comes first. It’s an axiom, an invariable component, and you’re sitting on Viktor’s hospital cot, hand in trembling hand, eyes snapped wide and ferocious. Wrapped up in fear while the silence rings in your ears. 

His doctor addresses the quandary. It doesn’t feel vicious—at least, not yet. Flimsy, more like. Deceptive, too. Like if you just blink it away hard enough everything will snap right in place, and you’ll find yourself at home again—where that aseptic smell of medication can’t reach either of you. 

Well, of course, there’s always a possibility of postponing the inevitable. Winning over a year or, even, two—if Viktor’s lucky enough, that is. But you both know that he’s lacking in that department.

And yet, you grab your little hope by the throat: to look into later, when your comprehension is intact again. Surely, it’s just not plausible: so what if Viktor’s cough pulls you out of sleep every night, so what if every shirt he owns has tiny blood stains on it? Yes, he spends more time in bed than he does at the lab. He’s simply tired. He needs the rest. Not in peace. 

The retraction doesn’t linger, though. It survives a few more blood tests and a lengthy, dreadful discussion of his calamity—most strikingly frightening when the doctor talks him through each option. And not a single one manages to appease you. To stop your fury from retching out and causing an ugly scene. 

So you fling the door to his room ajar and leap inside with a bitter scowl, teeth gritting hard enough to crumble into powder. Arms a tight crisscross over your chest, step wide and listless—punctuated with a muffled clack of heels. Viktor’s eyes follow your tremulous circles—a lazy, sheenless flick of pupils, each widened into a bleak void from the rancid dose of painkillers. He lays supine, with his hair ineptly slicked back, umber waves awry, loose and sweat-damp. He’s almost mellow, tongue barely a glide over his chapped bottom lip—a martyr-like stiffness, the carrion of a man. 

But you don’t look at him. You pace, and pace, and pace—in that same tiring route, all around his creaky cot. Viktor rasps something indistinct—a muffled plea that tickles the back of his throat, rupturing yet another coughing fit. You silently hand him the speckled handkerchief. 

He looks up, eyes the saddest shade of buckwheat honey—dark with remorse; seeking comfort. But you don’t have any to give. You stare past him, gnawing at your tongue hard enough to draw fleshy copper. Dodging the kiss he tries to press to your wrist—pulling yourself back and out of his loving grip, igniting a staring competition full of glassy eye-daggering. Blink slow and borderline drowsy. 

“Milackú,” he pleads. Pulls at the corner of his mouth to wipe the bloody evidence of his withering. 

Your tear catches in your bottom lashes. 

“Milackú,” he rasps again, kicking the blanket aside. Stepping one bare foot on the cool tiles and reaching for you: arms, legs, and heart—all yours for the taking. If only you consider crawling under his minty sheets again. 

You don’t. 

“Why?” It’s so meek you barely recognize it as your own. Taut throat tightens even more, and, suddenly, you’re choking on a gasp. “Why did you turn down the treatment?” 

“Please, if you could just—“ He husks, but you can’t hear him through the ringing in your ears; the room already smudged into wattery, astigmatic lumps, Viktor’s face but a bunch of fuzzy dots you’re struggling to make out. All missing jigsaws, blurry little fractions. 

“What did I ever do to you?” You yell, shielding your eyes. Turning away from the arm he extends, his weak fist clenching to grab thin air, then tumbling as he stares at his palm in sheer dubiety, upper lip trembling. 

He winces. Ceases you by the hand and tugs as hard as it gets—frail enough for you to easily nudge him away—but you don’t bother this time. Your knees ungainly bend into shaky arcs, drifting apart when he clasps around you and pulls until you finally land on the sheets next to him, your tears mingling with his cold sweat—a salty fusion of mutual suffering.

Then comes a sequence of guttural, squealing whines and you stay twined with him for a while. Lithe fingers run through your hair, spreading to untangle an occasional knotted strand—up, and down, and over your shoulder in a caress. His lips purse on your temple, sucking an indistinct kiss. His heartbeat trails off under your fingertips the second you rake them over his thin hospital gown, growing frenetic again when you tug at the fabric, demanding closure.

“Please. Please don’t do this to me.” You exhale your choked up entreaty into his neck and it pours over his skin in a rigid breath, aftertasting of stinging desperation. His hand seeks your face, taking a forcefully gentle hold of one puffy cheek, drinking in your unsightly, woebegone rebuke. Looking at you like a repentant devotee, his timid eyes meeting your fierce ones.

“This is not about you,” he wheezes, too stern for your liking. Presses his forehead against yours and holds you through yet another shudder—and there’s no avoiding his pleading stare. “I’m not trying to get away from you. I merely want to escape my conundrum.” 

“These aren’t mutually exclusive, Viktor,” you hiss, voice simmering with betrayal. 

“Unfortunately.” 

“Unfortunately?! Is that all you have for me right now?” 

“I’m afraid so.” 

He sighs like he means it. His words keep slipping away from him, drowned in coughs and ambiguous humms. You get it, though. Your semantics became sparse the minute Viktor almost died in your arms. 

You melt into one-another in a teary, sniffling twine—simply breathing, trading tense silences. His stately stance collapses into a lifeless hunch, straightening a bit only when your fingers billow over his shoulder-blades—chiseled like ones of a famished dog. There are plenty of dog-like things about him now—the pleas lodged in his glances, the newfound hunger for your touch. Especially for the way you’re holding him; every embrace like a loving headlock—and the pressure soothes him. 

“I’m tired of taking risks,” he finally whispers against your temple. “All these… labored efforts for mere fractions of peace. Decaying steadily. Constantly hurting. I’m spent.” 

“Exactly. Which is why you need the treatment.” 

His lashes shudder against your cheek in a prickly tickle. They keep fluttering when he recedes, shaking his head with a bitter frown.

“But its success is… highly improbable.” 

“Yes, but there’s still hope—“

“It’s running thin as we speak. I shouldn’t squander it on… the imminent.” 

Viktor’s irksome choice of words had you springing backwards in glossy-eyed delirium. Staring in disbelief as if he’d requested something inexorable: which he did, inherently so. 

He curses when tears slice your face again—tends to them with the softness of a man most contrite of his omission, shaky hands already catching holds of your waist, using your temporary pliancy to swiftly nudge you into his cot. Curling up close enough to have your weeps reverberate in his sternum. 

“I’m sorry,” he repents with a deep rasp. “Please, don’t cry.” 

He held you in reticence again: this time horizontally. Offered you every solace his body could provide: your fingers in his hair, fumbling mindlessly (he put them there himself). Tangled legs. Apologetic neck-kisses. His head heavy on your shoulder, its weight a welcome tranquility. And only when your last tear soaks his pillow does he commence with his explanation. 

“I don’t want to spend what little time I have left miserable,” he tells you, drawing a breath. “Yes, the treatment might win me a year—a year I would spend bedridden, nauseous, and weary. A travesty of life. An illusive salvation. I’ve had enough of those.” 

Your hand stills in his hair, nestled within unkempt strands. You’ve run out of tears, so this bitter truth is met with nothing but a piteous sigh—the only thing you can still master after crying your heart out into his skin. Now you can only stare at the ceiling, chewing on your cheek in cruel denial. 

He’s right. He always is. 

Viktor sees the shift in your face—knits his eyebrows together in tender pity, tucking himself firmly against your face. Wincing, when he feels the aching tension in your temple. 

“I know I’m asking a lot of you. Too much, even.” He’s sincere when he says that, and you can sense the gratitude in his voice—for even allowing him to utter this excruciating of a thing, for attempting to understand. 

You simply nod. Yes. It is a lot. But you want to hear everything he has to say. 

So Viktor continues.

“I would hate for your last memories of me to be tainted with despair and hospitals only for all the struggle to go to waste when I inevitably pass away. I have no desire to postpone this torture at the expense of growing indifferent towards everything that makes me feel alive.” 

“But what if we manage to cure you?!”

“That’s too much of a ‘what if’ to risk dying a grim death for. I want to die…content. I want to enjoy myself before I do. Please. Don’t take that choice away from me.”

His eyes brim at you with every ounce of guilt he possesses, big tears wallowing in his eyes like an earnest plea—tacit, weary, earnest. Yes, it’s not like you have a word in his terrific decision, but Viktor wants your blessing. It’s only right that he includes you. Even if he’s intending to refuse the treatment regardless. As absurd  a bid as that is. 

You clasp his face like it’s about to vanish. Like you won’t be able to make it out when he’s gone if you fail to remember it right this instant, your gaze frantically jumping from one feature to another, seeking to embroider the image into your very eyeballs. Roaming over the artifically-white hospital light hallowing every streak of his hair. Indulging in a bittersweet smile when you note how prettily it spills over the pillow. Lingering on the patterns in his ochre irises—almost fully swallowed by his void-like pupils. Observing how they match the insomniac, mauve shades under his bottom lashes. Tracing every convex little thing—two lovely moles, thick eyebrows, the pointy mouth. Everything you’ve grown to love so dearly. Everything his illness keeps taking away from you. 

You wince, cradling his cheeks, your thumbs dipping into the hollows of them gently. Urging him to scoot closer—eye to eye, lips on lips. Breath over shuddering breath. 

“Are you sure?” You mouth the question on his skin, barely even uttering it. Hot pressure meanders into your head like a prickly impulse. It’s timid like motion sickness—borderline nauseating, too—all murky splashes of trippy lights under your closed eyelids. And the unease is diluted only when he finally kisses you—an approbatory, guilt-ridden thing. 

He’s certain. And for that, he’s so, so sorry. 

You try not to think of it, focusing on the feeling. No tongue, no teeth: just sheer tremor and so much rawness. A soft, soothing exhalation straight into your mouth like the gentlest of placebos—and yet, it works for you, slaps your pulse out of its frantic antics, and the stiffness slowly leaves your limbs under his touch. 

When it’s over, he winces at you in that sleepy, adoring way of his. Attempts a wry, sad smile. The cold light besieges his head into an even clearer halo—a foreshadowing of what is to come, an inconspicuous little thing. But everything about him is conspicuous to you. Loving Viktor has made you wary, and you wanted to hold onto that attention to the detail before it eventually slips away alongside him. 

 “Are you sure?” You repeat, tightening the inadvertent chokehold around his neck. The grip weakens only when he pulls away to clumsily clear his throat. 

“Yes.” And you know he means it when his face turns just as solemn as when he confesses his love to you. 

“I’ve had a nice life with you,” he adds, hoarsely. “I want it to feel nice when my time comes, too—whenever that might be. Sooner than later, I presume.” 

The figurative knife in your stomach twists anticlockwise. 

“Will you stay with me?” He dares to inquire. Meek, shaky hope tingling in his throat. “For however many months I have left?” 

And when you look up at him with a hurt frown, he’s reminded not to ask you rhetorical questions. 

— 

A few days later, Viktor is discharged from the hospital and insists that you both go back to normal. Well, to the new, tainted definition of it—where one spoiled napkin less is considered an ephemeral improvement and grief is a fixed variable by your side. 

Your slow-paced, quiet life that keeps turning even more timid in a frail attempt to savor what’s left of it. Faux preservation, but he allows it—savors it just as earnestly as you do, and your weeks weave into a darling, familiar routine. With some minor, necessary changes, no less: rest comes before the lab now, all deadlines fashionably late to accommodate this newfound tempo. Mandatory hourly breaks. Weekly check-ups. Four days off for every three he spends bent over the parchment. But this time, he doesn’t protest. His body demands it, inconveniently so.

You don’t tell anyone about your horrific arrangement—not yet, at the very least. It’s all you can think about, and the words threaten to slide out every time you speak—but you’re forced to swallow them with a smile so lopsided that everyone around you can only suspect the worst. A mantra of countless ‘What’s wrong’s irritating your ears with pure sincerity. 

What is wrong with you, indeed? You’re a spectator to death—not just any death, but the one you dreaded most. And not only are you witnessing it in the making, but this decision was never forced—you handed Viktor the choice and accepted whatever he went with so obediently that it felt absurd, and it had your skin crawling every time someone vaguely mentioned anything even remotely related to his condition.

But they—whoever that refers to—could never get it. They wouldn’t know what it’s like: to be stripped of your selfishness for the sake of Viktor’s peace. Defying your needs. Forcing yourself to find relief in demise. You might’ve failed to intimidate her into allowing you to keep him, but you could still accompany him into her arms and make it glorious. Here it is. Your new, appalling reason. It’s all that you want now.

Or is it? 

There’s plenty of nobility in being his chaperone—welcoming him into bed every night, painfully aware that it can become his death one. Treating every new invention of his like a soon-to-be postmortem legacy. Mourning the living. Anticipating the inexplicable. Marking every shared kiss the last, just in case. 

But then it came—unabashed and sudden. That blurry line where mourning merges into something dubious, a confusing paradox that leaves you full of filthy carry-over somewhere within your gut. The scorch his lips engrave into the column of your neck. The way it ignites a swell you can almost convince yourself is actually tangible, running your fingers over it recursively like a tactile little prayer. The gaze he throws at you across the lab ever so sneakily—a figurative punch that feels surprisingly close to a kiss. And you never resist turning it into one. Escalating. Claiming. Indulging those ambiguous, yet-to-be-defined things and having them wash over the remnants of your decorum. 

You try to fight it when it first happens, but it doesn’t last. There’s no place for restraint in grief—not when it turns into a beautiful desire to be all over him, to take everything life has to offer before he runs out of it. And Viktor doesn’t judge you. He encourages it. He craves it, just as bad—if not more—than you do. How many more undoings can he claim before the final one absorbs him? You’ve already lost that count. So much for having your love bleed on every inch of his skin.

Tonight you let it bleed mouth to mouth—a sweaty, heartfelt thing that commemorates your hunger for him in a kiss so dizzying that he has to lean back with a silent, breathless plea for brief interlude—foggy eyes staring up at you so devotedly. Shuddering, when your arms wander over his chest to feel the rasp, pointed lips bruised full of spit-slick swell. He’s a beauty—exquisite, albeit worn-down, his lines and angles blurring together into one eager, contourless essence, and you cage him in a firm straddle—your bare thighs over his clothed ones—grinding in a whiny attempt to reach him through his pants. 

“I’m sorry,” you mumble, leaning back to let him breathe. He’s sprawled out beneath you, tortuous hands already busy with tugging his tie off—impatient, clumsily nervous. “I don’t know what’s gotten into me,” you say at last, averting your gaze almost shyly. His fingers lurch to your hip, locking it in a gentle cradle, stilling above your backside in hesitation—asking for a laze caress, pushing your flimsy limits. As if forgetting that you never set those for him. Or, perhaps, he simply likes hearing your excited ‘yes’ every time. You can’t quite figure out which it is. 

He grabs a handful of you with reverence, and yet there’s something resilient about that grip—like he dreads that you might slip through his fingers if he doesn’t hold on possessively enough, staring up at you with his head thrown back in a curious, admiring droop. Aiming to dispose of your shirt in a nimble pull. Plotting a sequence of kisses from neck to collarbone. 

You expect it when he rises on his elbows, then grips the bedframe to shift beneath you in a silly leap. Inelegant, but he couldn’t care less, releasing his hips from the hedge of your legs to make you slide up his crotch instead—a most welcome, brusque change that you adapt to in a squealing instant. Your moaning mouth agape under his grin. His hips thrusting through restraining fabric. Shaky. Erotic. With your arms tumbling astride his shoulders. 

“Don’t apologize,” Viktor insists in a lulling whisper, switching to a cautionary nip on your ear. “I’ve missed you, too,” he confesses somewhere into your hair, brushing through it with a tip of his nose—breathing you in through a tender whiff.  

Your words get lost in a deep fluster, rolling back into your throat and lingering there in a suffocating lump. They have you stiffening, heavy eyelids squeezing shut—a voluntarily blindfold to help you explore him through touch only. An invitation to feel you where he pleases. And, well—it just so happens that your whims align with his—a cohesive, welcome collateral. 

Viktor starts at the slope of your shoulder. Pulls the shirt down and traces that lovely curve—fingers first. Throws a brief, askance glance at your face to make sure that your eyes are closed, and, when met with the flutter of your lashes, gets back to his lovely tease. Tender, warm lips taste your skin with delicious, savoring sounds. Getting wetter when his tongue makes a fickle appearance—leaves a slick, capricious lick in the dip of your collarbone, fluffy hair tickling your face when he bends to tend to your chest, too—and you shiver as he sucks a plum love-stain that you’ll proudly wear under your shirts. 

“See,” he cooes. “Whatever gets into you must be contagious.” 

You give in to a half-lidded peek and find him begging for your assistance—a sweet request that you understand in half-nod. Arms up in the air and over your clouded head when he unleashes your skin from the thin garment—throws it on the floor for you to find later in the morning. 

“But it feels wrong.” You sigh. “Ever since we found out…”

“I’d rather you quit talking about that in bed, please,” Viktor reproaches, eyes heady with want. His fingers slide into your underwear, contemplating its fate—should he make it join your shirt or pull it to the side in hasty fashion? Either approach had him shivering at the thought. 

But the sudden sorrow stops the rush, rendering your urge for consolation. It wraps you around him all over again, legs locking in a tangle around his waist, drooping hands combing through his hair in a brusque, fervent tug. Seeking succor. Heart to heart and thumping an anxious march. 

“I’m afraid,” you admit, but it’s not a revelation. All shuddering shoulders under his idolatrous caress, and you pang with guilt at that, too—it’s you who should be fondling him this delicately, warm reassurance seeping into his ears—not yours. But Viktor wants to be your comfort. If anything, it’s the only thing on his mind.

“What are you afraid of, beloved?” A little shiver at the unforeign endearment—a rare occasion. His thick brows still drawn together in a concerned arc. They relax only when you rake your fingers down his body—counting ribs, toying anxiously. The hurry is gone, there’s only caution now: his enamored eyes, waiting for you to find your slippery words. 

“Of losing you before I get to show you how much I love you.” You whisper, suddenly tasting teary salt in your mouth. His thumb comes to the rescue, swiftly flicking the wet trails. So you chuckle at the affection in a silly stagger to bump sweaty foreheads together.

“Nonsense,” he insists. “You’re showing me right now.”

“Indeed.” You shrug. “But… Is this the right way?” 

And when he puts your palm over his eager heartbeat, you’re reminded not to ask him rhetorical questions. 

—

tags: @zaunitearchives @blissfulip @nausicaaandhermouth @thehistoriangirl @vyshnevska

ANNOUNCEMENT!! ♥️

hey, everyone!! there's probably not many of you but despite the fact that I put it on hiatus indefinitely like a gajillion years ago, I will be rewriting and continuing Through Sea Mist and Shadows (my Bucky Barnes fic)! I hope you'll all come along for the journey as I have some really exciting new ideas that I'm super passionate about!! You can thank Thunderbolts for inspiring me lol, and I do intend on writing more for other characters as well.

I'm temporarily taking down what currently remains of my series master list for that fic so that I can rewrite it completely. Make sure not to miss the new content!!

Little Schemer

Pairing: Biker!Bucky Barnes x fem!reader

Word Count: 5.5K (hehe)

Summary: Secrets got Bucky into trouble with you, but he'll never do it again, if you'll give him another chance. This is for the drabble request "choose me" & "let me hear you make that sound again" <3

Warnings: 18+ ONLY, angst, secrets were kept (no cheating, i promise), emotions, smut, p in v smut, fingering, oral (fem receiving), spanking, slight bdsm, bordering overstimulation, some aftercare.

A/N: thank you so so much to @perdidosbucky-yyo for beta reading for me, i love youuuuuuu <3

Masterpost || Bucky Masterlist

Bucky knew he fucked up. He shouldn't have kept you in the dark like he did, but he was just enjoying having you to himself - that you didn't know who he was. You were a breath of fresh air in this godforsaken town and he just wanted it to stay that way for a little longer. 

He wasn't ashamed of himself, but people treated him differently when they knew. Much like when you learned who he was - what he is. 

As he pulled up to the bar's back door, turning his bike off, your face flashed in his mind. The tears, the anger, the shake of your head when he tried to reach out to you. He swore, just thinking about it made his heart break all over again. 

The door opened next to him and he turned to see Steve standing there with a confused look in his eyes. "You good?"

Bucky nodded and sighed, standing from the bike and pocketing the keys. "I'm fine." 

He shouldered past Steve, not wanting his brother to see the turmoil he knew he was wearing on his sleeve. 

He quickly spotted the table in the back of the rundown bar where the others were sitting, smiling amongst each other and chatting and laughing. He plastered on a grin, hoping it reached his eyes enough to be convincing as he approached the table. 

He just had to get through this little gathering and he could go home. Go home and wallow in his self-pity and sorrow. 

But as he came up to the edge of the table, a laugh from across the room had his blood freezing in his veins. It took all of his effort to keep from tripping over his own feet as he slowed to a stop. 

His friends at the table gave him concerned and confused looks as they watched him turn, peeking over his shoulder to the source of the laugh he hadn't heard in two weeks. 

His heart strained in his chest when he saw you. You were laughing at something the guy sitting next to you had said, the smile on your lips as beautiful as it always was. He saw the way your fingers fiddled with the fabric of the skirt you were wearing, the sage green satin already wrinkled under your hand. It was a nervous tick of yours, something you did when you were upset or anxious, or just not having a good time. 

Bucky fought the urge to go over to you, to get the guy away from you and get your hand to stop picking at your skirt. He was about to lose that fight with himself, insert himself into a situation that had nothing to do with him, when Natalia stepped up next to him, bumping his arm with her own. 

"You're being obvious James," Her voice was quiet as she spoke, "and by the way you're looking at her, I'm assuming she's the reason you've been so off lately." 

He pushed a heavy breath through his nose as he continued to watch you, your smile dimming. "What about it?" 

Nat stepped in front of him, pulling his attention from you and down to her red hair. "Make a decision." She softly demanded, reaching forward to pat his chest, right above his heart, "Make a good one." 

She stepped past him, walking back to the table. He heard her quiet voice tell the others to leave him be, that he'll either join in a minute, or he won't, and that was that. 

Bucky looked back at you, watching as you excused yourself from the conversation with the stranger and stood from your barstool. The man tried to caress the side of your arm, but you dodged out of his reach, quickly making your way to the other side where the bathrooms were. 

Bucky straightened his shoulders with a deep breath, intending to wait for you to return to try to speak with you, but when he noticed the man from the bar stand and follow your path, he started seeing red. 

His feet started moving before he could stop himself, refusing to believe that maybe you wanted this guy to follow you. That you were leading him to a more secluded area. Away from prying eyes and eavesdroppers. He wouldn't believe it because he knew you, and he knew what that look on your face meant. 

He quickened his pace when he saw how close the stranger was getting and he could see the uncertainty, the anxiety, in your eyes as your unfocused gaze swept passed him to try a subtle look over your shoulder. 

Your eyes widened slightly when you spotted the guy trying to be nonchalant about following you, and your steps faltered. You were too slow in your reaction to turn back to your route and catch yourself, but Bucky was there, your sides freezing under his touch as he caught you. 

He tried to will the anger from his face as you gazed up at him, your eyes focusing on his before he leaned down. "I've got you, he won't touch you." 

You swallowed and took a shuddering breath, but you nodded to him, the tension beginning to ease from your muscles as you righted yourself, your hands reaching and landing on his arms. The warmth from your skin seeped through the long sleeves of Bucky's henley, shivers instantly threatening to crawl up his spine. 

"Where were you trying to go?" He asked, trying to keep the rage from his voice as he watched the man gain on you, "I'll walk you there." 

"The bathroom," Your small voice replied and he curtly nodded, but before he could guide you there, you spoke again, "I was going to hide there until I could sneak out without him seeing." 

A fist closed around his heart, "You're here by yourself?" At the nod of your head, Bucky's head started to spin as he thought of solutions for you. Frank might get mad at him for what he was about to suggest, but he'd handle him later. 

"I have somewhere better for you," He said, slowly guiding you away from the bar guy who was watching you two, "Will you trust me? Just this once." He knew it was a lot to ask, considering how he'd lied to you for months, but he knew that you remembered how he'd always put your first. Your happiness, your satisfaction, your safety. Nothing else mattered to him until you were taken care of and protected. 

Your chin dipped in a nod and Bucky immediately began cutting a path through the growing crowd, his hand on your lower back as he led you to the other side of the bar, quickly and thoroughly. 

It wasn't long before he came across the door he was looking for, and knocked before swinging it open. Inside was Frank's office, but luckily the man was out of town for the week, so no one would come knocking. 

Bucky ushered you inside before closing and locking the door, pulling the blinds shut so no one could peek inside the small office window. He kept the lights off, but the lights from the bar showed through the small cracks in the blinds, throwing light stripes of yellow through the room. 

Bucky looked through the blinds, watching the man from the bar as he looked around the space, looking for you, only to mutter to himself before going back to sit at the bar. 

"You can wait here as long as you need," Bucky softly said, turning in your direction, but not fully looking at you. 

"Won't Frank be mad?" You asked. You'd met him once when Bucky first started dating you. He'd paid Frank to not tell you about the club, and once Frank saw how far gone he was for you, he kept his part of the deal. 

"Let me worry about Frank," He assured you, "If you need anything, I'll let Wade know you're back here," He reached for the handle, "Lock it after I leave, alright?" 

"Wait." Bucky froze at the frenzied tone as you called for him, his hand on the door handle. The next words of yours were muttered on a low breath, and the sorrow dripping from them sent a crack through his chest. "Why won't you look at me?" 

"I... "He hung his head with a sigh and released the handle before turning towards you with his hands on his hips. "I didn't think you wanted me to see you. Or that you wanted to see me." 

Your soft footsteps padded closer as his gaze remained on the floor, the toes of your shoes coming into his vision. You'd worn those simple black flats you loved so much. They were your everyday shoes. There were no bows and no straps. The most unremarkable thing you owned and yet the sight of those shoes so close to his boots made his heart leap into his throat. 

"James," You called for him, your voice dragging soft fingers down his back, a shiver following in its wake. "Why would you think that?" 

"Because of what I did," He muttered, "What you saw me do."

He heard you heave a breath at the mention of the incident he'd been replaying in his head since you walked away. The blood coating his knuckles. The gasp that fell from your lips. The dread that had instantly flooded his chest at those wide eyes of yours as you backed away. 

You, running from him. 

"Will you please look at me?" The crack in your voice pushed him over the edge and he finally raised his eyes to meet yours. It may have been dark in that office, but even on the blackest of nights, Bucky would know exactly where to look to find your eyes. 

"I'm sorry," you whispered. 

"No, no you don't apologize," His words were heavy on his tongue as he scrambled to understand why you were saying that. "I'm the one who scared you, and lied to you." 

"And I'm the one who ran off before you could explain yourself," Your fingers fidgeted in front of you like you were keeping yourself from reaching for him. "It's not like I didn't know." 

Bucky's whole world froze. "What do you mean?" 

You let out a weak scoff, "Come on, Bucky, it's not hard to connect the dots, I just had to want to connect them."

At the shock that must've been written all over his face, you let out a small sad laugh. 

"I mean, c'mon," You started, "I get asked out by this motorcycle guy, who everyone else in town seems to be scared of. He's the only one in town who doesn't wear one of those vests and is the only one who the club leaves alone." You took a step forward, reaching for his hand. He let you take it in your gentle hold, your fingers turning it over so his knuckles were on display. "He also shows up to my house with weird bruises and cuts on his hands that he has no believable explanation for." 

You looked up from his hand, not letting it fall between you. 

"I just wish he would've told me," You whispered, "If I had known, I wouldn't have gone looking for you that day. I would've seen your text saying you were busy, and left it at that." 

Finally, you let his hand go, taking your warmth with it and he tugged his lip between his teeth to fight the urge to reach out for you.

"And now, I feel like I have to choose between now you and past you. The you I know you are, and the you I thought I knew." 

He took a deep to steady himself, though it came out shakier than he wanted it to. 

"I'm so sorry," His voice strained in his throat, "I just didn't want you involved. I liked that you didn't know who I was. I just wanted to enjoy that while it lasted." 

"Were you ever going to tell me?" You asked, your arms wrapping around yourself. 

"I was," He may have been quick to answer, but he didn't want you thinking for even a second longer than you already had that he was going to keep you in the dark forever. "I promise, I was going to tell you, but I didn't want to scare you off." 

You were quiet for a moment, and he could see those gears turning in your head as you contemplated his words. 

"Please," He whispered, "I'll do anything. I'll do anything you ask if you choose me. The me you now know I am." 

You took him in for a second - the bags under his eyes, the weight dragging down his shoulders, the pained sorrow lining the edges of his face. "Tell me everything." 

"Everything?" He asked. 

"Everything. No more secrets. No more hidden skeletons." You dropped your arms and stepped toward him, "I want to know it all. And then, I'll decide." 

His stomach erupted in nervous butterflies, realizing this was it. This was his last shot. 

So he told you all of it.

How he ended up a part of the club in his early twenties. How you'd stumbled across a rare moment of him having to defend his club's integrity from another. How even though he has to do those things, he doesn't necessarily enjoy it - he's just good at it. 

Some parts had you laughing, pulling a smile from his lips at the joyous sound that seemed so out of place considering the situation. Others had you hastily wiping the tears from your eyes as you sniffled. 

He spilled his guts to you. He turned over every stone and shone a light in every dark corner of his heart. He laid it out before you, for you to examine and judge, but he'd do it a thousand times over if it meant you'd let him sit next to you like you were. 

You two were in that office for hours. The bar had hit its peak hour. The music outside the office had turned from quiet rock to bassy club as people filed in to dance. The lights had lost their old yellow and turned to blues, greens, purples, and pinks, flashing through the blinds.  

When he was done telling you his life story, from the moment he joined the club to you sitting across from him, you were silent, staring up at him on the leather couch. 

"Thank you," You whispered, your voice barely audible over the bass on the other side of the wall. "Thank you for telling me." 

He nodded, his chest aching in suspense as you continued to watch him. 

"Do you really love me?" You asked, "You said in your story about how when I ran off, you couldn't believe you fucked up the one relationship you'd ever cared about and lost the only girl you ever loved." 

Bucky's heart fell to the pit threatening to swallow him whole. He remembered saying those words, but he didn't think you'd heard them clearly enough because you hadn't acknowledged them. He hadn't meant to let them slip quite like they had, he wanted to tell you in a much more romantic way, but his mouth was moving faster than his brain. 

He dipped his chin in a nod, "I do." Your lips twitched up in the corners and that was all he needed to gain more confidence in his emotionally raw state. "I love you, and I've loved you from the moment I first heard you say my name back to me." 

You didn't say anything back, you just sat there with that small grin on your lips as you contemplated him. Everything that he was. Bucky didn't usually like being the center of attention, being examined. But with you, he'd remain under your eye for as long as you allowed. He did his best to ignore the race of his heart as he waited for a response, but your next move did nothing to help ease its fast pace. 

You slid over to him, gently raising your knee and setting it on the other side of him, straddling his thighs as your hands rested on the front of his cutte. He wanted to grab you, desperate to have his hands on you, to feel you again, but he didn't want to push you. So he fisted his hands at his sides as your fingers trailed up his neck and to his chin before resting on the sides of his neck. 

"I've missed you," You whispered, the smile falling from your lips as your eyes traced the lines of his face. "I want to choose you as you are now," You started, his heart racing at your words, "But you have to keep being honest with me. No more secrets." 

Your nose brushed against his as your eyes looked up from his lips and his breath caught in his throat. "No secrets. Ever," He whispered, the movement of his words brushing his lips every so gently against your own. "You have my word." 

"If you ever keep a secret like that from me again," You muttered, your words crystal clear as they engrained themselves into his heart, "There won't be another chance. Got it?" 

He nodded, "I understand." 

"Good," You remained close, your breath fanning against his lips as his hands itched to reach for you. "Are you going to touch me?" 

He swallowed around the lump in his throat, imagining his hands touching you after the things you've seen him do was the hardest part. He didn't want to stain you with the bad side of him, the red on his hands. 

"Bucky?" Your voice brought him back, and he opened his eyes - when had he closed them? 

He wanted to voice what was racing through his mind, but he couldn't find the words and decided to save them for another day. Instead, he asked, his voice hardly above a whisper, "Can I touch you?" 

There was a certain understanding in your eyes as you nodded, "Of course you can." 

His hands found their way up to cup your face, the calluses of his fingers brushing against your soft cheeks. "Can I kiss you?" 

You let out a soft laugh as you nodded. That was all he needed before he closed that minuscule gap between your mouths, groaning when your hands tightened against the sides of his neck. 

Your lips danced to a familiar tune, but there were new notes now. Understanding and trust, however fragile and new. Longing and relief at starting fresh.

Your lips parted, allowing him to taste the subtle drink still on your tongue from hours ago. His hands slid down your shoulders and ribs, landing on your hips and pulling them against him. A whine vibrated through your chest into his mouth and the heat that filled his being was overwhelming as he rocked your hips with his hands. 

"I'm never losing you again," He said against your lips, "Never."

"I'll hold you to that," You breathed out, tugging on his bottom lip with your teeth. 

"You better." His hands squeezed your hips, pulling them down again against the hardness in his jeans. 

"I love you, James," His hands slowed as you pulled away. "I love you so much, and that's why I was here tonight." 

His brows pinched together. "What do you mean?" 

"I know you come here every Friday night," You said, "And I didn't want to talk over the phone, and I didn't want to lose my nerve and hang up before you could answer a call, so I came here hoping to see you tonight. And I'm glad I did." You smiled down at him, your hips still moving against his.

He shook his head in disbelief and shock as he loosed a huff of a laugh. One of his hands left your hip and reached up to stroke your cheek. "I love it when you scheme about me." 

You let out a shocked laugh, "I do not scheme!" Your laughter burst out as he grabbed you and flipped you around, hovering over you on the couch. 

"Alright alright, whatever you say," He muttered into the skin of your neck as he trailed his lips down its surface, inhaling the scent of you as he made his way to the bit of your breasts that showed when he pulled your shirt down, "Schemer." 

You opened your mouth to deny the nickname but you hadn't realized his hand trailing up the inside of your shirt, sneaking its way under your bra, his fingers gently pulling at your nipple. Whatever you were about to say broke off in a soft gasp, ending in a little whine that was like fuel to the heat driving Bucky's hand under your skirt. 

It trailed up the softness of your leg, tracing soft patterns as it climbed before landing over the damp cotton covering your center. He pulled the fabric to the side and groaned a soft 'fuck' at the slick that instantly coated his fingers before they slowly circled your clit. "I want to taste you," He said the words into the skin of your breast, "Will you let me taste you again?" 

"Please," You begged, your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling at the roots, "please Bucky." 

He smiled into your skin as both of your hands worked to pull the fabric of your skirt up to your waist. Bucky wasted no time pulling your underwear to the side and languidly dragging his tongue up your slit, moaning as your taste flooded his mouth. 

"God I missed this," He wrapped his mouth around the entirety of you, his tongue working slowly as he savored the moment. He would never take another moment with you for granted again, he was going to take his time to brand everything into his mind. The way your eyes fluttered but tried to stay open to watch him. The feeling of your hands pulling on his hair when he slipped two fingers in, curling them against your walls. The breathiness in your voice as you begged him to let you fall over the edge of release. 

"Bucky please," You struggled to grind into his mouth when he pulled away again to watch your cunt greedily swallow his fingers. 

"Can I take you home?" He asked, looking up at you. 

You looked down at him, the exasperation in your eyes almost making him laugh. "Now?"

He nodded, "Yes," He curled his fingers again, a smile growing on his lips as your jaw dropped and let out another delicious sound, "I want to fuck you properly, not in this office." 

"What if I want you now?" You asked, your voice tight and he groaned at the confession. 

"I would fuck you, but I don't want Frank coming back and smelling you in here," He leaned forward, pressing his forehead against yours, "That's only for me." 

A low whine filled his ears as you tugged your lip between your teeth and nodded, "Okay, but you're driving." 

He curled his fingers one more time, relishing in the gasp you sucked in before he removed his fingers from you, sticking them in his own mouth to suck them clean. The sight made you moan before you leaned forward and pulled his hand away so you could capture his mouth with yours, tasting his mouth as he blindly adjusted your underwear and skirt back to normal. 

You two left the office, locking it behind you and weaving your way through the crowd that had gathered in the bar. Bucky laughed as you began to dance behind him while he led the way. When you both got to your car, you tossed him your keys and he sent off a short message to Steve letting him know he was leaving his bike around back. Steve had the spare key and would take it to the club for him. 

Bucky couldn't remember a time he drove so fast as he drove to your place, especially when you were sitting in the passenger seat looking at him the way you were. Your hands trailing over his lap, gripping him through his jeans. 

Your hand had made it past his belt and zipper, sneaking under the waistband of his boxers to start stroking him as you trailed kisses down his neck when he pulled into your driveway. He hastily threw the car in park and turned it off before turning to you and pulling you in for a bruising kiss. 

He pulled your hand out from his jeans and pressed the keys into your fingers, "Get inside," He mumbled against your lips, "You have two minutes before I come in there and take what's mine. I don't care where you are." 

You whined, trying to kiss him again when he pinned you with a look and you shuddered, nodding. 

"Go," He whispered, chuckling to himself as you scrambled to get out of the car and raced up your front steps. He fixed himself back into his pants, not bothering to redo his belt, before getting out of the car. He wouldn't have cared, but he didn't want any of your neighbors calling the cops for his indecency. 

He made sure to grab anything you left in the car and lock it before slowly climbing the same stairs you ran up. You'd left the door open in your haste, and your house was quiet as he stepped inside, closing and locking the door behind him. He undid his boots, refusing to drag anything on to your soft clean carpets. 

As Bucky climbed the stairs to your room, he pulled his belt off, loosely wrapping it in a loop as he approached your half open door, pausing at the sight before him. 

You were sitting against the headboard, naked with your fingers buried in your cunt. Your breathy sigh when you spotted him was his undoing and he grew achingly hard in his jeans. 

"Did I say you could touch yourself?" He struggled to make his voice stern as you flushed, quickly removing your fingers. 

"I just wanted to be ready for you," You whispered, "I don't want to wait anymore." 

He smirked, and approached the bed, setting the belt on the edge of the mattress before he started removing his own clothes. "Kneel right here," He gestured to the bit of mattress in front of him, "and face the other way." 

You nodded, and he could see you easily slipping into the submissive side of you that you only let him see. You moved to where he wanted you, and when he was done undressing, he grabbed the belt again. 

He leaned forward, placing his chin on your shoulder as his tone softened, "You remember your safe word right?" You nodded, mumbling the chosen word in confirmation and he smiled, placing a kiss on your shoulder, "Good. Are you okay with this? Or do you not want that tonight?" 

"I want it," You breathed, a shiver raking over your body as he kissed your neck. 

He nodded into your shoulder before pulling back, "Give me your hands." 

You instantly followed his instruction, putting your hands behind your back, and he looped his belt around your wrists, fastening them together. "Bend over, darlin," He ordered, pushing his hand on between your shoulder blades. He grabbed your shoulder to help you bend over before angling your hips higher, presenting you before him. 

His hands wrapped over your ass, squeezing and spreading them apart. 

"Fuck," He muttered, probing your entrance with a thumb, "You're dripping." You moaned into the comforter as he pushed a thumb in, "I can't wait to feel you around me again." 

You moaned his name again, begging him to fuck you, but he shook his head.

"Not yet," He pressed his thumb further in as he rubbed your cheek with his other hand, "You touched yourself without my permission." He heard your gasp as he pulled his hand back, "Good girls don't do that." 

The smack that rang through the air as his hand collided with your skin was drowned out by the loud moan that you voiced. He waited for you to remember the rules of this little game you played and it didn't take long for pride to swell in his chest as you angled your head out of the blanket. 

"One," You whined, trying to push back against his thumb that was still in your cunt. 

"There you go," He muttered, raising his hand, "Let me hear you make that sound again," and bringing it down again and again as you kept count, your moans turning to shrieks then wails as you reached five. 

He gently laid his hand on the red skin, rubbing away the sting as he praised you, leaning down and kissing the tender area before tugging your legs off the bed. He kneeled behind you, giving you only one warning, "Don't come until I say you can," before removing his thumb and replacing it with his tongue. 

"Oh fuck," You cried, "James!" Your legs shook as your toes tried to push against the ground to raise your hips. His hand pulled your legs apart, keeping your feet from touching the floor as he moaned into you, the vibration tearing another cry from your throat. 

He knew you wouldn't last long like this, but god he just couldn't get over you. He wanted to devour you whole and this was the closest he could get. 

When your cries turned incoherent and your legs started shaking, he removed his tongue, gently setting your legs down and standing behind you. He leaned over you, resting his cock between over your ass and he kissed down your spine, letting you calm for a moment before undoing the belt and helping you turn over. 

He wiped the tears from your cheeks, placing gentle kisses along the trails. "You did so good." You hummed, your lids heavy but your eyes alert as you watched him. He lifted your legs, pushing your knees to chest, "I think you deserve a reward," Your eyes lit up, "What do you think?" 

He chuckled at your frantic nod, "Please, James," you begged, "Please fuck me. I've missed you so much." 

His heart squeezed, "I know," He lined himself up with your entrance, slowly pushing in as your jaw dropped open, "I've missed you too." 

His own breathing became tight as your cunt gripped him, pulling him in, eager to be filled by him again. 

"Fuck, I love the way you feel around me," he ground out, slowly pulling out and pushing back in, setting a slow rhythm. "You're always so warm, so perfect." 

His hands moved your legs to the side, holding them open as he sped up, driving into you. He wrapped one of your legs around his waist, letting go so he could reach up and gently grab your neck. One of your hands wrapped around his wrist, tightening with his own, letting him know how tight to squeeze, making your eyes roll back as you gasped. 

"Oh fuck," You whined, forcing your eyes open to look at him. "Bucky please, I'm so close, so close, please." 

He opened his hand, wrapping it around the back of your neck and pulling you up. Your hands shot out to grip his shoulders as he placed his forehead against yours, his pace growing brutal. 

"Hold on," He told you, "Almost, almost." 

He felt the familiar tightening in himself as he watched you do your best to stave off your own release, waiting for him. 

"Oh, good girl," he panted, his brows pinching, "good fucking girl, just a little bit more. You're gonna come with me, yeah?" 

You nodded, words gone from your brain as your moans grew higher in pitch. 

"That's a good girl," He praised, the sensation growing stronger and stronger until he knew the edge was right there. "Come for me baby," He all but begged, "Come on my cock, soak it , come on." 

He rambled as you tightened around him, squeezing his cock until he was falling over that edge with you, pleasure blinding behind his eyes as they closed. "Fuck fuck fuck," He dropped your other leg, catching himself as he fell over you, his breathing short as every other thought vanished from his brain. 

All he could focus on was the feeling of you wrapped around him, your fingers in a death grip on his shoulders as your cries filled his ears. 

"There you go, there you go," He muttered into your neck as you came down from your high. "I love you so much, I love you." An airy laugh broke from your chest. 

"I love you," You whispered, pressing your lips against his shoulder. 

Once you both came down from your high, he cleaned you up before joining you in bed, wrapping you into his chest. He would never forget how he'd almost lost this - lost you. 

As you drifted to sleep against him, a smile on your lips, he vowed to himself and to the silence of the house that he'd never fuck it up again. Never again.

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Look, if people are right and this is the hair for bucky in thunderbolts, just know panties will drop cause this with the METAL ARM?

Pairing: Bartender!Neighbor!Bucky x college!artist!reader (intended female reader)

Summary: A horrible date and forgetting your keys lands you in the hands of your handsome neighbor who is more than willing to lend a helping hand.

Series Warnings: 18+ ONLY MINORS DNI, age gap is 10-ish years, smidge of angst, a date gone wrong (not with bucky), bucky being a gentlemen should be it’s own warning, some suggestive thoughts and language, cursing, making out, mentions of anxiety, disappointed parents, mentions of alcohol, fluff, pet names (sugar, baby, sir, daddy), weed consumption, tiny bit of self doubt from Bucky, smut, fingering, oral (f receiving), Bucky talks a lot in bed, unprotected sex (protect yourself irl please)

Each chapter will contain it's own warnings.

❂︎ - Smut

Forgotten Keys and Warm Tea

Make Our Own Traditions

Masterpiece ❂︎

Adoration of the Heart ❂︎