#there will still be piratey content because it fucks

[arbitraryallegory]

Does no one in the world government/navy complex have any critical thinking skills? Like, yeah Luffy & co. CALL themselves pirates but when at any point have they done anything that is pirate-esque? Help people? Not generally piratey behavior bruh. Make friends who would die for them everywhere they go? Getting colder, friend. Overthrow tyrants and dictators and fascist regimes? You’re positively cryogenic, my dude.

Like I can totally get why the government and military at large does not want this 10-person revolution cutting a swath of cheerful mayhem through their oceans and disrupting the status quo they’ve oppressed and brainwashed people into accepting for hundreds of years. But am I expected to believe that on an individual level, no one honest and good, but maybe a little jaded and fed up has ever looked at their track record and thought “Oh, here’s a weapon I can use to make the world slightly better, that can’t be traced back to me” and just sort of gently nudge them in the direction of the nearest corrupt despot? If this one little crew dies trying, then hey, no skin off their nose. But if they succeed? A whole bunch of people are safer and that one person gets to know they had a real, tangible impact, rather than just writing Justice on their backs and never doing a single thing to really help anyone.

Because here’s the thing, and let’s use smoker in this example. We’re meant to believe Smoker—one of the most decent marines we’ve met—is this impartial force of pure justice, but how can that be when he’s SEEN exactly what Luffy’s deal is? He KNOWS that boy and his crew aren’t pillaging and plundering (maybe sometimes stealing) and terrorizing civilians. He’s reluctantly assisted them in their endeavors on at least two occasions! He’s experienced first hand the corruption of his own organization when they gave the gag order about what happened in Alabasta. So maybe he’s a good man in a bad organization, but that doesn’t make him admirable imo. He’s still a goddamn useless cop, because even after the miracle he witnessed in Alabasta, and after the shit show of Marineford and the ugly, barbaric spectacle they made of Ace’s execution, he still chases Luffy! He hears him on a den den mushi in the new world and immediately goes to arrest him! Why, because he got away two years and a whole lifetime of events ago? Because the flag he sails under is more important than the content of his character? That’s super fucked. Where was I going with this.

Oh yeah. I was just thinking how sad it is that people in one piece have to literally become criminals to escape oppression. Luffy wants to be a pirate not because he has any inclination, or indeed aptitude, for piracy itself, but because pirates are free and freedom is something he desperately wants. (This has whole new shattering implications after the ASL flashback)

If you think about it, the irony is kind of amazing. His success put Luffy directly in the crosshairs of the most powerful organizational entity in the world, but the only reason he became such a successful pirate in the first place is because he’s so damn bad at it!

#one piece #one piece meta #i think i can claim that tag now #since all i fucking talk about is one piece #sorry you get to hear all my raving #twitter and reddit are full of salty dudebros arguing about whether zoro could kick luffy’s ass or not #just so dumb and pointless

[cassiopeiassky]

When Everything’s Made to be Broken (I Just Want You to Know Who I Am) Part 51

It’s heeeeeere!  I finally connected all the dots.  Special thanks to @the-chubby-persimmon for beta-ing and giving me the encouragement I needed to finish the chapter - you’re the absolute best.  Oh, and although the chapter wraps nicely, this isn’t the end.  I’ll let you all know when we get there ;)

Also I need love and affirmation please send love and affirmation

Plot:  When you inadvertently become a witness to a murder and are suddenly a target for death, it takes a specially skilled soldier and his team to keep you and your family safe.

This will eventually be a is a reader x Bucky fic. The reader, by the way, is a civilian. No super powers, no fighting skills, and by no means perfect.  

Word count: 5808

Warnings:

For the entire work:  Language (I have a potty mouth), violence, and angst.  This will probably get pretty dark later on, and there will be smut.  If that’s not your thing, you may want to avoid this story.

Additional warnings specific to this part: Mentions/descriptions of anxiety, panic attack, injuries, and blood.  Oh...here there be smut (say it with me in a piratey accent...it’s fun).  I’m not doing an edited version this time because the first and last time I did that it was a raging dumpster fire.

***I do not own any of the lyrics/music in this story, so please don’t sue me for using them***

Tags moved to the end.

WEMtbB Masterlist

Previously on WEMtbB:

“Absolutely.  FRIDAY, please show any Disney animated movie except Snow White and Pinocchio.”  

Honestly, this man is too good to be true.

“Yes, Sargent Barnes.”  The tv lights up and just a few moments later the opening for the Emperor’s New Groove starts playing.  “I hope you don’t mind – I took the liberty of downloading your preferences from SUNDAY.”

“That’s perfect FRIDAY, thanks.”

“My pleasure.”

“I never thought I’d get used to and actually miss an AI presence, but here we are,” you mutter.

Bucky puts his arm around your shoulders as he snickers.  “I’m right there with you, Sweetheart.”  

He waits until you finish eating before he cocoons you both into the blanket, content to watch your favorite movies until the jet lands safely in New York.

You begin to wake, but you fight it with everything you have because this dream is so much better than your current reality.  The strong arm around your waist holding you snug against a warm, solid chest is a memory you don’t want to lose to consciousness.  The smell of Bucky surrounding you as his slow and even breaths cause your hair to gently tickle your ear is such a welcome and familiar comfort, but you can’t help but notice that something is off.  Has your memory already begun to fray?

His scent is mixed with something…an unfamiliar detergent, maybe?  Not at all unpleasant, just different.

You’re lying on your left side.  Bucky is behind you, and the arm around you is his natural arm.

Wait.

That’s not right…

Bucky has a thing when he sleeps - he needs to be between you and the door.  If you’re lying on your left side, you’re facing the door.  He should be in front of you, not behind you...he wouldn’t be able to fall asleep like this.  You know this, even in your dreams.  Yet, with all this thinking bringing you further into the realm of wakefulness, you still feel him.  You finally concede defeat and crack open an eye.

A window?  Or a door to a balcony, maybe?  Certainly not the window of your prison, and not a window at home – well, the safehouse – either.  There’s a sharp ache in your right thigh as you move, causing you to finally shake completely free of slumber’s hold and realize that this isn’t a dream.  This is real, you’re really in Bucky’s arms.

Fully awake and mind now crystal clear, you remember the hours on the jet and watching out the window as you flew into New York.  You remember being swarmed by medical personnel almost immediately upon landing, and having a panic attack when someone with good intentions injected morphine into the port still in the back of your hand without letting you know beforehand.  That guy now has an accidentally broken hand, courtesy of Steve, and a completely intentionally broken nose, courtesy of Nat.  

Bruce was there, and he explained the plan they had in place to fix your leg:  First, surgery to remove the lead coated bullet from your thigh, then they were going to apply some sort of self-regenerating tissue patch that would allow your leg to almost fully heal within 96 hours…apparently it had been shipped in from a Dr. Cho as a special favor.  You consented to the treatment, but you’d wanted local anesthetic instead of general.  Bruce, Bucky, and Tony teamed up to persuade you to accept the general anesthesia because it would be safer for you and better for the tissue patch, which you were told would cause significant pain for the first hour or so.  They also wanted you under because they wanted to transport you – preferably unconscious to avoid any unnecessary discomfort – to another facility for safety and privacy almost immediately after the surgery. When you’d finally consented, Tony thrust a clipboard full of papers into your hand; he said that he needed your formal, signed consent to treat since you’d be cared for under his policies.  You looked for the bright pink signature flags and signed them all as quickly as you could while Bucky rubbed your shoulders; he knew you were afraid you’d chicken out and change your mind about the anesthesia.  

You didn’t.  Somehow, your trust in these people overcame your anxiety.  Bucky was holding your hand when you succumbed to unconsciousness.

Your memories after that are quite a bit shiftier, thanks to the anesthesia.  Still, there are bits and pieces for you to put together.  After you started coming out of the anesthesia, they cleared you to leave the infirmary.  The patch you’d been given sped the healing process up so significantly that just a few hours post-surgery was more like a day.  There’s a choppy recollection being transported to another area, a helicopter ride, and hearing voices – even more intangible is the vague memory of hearing good-natured laughter after you told someone to kindly fuck off and leave you the hell alone because you were tired and wanted to go back to sleep, and oh, where was your unicorn – the sparkly one with purple hair?  Maybe that was a dream?

That’s the last you can remember, and now you’re here.  The gaps in your memory scare you a bit, but you remind yourself that you’re no longer in the hands of people that wish to do you harm; you’re here, curled up with Bucky.  Safe.  Barely containing the laugh that tries to bubble out of you, you shift to look around in the dim light.  What time is it?  It’s dark, but it’s also late January so considering how short the days are that doesn’t tell you much.  Well, you think it’s still January, but you’ll have to ask someone to make sure February didn’t come around while you were still stuck in hell.

There’s a gentle, pale blue glow coming through the window from the almost full moon and the plethora of stars twinkling in the clear velvet sky.  If you crane your neck just a little more, you can see the snow blanketing surrounding area and reflecting the starlight.  It’s extraordinarily peaceful, and you’re grateful that Bucky left the blinds open.  You’re pretty sure he did it for your benefit, so you wouldn’t wake up in the pitch-black darkness of an unfamiliar room.

There’s a nightstand next to your side of the bed with a lamp and pile of books.   Directly across from the bed there’s a dresser with another pile of books stacked on top, and there are doors on either side.  Given the placement of the doors, you can only assume that one leads to a bathroom and the other to a closet.  At least, you hope so.

Moving slowly, you carefully disengage from Bucky’s embrace.  It’s not that you want to move, but damn you have to pee.  Testing the range of motion in your leg, you find that the ache feels less like an injury and more like the stiff disuse of waking up the second day after a car accident or really intense workout.  It easily holds your weight as you stand and even seems to loosen slightly as you carefully stretch.  There aren’t any crutches or a cane nearby, and you think you remember someone telling you that by the time you awoke you’d be sore but healed enough to get around. There are bandages on your arm and hand from the IVs, but those seems to be the only other lasting reminders of the fact that you went through actual surgery.

You take a step, but then turn back to watch Bucky for a few heartbeats.  God, you fucking missed him.  You can clearly see the toll these past few weeks have taken from him – even in the semi-darkness you can see the dark bags of exhaustion under his eyes, the longer than usual facial hair, the way his cheeks almost seem gaunt.  The lines on his forehead seem just a bit deeper, and his lips are chapped.  It might just be a trick of the moonlight, but you could swear that you see some sparse spots of silver in his scruff.  It’s obvious that he hasn’t been taking care of himself, and you feel a now familiar stab of guilt because you know damn well that it’s because of you.

Holding back a sigh, you turn and walk to the door to the left of the dresser.  When you step through the threshold you are delighted to find that you have, in fact, found the bathroom.  At least now you won’t have to wake up Bucky to find out where it is. Before turning on the light, you close the door with a quiet click, thinking to spare Bucky the sudden brightness, and are pleasantly surprised to find that the bathroom light must be on both a sensor and a dimmer because the room is now gently lit but not so much so that your eyes have to struggle to adjust.  

Glancing in the mirror gives you a start – for all your concern for Bucky, you’re not exactly looking like a prize yourself, not that you ever really do.  A good washing will fix your hair, but your complexion has an unhealthy waxiness to it, your eyes are sunken and dull, and although they are slowly beginning to fade, the bruises from your assaults are still on your face and body.  You’re either going to have to get someone to pick up some makeup for you or you’ll have to forgo FaceTiming the boys tomorrow and call instead.  They shouldn’t see you like this.

After relieving yourself and washing your hands, you start pulling off your bandages.  The IV sites on your hand and in the crook of your arm look exactly as you would expect – you rinse off the little bit of dried blood that’s left behind and double check to make sure the tiny wounds don’t start bleeding.  You do the same for the bandage on your leg except, when you wipe away the blood, the skin underneath isn’t a stitched incision like you’d expected but rather a shiny red scar.  

Holy shit, it looks like you’ve already been healing for over a week.  There isn’t even a scab.  “Well color me impressed,” you mutter in surprise.  This is incredible, so why the hell isn’t this type of technology mainstream? It’s something you’ll have to ask about later.

But for now, it’s time to get back to Bucky.  You don’t fight the smile that comes to your face – back to Bucky, because he’s just on the other side of the door, sleeping peacefully.  When you turn to leave, you find a plastic bag hanging from the door handle of what you assume is the linen closet.  It’s hanging by just one side, so as you walk by you can clearly see into the bag.  It’s…your bodywash?  You find yourself almost beaming as you start sifting through the bag.  There’s the bodywash you’d used for years, the only shampoo and conditioner that have ever truly come close to managing your curls, your favorite body lotion, and even your preferred skin care.  Tears fill your eyes at the simple gesture; you’d have been perfectly fine using whatever Bucky had on hand, but he’d wanted you to feel like yourself again.  

“I don’t deserve you, Buck. You sweet, sweet man,” you hum as you snap open the bodywash cap and lift it to your nose.  The smell is…it smells like you.  Like you. It smells like early mornings before you went to work.  It smells like the middle of the night right after the boys were born, washing off the endless spit up during the only 10 minutes a day you could get to yourself. It smells like showering before bed because it was the only time you could fit it in, and then bringing one of the boys to bed with you because he’s sick and can’t sleep without your cuddles.  It smells like lazy mornings at the safehouse when everyone was awake and tangled together under the comforter as cartoons played in the background.  It smells like Bucky nuzzling into your neck from behind, then leaving a soft kiss before telling you that you smell amazing.  

Then the memory of Jimmy trying to use your bodywash instead of the tear free formula you buy for them comes to mind – he told you he wanted to smell like Momma.  Like you.

And with that, you finally break from the weight of what you went through.  

For the first few moments it’s a little hard to breathe.  Five and a half jagged breaths later the sobs start, and you somehow end up on your knees desperately clawing at the floor to feel something, anything, other than the suffocating torment that’s been waiting for the right moment to descend upon you.  Then your hands are in your hair, clutching fistfuls near your scalp because it’s the only thing your fingers can find, and because the dull pain from pulling your hair offers just the slightest distraction from the debilitating agony in your psyche.

The sound you make when you feel something warm on one wrist and cool on the other is almost inhuman; a mix of a wail and a howl, the very essence of devastating grief marrying incomprehensible suffering.  The gentle but insistent tugs finally succeed in getting you to straighten up enough for Bucky to pull you into his arms.  Your hands go from your hair to around his neck, holding on in a frantic attempt to keep from being swept away by this brutal tsunami.

“I’ve got you, Sweetheart.  Go ahead, it’s okay.  I’ve got you.”  Bucky repeats these words like a favorite song on a loop as he holds you close and rubs your back.  Your entire body shakes with your bawling sobs, but he somehow manages to keep you from breaking apart completely despite the pain, anger, humiliation, guilt, shame, and fear trying to pull you in different directions.

There’s no sense of time in this abyss – it would be inconsequential even if it did exist – but even the fiercest, most destructive storms don’t last forever.  Eventually, it will sap the atmosphere of fuel and die down.  When your wracking sobs finally subside to gasping shudders, your head is pounding, your lungs ache, and your face has grown hot and itchy from the tears.

But despite your physical discomfort, you feel considerably lighter.  Exhausted but relieved.  It feels like you lanced a festering would – it was an ugly process and it still hurts, but it’s a different kind of hurt.  It’s a hurt that feels like it might finally begin to give way to healing because the poison has been let out.

Bucky’s gentle humming gives you something else to focus on as you close your swollen eyes and allow him to shift you slightly.  He’s sitting on the floor with his back to the wall, and you’re sitting between his legs and leaning against him, more or less cradled in his arms with your legs draped over one of his thighs.  He’s so solid and steady; the immoveable rock in the unreliable landscape of your shifting emotions.

Without loosening his grip on you, he reaches for something – the bottle of bodywash – and clicks open the top to smell it before setting it to the side.  “I get it, Sweetheart.  I get it, the significance of this smell.  When I was first free, I didn’t know what to do with myself.  I didn’t know who I was after everything I’d done, and everything that was done to me – I didn’t feel the same, I sure as hell didn’t look the same, and the whole damn world had changed – and I just wanted something comfortable.  Familiar. So I thought,” he twirls a lock of your hair around his finger, “that if I could maybe just smell like myself, that it might be enough to hold on to, to remind myself that I wasn’t HYDRA’s puppet anymore.”  Bucky chuckles, “It was a good idea, in theory.  Not so much in practice.  Most men, myself included, just smelled like armpit and cigarette smoke a few hours after bathing.  While I definitely appreciate cologne and deodorant now, it really wasn’t a thing for men back in the 30s and 40s – that stuff was considered to be for women only.”

Bucky presses a kiss to your forehead.  “It got to the point where I couldn’t stand myself, and it didn’t exactly help me blend in or get jobs for cash, especially since I couldn’t always afford to wash my clothes regularly.  Then one day I stopped by a drugstore to pick up some razorblades.  There was an open jar on the counter for people to try, and I caught a whiff of it as I walked by.  It…it smelled just like my ma.  It surprised me so much that I started crying in the middle of the store, which of course really, really concerned some of the other customers.  It was only a few months after I got free, so I was still pretty rough and crusty looking. Some lady approached me and I panicked – I swiped the jar and ran out.  I spent the next two days just intermittently sniffing the stuff.  Turned out to be cold cream – I don’t know if it was the same brand my ma used, but I didn’t care.  It smelled just like her.”

A warmth blossoms in your chest – that’s probably one of the sweetest things you’ve ever heard.   “Did it help?”

“Mmm hmm.  Gave me something good to remember, instead of all the bad.  It reminded me of who I was before – before HYDRA, hell, who I was before the war.  My ma was…she was my safe place.  I got along with my dad just fine, but deep down I was always a mama’s boy.”

“Do you still have it?” You don’t remember seeing it, but that doesn’t mean anything.

“Yeah, but I don’t need it anymore.”  Bucky tightens his hold on you.  “You’re my safe place now.”  The two of you sit in silence for a while, just holding each other.  Just before you begin to drift off, he murmurs, “Do you want to take a shower?  Smell like you again?”

You nod wordlessly as you untangle yourself and clumsily rise.  Because yes.  Yes, you do.

He swiftly puts your toiletries where they belong as you stare at yourself in the mirror.

Yikes.  

“You’re still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever laid eyes on.”  He steps past you and into the shower to start the water while you begin to get out of your…what the hell are these things, anyway?  Hospital issue shorts that snap at the waist and a top that ties at the neck and sides.  Not exactly the pinnacle of comfort, but much better than one of those drafty ass-baring gowns.

There’s no mistaking his hesitation when he speaks, “Alright, Sweetheart.  You should be good to go.  I’ll be nearby, so just call if you need anything.”

It hadn’t occurred to you that he would leave.  Panic tries to rise but you grab his hand as he walks by and the contact immediately soothes you; and if the relief in his eyes is anything to go by, the simple touch does the same for him.  “Stay with me.”  Your mouth is dry as you swallow against the lump in your throat, and you wonder if you’re crossing a line.  Is it too familiar?  Too soon after what you’ve been through?  You just know that you don’t want to be alone.   “Please.”

Will anything ever be the same?

His eyes seem just a bit bluer when he looks to you in surprise.  “Really?  Are – are you sure?”  Bucky stares as you slowly nod.  “I thought…I didn’t want to assume –“

There’s a comfort in knowing that you both seem to be on the same page.  “I’m sure.  Please…stay.”

Bucky nods and begins to undress as you finish slowly.  He keeps his eyes averted as he steps into the shower.

Suddenly feeling inexplicably shy, you follow him through the frosted door.  The shower is huge - more than big enough for two and is actually quite lovely.  Two of the walls are made of glass, and oversized beige tiles line the other two walls up to the ceiling, with coves intermittently placed for holding whatever would be needed for bathing.  Along the far wall is a built-in seat, also tiled – it makes sense, considering who this shower was built for.  Even an Avenger might not have the energy for standing in a shower after a mission.

Bucky takes your hand and leads you under the generous spray, letting the hot water rinse over you both. His hands lightly trail up and down your arms as you both stand, silently facing the other.  After the space has become thoroughly steamy and you’ve begun to relax, he pulls you out just enough so he can start shampooing your hair, and good lord you’d forgotten how wonderful his hands feel massaging your scalp.  He doesn’t stop, even when rinsing.

“Mmm…Buck, you missed your calling as a hair washer.”

“Yes, I think you might have mentioned that before,” he chuckles as he smooths in the conditioner, then twists your hair to rest atop your head to give the conditioner a chance to do its thing.  He squeezes some bodywash onto a poof and begins washing your shoulders and back, arms, and legs as you remain still, taking in the familiar scent and touch.

You take his hands in yours when he circles around to your front.  “I missed you so much, Bucky.”

“My god, Sweetheart,” his voice is so tight you almost can’t understand him, “I missed you so fucking much, and I was so scared, I couldn’t breathe without you.”

You brush the wet hair out of his eyes, and before you can overthink it you pull him into a kiss, attempting to say everything you can’t manage to express with words into it.  You keep your arms around his neck, breaking the kiss only to whisper, “I love you so much, Bucky.  I love you so, so much.  I…Thank you.  Thank you for going back into hell to get me.”

Bucky whispers your name, just as lost for words as you.  “I…always,” he finally manages.  “I’ll always come for you.”

Then he kisses you deeply, thoroughly.  This kiss is emotion, but it’s also fire.  You tighten your arms in the impossible effort of getting closer to him, as though the immeasurably thin sheet of water separating you two was too much.  

There’s nothing to hide it when Bucky hardens against you, and a tension you didn’t realize you were carrying fades away.

He still wants you.

When he pulls back to look at you there’s a desperate, hungry glint in his eyes that you’re sure mirrors your own.  He kisses you again, slower this time, pushing you back slightly so the back of your head is under the spray.  Bucky continues kissing you as he rinses the conditioner from your hair, turning what was just moments ago a comforting, soothing gesture into something completely different.

Even with the hot water streaming over your skin, goosebumps rise at his needy touches.

Bucky’s hands are everywhere as he again guides you backwards; when the back of your legs hit the shower seat you lose your balance, but of course he doesn’t let you fall. Two hands grip your hips, steadying you before pushing you down gently until you’re perched on the bench and he’s kneeling in front of you. You wrap your legs around his torso, trying to pull him closer as he kisses your neck, your shoulders, your breasts, your lips.  For the briefest of moments you can feel his cock nudging at your entrance, but then Bucky grips your thighs, loosening himself from their grip and sits back on his heels before lifting your injured leg over his shoulder.

He scooches you forward to the edge of the bench and dives in.  There’s no teasing, no waiting.  He begins licking and sucking like a starving man, periodically growling quietly, pausing only to gently but firmly push your thighs further apart.  Your left hand goes back to support you, while your right hand goes into his hair.  You don’t need to guide him – he knows damn well what he’s doing and he’s fucking good at it – but you need as much contact with him as possible.

Staring at the sight of the man before you, you watch, mesmerized, at the powerful muscles in his shoulder and back pull and stretch under smooth and scarred skin as he feasts.  Bucky chases you mercilessly into an orgasm, not giving you a chance to come down from one before he’s working on another.  

“Bucky…fuck…Buck please…I can’t...oh my fuck please stop…”  You’re just about cross-eyed from bliss, but if he doesn’t stop there’s a good chance your brain will short-circuit if you come for a fourth time without a break.

At first you’re not sure if he hears you, but finally, reluctantly, he pulls himself away, gently guiding your right leg off his shoulder as he straightens from a position that would have been uncomfortable had he cared.  Kisses are planted on your thighs and belly as his hands roam, giving you some time to catch your breath before his mouth is on yours once again.

“I love you so much, Sweetheart, so fucking much,” he mumbles against your mouth, as if pulling away any farther would cause you to disappear on him again.  A wickedly satisfied grin graces his lips, “And I fucking missed that.  Now hold on.”

You throw your arms around his neck as he grabs you by the ass to pull you to him, standing while he does so.

“Show off.”

Your breathless smirk just makes him chuckle darkly.  “Oh Doll, I happen to know you like this.”  His irises have almost completely disappeared, and it seems impossible but your heart beats even faster in anticipation.  He’s not wrong.

Secure in his hold on you, you pull him in for another searing kiss as he carefully exits the shower and brings you back into the bedroom.  Not caring that both of you are still dripping wet, he tenderly lays you on the bed.

The mood shifts with his gentle actions.  Bucky cradles himself within your thighs, nuzzling your neck and planting soft kisses as he goes.  The next time his lips meet yours it’s sweet and unhurried.  His right hand takes yours, holding it firmly just above your head as your need for him explodes.  There are tears in his eyes when he slowly pushes in; he fills you, and for the first time in weeks you feel complete.  His strokes are slow and languorous, deep and deeply satisfying, allowing you to feel every inch of his movements while he feels every inch of you.

Bucky’s eyes meet yours, and neither of you can look away.  He’s giving you everything he is, everything he has been or will be, and trusting you to do with him what you will.  You do the same; offering anything less would be an insult to the way you feel about him. You surrender completely, knowing and accepting that you’re safe and that he can and will handle whatever your future holds; he’s not going to give up on you any more than you’d give up on him.

You’ve never felt so secure.

“I love you.”  The words are spoken at the same time, and you can feel his pieces filling the cracks left by your ordeal.  In this moment you feel whole, almost as if you’d never been broken.  Bucky stares into your eyes with an expression of wonder, and you know damn well that your own face reflects the awe you feel at the enormity of the bond you share.

It almost seems against his volition when he begins to thrust faster.  Your body betrays you, too, movements matching Bucky’s and encouraging him to move even faster, harder, deeper.  He obliges, rolling his hips into yours as your free hand roams at his back and shoulder and ass, desperate to touch as much of him as you can.  He tightens his grip on your hand and presses it more firmly into the mattress to keep you from sliding back and hitting the headboard.

Bucky’s getting close – you can hear it in his uneven breathing and feel it in the way his rhythm occasionally falters.  You are, too, and of course he knows this.  He hasn’t forgotten how to play your body, how to get you to respond in any way he pleases.  And right now he wants to you to come.  With his eyes, he demands it.  

You couldn’t deny him if you tried.  Stars explode and you clutch him to you as tightly as possible; he keeps going as long as he can, but your release soon sets off his own.  Hand in hand you ride the violent waves of bliss and pleasure, knowing nothing but each other in this timeless moment.

When the aftershocks subside, you pull your hand from his and begin to softly run your hands up and down his back as Bucky trembles in your arms.  Neither of you pulls away – this is where you want to be – and a smile grows as you catch your breath.

This man.

“What’s goin’ through that pretty head of yours?”  Bucky’s voice is quiet but rough.

“Huh?”  

He kisses the tip of your nose.  “You’ve got a goofy grin on your face.  Just wondering what you’re thinking.”

You huff a laugh as you come clean.  “Just thinking about how lucky I am.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Yeah?  How’s that?”

“I got the trifecta. Didn’t think it even existed, but it does.”

“The trifecta,” he repeats, waiting for your explanation.

“Mmm hmm.  I found a man that loves me.”  You begin tracing the lines of his face with your fingertips.

He turns his head to press a quick kiss to your palm.  “You’re damn right you did.”

“He’s hot.”

Bucky smirks.

You run your finger along his lower lip.  “And…he knows how to fuck.”

Bucky ducks his head as he lets out a gentle laugh.  His lips meet your neck, then your ear.  He takes his time, but between kisses and nibbles he whispers, “Then I guess we both got the trifecta.  And don’t you dare roll your eyes, cause it’s true – you love me, hell, you trust me which is so fucking incredible to me, you’re gorgeous, and I will freely admit that I can’t get enough of this…I’m insatiable for you and what you do.”

The hot whispers at your ear send a chill through your body, defeating any chance you’d have of successfully rolling your eyes, especially considering that they’re currently busy rolling back into your head with bliss.  His hands start to wander again, and your breath begins to quicken when you feel his softened length still inside you begin to twitch.

Supersoldier, indeed.

“How is your thigh feeling,” Bucky murmurs between dropping hot, open mouthed kisses on your neck and shoulders.

“My what? Oh…yeah…it’s good.  I’m good.”  He’s doing a fine job of distracting you from any lingering discomfort…or rational thinking. Not that you’re complaining. “Everything’s, uh, everything’s good.”

“Mmm…” is the only acknowledgement you get as he continues moving his mouth against you, tasting whatever his lips and tongue can find.  

It’s clear where this is going…until your stomach growls.  Loudly.

Traitor.

Bucky pulls away slightly, obviously biting back his laughter.  “So…I guess it’s time for a break.”

“What?  No,” you plead, pulling his lips to yours.  You’re pretty sure you have him convinced, until another rumble comes from your tummy.  “Dammit.”

“Sweetheart, you need to eat.”  Suddenly he’s all business, pressing one last kiss to your forehead before gingerly pulling out of you, causing you both to wince at the sticky feeling.  “And get dried off.  The last thing you need is to catch a cold.”

Well, he’s not wrong. Now that he isn’t covering you with his body, your damp skin is definitely feeling the chill, especially where the comforter is wet.  In hindsight, maybe the thirty seconds it would’ve taken to dry off wouldn’t have been too much.

Then again…nope. Totally worth it.

“I think I need another shower,” you mutter while you shift to sit at the side of the bed.  

“Sweetheart.”  There’s no mistaking his tone as he drapes a dry blanket over your shoulders; Protective Bucky has been activated.

“Yeah, yeah, I know I need to eat,” you grumble, “and I am hungry.  But I’m also unmoisturized and frizzy.  I need lotion, leave in conditioner, and my face cream, or I’m going to uncomfortable and itchy until my next shower.  And I’ll look like I just stuck my finger in an electric socket.”

Bucky barks out a laugh as he helps you to your feet.  “You’re not that frizzy.”

“Yet,” you counter.  “Friction is not a curly-haired girl’s best friend. You remember what happened the first time we did this, right?”

Bucky’s eyes drift and his lips curl into a ridiculous smile as he thinks back to the day you’re referencing.  It was the second time you’d showered together – he insisted he needed a do-over and you sure as hell weren’t going to complain – and you hadn’t had time to finish your routine afterward because the boys woke up from their nap.  Bucky would have covered you, but he got a call from Steve. All you could do was toss your hair into a bun and go with it.

It took Bucky over an hour that night to detangle your hair before bed.

“Okay fine.”  He starts stripping the wet bedding from the bed and smirks.  “You’ve got 5 minutes, and then it’s off to the kitchen to eat.”

“No,” you scoff, and immediately counter, “20 minutes.  I need to rinse off, too.  You’re messy.”

Bucky straightens indignantly, but you see the teasing light in his eyes.  “I’m messy?  I might be the cause, but you’re the reason.  It takes two to tango, Doll.”

Your laughter echoes through the room; the normalcy you’re feeling right now is almost making you giddy, and the lightness is clearly reflected in Bucky’s entire being.  “Yeah, I guess it does.  I wasn’t complaining, by the way.  Just stating a fact.”

He rolls his eyes before disappearing into the bathroom, returning a moment later with fresh blankets and a grin.  “Ten minutes.”

Shaking your head, you watch his still naked form begin to make the bed while you head to the bathroom. God, he is a thing of beauty. “Fifteen,” you call through the open door.  He doesn’t reply, he just laughs.

Bucky joins you in the bathroom a few minutes later with a pile of clothes for you both.  “Take as long as you need, Sweetheart,” he presses a kiss to the back of your neck as he wraps his arms around you.  “Just keep in mind that every time your stomach growls, I’m gonna think you’re ready to pass out.  You’ve had IV fluids but haven’t eaten since we were on the jet.”

You smile at his reflection in the mirror as you lean into him, intensely grateful for how much he cares for you and for getting back these little moments with him.   “I won’t take too long, I promise.  I just want to get comfortable.”

Eyes soft, he nods.

You both exhale.

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#bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes fanfic #my work #when everything's made to be broken (i just want you to know who i am) #WEMtbB #Part 51

[kemlyn]

"#too bad anne just got a new galpal" I was pleased by the implication that they were leaving Max open--Max was leaving herself open--for a possible future. And if we follow up on that, on what history tells us happens to Jack and Mary and Anne--that perhaps Anne will find her way back to Max after all. (this is my headcanon please do not disturb it ;))

I’m still a little unsure of where I stand on everything. all I know is that my headcanon of the last however many years is in tatters. if I’m being 100% truthful to myself I never fully believed Max was Mary Read or that she would ever go on to become that historical seagoing pirate version of her. but I was definitely 100% invested in the idea that the show had borrowed the Mary/Anne/Jack dynamic to write Max/Anne/Jackand that for all intents and purposes Max was the show’s ~Mary.so all I wanted from the ending was for it to allow me to continue thinking Max is and always would remain the third point of the M/Anne/Jack triangle.

I actually really love that Max became queen of Nassau. it’s perfect. I can’t lie though, the closer we got to the possibility of her ending up with nothing the more I did want to see her sail away with Anne and Jack to assume the role of authentic Mary Read. but that was just my general fondness for pirate lore coming out and because I’m still waiting for somebody to put the story of those three on my screen. I would have been perfectly content to mix my headcanon with show canon and settle for an ending which met somewhere in the middle. say… the three of them getting both Nassau and their piratey shenanigans, with Max running one side from that fucking chair while Anne and Jack do the heavy lifting on the sly. and for the sake of my desperation to see it–all done in a way which left a little window through which maybe one day Max could get on a ship herself. I wasn’t after much really. it’s what we saw being the case in earlier seasons and it’s how the show did pretty much finish in fact. I thought I’d gotten exactly what I wanted. but then the name confirmation on Mary came and ruined it somewhat.

it still works if you really want it to, you just adopt the idea of the trio becoming a quartet and that Mary, Anne and Jack go off to do the piracy then return to Nassau and Max with the spoils or whatever. but I think I’m too well versed in the history books to go with that. Mary pushes Max out for me. both in regards to the M/Anne/Jack triangleand Max/Anne. but I can see why some would think differently and not be bothered at all by Mary’s introduction. it’s just that it is very obvious to me that she had that cameo purely to give a nod to history and within that history there is no ‘Max’ in the story of Mary/Anne/Jack.

#deathofmyth #black sails #spoilers