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touchstarvedirl · 23 days

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nite and day. fontaine.

for 👹, as they return to school tomorrow.

the back roads of the glen are quiet this time of night. nobody passes back here but the dope boys and the hos, and even then, ‘taine’s picked a spot for the two of you where you won’t be bothered.

snack wrappers sit on the middle console, hot chips and a half-empty bottle of strawberry lemonade, taine’s malt liquor and a half-smoked joint.

his ever-present music fills the car, soft vibrations have your body rattling softly from your place in his passenger’s seat. a passenger princess is what you are, always riding, never driving, spending his dime like it’s yours– and he wouldn’t have it any other way.

hazy-eyed and chest heavy with the weed swirling through your body, you cast your eyes over fontaine’s pretty ass face; the slope of his nose and curve of his lips are entrancing even in the low light. his dark eyes meet yours with a quickness like always.

“you starin’.” he says, smooth and deep, and yeah, you are.

“i am. that wrong?”

“nah.” he shakes his head, smoke curling out of his mouth. he smiles, laughs a little cause he still can’t believe he cuffed a girl like you, who’ll just stare at him for the fuck of it. passing you the joint, he watches you hit it, and you watch him watch with low eyes, leaned over the center console staring up at him like you don’t know exactly what you’re doing. your eyes, he thinks. your fuckin’ eyes.

he’s stuck, watching you inhale and exhale, keeping his eyes on you through the smoke you blow.

“you playin’ with me.” he’s got that thing in his voice, that airy, dazed, fucked thing that has you shifting in your seat and cracking a smile, shrugging your shoulders and tilting your head and not denying his accusation. he shifts too, places a hand on your face and brings you over to steal a kiss that you so easily give him.

one kiss is never just one with fontaine, though. deepens quickly, gets nasty and your heads are moving with it, fighting to hold your own as the other does the same. he grunts, moves as close as he can and licks over your lips, slipping his tongue in your mouth when you let him in. your hands tangle in his shirt, pulling him towards your kiss.

low smacks mix with the music pouring from his radio, little pleasured sounds and hungry groans take their place in the song like they belong there. and if you let fontaine tell it, they do.

“sound so damn pretty,” he mumbles against your lips and you smile against his, leaning back just a little to find his eyes again. he’s in the thick of it already, tipsy with infatuation and you’re getting to his head, like you always do. “what you wanna do?” he asks. he knows your answer already, leaning away from you so you can clamber over his console and settle in his lap while he’s still reaching down to move his seat back.

in his lap, his hands find your waist with ease, handle your body like second nature as you press your lips to his again, hands on either side of his face. you cup his face with the gentleness of a person in love, soft and caressing and he feels the sweetness leak off your hands and seep into his skin.

the way you feel is anything but sweet, though. he’s hard against your heat and if you didn’t know any better you’d swear you were dripping through your shorts and panties. fontaine’s hands get bolder, sliding down your ass to grab at your pussy, grunting against your lips as he gets a handful of you. again he grabs, and you whine a little, moving up away from his hand at the sensitivity and unwelcome shyness that arises in you.

it doesn’t matter, though, cause you settle back down and he runs his hand down your slit through your clothes, still kissing and licking into each other’s mouths. sure of himself, his other hand takes the first one’s place, inside your clothes this time.

“taine. .” you sigh, melting into his touch.

“mhm.” he hums into your neck, kissing your skin once before he trains his eyes down between your legs.

your body knows his touch. moves against his fingers naturally, sliding your slickness over his hand as he teases your nerves, savoring the feel of you against him. your hands are over his shoulders now, a little leverage to grind your hips on him, breath heavy and desperate with the soft pleasure arising in you.

fontaine knows your tells better than you do. “you want it?” he asks, cause he can tell with the urgency in your motions that all that long ass foreplay shit is for the birds tonight.

you just nod dumbly, leaning back so he can free his dick and you stare with hungry eyes at him, body tingling with the recollection of how he feels shoved up in your guts.

shorts and panties to the side is how he does it, using your drip as lube with one, two, three swipes up and down your cunt. you shiver, eyes joining his on between your legs to find his hand wrapped around his dick.

still high off weed and each other, you connect, softly, and its good.

ready, wet and always ready, he opens you up and he groans at the feel of you enveloping him, at how you clench and kiss his dick with your walls. your sounds seem to complement each other, a whine leaks from your mouth as he sinks in farther, splitting you open like it’s his purpose. mouth slack, you huff out breaths, eyes fluttering as he catches against little electric spots all inside you.

there’s no static spot, no time in which you two don’t know what’s next. to the backdrop of smoke and fontaine’s smooth music, you fuck in fontaine’s driver’s seat. it’s smooth, the way you rise up and he pulls down and you meet in the middle, and then you’re in the thick of it and the pace is so sweet your mind blanks with it.

the car rocks, the shuffle of clothes and bodies and unabashed moans hit the air and spin and float like flowers through the wind.

hand braced on his chest, you rest your forehead against his, eyes taking in his eyes and his nose and his lips that are opening to feed you the words that you so readily eat up. low and deep, he speaks, his mind crafting the most depraved shit to say.

“you love this shit, don’t you? got me on you and you ain’ even have to try.” he’s lovestruck, would give you the world if you even looked at him like you wanted it. you nod, retching out a moan, dropping down on him harder and rougher. he feels that shit, smiles and places a kiss on your neck before his hands handle your waist again. he has your bounces turning to grinds, and he follows you, hands on your waist to move with you.

like this, it’s good. good like midnight drives and being close with your lover, good like spending his money and getting kissed like even god couldn’t separate you two.

the shit’s perfect, and you feel it, in your rocks against him, in how you move against each other so right.

smooth is how you fuck each other, rolling your hips against him, letting the atmosphere of it all bring you close to cumming. there’s no rush, no race or urgency to hit your peak, just slow grinds and soft words and fontaine’s hands around your waist, comforting and mind-fucking all at once. inside you, his dick kisses every part of you.

in the driver’s seat of fontaine’s pontiac, you feel as good as you think you could ever feel.

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touchstarvedirl · 5 months

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Don’t Need You (Wanting You is Enough)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Warning(s): Established relationship, PTSD, Night sweats, insecure Bucky, Angst (happy ending), Profanity

Word Count: 5,600

A/N: Missed you all so so so so so so so so so much. Can’t stress that enough. For everyone who has stayed, continued loving & reading, and also bullied me to come back sooner. Thank you, it means the world to me. I love you and hope this was worth the wait.

Pretending I’m not anxious about uploading this>>

Summary: Bucky’s PTSD is developing itself in bouts of night sweats and he’s not coping well with his symptoms beginning to affect him as much as you. You both just have to reassure one another this is for the long run.

“I’m sorry,” Bucky whispers. The despaired apology is nearly lost to the muted sounds of the sounds of the city waking up; beeping horns, the sound of tires against the cement, the bumble of commuting crowds. But it's not lost on you.

“Why are you sorry?” You drop your share of the sheets, “You don’t have anything to be sorry for, you didn’t do anything.”

“This is the third time we’ve had to change the sheets this week and it’s only Thursday. You shouldn’t have to be with - you shouldn’t have to do this.”

“Do thi - do what? Is that what you think?” You climb onto the bed and close the distance, taking the sheets from his hands, and bring yourself up on your knees, meeting his standing height. “Doing this is not a chore. You are not a chore to me, Buck. Do you understand me? Are you listening? We do this together because we love each other. I love you.”

“I know, I know that. But if you, if you ever decided that-“

“Don’t even, Bucky. I swear - don’t even.”

“Can you listen to me?” His eyes are tired, not sleepy. You wish you could give something, you would give anything so that your lover could sleep, could lay down and not see something so torturous painted beneath his eyelids that the sight keeps him awake, keeps him so undone.

“No, I can’t.”

“Y/N-“

“Are you going to help me change the sheets or not because if not then you can go in the kitchen and drink your tea.”

Bucky bites back whatever, whatever crazy tale he’s spun in that brain of his that you, without fail will undo with the smallest gesture. “God,” you reach forward and grab him by two handfuls of a t-shirt already wrinkled by a night of tossing and turning, “I will never stop loving you, so if you think something as stupid as having to change the sheets a couple more times a week is going to deter me from loving the shit out of you then-“

“I wake you up before your alarm clock does. You’re drinking more coffee, I’ve noticed.” I’ll always notice you, he wants to say.

“If you think that’s going to stop me from loving the shit out of you then you have really low expectations of me and you’re not as smart as I thought you were.”

Pained still, his gaze dulls. Softens, as it takes in the object of only affection. “I didn’t do anything, you know? To earn this, what you give me.” You press your lips to his; intentionally chaste, only meant to sign off on the love letter you've written to him a long time ago. It's your morning stamp on the declaration of utter devotion. Love with Bucky - your love with Bucky was full of them. The nearly religious commitment to one another burrowed in the simplest, smallest, extremely small, seemingly - too - small - to - fit- everything displays of affection somehow did the job every time. This time, it needed to shut him up.

“That is so not true. There’s that thing you do with your tongue,” you start and Bucky pinches you lightly, and it’s the first time since waking up that you see his frown ease, which makes you smile. “You don’t have to do anything, baby. Just want it and I’ll keep giving it, okay?”You peck the tip of his perfect nose. “Okay?”

“I’ll always want it.” He confesses and you know it’s real and true.

“Then I have no choice but to keep giving it, huh?”

…

Even though Bucky says he wants you to go, pushes you out of the door, and hasn’t texted anything since you’ve left but a “be safe,” you'd have to believe he really wants you to be here; in a sea of sweaty, horny adults (and some minors with fabulous fakes) grinding to belligerent music under possibly seizure-inducing strobe lights. Which is more of a bummer than it should be, because you don’t want to be anywhere near it.

“You’re being a Debby downer,” Kristin projects to you, in her ever-so-gentle way of doing things.

She doesn't yell at you, Kristin is incredibly too busy to do so. She’s an excellent multi-tasker by nature, back against the bar, eyes trained on the crowd, taking in the faces and making a list with no intention of needing to check it twice.

“I am, I’m sorry.”

“You didn’t have to come, you know I can hit the town by myself.” True, but sucky to allow as a best friend.

“You shouldn’t have to, I’m a party girl.” You supply weakly which even makes her stop to give you a look over her shoulder. “I just,” feel bad for abandoning my boyfriend so close to his bedtime when he’s been having the worst nightmares of his fucking life, “Miss Buck.” You let the words settle and then you and Kristin both look at each other and gag before breaking out in laughter. “God, I’m pathetic. Worse than pathetic”

“Not pathetic just not as… player as you promised to be. Kids and Golden Retriever by next week, I presume. I’m not babysitting til after my birthday so it's best you hurry up.”

“Fuck off.”

“Indeed I shall. There’s one man who I want to knock my ovaries a bit loose. We’ll convene back here in 15?” She knocks back the rest of her dark liquor and just watching her makes your throat burn. She straightens, stretching her limbs to full length, focuses her gaze, and looks like a predator on the prowl.

“I’ll be watching you, no thumbs up, SWAT and I crash.”

“Aye, Aye captain.”

“Aye Aye, matey.” She’s already gone, disappeared into the fully clothed orgy sex on the dancefloor. You chuckle and bury your head into your arms with a sigh. When you get home, where you long to be, you’ll let Bucky know that he wrecked you. Absolutely, positively, unfairly destroyed you. What could’ve been. You, in the perfect dress, appropriately threatening to flash your thong, heels too high for even Naomi Campbell to strut in and you are wasting it. Not using your full potential to pull free rounds of drinks from the sharks circling you in the water because big, gentle hands have ruined you, chapped lips eager to be kissed and a sweet voice, rough and sweetly cracked by love; all Buck’s of course. All you crave these days.

“You look horrible, if I do say so myself.” Says someone to the left of you chimes in just as you lift your head.

“Oh.” You turn your head to find someone who certainly is as ill-placed here as you, a man who looks to be in his early thirties, the most adorable oversized frames rounding his face, face pale and distressed. “Thank you. Totally the vibe I was going for tonight. You, of course, look amazing.”

“Ha ha.” He supplies drily and signals the bartender over. “May I get a…?” He looks to you to finish the order and for some reason you do.

“Shirley Temple please.”

“Two please.” He adjusts himself on the barstool, turning to you. “I have just gotten out of a relationship, nine years. I’m very underdeveloped and out of practice when it comes to talking to women, my mother aside. My sincerest apologies, you look amazing but I meant you look horrible for the party scene, very uninterested.”

“Is this,” you surprise yourself by laughing instead of regurgitating the automated response that you have a boyfriend., “Is this your way of flirting with me?”

“Yes… well no.” He sighs and you have to hold back another giggle because something about him is truly stressed by talking to you, “it began as such but then I didn’t really feel up to so I messed it up, as you noted.”

“Ah, okay. Well, it turns out I have a few minutes to kill. A man fresh out of a nine-year relationship who is not flirting with me, converse with me.”

“I am Michael, it’s lovely to make your acquaintance.”

“My name is unimportant at the moment because you talk like that so I must ask your occupation.” You motion to him.

“Doctor, psychotherapy to be more specific. I talk and help people, not helping many people as of late with the breakup funk, as my sister likes to call it. But on better days, I'm quite handy in my field.”

“Psychotherapy-” You perked up, “that’s talk therapy. You’re a therapist?”

He’s surprised by your excitement, “Uh, yes. Well in, in a sense.”

“That’s, that’s amazing!” You turned to him, eyes wide in interest. “What are your qualifications?”

“I’m sorry?” He sputters.

“I mean, I believe I mean where did you study, for your certifications? How long have you been taking clients? What’s your clientele, I know some only take teens or only couples, or only families.” You ramble.

“That’s,” he blinks, looks down to Shirley Temples, being placed down, then back at you, “a lot of questions.”

“It is.” You recoiled out of embarrassment. “I’m sorry. You’re at a club not trying to recruit patients. Excuse me. I’m out of my fucking mind it seems.”

“No! I - I don’t mind, truly. Many people just aren’t as excited as you seem to be in those parts. Mostly what’s the most traumatic thing I've heard in the last month? It’s refreshing. Are you interested in attending a few sessions yourself?”

You pause before answering, “Not for me, it would be for my…. my boyfriend.” You hesitated, “My sweetheart, Buck.”

“Okay.” He nods his gaze from behind the glasses steeling. “What’s got you thinking Buck would benefit from talk therapy?’

…

Two hours later, you stumble your way out of the elevator and towards the apartment door before it’s gone. Oh! Not gone, Buck has just opened it. “Why do you smell like that?” He asks making a face, as he meets you at the door, immediately filling his hands with your things; your handbag, phone, and seconds later you.

“Like…?” Oh God, the diner had this abhorrent smelling peanut sauce thing, very Manhattan of them, and Michael dared me to try it, I was shaking so bad that I spilled it. Have you ever heard of it,” you pressed a kiss to his neck, “It’s - damn it, I forgot the name of it. It’s gross, we have to make it!”

“Michael?”

“No, peanut butter sauce. They wouldn’t call it Michael.”

“Honey, who’s Michael?” Bucky tried not to let his voice edge into a tone other than the gentle one he’s used since you waltzed in the door.

“Just a guy, some guy I met at the club.”

“You went to a diner with a guy you met tonight?” Bucky realizes that as much restraint as he tried to show his voice is still doing the thing… tiptoeing into the realm of accusatory.

“Can we talk about this in the morning? ‘M so tired.”

“Why, is there something you need to tell me?”

You blinked, tilting your head to the side, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Doesn’t mean anything, not to me. Does it…” Bucky swallowed, “does it mean something to you? Does Michael mean something to you?”

You shook your head clear, pressing against his chest before you began pulling away, your brain suddenly a lot less cloudy than the moments before. “I thought you wanted me to go. That’s funny.”

“I’m just - I’m only asking.” he presses you closer, “You said Micheal and a diner, a guy you met at the club. That’s a little…” he laughs, though it is void of the magic ingredient in his laughs that make your insides tingle when you hear them, “vague.”

“Can you put me down?” You roll your eyes, a bit peeved by his weird back and forth. He made you go, and now he was picking apart what you did while you were away? You didn’t even want to go in the first place.

“No, I want to hold you. Tell me what happened. I won’t be mad.”

“I did go kiss or treating, Buck, Jesus. Michael is just this cool doctor guy I met at the club, we went to a 24/7 diner after so I could ask him a thousand questions about his interesting job.” You sighed. “That’s it.”

Bucky searched your eyes for a second, while already placated by your answer he was looking for something because he could tell you were hiding something, still. It made you want to squirm. “Interesting job, huh?”

You rolled your eyes and tried stalking off, tried as in attempt failed; more so thwarted by big hands wrapping around you like vines. “Stop it.” He pressed his face into your hair, “I’m sorry, that was wrong of me. How was your night, love? Did you have fun? Meet anyone new?”

“Yes this amazingly hot, absolutely beautiful, insanely smart, and interesting-” You erupted into giggles as Bucky latched onto you and shook you.

“Don’t play with me.” He growled playfully. “Who’s Michael? Tell me about him.”

“A doctor. A talking therapy type of doctor.”

“Yeah?” He pressed a kiss to your nose.

“He and his girlfriend just broke up and he was trying to hit on me but it was horrible and I told him all about you. I got the number to his office and he’s willing to fit you in if you’re interested. We can look him up, together, and if you like him then maybe…”

“Maybe. And what’d you tell him about me?” He teased looking down at you, his heart doing that thing, that it always does now; skipping a beat and then beating too fast, then nearly stopping altogether. The thing you make his heart do, even when you smell like peanut sauce.

“I told him how ripped you are, first. Then I told him about how pretty and handsome and daringly attractive you are, over peanut sauce. I told him sweet, kind, and loving you are. I told him about the brooding part how could I forget the brooding part?” You laughed as your boyfriend narrowed his eyes at you but you could only laugh. He’s warm and inviting, finally back with your safety you can forget your own strength; no longer relying on your own feet or balance to hold you up upright. “I explained a little bit about your night sweats and just got his professional opinion on it. Whether he’s treated other people with symptoms like that.”

Bucky’s fingers went numb, and not from holding you so tight even though he wishes, he wishes it was. “You told him - you told him about my nightmares?” He blubbers.

You nod, just watching you makes the small sick motion Bucky dizzy. For the first time, the soft fingers trailing up the nape of his neck into his hair make him clam up. “Just that you’re having trouble sleeping because of them. He’s told me that-“

“You told the guy you met tonight about my nightmares?” Bucky asks again, enunciating every syllable, rearranging the question so that you’ll hear it differently, and then maybe you’ll answer oppositely. Then maybe the pit opening up in his stomach and swallowing him whole would just disappear.

“It was much better than a regular first time consultation kind of thing I think. You guys can get to know each other, feel each other out without everything else, you know? Like the pressure of it. He showed me his card and website, his office is downtown. One day when I get off work maybe I could walk you there. It’s-“

“Doll…” Buck breathed, his hands falling from you. “Y/N. Please tell me that you’re joking. Look at me and tell me you’re drunk and your wires are all crossed up so you aren’t really - you’re not serious.”

“Why would I,” You took in your lover, loving gaze suddenly turned sharp and you felt a shiver up your spine. “Buck, he’s a doctor and I-”

“Y/N, don’t - don’t talk to me like I’m some fucking scared animal and I don’t understand. Don’t.” He points an accusing finger at you.

Whether it’s the bit of liquor you managed to shovel down, the peanut butter sauce not agreeing with you, or the way Buck’s voice, curdling with anger was directed at you but something had your stomach is swiftly turning itself inside out. “I - I’m not. I thought this was good, I thought this would be okay. He’s a therapist, and he can help, maybe he can’t understand but he can guide you into-”

He’s shooting daggers at you with his look, though his mouth won’t part. His grimace only becomes strained. You have never had the urge to cower away from Bucky’s gaze before, but God, do you want to now. “Can you say something? I - what did I do wrong? If you don’t want to meet him or see him we don’t have to. I would never force you. I know that it’s-“

“We?”

“We won’t go! We don’t have to go, baby.”

“There is no fucking we. You met him already. You talked to him already. You flirted with him at the bar. You went to dinner with him. There is no we.” Bucky spits out, and you nearly duck away to avoid the venom. With balled fists, Bucky rushes past you avoiding almost touching you. Like you’re tied to the other end of a string on his wrist, you follow him through the hallway.

“Bucky please talk to me. I’m so confused.”

“Confused? You’re confused?” He whips around. “What the fuck are you confused about?”

“Why you’re so angry? Is it because of therapy? I thought you were open to it. If you’re not that’s fine, it’s okay baby, I don’t care! But I- what’s wrong? You can’t just,” you search for the words motioning to him, gesturing to his demeanor. “You can’t shut me out! Talk to me.”

“Why? So you can go report it to your fucking boyfriend?” He thunders.

“It’s about Michael?” Your voice shorts out, like it’s lost power when you see the look that crosses his face at the mention of your new friend and you resolve to never repeat it. Not for a good week, at minimum. “Is this about him? He really is just some guy I met tonight I swear. I don’t know him from anywhere. Nothing happened, I wouldn’t let anything happen. He didn’t pay for dinner we split 50/50 and I took a cab home. I wasn't even really with him.”

“Are you fucking stupid?” Bucky barks and the force of his anger knocks you back, sending you stumbling. “You think I’m jealous of some stranger? I don’t care who you make googly eyes at. You completely - you sold me out for some cheap conversation. You’re pathetic!”

You feel like a fish out of words trying to get air, your mouth forming words but giving up at the last minute. You blink the tears out of your eyes, trying to get yourself to focus. He throws the hall closet door open and rips his jacket out and it springs you into action.

“Wait, Bucky just listen. Please?”

“No, you listen.” Bucky yells slamming the door closed, “What’s between us is ours! Not trivia for some guy trying to fuck you at the bar.”

“Baby, please-“

“What did you even want? To get your troubled boyfriend help from a Good Samaritan? To fix me? To make me all better?”

“I wanted you to be open with someone! You won’t tell me what’s happening, all I know is nightmares. About who? About what? If it can’t be me I want it to be someone, at least someone who can help you, who can understand you!

“You - you want to be with someone normal, is that it?”

“I want to be with you! I want to be with you, I’ve always wanted to be with you. I know what I did was an invasion of your privacy but I didn't tell him who you were, just tried to explain-”

“Explain how sick I am?”

“Bucky let me talk!”

“You’ve been talking all night! I don’t wanna hear more of your fucking bullshit.” You watch paralyzed, as he snatches his things off the table in passing. The jingle of his keys sounds off in your head like a bell. Not even the harsh close of the door can move you, you’re still pressed so tightly against the accent table that the wood digs into your skin.

Nothing seems like an option. Chasing after him with the possibility of seeing that look on his face would shatter you and what would you say if you caught up with him? Telling him how sorry you are wouldn’t fix anything, it would undo any of the years of building that you’ve undone in a mere half hour. Chasing after him would probably make everything worse.

I don’t wanna hear more of your fucking bullshit.

…

Bucky hasn’t been home in days.

He’s crashing out whenever feels right for the night; mostly HQ, and occasionally Steve’s couch. Bouncing between the two despite his best friend's overt attempts to cheer him makes it inexplicably worse. He doesn’t remember where anything is, won't let himself fall asleep in fear of waking Steve, is on edge every time Jarvis greets him, and with the anger and hurt and all the fucking missing that’s pushing him apart at the seams he feels out of place. Every time he looks in the fridge and isn’t greeted with post - its topped Tupperware with love notes scrawled on it, realizes he doesn’t have his coffee cup, with the handle big enough that two or three fingers can fit without being squished between the ceramic the voice in the back of his head starts that he should just go home. He should go back to the place where everything is his, and where his everything is. But he can’t, he won’t.

Buck’s had enough of being poked, prodded, and experimented on. Enough for a thousand lifetimes. He’s had enough of being told how much is wrong with him, how he should act, and what he should do. He’s tired of everything he says and does being scrutinized. You were supposed to be his shelter from that, you were supposed to keep him safe not shove him out of the way the second he got too much. You weren’t supposed to sell him out just to make a new friend but you did. You’d do it all over again if it meant you could have a normal man sleep in the bed next to you. If it meant that you could have the new and improved version of James you’d do it all again in a heartbeat and he has to remember that. Every time he misses you reaches for you in his sleep out of habit, or reaches for his phone to call you out of instinct he makes himself remember. Nothing will make him forget.

Not even the never-ending ache in his chest.

…

Another thing about not being at his place is that he can’t ban people from entering it and knocking on his damn door. “What?” He barks, smooshing the pillow over his face. With no answer, Bucky growls throwing back the sheets and made his way to the door ready to smash his way through it and grab whoever the fucker was by their shirt.

Bucky had no choice but to swallow his anger as he opened a door with no one on the other side of it, just a large basket palace on the floor covered with white cloth. There is no card to indicate who it's from but there’s no need to wonder. Underneath the white cloth, are carefully arranged rows of stuff. Stuff Buck left at home when he fled. There’s a bunch of your stuff, that quickly snowballed and became Buck’s essentials. Lavender spray, calming Eucalyptus candles, Epsom salt, a plethora of vitamins you somehow discovered he was deficient in.

His phone dinged across the room and anxious to space himself from the basket, he flew to retrieve it.

Steve

Hey did you get your stuff? It’s from Y/N, she said she doesn’t know when she’ll be finished packing but she doesn’t want you to be without stuff you need. - 4:23

I think you should call her - 4:25

Just to say thank you? - 4:25

Bucky stilled, packing?

…

Bucky thinks for a second the last few days have started severely fucking with his head, the separation from you is dragging open new wounds before he can tend to the last. It’s more likely that he’s having a delusion; a culmination of days without rest, an aching heart because it’s unlikely as hell that you're here sitting in his apartment. Well, you’re standing. But it’s still unlikely in all the same ways.

Actually, Bucky knows the last few days have been fucking with his head. He came here for you, to see you, and yet he’s still surprised to see you here. You’re packing, news he learned from Steve. You’re packing to leave home, your home. It’s the next logical step for someone who hasn’t heard from their significant other in days, whose last memory is having the harshest words one could conjure hurled at them by the person they love. But still, it shocks Buck, the image of you leaving. Then the only thought beating his skull like a drum is that you can’t leave and he can’t let you, you can’t leave and he can’t let you, you can’t leave and he can’t let you, you can’t leave and he can’t let you. Not without trying, without one last push.

“I am not trespassing.” The first words to fall from your lips, like he’d accuse you of it. Like you could ever trespass into a place that was more yours than his; tangible and intangible traces of you stuffed into every crevice and crowded onto every surface, regardless of whose name was scrawled on the lease. “I am leaving!” You began to scramble; looking around the mess that surrounded you, boxes, scattered clothes, and wayward shoes. “I’m so sorry. I was trying to pack quickly.” You stumbled forward and tripped over Buck couldn’t see. Bucky rushed forward to help but you slapped your hand on the counter steadying yourself. It wasn’t funny, the chuckle that shook Bucky’s chest was some foreign jumbled sound made of adoration, fear, horror, that he’d been making himself stuff down that had to find some way to escape.

“I thought you’d still be out, if you were I wouldn’t have come. Bucky, I’m so,” He cringes, hearing the repeating apology you tagged onto every sentence.

“I’m jealous.” Bucky blurted out. “Of Michael, I was jealous of what you thought of him.”

“I’m sorry-” You started, and Bucky snapped.

“Stop apologizing, stop talking. You’ve done enough.”

The way you flinched away from him at his words, chipped away another piece of his heart. It’s already under too much stress; it’s supposed to keep beating even though it feels like he’s been without his limbs for the last couple of days. Supplying blood to phantom limbs, he was missing essential parts of him: you. Heaven knows he was missing you.

“God, honey. I’m sorry I should be the only one sorry not you. You were just trying to help, and I got snippy with you and I wouldn’t let you explain. And I love you, so much more than I could explain but if you’d be willing to let me try, doll, I will. Til I run out of words, til I run out of breath until you’ll have me back.” Bucky huffed, “I am so sorry, my love.”

“I don’t know him. I’m sure he’s a perfectly nice guy, smart and I’m sure you are interested in his work and what it could do for me. I know that you are because you're selfless that way. No matter how much you try to kiss them or whisper them away the scars are still there. I know that bothers you, that you think you’re not doing enough. But you do so much for me, you do everything and I hate that you think you have to because I am not your job.”

“I never said that you were. I wouldn’t-”

You’re so desperate to explain yourself and apologize that the conversation feels redundant. Bucky trying to profess his love and right his wrongs to your prerecorded anxieties. “I know that.” He says exasperatedly. “I know that, but how stupid do you think I’d have to be not to notice how hard you try? Try not to let the late nights and early mornings bother you?”

Bucky flew into your atmosphere as if you had tugged him, you might as well have. With purposeful steps over cardboard and scattered makeup on the floor, he pressed himself to you and a sharp gasp left you as stopped you in your tracks. “I don’t need you.” He murmured.

You sucked in a breath that you hoped would carry you over and out of his apartment. You didn’t want to take another, you wanted to hold this feeling here until keeping it would kill you. You wanted the last breath you took to be enveloped in the scent of Bucky and the hope that this was all temporary. That he still did need you.

He pressed his forehead to yours, ”Wanting you as bad as I do is hell enough. I don’t need you. I don’t want to ever need you. I can’t. I want you to be here because you want to be, because I make you feel good not because you want to feel needed. I don’t need that shit from you, I can’t live with it. I get it from everyone else enough, be here because you love me not because I'm some case you need to be workin’ on. Please.”

You exhaled. “You want the person you love to feel better, Buck. I only wanted you to feel better.”

“Promise me.” He pressed himself closer, softer parts of you filling in his hard planes. The final, perfect piece to his puzzle like always.

You gasp again, your body humming in response. You know this isn’t the time, and you know those needs are the most important but fantasies of the bliss that would overtake you if Buck put his arms around you flooded your brain. “James.” You slightly resist his touch to clear all the thoughts his presence was making blurry. “I was wrong and I know that now. What’s between us is ours, and I didn’t know but I should’ve. I won’t ever-”

Bucky shakes his head, agitated that you’re hearing him but not listening. He doesn’t care how sorry you are, he doesn’t want to know. Not now. Buck pulls you forward rougher this time, deploying strength that demands you to listen. “Promise me.” But Bucky, as stupid as he is hasn’t realized that you’re not listening to him because you can’t. Not a single word Bucky says will get through that pretty head of yours because you’re convinced you have to beg him for understanding.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have-“ You took a deep breath trying to settle the rising sob in your throat. “I was pathetic and stupid, and only an idiot would do that. Buck, I’m,” the last legs of your voice gave out falling into an anguished whimper. “I love you.” You rasped. “And I didn’t act like it. I was so careless,”

“Baby, baby, baby,” Buck rushed to scoop your face into his palms. “I know you’re sorry. I know. I forgive you, princess. I will always forgive you. Can you forgive me? Can you look at me, hm? Do you forgive me? I was a jerk, a huge jerk and I said horrible things to you. Do you forgive me, love?”

“Don’t do that. Don’t baby me. You should’ve been a jerk, you should yell at me.” Watching you ramble, rushing to fit in as many apologies, and admittance of wrongdoings has his head spinning. He nearly wants to scream.

Then, in that moment it clicks that he has to go. He needs to go to therapy. He wants to go. He never wants to feel so out of control, whether angry or whatever the hell it is. He wants to always say what he means and had he been able to convey that, that your name was tattooed on his heart, and even though he wasn’t happy with you in that moment it shouldn’t have been as much vitriol as there was. Therapy could teach him that. Therapy could help him love you better.

“Y/N!” Buck burst, making your head snap up. “Baby.” He coos.”My pretty baby, I’m sorry. I know that you’re sorry too. We both hurt each other and we can make up for that later. I need to hold you now. Can I do that? I really want to do that.”

“You want to?” The force he uses to gather you in his arms nearly knocks you over at first.

“I promise you, Buck. You know that I promise.”

“Don’t ever leave me again. Do you hear me? Don’t. I won’t make you go and you better not. Stay as long as you want with me, baby. Forever.”

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