*vomits* Yayyy My Team Wonnn

TW!! THUNDERBOLT SPOILERS!!

my HUSBAND’s pretty cool

credit: elizditss

｡⋆𖦹.✧˚──

the walls were humming again.

old brownstone in brooklyn, refurbished under tony’s sardonic generosity, always kept a low electric thrum in its bones, like the ghosts of forgotten circuits whispering secrets only bucky could half understand. you stood in the kitchen, brewing chamomile tea, because caffeine might nudge him too close to that frayed edge. and tonight wasn’t about vigilance. tonight was about the slow reassembly of someone who’d come apart in the public square.

"you're up," you said without turning. you knew his footsteps by now, they were measured, controlled, like a dancer trained by violence. the tea kettle clicked off. you didn’t look yet, you didn’t have to.

"didn’t sleep," came the reply, low and rough, as if spoken through gauze. there was a lilt of apology buried in the words, though he would never say sorry for something he couldn't remember.

"nightmares?" you asked, pouring two mugs, yours black, his with a generous slosh of milk. bucky didn’t answer right away. you finally glanced at him.

his face bore the aftermath, not of a battle, but of the war within. a gash, hastily closed with someone else’s field kit, reopened across his temple. the left sleeve of his shirt was torn and soaked dark from shoulder to elbow. blood. his or someone else's, you didn’t ask yet.

he looked at you like you were a mirror he was afraid to believe in. "i—" he began, then faltered. the words, you imagined, must have choked like wires tangled in the gears of his mind.

“it wasn’t you,” you said, not kindly, not cruelly, just truthfully. that mattered more.

bucky lowered himself into the old leather armchair, tony’s, once, back in the MIT dorms when he'd had enough ego to furnish a living room like a billionaire. you smiled faintly at the memory. tony had been your friend first. before the fame, before the arc reactor. before everything.

"you heard what happened?" bucky asked.

you nodded. “i did.”

it had started three days ago, a hidden hydra outpost in the carpathians had released a dead protocol, something ancient and buried in binary. a psychic landmine, they called it. bucky, standing too close to the detonation, had turned before anyone could react. in twenty minutes, he nearly killed sam, cracked nat’s ribcage, and left steve unconscious in a crater the size of a van. the winter soldier had returned. perfect, brutal, remorseless.

he’d disappeared afterward. the avengers had looked, of course. you hadn’t.

you knew he’d come here.

“i thought i’d locked it away,” he whispered. “i thought it was done.”

“no one ever locks anything away,” you said, handing him his tea. “not really. we just learn to live beside it.”

bucky took the mug with his left hand. the vibranium fingers trembled just slightly.

you knelt in front of him, grabbing the first aid kit from beneath the table, white with a red cross that had faded to a tired pink. like most things in this house, it carried the wear of use and memory. your hands were steady as you pulled gauze and antiseptic. his eyes followed your movements, but he didn’t flinch. not at the alcohol, not at the sting. that was its own kind of progress.

“tony would’ve been pissed,” bucky said, voice flat.

you smiled softly, not looking up from where you were dabbing at the gash above his eye. “he would’ve had you in a magnetic net before you blinked. then he’d get drunk and make you apologize to his suit.”

bucky chuckled, barely, but it was a laugh, however hollow. “you miss him?”

“every day,” you said simply.

there was a silence then, not empty but full. the kind of silence that grows between people who don’t need to fill it to know it matters.

the fire crackled in the hearth. outside, snow began to fall in soft, unhurried spirals. in here, there was warmth. in here, he was just bucky. scared, wounded, healing. and you were here too, mending more than wounds.

he looked down at you, hair falling into his face, lips slightly parted as if to speak but afraid of the shape of the words.

“thank you,” he said, finally. two syllables, but they carried centuries.

you finished with the bandage and sat back, legs folded beneath you on the rug. “don’t thank me yet,” you said. “we’re not done. i’ve got soup and a lecture on post traumatic mythologies lined up. you don’t get to brood until we finish both.”

he looked at you like you were light seen through fog. dim, far, but steady.

a/n: literally wrote this at 3:00 AM so cut me slack 🙏 hope u enjoy regardless tho

I think it’s worth a shot guys

even our ancestors sang Popipo

Thinking about how Luke could cum just from eating you out. Like he’d be between your legs, sloppily sucking on your clit while grinding into the mattress, getting so worked up over just tasting you. He’d moan against you, gripping your thighs and looking up at you, wanting to know if he’s doing good, your moans only driving him further. His pants would be soaked with precum, his neglected cock painfully hard from being ignored for hours, but he wouldn’t care. He just wants to make you cum on his mouth one more time. Of course, that’s what he’s been saying for the past three orgasms.

You’ve had five orgasms, and your sixth is quickly approaching, and when he sticks his tongue inside your sopping cunt and finds that spongy spot that has you seeing stars, you moan and pull his hair, making him grind just a little bit too hard into the mattress, the sharp pain on his hair making him stiffen and whimper as he spills into his pants. And despite his sticky, softening cock and your sore overstimulated cunt, he still goes in for more, wanting to pull just one more orgasm out of you.

"but i'm still me, he's still joel, and we-- and nothing's ever gonna change that. ever."

｡⋆𖦹.✧˚──

you haven't heard from him in weeks. you'd gotten used to the silences. back when he was rising, when the news ran his name in red bold letters. the hood. the new kingpin. the man with a demon’s voice. he'd disappear and reappear with blood on his hands and wild in his eyes, and you'd patch him up, swallow your fear, and pretend he was still the guy who used to fall asleep with his head on your lap watching late night cartoons. but this time's different. this time, when he shows up, it's not at your door, it's in your dreams.

the room melts around you in flickers of red flame, the air stinks of sulfur and rain, and when you look up, he's standing there. thinner than you remember. ragged. his cloak wrapped too tight around his frame like it's choking him.

"parker?" your voice is small in the dream. maybe because you know it’s not a dream at all. he doesn’t speak at first. just looks at you like he’s trying to remember who you are.

“you said you wouldn’t use the demon again,” you whisper.

his grin is tight, bitter. “and you said you’d stay if i stopped killing people.”

you flinch. it’s not the words. it’s how casually he throws them.

“what the hell happened to you?”

he steps closer, and the floor sizzles under his boots. “i lost. everything. norman’s gone. the stones are gone. my crew’s scattered. i’m just a guy again. just parker. and parker doesn’t win.”

you shake your head. “that’s not true. you’re not—”

“don’t do that.” his voice cuts. too sharp. too tired. “don’t lie to me just because you loved who i used to be.”

you want to reach for him, but the cloak moves on its own now. it snarls at you. maybe it always hated you.

“you don’t have to keep going like this,” you say. “you could come back. try again. start over.”

he laughs. it’s dry, like ash. “you don’t come back from what i’ve done.”

“then why are you here?” you ask, voice breaking.

he finally looks up. his eyes are glowing red. not from the cloak. not from the demon. this time it’s just rage. grief. exhaustion.

“…i wanted to remember what it felt like. to be near you. to want to be better.”

your breath catches. he’s close now. you can smell the blood, the sweat, the fire that clings to his skin. he leans in. just barely touches his forehead to yours.

you wake up choking on air. sheets soaked. heart hollow. you check the window. it’s still locked. but there's soot on the sill.

no literally because the whole point of the show is that it doesn’t ask you to forgive them! it’s not about justifying any of it, it’s about what people become when survival isn’t clean. let things be awful.

why are people in the tags obsessed with justifying/defending the characters in Yellowjackets. Can't things just be terrible?

textposts that remind me of the losers