am-3-thyst

[am-3-thyst]

We are in this together...

Warning- Angst, martial problems, assault at workplace, mean boss, miscommunication.

You never imagined that love could feel like this.

Raw, tender, and yet so fleetingly out of reach. The first six months of your relationship with Bucky had been nothing short of magical. He was sweet, attentive, and utterly devoted. When he proposed, it felt like your heart had found its forever home. Marriage only strengthened that bond, and for the first year, life together was a dream.

After every mission, Bucky would come straight home, his duffel bag slung over his shoulder, a small smile tugging at his lips as he saw you waiting for him. He’d sweep you into his arms, murmuring how much he missed you. The nights would be filled with whispered stories of his day, and the mornings with lazy kisses.

But then, something changed.

At first, it was subtle. One night, instead of coming home after a mission, Bucky texted, “Gonna hang with the team for a bit. See you tomorrow, doll.”

You smiled at the message, reminding yourself that he’d had a rough few weeks. Surely, he deserved some time with the team. When he came home the next day, you greeted him with open arms, brushing aside the faint sting of his absence.

But it didn’t stop there.

Every mission began to follow the same pattern, a quick text, a brief explanation, and days spent waiting for his return. He’d still come back eventually, wrapping you in his familiar warmth, but the rhythm of your lives had shifted.

The bed felt colder without him. Dinners grew quieter. You found yourself pacing the living room, checking your phone every few minutes, hoping for an update.

When you finally gathered the courage to ask him about it gently and carefully, he dismissed your concern with a frustrated sigh.

“I just need some time to unwind with the team, alright? You’re making this into a bigger deal than it is!”

The sharpness in his tone cut deeper than you expected.

So, you stopped asking.

You told yourself it was okay, that this was just a phase. He needed space, and you wanted to respect that. But the loneliness crept in like a cold draft, and you couldn’t ignore it.

The worst part was that no one else seemed to notice. At the compound, the team talked about how happy and in love you both were. Natasha teased Bucky about how eager he always seemed to get home to you.

You wanted to laugh at the irony.

You didn’t tell them the truth. Not because you didn’t trust them, but because you didn’t know how to put it into words. How could you explain that the man who once couldn’t wait to be by your side now seemed so distant?

One night, after waiting for hours, you curled up on the couch, his favorite blanket wrapped around your shoulders. The television buzzed faintly in the background, but you weren’t really watching.

You stared at your phone, willing it to light up with a message. Anything. But the silence stretched on.

When Bucky finally walked through the door the next day, you greeted him with a soft smile, hiding the hurt deep within your chest. You didn’t want to fight, didn’t want to push him further away.

“Hey doll…” he said, dropping his bag by the door.

“Hey…” you replied, your voice steady despite the ache in your heart.

And so the cycle continued.

The cracks in your marriage weren’t gaping fissures, they were small, subtle fractures that had begun to quietly chip away at everything you’d built together.

Bucky had been so adamant about having a home, just the two of you. You’d offered to live in the compound, even reassured him that you didn’t mind being surrounded by the team. You loved them like family, and the energy of the compound had always made you feel safe.

But he’d been resolute, “I want a place that’s ours, doll. Somewhere quiet, away from the chaos.”

You’d smiled at his determination, thinking it was sweet. You didn’t need the white picket fence or the quaint suburban dream, but if it made him happy, it made you happy.

For a while, it did.

But now, it felt like you were living in a shell of a dream.

Bucky didn’t realize how hollow the house felt when he wasn’t there. How the silence pressed down on you like a weight. You spent your days going through the motions, trying to fill the void he left behind after every mission.

And it wasn’t just his absence, it was the loneliness that followed you everywhere, even when he was home. He didn’t ask about your day anymore, didn’t notice the way your shoulders slumped or how you fidgeted with your hands when you were nervous.

The one person you’d always relied on was slowly slipping away from you.

You thought about bringing it up again, about telling him how you felt. But the memory of his irritation the last time held you back. You didn’t want to push him, didn’t want to seem needy or clingy. So, you buried your feelings, telling yourself that this was just a rough patch.

Meanwhile, work was becoming a nightmare.

Your boss had started making comments. Offhand, seemingly harmless, but enough to make your skin crawl. A hand lingering on your shoulder for a moment too long. Compliments that felt less like appreciation and more like something sinister.

You wanted to tell Bucky. You wanted to see the fire in his eyes, the way his protective instinct would flare up whenever he thought someone was mistreating you.

But he wasn’t there.

When he did come home, his mind was elsewhere. You’d try to start a conversation, but his replies were curt, distracted. He’d drop into bed with a heavy sigh, barely sparing you a glance before falling asleep.

It wasn’t that he didn’t love you, you knew he did. But somewhere along the way, he’d forgotten how to show it.

And you couldn’t blame him entirely.

You saw the way his face lit up when he talked about the team, about the camaraderie they shared after a successful mission. It was the kind of joy that used to fill your home, too.

You wondered if he missed his bachelorhood, those carefree days of laughter and bonding with his friends. Maybe he didn’t realize how much he’d given up when he chose this life with you. Maybe he regretted it.

The thought clawed at your chest, but you couldn’t bring yourself to ask him.

So, you stayed quiet.

You carried the weight of your days alone, retreating further into yourself. You told yourself you didn’t want to burden him, that he had enough on his plate. But deep down, you were terrified of what his answer might be if you asked him outright.

“Are you happy with me? With us?”

The house was no longer a home. It was a waiting room, a place where you counted the hours and days until he came back, only to feel lonelier when he did.

You stood in the kitchen one evening, staring at the untouched plate of food on the table. Your appetite had long since disappeared, replaced by a gnawing ache that no amount of distraction could soothe.

The sound of the front door opening startled you. Bucky walked in, his hair damp from the rain, his expression tired.

“Hey.” he said, barely glancing your way. He dropped his bag by the door and headed to the bedroom without another word.

You didn’t follow him.

Instead, you sank into the nearest chair, your head in your hands. The weight of everything you’d been holding inside finally broke through, tears spilling silently down your cheeks.

The worst part wasn’t that he didn’t see you crying.

The worst part was that he didn’t even notice.

The compound buzzed with life, laughter echoing through the halls as the team celebrated yet another successful mission. For Bucky, this had become his sanctuary, a place where he could unwind, shed the weight of his past, and lose himself in the camaraderie of his friends.

Natasha sat across from him, swirling a glass of wine, her sharp eyes trained on him. She noticed the way he laughed at Sam’s jokes, how relaxed he seemed, but something felt off.

“Where’s Y/n?” she asked suddenly, cutting through the chatter.

Bucky blinked, momentarily caught off guard, “She’s fine. At home.” He shrugged.

Natasha raised an eyebrow, “Alone?”

He waved her off, “She’s okay. She likes her space.”

Natasha didn’t buy it, “You’ve been here more than usual, Barnes. Are you sure everything’s okay?”

Bucky shifted uncomfortably, avoiding her gaze, “It’s fine, Nat. Don’t make it a thing.”

She narrowed her eyes but let it drop for now.

Meanwhile, at your workplace, everything fell apart.

Your boss’s behavior had been escalating, his comments growing bolder, his touches more invasive. You’d tried to ignore it, to handle it on your own, but today he crossed the line.

He cornered you in the break room, his hands gripping your arms as he leaned in too close, his breath hot and disgusting against your skin.

“C’mon, sweetheart. Don’t act like you don’t want this.”

Panic surged through you, but you fought back. Your hand found the edge of your laptop, and without thinking, you swung it at him, the sharp crack of plastic and metal connecting with his head echoing in the room.

He stumbled back, cursing, calling you slut and many other things but you ran.

Your feet carried you to the one place you thought you’d be safe.

The compound.

The drive was a blur, your heart pounding in your chest as tears blurred your vision. All you wanted was your husband, his arms around you, his voice telling you it was going to be okay.

But when you arrived, your world shattered all over again.

Through the large windows of the common room, you saw them. Bucky, relaxed and laughing, a drink in his hand. He was surrounded by the team, but your eyes locked on the young trainee leaning too close to him, her hand brushing his arm as she laughed at something he said.

Your breath hitched.

You’d never doubted Bucky’s loyalty, but seeing him like this, so carefree, so oblivious to the storm inside you, broke something in you.

You froze, rooted to the spot as the trainee leaned in, clearly flirting, her hand lingering on Bucky’s shoulder. He didn’t push her away, though he didn’t encourage her either. He just let it happen, a small smile tugging at his lips as he sipped his drink.

Your chest tightened, the air around you feeling suffocating. This wasn’t the man who used to race home to you after every mission, who couldn’t wait to tell you how much he missed you.

You turned and ran.

Back home, the silence welcomed you like an old friend. You stumbled into the bathroom, your clothes still clinging to you as you sank to the shower floor. The cold tiles bit into your skin, but you didn’t care. You turned the water on, letting it cascade over you, freezing and unrelenting.

The tears came in waves, the events of the day crashing down on you like a tidal wave. Your boss’s vile hands, the fear that gripped you, the look on Bucky’s face as he laughed with his team, it was too much.

You wrapped your arms around your knees, your sobs lost in the rush of water.

Back at the compound, Natasha had had enough. She watched the trainee closely, her sharp instincts picking up on every calculated move she made toward Bucky.

When the girl leaned in again, Natasha’s voice cut through the room like a blade. “That’s enough!”

The trainee blinked, startled, “What? I wasn’t…”

“Out!” Natasha ordered, her tone leaving no room for argument.

The trainee stammered something, but Natasha’s glare silenced her.

“You’re done here. Pack your things and leave the compound by tomorrow.”

Steve watched the exchange, his brows furrowed. Once the trainee scurried off, he turned to Bucky, “What the hell, Buck? You didn’t think that was inappropriate?”

Bucky shrugged, clearly annoyed, “It’s not a big deal. I wasn’t flirting back.”

Steve’s jaw tightened, “It is a big deal. You’re married. What the hell is going on with you?”

Bucky rolled his eyes, “I’d never cheat on her, Steve. You know that. She knows that.”

But Steve wasn’t convinced, “Does she? Because from where I’m standing, you’re barely around to remind her.”

Bucky’s eyes darkened, but he didn’t respond.

Neither Steve nor Natasha knew just how deep the damage had already gone.

The days blurred into a haze of hollow routines and sleepless nights. You’d managed to get through the aftermath of your boss’s attack in one piece, but the scars it left on your mind and heart were harder to ignore.

It was Tony who first noticed something was wrong. You hadn’t intended to tell him, but when he called to check in on you, his usual playful tone laced with genuine concern and you broke.

Between sobs, you told him everything.

The line went silent for a moment, and then his voice came through, steady but seething with anger, “Pack your things. I’ll take care of the rest.”

“Tony, no. I can’t…”

“Sweetheart…” he interrupted, his tone leaving no room for argument, “You’re family. Do you hear me? Family. And no one gets to treat my family like that.”

The next day, Tony and Pepper arrived at your doorstep. You were still raw, trembling as you recounted the incident in more detail. Pepper wrapped you in a warm hug, her soft words of comfort threatening to break down the walls you’d built around yourself.

“We’ll get you out of there.” she promised, her hand stroking your hair, “You don’t have to go back.”

Tony, true to his word, handled everything. He contacted your company’s HR department, made sure your resignation was swift and final, and ensured your former boss faced the consequences of his actions.

Pepper offered you a job at Stark Industries, something she said would align perfectly with your skills. But you hesitated.

“I can’t… I don’t want to burden you…” you said, wringing your hands.

Tony rolled his eyes, though his expression softened, “Burden? You’re like my sister, Y/n. You don’t ‘burden’ me. Now, take the damn job, or I’ll be forced to invent one just to keep you around.”

His words tugged at your heart, but you made them promise one thing, “Don’t tell Bucky. Please.”

Tony’s jaw tightened at your request, but he nodded reluctantly, “Fine. But only because you asked. He doesn’t deserve you keeping this from him, though.”

Unbeknownst to you, Tony confided in Natasha, unable to shake the worry gnawing at him. The moment she heard what had happened, her eyes flashed with fury.

“She doesn’t want him to know?” Natasha asked, pacing Tony’s workshop.

“Apparently not.” Tony replied, leaning against his desk, “And judging by the way Barnes has been acting lately, I can’t blame her.”

Natasha’s lips thinned. She vowed to keep your secret but decided to keep an even closer eye on Bucky.

Meanwhile, you tried to piece your life back together. You took the job with Pepper, though it felt like every step forward was weighed down by the nightmares that now plagued your nights.

The dreams were vivid, cruel reenactments of the attack. In them, you weren’t fast enough, weren’t strong enough. You’d wake up gasping for air, drenched in sweat, your hands trembling as you clutched the sheets.

You wanted to reach for Bucky, to feel his arms around you, to hear him tell you it was just a dream. But the bed beside you was empty.

Most nights, you stayed awake, unable to face the terror that waited for you in sleep. You buried yourself in work, trying to keep your mind occupied, but the exhaustion weighed heavily on you.

Bucky’s absence only made it worse.

He came home occasionally, offering you a distracted kiss on the cheek or a tired smile before retreating to the bedroom. He didn’t notice the dark circles under your eyes or the way your hands shook when you handed him a cup of coffee.

You tried to hide it, plastering on a brave face whenever he was around. But the weight of carrying it all alone was crushing.

One night, after yet another nightmare, you sat on the edge of the bed, your head in your hands. The silence of the house was deafening, pressing down on you like a suffocating fog.

You thought about calling Natasha or even Tony, but you couldn’t bring yourself to do it. You didn’t want to be a burden, didn’t want to remind them of how weak you felt.

So, you swallowed the pain and carried on, day after day, night after night. But inside, you were unraveling.

The knock on your door was unexpected. You hesitated for a moment before opening it to find Natasha standing there, her sharp green eyes scanning you with concern.

“Hey, love.” she said softly, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation, “You didn’t answer my texts.”

You’d forgotten. Your phone had been buried under a pile of papers for days, silenced to avoid the world.

“Sorry, I’ve been… busy…” you mumbled, brushing a hand through your disheveled hair.

Natasha’s gaze swept over you, taking in the dark circles under your eyes, the paleness of your skin, and the slight tremor in your hands. Her expression softened, and she gently placed a hand on your arm, “Tony told me...”

Your stomach dropped. You turned away, the shame curling in your chest like a vice, “Nat, I…”

“It’s okay,” she interrupted, her voice steady but kind, “Your secret’s safe. I’m not here to push you, but I am here to help.”

The dam broke. You sank onto the couch, tears spilling down your cheeks as you finally let go of everything you’d been holding in. Natasha sat beside you, her presence steady and grounding, letting you cry without judgment.

When the tears subsided, she spoke, “You’ve been carrying this alone for too long. You don’t have to, Y/n. Let me help you.”

With her encouragement, you agreed to see a therapist she trusted, someone discreet, someone who understood the unique struggles of those close to the Avengers.

The sessions were hard, each one peeling back layers of pain you’d buried deep. But for the first time in weeks, you felt a glimmer of hope.

Natasha stayed in close contact, checking in on you regularly. She didn’t push, didn’t pry, but her quiet support was a lifeline you didn’t know you needed.

Meanwhile, Bucky returned from his latest mission, tired but in high spirits. He dropped his bag in the common room, greeted by the usual banter from the team.

But Steve wasn’t smiling.

“Hey, Buck. Got a minute?” Steve’s tone was calm, but his eyes were serious.

Bucky shrugged, “Sure, what’s up?”

Steve led him to one of the quieter corners of the compound, his arms crossed as he faced his best friend, “Why don’t you go home anymore?”

Bucky blinked, surprised by the question, “What are you talking about? I go home.”

“Not after missions. You stay here, hanging out with us, but you never invite Y/n. And when you do go home, it’s for a day or two at most.”

Bucky’s brows furrowed, his defenses rising, “She doesn’t mind. She likes her space.”

Steve’s jaw tightened, “Does she? Or is that just what you tell yourself so you don���t feel guilty?”

Bucky frowned, a flicker of guilt flashing across his face before he brushed it aside. “Steve, it’s not a big deal. She knows I’m not going anywhere. She’s fine.”

“Is she?” Steve pressed, his voice rising slightly, “Because I don’t think you’ve even noticed what’s going on with her. You’re so caught up in the team, in reliving your ‘bachelor days,’ that you’ve completely forgotten what it means to be a husband.”

The words hit Bucky like a punch to the gut, but he masked it with irritation, “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Steve stepped closer, his blue eyes sharp, “Don’t I? Y/n was willing to live here in the compound, to be part of this chaos with you. But you wanted the house, the space, the life you said you both deserved. And now, you’re the one ignoring it.”

Bucky looked away, his jaw clenched, “I’m not ignoring her. I just… I need this, Steve. The missions, the team, it’s the only thing that makes me feel normal.”

Steve sighed, his voice softening, “I get that, Buck. I really do. But you’re not the only one in this marriage. You made a commitment to her. And right now, you’re breaking it.”

The words lingered in the air, heavy and unyielding.

Bucky didn’t respond, his thoughts swirling. Deep down, he knew Steve was right. But admitting it was another thing entirely.

At home, you sat by the window, staring out at the darkened street. Natasha’s words echoed in your mind, urging you to take things one step at a time. But as the days stretched on and the nights grew colder, the loneliness crept in again.

You wondered if Bucky even noticed you were gone, not just physically, but emotionally.

And for the first time, you wondered if he ever would.

The thought struck Bucky out of nowhere during breakfast at the compound. He realized he hadn’t been to your workplace in months, hadn’t seen where you spent your days or even asked how things were going. Guilt prodded at him. He decided to surprise you, to make amends for all the time he’d been away.

Pulling up to your old workplace, he entered with a small smile, half-expecting to see your familiar face light up at the sight of him. But as he approached the reception desk and asked for you, the receptionist gave him a puzzled look.

“Y/n? She doesn’t work here anymore.”

Bucky blinked, stunned, “What do you mean? When did she quit?”

The receptionist shrugged, “A couple of weeks ago, I think. You’d have to check with HR.”

Bucky left in a daze, the receptionist’s words looping in his mind. You’d quit? Why hadn’t you told him? Where were you working now?

What happened to you, that he missed so much? Was he really that absent?

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[am-3-thyst]

You Up? (Bucky Barnes x Reader)

Summary: Bucky Barnes felt exhausted, out of touch with the times, and surprisingly vulnerable, when he asked you to teach him how to use Snapchat. You didn’t expect that he’d start sending you late night snaps from his bed, and he didn’t expect you’d send them back.

Word Count: 5.3K Warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, age gap, sexting, old-ass man baffled by modern technology, unprotected sex, oral sex (fem!receiving)

Kitchen, 1:04 AM

The hum of the fridge was the only sound in the kitchen until the cupboard door creaked behind you.

You glanced over your shoulder, spoon still in your mouth, and there he was: James Buchanan Barnes. Sweatpants, black t-shirt, dog tags faintly catching the light. Silent as a ghost.

“Didn’t mean to scare you,” Bucky murmured, stepping in with a nod.

“You didn’t,” you said around a mouthful of cereal. “You always move like all… stealthy like that?”

“Occupational hazard I guess.”

You watched him open the fridge, grab a bottle of water, and lean against the counter. He looked tired. Not exhausted the way he usually did post-mission, but something softer. Restless.

“Couldn’t sleep?” you asked.

“Didn’t try,” he replied. “Didn’t feel like staring at the ceiling yet.”

You swallowed your bite and gave a half-smile. “Same.”

Bucky’s eyes landed on your phone next to the bowl. “That the one that makes your face look like a cat?”

You blinked. “What?”

He gestured toward it, brow pinched in confusion. “There’s this app. You were showing Yelena yesterday. It"s got filters, right? Turns your voice all squeaky?”

“Snapchat?”

“Yeah, that one.” He cleared his throat. “Can you explain it to me?”

You paused, spoon halfway to your mouth again.

“…You want me to teach you Snapchat?”

“I don’t want to,” he muttered, a little sheepish. “But the kid we pulled out of that HYDRA site yesterday, I think he sent me something. Said he’d ‘snap me later.’ I have no idea what that means.”

You blinked again. Then you laughed.

Bucky rolled his eyes, but there was no bite to it. “I’m serious.”

“No, I believe you,” you said through a grin. “It’s just… you asking me to teach you Snapchat is like…I don’t know. A medieval peasant asking about TikTok.”

He looked unimpressed. “I know what TikTok is.”

“Do you?”

He didn’t answer.

Still smiling, you unlocked your phone and turned it toward him. “Alright. Let’s start with the basics.”

He sat beside you at the island, arms folded as you explained how to take snaps, send them, use filters, and view stories. He was attentive, really attentive, the way soldiers listened during briefing. Like it mattered.

“You’ve got to press and hold to record video,” you said, demonstrating. “And that’s where the filters are. Tap through them. And that,” you pointed, “that’s my Bitmoji. Don’t laugh at her.”

He stared at the cartoon version of you on screen, blinking slowly. “That doesn’t look anything like you.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“And people use this… why?”

You shrugged. “To send life updates. Memes. Flirt. Post thirst traps.”

Bucky frowned. “Traps?”

You just grinned. “You’ll figure it out. There's also a normal chat feature, kind of like text messaging. All of this disappears after a certain amount of time unless you change some settings around.”

He was still looking at the screen like it was speaking another language. “There’s too many apps now. Used to be, you just called someone. Or wrote a damn letter.”

You leaned back on your stool, watching him with a small smile. “You really are a hundred years old, huh?”

“I’m a hundred and nine,” he corrected, dry.

There was a beat.

Neither of you moved.

Your smile softened. “Well… if you ever want help with anything else, I got you.”

Bucky’s expression twitched. Something between amused and unreadable.

“Noted.”

He stood, finishing his water, and turned to leave. Then paused at the doorway.

“Thanks for the lesson.”

“Anytime.”

You watched him disappear down the hallway, and then you gathered your bowl and phone and padded off toward your room. Just another late night in the Watchtower.

Your Room, 1:32 AM.

You’d just climbed into bed, blanket pulled up to your chest, when your phone buzzed.

@jamesthefrozenone sent you a Snap

You sat up straight.

No. Way.

You tapped it.

It was a blurry picture.

You could see the corner of a pillow. Part of his stubbled jaw. A little bit of his collarbone. Shadows.

Caption: “Did I do this right?”

Your heart flipped.

You snapped a reply. Smirking into the camera, hair a mess, and your blanket pulled up to your chin.

“you did perfect, grandpa”

Two minutes later: @jamesthefrozenone sent you a chat

“You’re lucky I like you.”

And for a long, long time, you just stared at the screen, smiling into the dark.

Your Room, The Following Night, 1:04 AM

You told yourself to go to bed.

Your brain was, as always, too busy.

But when you finally crawled under the covers and picked up your phone again, your heart jumped.

@jamesthefrozenone sent you a Snap

It was a photo of his face, dim, sleepy, barely visible. He was in bed. The sheets were pulled up to his chest. He looked... soft. Human.

The caption: “Are you awake?”

Your breath caught, and you stared at the screen for a while.

The snap sat, open. Just Bucky in his bed, dim and warm and undeniably attractive in that relaxed, casual way. He hadn’t posed. He hadn’t tried. And that was the problem.

There was something unguarded about it.

And something very deliberate.

You bit your lip and flopped back against the pillows.

You swiped to reply before you could think too hard. You adjusted the camera before taking the picture.

You, your face. Messy hair, moonlight brushing your cheekbone. You looked sleepy. Flushed.

The caption: “yeah. you?”

You hit send. Regret hit a second later.

But it didn’t last long.

@jamesthefrozenone sent you a Snap

This one was darker, just the vague silhouette of his chest and shoulder, the curve of his dog tag chain barely visible against his collarbone.

The caption: “I can't sleep either. My brain is too loud.”

Your heart tugged.

That same tight ache from earlier. The kind that came with late nights and soft confessions from people who rarely if ever gave them.

You took another snap.

Half of your face. Blurry.

The caption: “what are you thinking about?”

There was a pause.

Long enough to make you incredibly anxious.

Then, @jamesthefrozenone sent you a chat

“You.”

You blinked.

Your stomach dropped straight through the mattress.

Not subtle. Not vague. Just the truth.

You stared at the chat, thumb hovering over the keyboard.

Then you exhaled.

Screw it.

Snap sent: Your bare thigh on top of the blanket, the bottom hem of your shirt just barely visible.

The caption: “say more.”

The typing bubble started.

Stopped.

Started again.

You imagined him lying there, debating if he should answer. Imagined him in that dark room, lit only by the screen, chewing the inside of his cheek while his brain screamed not to do this.

Then your phone buzzed again.

@jamesthefrozenone sent you a Snap

It's his face this time. Jaw tight. Eyes dark.

The caption: “This is dangerous.”

You stared at the message.

Then you snapped back, sending a blurry, close-up shot of your mouth.

The caption: “probably. and?”

No response.

Not for several minutes.

And then, @jamesthefrozenone sent you a chat

“Go to sleep, kid.”

You rolled your eyes, and sent your reply.

“whatever you say, gramps.”

And you both laid awake all night.

Your room, 7:02AM

The quiet hum of the Watchtower felt heavier than usual, as if the building itself was holding its breath.

You rolled over, staring at the ceiling, heart pounding too fast for this early in the morning.  You replayed last night’s snaps in your mind; the way his words had set your skin on fire, the way the space between you had felt electric and raw.

The problem was: now that the night had passed, you weren’t sure what to do with all that heat.

He knew what the snaps meant.

You knew it, too.

But neither of you had any intentions of saying a word about it.

Not yet.

Kitchen, 8:17AM

You made your way to the kitchen, muscles tight and breath shallow.

You found Bucky already there, leaning against the counter, nursing a black coffee. The quiet between you stretched thin and taut.

He glanced up as you approached, eyes wary but soft.

“Morning,” you said, voice barely above a whisper.

“Morning,” he replied, clearing his throat.

Neither of you moved to fill the silence.

You poured yourself some coffee, hands trembling just slightly.

Your eyes met his over the rim of your mug.

You wanted to ask him if last night had been a mistake.

You wanted to say something. Anything.

But all you managed was, “Did you sleep at all?”

Bucky’s lips pressed into a thin line.

“Not really.”

The confession hung in the air, heavier than either of you expected.

You shifted, setting your mug down.

“I wasn’t expecting that snap.”

He looked at you then, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips.

“Neither was I.”

The space between you felt charged, alive.

You could feel the invisible thread pulling tighter.

But fear held both your tongues.

Neither wanted to be the first to say what was already known.

The Watchtower began to creak with the early stirrings of the team.

You heard footsteps, then John’s voice carrying down the hall.

“Hey, you two! There's breakfast in the lounge.”

Bucky shot you a glance, an unspoken question hanging there.

You nodded.

Later, sitting across from each other in the lounge, the rest of the team buzzed with casual chatter around you both.

But the silence between you was noticeable.

You caught Bucky’s gaze a few times. Each time, his eyes flickered with something raw and unsure.

At one point, Yelena nudged you, a teasing smirk on her lips.

“Something going on?” she asked softly.

You just shook your head, lips twitching.

She shrugged and sipped her coffee, but you caught her watching Bucky with sharp eyes.

Your Room, 12:38AM

You told yourself you weren’t going to do this again.

You were going to go to sleep. Like a normal person. Like someone who didn’t stay up fantasizing about a hundred-year-old man with a vibranium arm, copious amounts of trauma, and a voice that made you ache.

But still, Your fingers drifted across your phone, opening Snapchat before you could talk yourself out of it.

You snapped a photo from the bridge of your nose up, just your eyes. Sleepy. Bored. Safe.

The caption: “you up?”

A minute passed. Then two.

Then:

@jamesthefrozenone sent you a chat

“I thought we agreed that this is dangerous.”

Your heart thudded. You blinked at the screen.

No greeting. No pretense. Just… that.

Your fingers hovered over for a moment, contemplating before you replied.

“Couldn’t sleep. I wasn’t planning to snap you but alas.”

He replied instantly.

“Funny. I was hoping you would.”

You stared.

It wasn’t anything dirty, not really.

But it hit.

You felt it in your chest, in your stomach. Between your thighs.

You swallowed hard.

Your sleep shirt had ridden up a bit. You pulled the blanket aside and adjusted the angle, snapping a photo of your bare thigh, only the soft curve of skin showing.

The caption: “so now what?”

The reply didn’t come right away.

When it did, your breath caught.

@jamesthefrozenone sent you a Snap

The empty side of his bed. A poorly drawn arrow pointing to the pillow.

The caption: “I wish you were here.”

You exhaled sharply.

Your stomach flipped.

He was always so careful. So distant. Always trying to pull away just enough to keep you at bay.

But this?

This was something.

You snapped a photo of your face, one eyebrow raised as if you were challenging him. Your skin flushed, and your shirt revealing a hint of cleavage. 

The caption: “and if I was?”

You stared at the screen. Waiting.

@jamesthefrozenone sent you a Snap

His hand. The metal one. Resting flat on his stomach. His muscles tight. You could see the waistband of his sweatpants.

The caption: “Then I’d ruin you.”

You sat up in bed, legs suddenly restless under the sheets.

You sent back a snap, one of just your shoulder and neck, blurry. 

The caption: “i’d let you.”

He opened it immediately.

The typing bubble flickered.

Then, @jamesthefrozenone sent you a chat

“This is a bad idea.”

You replied.

“a really, really bad one.”

No reply came after that.

But you saw him open it.

And for the second night in a row, neither of you slept.

Your Room, 8:07AM

You tried not to rush through your morning routine.

You kept your hoodie zipped all the way up and your hair a little messier than usual, hoping it would hide the restless tension thrumming just beneath your skin. You hadn’t slept. You’d spent the night scrolling back to that final snap, your thumb hovering over the screen long after your phone dimmed.

He hadn’t replied.

But he’d seen it.

That soft, hazy photo of your shoulder. That quiet admission. And of course, was it a bad idea?

a really, really bad one.

You knew the message wasn’t just about sex. Not really. It was about the whole idea of you and him. About what it would mean to cross that line, and what they’d both lose if it went wrong.

You told yourself it was fine. You weren’t disappointed. You were a grown-ass woman who could handle a little sexual tension.

However, you were a grown-ass woman who found herself avoiding the lounge. Skipping breakfast. Keeping her head down.

Which is exactly why you ended up wandering into the kitchen, distracted, hoodie sleeves pushed over your hands, only to freeze at the sight of him.

Bucky.

Standing in front of the open fridge, looking just as tired as you felt.

He was in sweatpants. The ones you'd seen last night in that snap, the waistband resting low on his hips. His hair was still wet from a shower, and when he turned and saw you, his entire body stilled like he’d been caught doing something he shouldn't.

You weren’t sure what expression was on your face, but his eyes softened just slightly, like he could feel whatever heat still lingered from the night before.

“Morning,” he said, voice low, unreadable.

“Hey,” you replied. You forced yourself to move to the coffee machine, gripping the mug a little too tightly. “Sleep okay?”

He hesitated. You didn’t look at him, but you felt it, the way he paused before answering.

“Yeah,” he lied.

You smiled into your mug, looking up at him. “Liar.”

He grinned.

You kept your back to him, letting the silence stretch.

But the silence was disrupted by John Walker entering the room.

“Morning, sunshine squad,” he said, grabbing an apple off of the counter and taking a bite. “You two look like hell.”

You both ignored him.

He leaned on the counter, chewing obnoxiously.

“Sooooo,” he said, stretching the word out, “I got the craziest snap from Bucky last night.”

You blinked.

Bucky froze.

“What?” you asked carefully.

John smirked. “Yeah. Real late. Opened it around 1am. Thought it was a mistake.”

You felt your stomach tighten.

Bucky turned toward him slowly, brows furrowed. “What snap?”

John pulled out his phone and scrolled with theatrical flair. Then he turned the screen to you both and…

There it was.

A dimly lit snap of Bucky’s bare stomach, metal hand resting against his skin.

And the caption, clear as day: “Then I’d ruin you.”

Your jaw dropped.

Bucky looked like he’d just been hit by a truck.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, rubbing a hand down his face.

“Oh my God,” you whispered, covering your mouth.

John burst out laughing. “I know that wasn’t meant for me, but damn if I’m not a little curious.”

“I meant to send that to her,” Bucky said without thinking, then immediately shut his eyes, realizing what he’d just admitted.

You choked on your coffee.

John’s eyes went wide.

“Holy shit,” he said. “You were sexting her. You nasty old bastard.”

Bucky’s mouth opened, then closed again. He looked like he wanted to disappear.

“I’m still figuring out how this app works,” he muttered, voice tight. “I didn’t realize it sent to  you too.”

“I didn’t need to know that,” John said gleefully. “But I’m so glad I do.”

“Forget this happened, Walker,” Bucky said.

“Oh,” John said, still messing with his phone. “I'll be screenshotting it for blackmail purposes. This is gold.”

Bucky looked like he was weighing the pros and cons of tossing him out the window.

John winked at you. “Just say the word if you ever want a guy under eighty-five.”

“Get out,” Bucky growled.

John held up his hands. “Alright, alright. Don’t break your hip over it.”

He left, whistling.

The door closed behind him, leaving you and Bucky in the thickest silence yet.

You didn’t say anything for a long moment.

Then finally…

“I would,” you whispered, “let you.”

Bucky sighed and leaned against the counter. “You’re trouble.”

You bit your lip, watching him quietly.

A flirtatious smirk crept across his face. He tried to suppress it. He grabbed his coffee mug and sauntered out of the kitchen without another word.

Your Room, 11:17 PM

You hadn’t spoken to him since that morning.

Not really.

You’d seen him in passing; at training, during a strategy briefing, when Yelena threw popcorn at Alexei’s head during movie night, but the tension had shifted. It was no longer something building slowly between you, unspoken and dangerous.

It was active.

It demanded attention.

And now you couldn’t look at him without remembering that snap. Without hearing the words in his voice.

Then I’d ruin you.

You had replayed it in your head so many times, you weren’t sure if you were turned on or emotionally unstable. Realistically, both.

You stared at the ceiling for a while after turning the lights out, curled beneath the blanket, your phone resting on your chest like a paperweight.

He hadn’t snapped you.

Not all day.

You told yourself that was good. Smart. Mature. He was pulling back. Being careful.

But you didn’t want to be careful anymore.

Not with him.

Not tonight.

So you opened Snapchat. Again.

You turned on the front-facing camera, adjusting the angle until it was just your mouth and chin. Lips parted. A little bit wicked.

The caption: “this still dangerous?”

You hesitated only a second before hitting send.

Then you waited.

Long enough to regret it. Long enough to bite your lip, curse under your breath, throw the blanket over your face like that would somehow undo what you’d just done, and yell into your pillow.

And then, @jamesthefrozenone sent you a Snap

It was a shot of his hand. The metal one, resting against his chest.

The caption: “I can’t stop thinking about you.”

Your breath caught.

This time, you didn’t reply right away.

You needed him to say more.

You needed him to risk it.

You needed to make him sweat a little.

A minute passed.

Then another.

And finally:

@jamesthefrozenone sent you a chat

“What are you wearing?”

You stared at the message, heart thudding in your chest. Heart thudding everywhere.

You rolled slowly onto your side, letting the blanket fall lower.

Sleep shirt. Bare thighs.

You adjusted the camera carefully, making sure it was suggestive, not graphic. A tease. A temptation. A glimpse of your hip, and the tiniest hint of blue lace panties, and the hem of your shirt.

The caption: “come find out.”

There was no pause this time.

@jamesthefrozenone sent you a Snap

A selfie now. Bucky’s face. Hair tousled. Jaw clenched. His cheeks warm.

He looked… desperate. 

The caption: “Don’t tempt me. I swear to god.”

Your thighs pressed together.

You opened the camera again, this time bringing the shot closer. Your fingers curled under your hem, not showing anything, but hinting at everything.

The caption: “i want you to.”

Another snap came instantly.

His bare chest. Dog tags. Muscle.

The caption:“Tell me what you’d let me do.”

You exhaled, hot and shaky.

Your whole body buzzed. Every inch of you begging for contact, even through a screen.

You snapped a photo of your shoulder, your collarbone, and your throat.

The caption: “i'd let you pin me down.”

Your phone buzzed immediately.

His hand. Gripping the bedsheet this time. White-knuckled.

The caption: “And then?”

You snapped back before you lost your nerve, fingers grazing just above your panties, shirt still hiked up high.

The caption: “Touch me. Make me squirm. Make me come.”

Another photo arrived in seconds.

His torso this time, arm flexed, abs tight. His skin glowed under dim light, sweat along his collarbone.

The caption: “You’d be begging me not to stop.”

A quiet, desperate noise escaped your mouth. 

You adjusted again, this time your hand disappeared beneath the sheets, between your legs, nothing visible but everything implied.

The caption: “i’m already begging”

There was a longer pause this time.

You stared at the screen. Waiting.

You could feel the hesitation. The way he fought himself every step of the way.

And then, @jamesthefrozenone sent you a chat

“This is a really bad idea.”

You stared at it.

Bit your lip.

And sent the final snap for the night.

A photo of your pillow. Empty beside you. Invitation, suggestion, ache.

The caption: “Still, might be worth it.”

You waited.

Watched as he opened it.

The reply never came.

But you knew.

You both knew.

Kitchen, 8:05 AM

The kitchen was too quiet again.

You stared at the toaster, watching it slowly brown two slices of bread, pretending your heart wasn’t still thudding from last night. Pretending you hadn’t spent the past eight hours tossing under your sheets, skin hot, mind louder than it had any right to be.

He never replied.

Not after your last snap.

But you saw him open it. You knew what that silence meant.

And still, you couldn’t stop thinking about the way he’d looked. That low light. That look in his eyes. Like he wanted you. Like he was struggling not to want you more.

You shifted on your feet, hoodie sleeves covering your fingers, trying not to look like you were waiting for him.

But then, he walked in.

Bucky.

Damp hair. Long sleeves. That damn quiet tension clinging to his shoulders like a shadow. He stopped when he saw you. Not startled. Just still.

You didn’t look away.

“Morning,” you said softly.

He nodded. “Morning.”

He moved past you to the fridge. His hand hovered on the handle. His back to you.

You stayed where you were, clutching your mug with both hands.

The silence stretched.

Thick.

“You didn’t reply,” you said finally, voice just above a whisper.

He closed his eyes for a second before turning, leaning back against the counter.

“I wanted to,” he said. His voice was rough. “But I didn’t trust myself not to come upstairs.”

Your stomach flipped.

He looked tired. Worn. And guilty.

Your throat tightened. “Do you regret it?”

“No,” he said instantly. “I regret not stopping this before it started.”

That stung.

Even if it was fair. Understandable.

Even if you knew it wasn’t just about the flirting. Or the sexting.

It was about the line you kept crossing. And what it would mean when it broke for real.

“You think I can’t handle you?” you asked quietly.

He looked at you then, directly.

“I think you don’t know what you’re inviting,” he said.

And then, softer, “And I don’t want to hurt you.”

You opened your mouth, ready to say something, anything, but you didn’t get the chance.

Because John Walker chose that exact moment to walk in. Again.

“Wow,” he said, biting into an energy bar. “You two have the most intense breakfasts I’ve ever seen.”

You both turned toward him in sync, like a pair of teenagers caught passing notes.

John grinned. “I’m assuming that I’m the only one of the three of us who didn’t get a snap last night?”

Bucky scowled. You stared down at your coffee.

John snorted. “Come on. Don’t look so guilty. I’m just impressed you figured out how to snap without sending it to the whole team this time.”

“Walker,” Bucky said, as a warning.

But John wasn’t done.

He leaned his hip against the counter, looking right at you with a smirk, "Whatever is good for team morale, I guess.”

John turned to the cabinet, fishing for a mug, and muttered to himself, “I give it two more nights before one of you caves.”

“What was that?” you asked innocently.

He grinned. “Nothing, sweetheart. Just betting against Bucky’s self-control.”

Your Room, 1:16 AM

You weren’t going to do it.

You weren’t going to open Snapchat.

You weren’t going to reach out first.

You weren’t going to let your whole body ache over someone who clearly didn’t want to cross the line… even though he wanted you.

But still, the app sat there. Waiting. And so did the tension. And so did you.

You scrolled back through the thread, past the soft snaps, the suggestive ones, the ones where he said too much without saying anything at all.

He was trying so hard, but he hadn’t stopped looking at you like he was two seconds away from ruining everything.

You pulled your blanket tighter, took a slow breath, and snapped a photo; just your fingers tangled in the sheets on your bed. Feeling brave, you typed it out.

The caption: “i keep thinking about how your mouth would feel on my skin.”

You sent it.

Then immediately wished you hadn’t.

But then, before you had time to panic, @jamesthefrozenone sent you a Snap

His chest, bare. Lit only by the glow of the phone. The curve of his shoulder, where his skin met with metal. 

The caption: “Is that what you want?”

You sat up. Heart pounding.

Your thighs pressed together beneath the blanket. Goosebumps across your skin. Every nerve in your body screamed.

You snapped a photo from the waist up, angled carefully. Your sleep shirt clung to the curve of your chest, just a hint of cleavage visible and your hard nipples visible through the fabric. Your expression said the rest.

The caption: “you already know it is.”

He opened it immediately.

You waited.

You didn’t expect what came next.

@jamesthefrozenone sent you a chat

“Open your door.”

You froze.

Then stared at it.

Then, you launched yourself out of bed, heart hammering so hard you thought it might bruise bone. You flung the blanket aside and scrambled to your feet.

You barely made it halfway across the room before there was a knock.

Three fast knocks. Barely loud enough to hear.

You opened the door, and there he was.

Bucky. Shirtless. Sweatpants slung low on his hips, chest rising like he’d sprinted the whole way to your room.

You didn’t say a word. Neither did he.

You just stared… and then you reached.

Your fingers curled into his chest like you’d earned the right by now. Like he was already yours. He surged forward, slamming the door shut behind him without ever looking back, lips crashing into yours with the kind of need that didn’t ask permission.

His hands were rough, urgent, gripping your waist and pulling you into him until there wasn’t a breath between you.

You moaned into his mouth, heat rushing through you as he backed you into the wall. His hips pinned you there. You could feel him, already hard through the thin fabric of his sweats, thick and heavy, pressing right where you needed him most.

“I feel like you're supposed to say you shouldn’t be here,” you whispered, voice wrecked. His mouth brushed your jaw, your cheek, your throat. “I know,” he growled, “so tell me to go.”

You didn't. 

Instead, you grabbed a fistful of his hair and crashed your mouth against his.

He groaned, deep from his chest, before grabbing the backs of your thighs and hoisting you up, your legs wrapping tight around his waist.

“I mean it,” he rasped, carrying you toward the bed. “Tell me to leave. Right now.”

You clung to him, pulse hammering. “Shut up and fuck me.”

He kissed you hard, like it was the only thing keeping him alive. One hand slid up under your shirt, dragging it over your ribs, possessive. The other gripped your ass, squeezed hard, like he’d been dying to do it for years.

You barely had time to gasp before he carried you to the bed, as if he couldn’t wait another second. He dropped you onto the mattress, then peeled your clothes off with shaking hands—desperate, reverent, like he needed to see all of you *now* or he’d break.

“Jesus,” he muttered, looking down at you, eyes blown wide. “You’re unreal.”

“Then get inside me,” you said, breathless. “Don’t make me beg.”

“Oh, I want you to beg,” he rasped, crawling over you, mouth trailing down your chest, biting just enough to make you gasp. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this. How long I’ve wanted you.”

You arched up against him. “Then have me god damnit.”

He didn’t need to be told twice.

He dropped to his knees on the floor with you still wrapped around him, peeled your panties down and shoved your thighs apart. His mouth was on you in seconds. His tongue hot and greedy, lapping between your folds, groaning like he was devouring his last meal. You cried out, hips bucking into his face, and he didn’t stop, just locked his arms around your thighs and fucked you with his tongue until you were shaking.

“God, oh my god, Bucky, I’m gonna-”

“Do it,” he growled, voice thick, jaw slick with you. “Let me taste it.”

You shattered.

Your body locked up and trembled, a sob tearing from your throat as you came on his tongue, legs shaking around his shoulders. He kept going, licking you through it until you whimpered from the stimulation, clawing at his shoulders.

He stood, wild-eyed, flushed, jaw tight, and shoved his sweats down just enough to free his cock.

Big. Thick. Veins prominent.

He bent you over the mattress, dragged your ass back into position, and slid inside you in one brutal thrust.

“Fuck—” he groaned, head dropping between your shoulder blades. “You’re so fucking tight.”

You gasped, your back arching, nails digging into the mattress. “Don’t stop. God, please don’t stop.”

And he didn’t.

He fucked you like he meant to break you. Every thrust hit deep, hard, hungry. Metal hand around your throat, the other gripping your hip, keeping you right where he wanted you. You were soaked. Sloppy, hot, pulsing around him, and he couldn’t stop the filthy words from pouring out.

“This what you wanted, sweetheart?” he rasped in your ear. “Wanted me to ruin you like this? You thinking about it every time I walk into a room?”

“Yes!” You cried out, helpless, twitching under him. “I’m so close, please- please-”

“I wanna feel you come.”

You did.

Loud. Messy. Legs trembling, vision white-hot.

Bucky swore, pulled you upright with your back against his chest, fucked into you hard a few more times, and then he came with a rough moan, teeth gritted, arms wrapped tight around you like he’d fall apart if he let go.

His breath came fast and ragged against your shoulder.

You both collapsed onto the bed, your limbs tangled, skin slick, and nerves fried.

“Still think it’s a bad idea?” you whispered into the quiet.

He laughed. Hoarse. Spent.

“Absolutely.”

And then he kissed you again, deep, slow, filthy, and he didn’t stop for a long, long time.

[am-3-thyst]

Seb in these pics WHEW

[pics from pinterest

first pic: IloveBTRandHD

Second pic: Alexab_164

Third pic: currentlytomahawkingsomeone

Fourth/sixth pic: kyulils

Fifth pic: nikkixlynn1 ]

[am-3-thyst]

In my almost 8 years of being a Sebastian Stan enjoyer i have NEVER seen this picture before. What the FUCK

[am-3-thyst]

letters of devotion [one-shot]

marvel band au drummer!bucky x waitress! reader

you sent filthy, anonymous letters and nudes to the drummer of your favourite band, never expecting he’d read them. never expecting he’d keep them. never expecting he’d show up at your diner one night, more than eager to fulfil your fantasies.

Warnings: 18+ content minors dni, smut, multiple orgasms, forced orgasm (consentual), oral (f receiving), fingering, p n v, unprotected sex, praise kink, explicit consent, aftercare, reader is horny lol, daydreaming smut scenarios, beefy bucky, band au, diner au, love letters, fangirl/obsession, lowkey depressed/sad reader, bucky is a menace, bucky matches reader's freak levels, use of the petname sweetheart, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 6.4k

A/N: hi, thank you for 5k followers! as a treat, have this absolute filth. i think this is the closest you'll ever get to smut w no plot from me lmao, i went through every stage of grief writing this. inspired by dinner in america + spun my prompt wheel and got band au / beefy - not proof read.

main masterlist

You were starting to think your obsession with the Winter Soldier wasn’t just unhealthy, it was pathological.

Two hours into your shift at Sal’s Diner, buried in the itch of your polyester uniform and the reek of burnt coffee, you’d already drifted off into fantasy more times than you could count on both hands. Daydreams clawed at the edge of your attention like static, buzzing louder with every second you spent beneath the flickering fluorescents. You’d nearly poured hot coffee straight into a trucker’s lap. His barked ‘watch it!’ still rang in your ears as you’d scrambled with a rag, your hands shaking as liquid pooled across the table. You’d forgotten table four’s extra side of bacon, missed table six’s banana smoothie with extra whip.

You hated this place. Hated the chipped pink tiles, the dusty jukebox that hadn’t worked in years, the scent of grease that soaked into your skin no matter how many showers you took. But more than anything, you hated the sameness of it all, the way this town never changed, never grew. How every face that passed through the diner was one you recognised, and worse, how they all recognised you.

You were twenty-something, with nothing to show for it except a minimum-wage job and a slowly decaying sense of purpose. Your apartment was a shoebox with paper-thin walls and a view of a brick wall. Every night, like clockwork, the baby next door shrieked, the couple upstairs screamed and stomped, and the couple across the hall fucked like they were being paid for it. You’d eat something microwaved and vaguely beige, drink cold coffee you forgot you poured, and zone out to reality TV you weren’t really watching. Housewives screamed through muffled speakers while your brain quietly rotted.

Everyone else’s lives were in motion—marriages, babies, master’s degrees, weekend getaways with friends and Instagram sunsets. Yours was stuck on pause, the buffer wheel spinning endlessly. You kept saying yes when Sal asked you to cover a double, because what else did you have to do? You had no plans. No passions. No clue what you even wanted.

You had tried. God, you had tried. College ended in a quiet breakdown and a withdrawal form. Relationships fizzled before they even warmed. Nothing stuck. You felt like you were wading through a fog that everyone else seemed immune to, like they all had a compass pointing to some clear, shining future, and you were just circling in the dark.

If anything still lit you up, it was music.

It was the only thing that made you feel. You were always listening, earbuds in as soon as you left work, blasting bass-heavy playlists on your way home, tapping your fingers to invisible rhythms behind the counter. You hummed under your breath while restocking napkin holders and scrubbing dishes to the beat of crashing drums. Music drowned out the ache, the boredom, of everything you didn’t want to think about. It was the closest you got to peace.

And your salvation came in the form of one band: The Howling Commandos.

They were everything you weren’t—loud, chaotic, unapologetic. All raw vocals and snarling guitars, like rebellion captured in sound. You clung to their music like a lifeline. Their songs made you feel invincible, if only for three minutes and forty-two seconds at a time. You stalked their socials like a religion, hoping they'd announce a show in your town. Underground gigs, secret venues, cryptic posts…the mystery only made you want them more.

And they were hot. Unbelievably so. You didn’t even know what they looked like. They performed in ski masks, their identities always hidden, but that just added to the appeal. They were anonymous, untouchable. A fantasy you could project anything onto. Big, muscled silhouettes thrashing under stage lights, voices full of rage and sorrow. 

And the Winter Soldier, the drummer—he was your favourite delusion of all.

He was the biggest, a towering shadow behind the drum kit, all brute force and brooding stillness. Maybe it was just the size of him that drove you wild, the thick bands of muscle in his arms, the way his thighs flexed as he worked the bass pedal. His hands were massive, wrapped tight around his drumsticks like they could break bones just by holding on too hard. You’d close your eyes when one of their songs hit its peak, feel the rhythm pounding in your chest, and imagine those hands wrapped around your waist. Pressing down your hips. Spreading your thighs. Keeping you still while he—

The shrill clang of the service bell sliced through your fantasy.

“Oi, girl!” Sal’s voice barked from the kitchen, all gravel and phlegm. “Plates for table three! Move it!”

You blinked hard, swallowing the heat that had risen to your cheeks. “Sorry, Sal,” you muttered, forcing your legs to move, dragging yourself away from the milkshake machine with the weight of a thousand unmet fantasies.

Because the truth was... yeah, you were obsessed.

Not just a fangirl. Not just a casual listener with a couple of favourite tracks. You were consumed by the Winter Soldier. The mystery, the sound, the brutal power behind the drum kit. You had no musical talent yourself, no rhythm in your bones, no dreams of making it big. But still, music was your only lifeline. And him? He was the rope you clung to when it felt like you might finally let go.

So, you found your own way to contribute. Your own warped form of expression. Your own art.

Love letters.

It had started innocently enough. Just a few pages of breathless admiration, scrawled out after long shifts while your brain buzzed from caffeine and exhaustion. You confessed your devotion to the band, to the music, to him. You wrote about how their songs made the world feel bearable. You poured out thoughts like they were diary entries, lyrics from a girl whose life was anything but lyrical. You didn’t expect a reply, you weren’t stupid. You imagined he probably received plenty of letters from fans. But the act of writing? It helped, it made the loneliness less loud.

But the longer you went without hearing back, the longer you worked the closing shift in a sweatbox diner and watched your life go nowhere, the more unhinged the letters became.

Passion turned to desire. Pages and pages of filthy, desperate confessions. You wrote about how you wanted him to bend you over your shitty couch, how you’d beg if he made you. You described exactly how his hands would feel gripping your hair, how his voice would sound in your ear as he pushed into you. You stopped holding back. The words poured out of you like something exorcised.

And then came the photos.

You’d found an old thrift-store polaroid camera, the kind that spat out little grainy prints with bad lighting. On your braver days—the lonely, horny, bored out of your fucking mind days—you’d strip down in your bedroom, the blinds barely tilted shut. You never showed your face. That wouldn’t be on brand, you gave him anonymity right back.

Your body became the message. Lace underwear clinging to your hips, the curved lines of your thighs spread wide. Some days you kept it tasteful, just the bare suggestion of skin. Other times, when the ache got too strong and the fantasy too vivid, you’d pose with your fingers between your legs, soaked and aching, back arched.

You’d kiss the pages with bright red lipstick, spray your favourite perfume, and seal them tight in mismatched envelopes.

You called them Letters of Devotion.

And maybe, deep down, beneath the layers of lust and delusion, you still hoped he’d reply. That he’d see your letters—your alias, your handwriting, your stories—and feel something. Anything.

Maybe you were a little crazy.

Or maybe it was the only thing keeping you sane.

—

It was late.

The kind of late where the world outside the diner windows had gone completely black, where the parking lot was empty save for a few tired trucks and one lone streetlamp flickering. Your feet ached in your shoes, cheap sneakers with soles worn thin from double shifts and the way you dragged yourself around this place like a ghost. You’d been on your feet for nearly eleven hours, fueled by lukewarm coffee and pure spite. Even the radio had given up playing its same old loops and was spitting static.

The bell above the door jingled, and you glanced up from the counter, expecting maybe the regular who came in late for grilled cheese and three cups of black coffee. But instead, four men walked in.

You blinked. Then blinked again.

They didn’t look like locals. Not the usual crowd of truckers or farmers passing through. No, these guys were something else. All broad shoulders and heavy steps, tattoos trailing up their forearms and necks, worn boots and dark jackets dusted with road dirt. One of them had a scar splitting through his eyebrow. Another had arms so thick he barely fit into the booth. 

Your gaze snagged on one in particular.

He slid into the booth facing you, his leather jacket creaking as he settled in, and you swore the breath stalled in your lungs for a beat too long. He was massive. Broad through the chest and shoulders, thighs spread wide like he didn’t know how to sit small. His jaw was covered in dark stubble, his mouth pulled into a neutral line—neither a frown nor a smile. Serious. Watchful. His hair was dark and thick, ruffled like he had dragged his hand through it a few too many times. 

You forced yourself to move, grabbing your notepad and approaching with a practised smile that felt barely glued to your face.

“Welcome to Sal’s,” you said, as cheerily as you could force. “Kitchen’s closing soon, so if you want something hot, order now.”

One of them, the one with the scar, grinned and cracked a joke about ‘always liking it hot’, but you barely registered it. You were still stealing glances at him. He didn’t say anything, just looked up at you with those cool eyes, and nodded toward the menu. 

“Burger and fries. Black coffee.”

“Sure thing,” you managed. You scribbled it down, turned before they could see the way your cheeks flushed.

Behind the counter, you leaned against the milkshake machine, heart still thudding, mind absolutely not on the order. You watched them from the corner of your eye. They spoke in low voices, murmuring to each other, intense and focused

And all you could think about was him.

You didn’t know why. Maybe it was the size of him, the stoic vibe, the fact that his shape reminded you of The Winter Soldier. Maybe it was the way he didn’t talk unless he needed to, the way he moved like his body was too powerful to be casual. Or maybe you were just so sleep-deprived that your brain was automatically generating pornographic content to keep itself entertained. You could imagine him behind the drum kit, imagine his face behind the ski mask. Maybe you would hold onto this memory, think of his stormy blue eyes when your core was hot and wet, fingers already scrabbling for your polaroid, ready for another Letter of Devotion as you came and came again at your own hand—

Your eyes drifted back to the booth. 

You imagined what it would feel like to be pressed against that chest, what it would sound like if he whispered in your ear with that voice. What it would feel like to have his hand sliding up your thigh beneath your diner uniform. You imagined him fisting your hair, guiding your head as he fucked your mouth slow and deep, until the cheap linoleum beneath your knees squeaked—

You were so deep in the fantasy that when you blinked, he was looking at you.

Direct. Curious. Like he knew.

Your heart skipped. You jerked your gaze away so fast you nearly knocked over the salt shaker. You busied yourself behind the counter, wiping an already clean surface, trying not to combust.

—

Eventually, the guys finished eating. Paid in cash, left a decent tip. One of them winked at you on the way out. He just gave you one last lingering glance as the bell over the door jingled again, then disappeared into the night.

You exhaled, a little dazed. Tried not to think about the heat still curling in your stomach.

And then you noticed it.

In the booth, the one they’d just vacated, sat a black backpack. Left behind, half-tucked beneath the table like someone forgot it in a rush.

You looked out the window. Their taillights were already gone.

Somehow…it felt like a sign. 

You rounded the counter on instinct, hands moving on autopilot as you stacked plates and wiped down the booth, the backpack heavy in your peripheral vision. You slipped into the kitchen, scraping leftovers into one of the giant bins, trying to look busy while Sal shouted down the phone near the walk-in freezer. Something about plumbing. Something about the hot water. You weren’t really listening. Not with your thoughts spinning like a carousel.

Your fingers twitched with anticipation.

Had he left it behind on purpose?

Maybe it was nothing, an honest mistake. Just a man in a hurry, too focused on the road ahead to notice what he’d forgotten. Or maybe, just maybe, he had been distracted. By you. Had you gotten into his head the same way he’d buried himself in yours? Had he been sneaking glances the way you had? Imagining things?

God, the possibilities curled hot between your legs.

You were elbow-deep in soapy water when Sal came stomping back in, muttering curses. 

“Dahla’s moanin’ that the hot water ain’t workin’,” he barked, grabbing his keys off the hook. “I gotta run. You good to lock up?”

You nodded, barely looking up. “No problem.”

He grunted in the barest minimum of thanks and was gone within the minute. You waited, counting the seconds until the crunch of his boots on gravel faded, until the cough of his truck engine roared and peeled off down the road.

You all but bolted to the front of the diner, heart hammering in your throat. You hadn’t even locked the front door. The open sign still glowed in the window like a forgotten thought. You didn’t care. Your hands were still damp from the sink as you reached for the bag, tugging it up onto the counter with a soft thud.

It sat there, plain and unassuming. Black canvas, one shoulder strap fraying. Just a backpack.

You stared for a second.

You weren’t sure what you expected. A note? An ID with a name you could finally put to that face? A number scrawled on a napkin meant only for you?

Your lip caught between your teeth as you slowly tugged the zipper down.

The contents were disappointing at first. A couple of old t-shirts, faded and smelling faintly of smoke and sweat. Crumpled food wrappers. A phone charger. Some receipts. Nothing extraordinary. Nothing romantic. Your heart dipped—

Then froze.

Nestled at the bottom, slightly bent at the corners, was a thick bundle of envelopes. Cream-colored. Handwritten. Lightly smudged ink. It wouldn’t have been that strange if it weren’t for the fact that you recognised them. 

It was the smell of the perfumed paper that hit you immediately. You knew that smell. The faint trail of your favourite perfume, sweet and smoky. The red lipstick stain pressed into the corner, your shade. That was your kiss. Your handwriting.

Your fingers moved with nervous urgency, fumbling as you grabbed the stack and rifled through it.

Your letters.

At least a dozen of them. All opened. 

You seized one at random, and your hand trembled as you pulled the page free. A small clatter followed as a polaroid slipped loose and hit the countertop face-up.

You felt the heat rush to your face like a punch.

You. 

It was you. 

One of the more explicit ones. Black lace panties, expensive, a splurge from when you were still clinging to the idea of romance. Your thighs spread wide. Your hand, barely hidden behind delicate fabric, buried between your folds, caught mid-motion. Your other hand was out of frame, probably holding the camera. You remembered that night vividly. Remembered how worked up you'd been, how starved. You hadn’t just been horny, you’d been aching, lonely.

Your pulse roared in your ears as you slowly unfolded the letter, the edges soft from wear. Like it had been regularly reread. Your cursive spilt across the page, desperate and messy. A confession. A fantasy—

I had a dream about you last night.

Or maybe it wasn’t a dream. Maybe it was a memory from some other life. One where you knew me, touched me, ruined me like you were meant to.

You bent me over the arm of my couch. One hand flat on my back, keeping me down, keeping me still. The other between my legs. You didn’t tease. Didn’t waste time. You slid your fingers through my pussy and hummed like you liked what you felt. Then you pressed two fingers inside me, slow at first, then rougher, curling them just right until my legs shook and I moaned like I’d break apart.

You didn’t stop. Not when I came. Not even when I begged. You made me take it, over and over, until I was soaked and shaking, face pressed to the cushion, drooling into the fabric while you watched. While you owned me.

And only then did you unzip your jeans.

You didn’t say anything. Just dragged the tip of your cock through the mess you’d made of me and pushed in, inch by inch, nice and slow. I remember crying out, legs spreading wider like my body already knew what to do, like it wanted to be ruined by you. You fucked me deep. Kept me bent over. Kept that hand wrapped around my throat when I tried to lift my head.

And when I finally looked back at you, barely able to keep my eyes open, you grabbed my jaw and made me say it.

‘Tell me who you belong to.’

And I did. Over and over. 

I woke up soaked through my sheets, hand still between my thighs, still aching. I’ve been thinking about it all day. I can’t stop imagining this. Wanting this. Needing it—

“Why are you going through my stuff?” A deep, gravelly voice jolted you back to reality. The letter slipped from your fingers and fluttered back onto the counter

You hadn’t heard the bell.

Hadn’t heard the door open.

Hadn’t realised the man you’d spent the last hour wet and restless for was standing just a few feet away. Arms crossed over his broad chest, head tilted, expression somewhere between amused and dangerous.

You pressed a hand to your chest, trying to breathe through the thick, electric panic that was blooming behind your ribs.

“I—” 

You fumbled for words, your voice catching and unravelling as heat rushed up your neck. “You left it behind. I thought maybe I could find ID or a name or—I wasn’t trying to—”

Your voice faded as he took a single step forward. Just one. He was already towering above you. You stood frozen behind the counter, gripping the edge. You weren’t sure if you wanted to run or drop to your knees.

And then, against all your better judgment, the words tumbled out.

“Why do you—how do you have these?! I didn’t write them for you, I wrote them for—”

You cut yourself off. Because you were watching it happen in real time, the slow curl of understanding at the edge of his mouth, the glint of something unholy blooming in those stormy eyes. A smile pulled at his lips, knowing and wicked.

Your voice dropped to a whisper, half-horrified, half-aroused. “Unless… unless you’re him. The Winter Soldier—”

He stepped closer, until the edge of the counter was the only thing between you and the solid heat of his body. His gaze dragged down your face, your throat, like he was memorising you.

Then he leaned in, just slightly, and spoke, low and lethal.

“I read every single one.”

Your entire body flushed hot.

Every. Single. One.

Your lips parted, but no sound came out, just the soft stutter of your breath as your brain struggled to catch up. You were painfully aware of your appearance. The grease-slicked apron, your hair pulled back in a lazy bun, the sweat still drying at your temples from a long shift. You were supposed to be invisible here. 

But now he was here. Standing over you. Real. Breathing the same air. And he’d read it. All of it. All the filthy, aching, needy things you’d never even said out loud.

“You…” you rasped. “You read them?”

He tilted his head, eyes gleaming. “You think I just collect random strangers’ letters full of desperate, pretty little fantasies?”

His voice was quieter now, just above a whisper. It curled around your throat like a hand.

“I started reading the first one on tour,” he went on. “Thought it’d be funny, another obsessed fan. But then I kept reading…kept waiting for more to arrive.” His eyes dropped to your lips. “You don’t hold back, sweetheart. Not even a little.”

You swallowed thickly. “I didn’t think—I never thought anyone would actually—”

“—read it?” he finished, one brow raising. “Come on. You write shit like that and don’t expect it to crawl into someone’s brain? The way you describe it, how you want it… fuck.” He leaned closer, his mouth nearly brushing your ear. “You got no idea what you’ve been doing to me. You’re like some kinda genius, some kinda fuckin’ succubus. Do you know how many songs I’ve tried to write about you, about those fuckin’ photos?”

Your knees went weak, pulse thudding behind your ribs like a warning bell.

“Which one was your favourite?” you asked before you could stop yourself, breathless and reckless. 

His grin returned, dark, indulgent. “The one where I make you cum over and over again,” he murmured. “And you beg for it, like a good girl. And you beg until you're so fucked out you can’t even speak, just moan and take every last inch of me.”

Your breath hitched.

He studied your face, then slowly, very slowly, reached out and picked up the polaroid you’d dropped. He held it between two fingers, glancing down at it with a hum of approval.

“You still have these panties?” he asked casually, like he was asking for a drink recommendation.

You blinked. “What?”

He looked up from the photo, and his expression turned serious in a way that made your stomach flip.

“What’s your address, sweetheart?” He asked.

You stared at him. Speechless.

“I’ll come by after you close up,” he added, voice low, fingers tapping on the counter. “You let me in and I’ll do everything you wrote about, hell, I’m ready to beg for it just lookin’ at you.”

—

You weren’t sure how you made it home without crashing your car.

Your hands shook the whole drive, knuckles white around the wheel, still sticky from the milkshake syrup you’d forgotten to wash off. The radio played something mindless, but you couldn’t hear it over the sound of your own heartbeat thudding behind your ribs like a fist.

You didn’t even turn the lights on when you burst through your apartment door. Just kicked it shut behind you, peeled off your apron, and headed straight for the shower. The water was too hot, scalding your skin, but you welcomed it. You scrubbed with your nicest soap, dragging the loofah hard over your flesh. Like you could wash off the diner grease, the lingering smell of cheap coffee. 

You towelled off in a hurry, slipping on lotion while your skin was still damp.

The panties were easy, the black lace ones from the photo. No bra. Just a thin cotton tank top, the kind that clung to every curve.

You paced your apartment like a storm was coming.

Checked your reflection.

Then checked it again.

Clean sheets. Dim light. The curtain pulled just enough. You caught yourself reaching to tidy the bookshelf, then stopped. What the fuck were you doing?

He didn’t care if your books were alphabetised. He was going to ruin you.

The knock came just after midnight.

You froze.

Your feet carried you to the door before your mind could catch up. You stared through the peephole, breath caught.

Still in that worn leather jacket, shoulders broad enough to fill the frame. His eyes were darker in the hallway light, but they still found the peephole like he knew you were watching.

Your fingers curled around the doorknob and tugged it open. 

He looked at you, eyes dragging down your bare legs, the hem of your tank top, the curve of your breasts beneath it. His jaw tensed like he was trying not to say something filthy right there in the hallway.

“You wore them,” he said at last, voice rough.

You swallowed. “You said you liked them.”

He stepped inside without another word, shutting the door behind him with a soft click. You stood barefoot on the rug, heart hammering in your chest as you looked up at him, your fingers twitching at your sides.

You parted your lips to speak, to say something, but you never got the chance.

Because he was on you in a second.

He crossed the room in two steps, grabbed you by the waist, and lifted you clean off the ground. You gasped, legs instinctively wrapping around his hips as he shoved you against the wall. His mouth crashed down on yours, tongue sliding past your lips. 

You melted into him instantly, fingers curling into the collar of his jacket, back arching to press yourself closer. When he finally pulled back, you were panting, dazed, lips wet and parted.

He carried you to the bedroom without asking and dropped you onto the bed, stepping back just enough to shrug off his jacket.

You whimpered. You didn’t mean to. It slipped out, needy and desperate, before you could stop it.

“Take off your shirt.”

Your hands trembled as you obeyed. You pulled the tank top over your head, exposing your bare chest to the warm lamplight. He watched you like a man starved, his eyes dragging slowly from your flushed face down to the curve of your breasts. You could feel the heat pooling between your thighs already, the lace of your panties damp and sticking to you.

He stripped his own shirt next.  “Lie down.”

You sank into the sheets, heart pounding, legs already falling open.

He crawled over you, his face right above yours. His fingers brushed your cheek, your jaw, then slid down to wrap gently around your throat.

“You want this, sweetheart?” he murmured. 

You whimpered again, nodding, thighs instinctively rubbing together.

“Words,” he growled. “Say it.”

“Yes,” you breathed. “Please, I want this.”

He smirked, and then he dropped his mouth to your chest, biting softly at your nipple, soothing the sting with his tongue before moving lower. He kissed your ribs, your stomach, licking and dragging his teeth along every inch of skin until he reached your panties.

He hooked a finger under the waistband, met your gaze, and then ripped them off.

“Still my favourite pair,” he muttered, tossing the ruined lace aside. 

And then his mouth was on you.

Tongue hot, thorough, relentless, he licked into you like a man on a mission. His hands gripped your thighs hard, spreading you wide, keeping you in place as you writhed beneath him. You sobbed, fingers digging into the sheets, your hips lifting off the mattress before his hand came down hard and held you still.

Your first orgasm crashed into you fast, so fast it stole your breath, tore the sound from your throat. You choked on it, body arching, tears prickling at your lashes.

But he didn’t stop.

Not even when you whimpered, not even when you trembled.

“I said over and over again,” he reminded you, dragging his tongue up your slit with obscene precision. “Beg for the next one.”

“Please—fuck, please—” you sobbed.

“That’s better, good girl.” The praise scraped low from his throat, barely audible over the wet sounds of his mouth on your pussy.

You were already shaking, thighs trembling against his shoulders, your hands fisted in the sheets. But he didn’t slow, didn’t let up. His tongue worked you ruthlessly, slow when you needed fast, fast when you couldn’t take it. He read your body like a song he’d memorised, like he was playing you just to see how many ways he could make you fall apart.

He licked deep, flat and hard, then flicked his tongue tight against your clit until your hips jerked. Every time you gasped or moaned or bucked against his mouth, he made a low, satisfied sound in the back of his throat.

“You taste so fuckin’ good,” he muttered between strokes, his voice ragged.

You choked on a moan, your back arching off the mattress, but his hands clamped down and held you there.

“I can feel it,” he said, breath hot against you. “You’re close again, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” you sobbed. “Fuck—please—”

“Not yet.”

He pulled back just enough to slide two fingers into you, thick and unforgiving. Your whole body snapped. He hooked them expertly, rubbing against that perfect spot deep inside, his mouth still latched to your clit, and your orgasm hit so violently you couldn’t even speak. Your cry caught in your throat, your thighs shook uncontrollably, and your eyes rolled back as white-hot pleasure splintered through you.

You collapsed against the bed, panting, twitching, but he didn’t stop. He didn’t even pause.

He licked through the aftershocks, fingers still curling inside you like he was searching for more.

“Please—please, I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he growled. “You said you wanted this. Said you wanted me to ruin you. That I could fuck you until you couldn’t speak.”

“I did—I do—fuck—I do!”

“Then take it.”

He leant back on his knees just enough to watch what he was doing, his fingers fucking in and out of you, soaked to the knuckle. Your juices dripped down the insides of your thighs, your pussy glistening in the warm light, flushed and swollen. He looked wrecked watching you, his cock straining hard against his pants.

“You don’t even know what you’re doing to me,” he muttered, sliding his fingers out with a slow, slick pull that made you whimper. “Look at this fucking mess. You’re dripping, sweetheart.”

Your breath hitched, a sob tearing loose from your throat.

“I want it,” you gasped. “I want you. Please. I need you inside me—please—”

He moved fast.

One hand on his belt, jerking the buckle loose. The clink of metal echoed through the room, followed by the sound of fabric hitting the floor.

He stood at the edge of the bed, fully naked now. His cock was thick and flushed, already leaking at the tip, the veins along the shaft standing out as he wrapped his fist around it and stroked once with a tight grunt.

You couldn’t look away.

“I’ve been hard since the diner,” he said hoarsely, eyes locked on your wrecked body sprawled across the sheets. “Sat in the truck reading that last letter again, just thinking about how wet you’d be for me. How sweet you’d sound when you begged. How I’m gonna write that fuckin’ song about you, how I’ll write a whole fuckin’ album about you—”

You mewled again, tears slipping down your cheeks now, your thighs twitching open wider on instinct. 

“Please,” you whispered, voice shaking. “I’ll say it. I’ll say anything. Just give it to me.”

He climbed over you slowly, bracing himself on his elbows as he lined up at your entrance.

“Yeah,” he murmured, voice dark with hunger. “You’re gonna take every inch.”

And then he pushed in.

You cried out as the head of his cock stretched you open. Your back arched off the bed, fingers scrambling at the sheets, your body twitching from overstimulation. Your pussy clenched tight around him on instinct.

“Shhh,” He murmured, his voice ragged as he held himself still. “You can take it. I know you can.”

He slid in another inch, slow, dragging, splitting you open around him.

You keened, helpless. The stretch burned, but the pressure—the way he filled you so deeply, so perfectly—made your toes curl. Your walls clamped down around him, greedy, desperate, already milking him without meaning to.

“Fuck,” he hissed through his teeth, head dropping to your shoulder. “You’re tight. So fuckin’ tight, sweetheart.”

Your hands flew to his back, clawing at his skin, dragging down his spine. He was heavy and solid, his cock thick and pulsing as he fed you more inch by inch.

“Please,” you gasped, legs trembling on either side of his hips. “Please, fuck me—just do it—”

He let out a rough groan.

And then he sank the rest of the way in, bottoming out with a hard, final thrust that knocked the air from your lungs.

Your body spasmed beneath his as he filled you to the hilt. 

He moaned above you, one arm sliding under your back, pulling you tighter against him, locking your bodies together.

“You feel that?” he whispered, voice shaking. “How perfect you take me?”

You nodded frantically, tears slipping free, your hips rolling up to meet him before you even realised.

And then he started to move. Each thrust dragged the full length of him through your soaked pussy, grinding against that perfect spot inside you with unrelenting precision. You cried, legs wrapping tighter around his waist, trying to keep him as deep as possible.

“You’re already squeezing me,” he groaned, fucking into you harder now. “Already so fucked out, sweetheart. Look at you.”

You couldn’t. Your eyes were glassy, lips parted, hands slipping uselessly across his slick back as he took you. His pace built, thrusts snapping forward faster, harder, making the headboard bang softly against the wall. 

“Beg for it again,” he panted against your throat, teeth grazing your skin. “Let me hear you say it.”

“Fuck—please—don’t stop—need it—need you—”

“That’s it.”

He shifted, changing the angle, sliding one hand beneath your ass and lifting you to meet his thrusts. The new position had you screaming, your body jerking, clenching tight as your orgasm slammed into you so hard it felt like falling. You convulsed around him, sobbing, your nails digging into his shoulders, your whole body begging without words.

But he didn’t stop.

He fucked you through it, through your crying, through the way your body trembled and tried to curl in on itself. He held you open, held you down, every thrust bruising and perfect.

Your vision blurred. Your voice broke.

And still he kept going.

“You said you’d let me,” he growled. “Said I could fuck you until you couldn’t think straight.”

“You can,” you cried. “Please—just don’t stop—please—”

His mouth crashed down on yours, swallowing your scream as he finally lost his rhythm, his thrusts turning sloppy, urgent, his cock twitching inside you.

And then he came.

Hot and relentless, spilling inside you with a groan so wrecked it made you see god. He buried himself, grinding in as he filled you, a string of curses a rough whisper in your ear. 

You didn’t even realise you were crying again until he brushed the tears from your cheek.

“Atta girl,” he murmured, kissing the corner of your mouth. “You took it all. Just like I knew you would.”

You didn’t know how long you lay there, trembling and spent, your body still flushed and twitching in the aftermath. You couldn’t move. Could barely think. You were splayed across the mattress, your skin slick with sweat, your thighs sticky and sore, your pussy still aching from the stretch of him.

A large hand brushed damp strands of hair away from your forehead, gentle fingers stroking through your hair with surprising care. “There she is,” he murmured.

You blinked up at him, bleary-eyed, lips parted but no words came. You were too fucked out to string together a thought, let alone a sentence. Your body was heavy, bones turned to syrup, and you felt the flutter of tears threaten again.

He leant over you, his skin warm where it pressed against yours, and kissed the side of your temple. A lingering kiss, soft and steady. One that said, I’m not in a hurry.

“You did so well,” he murmured against your skin.

You exhaled shakily, eyes fluttering closed. “You know, I never even asked your name.” Your voice was hoarse, practically gravel from all the screaming and moaning.

You felt him smirk softly. “It’s James, but all my friends call me Bucky.”

“Bucky…” you sighed, almost dreamily. “Suits you.”

Silence fell over both of you as you nuzzled his shoulder, dazed.

He stayed close, his hand never leaving your body, sliding down your arm, over your hip, then back up again. A slow, idle rhythm that kept you tethered to reality.

“I wasn’t lying when I said I read every word you wrote.” He finally whispered, enough to jolt you back to full consciousness. 

Your breath caught, eyes opening, but he kept going.

“I tried to write back, wanted to...” His thumb swept over your cheekbone. “I’m just no good with words, not in the way you are. Different from writing songs, I don’t know why. Was scared I’d fuck it up somehow, scare you off.”

He watched your face, his tone softening even more.

“I think I’ve spent this last year looking for you, whether I realised it or not. Like I knew I’d find you.”

Your chest ached. Your lips moved, trying to speak, but you only managed a faint, broken sound, a gasp, a sob, maybe a laugh. You weren’t sure. You were too far gone, too full of him, too unravelled.

“And now that I’ve found you?” he said, voice dropping low. “I’m not letting you go.”

With a shaking hand, you brushed a few fingers across his forehead, down his temple to the stubble of his jaw. His breath caught at the motion. “Yeah? You’ll take me away from this place? Make me happy like in my letters?”

A huff of laughter escaped his nose. “If that’s what you want, sweetheart.”

---

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[am-3-thyst]

Riding the Rhythm

Title: Riding the Rhythm

Pairing: Drummer!Bucky Barnes x GF! Female Reader

Summary:  The band’s gone, the drinks are flowing, and Bucky still wants to practice. You didn’t expect his rhythm to bounce you on his lap

Word Count: 3.2k

Warnings: /Explicit Content / 18+, Minors DNI, Established Relationship, Smut, strong language, Alcohol use (reader is tipsy), lap straddling, grinding, clothed dry humping, Unprotected couch sex, dirty talk, rough sex, praise (maybe others I cant tell) as always not Beta read...

A/N:  Cos I can not get over this clip! https://vt.tiktok.com/ZSBC8RYV7/ Oh and @sunday-bug *waves* have fun

The last laugh faded down the stairwell, the rehearsal room door slamming shut behind whoever left last. You weren’t sure, but didn’t really care. You were too busy topping off your Solo cup with a generous splash of vodka, chasing the cheap mixer down with an amused little hum. The mix was already stronger than you'd meant it to be, but you didn’t care. Not tonight. Not with the way the air buzzed from leftover music and the warm ache of a lazy buzz settling deep into your bones.

The sharp burn of the vodka made you giggle to yourself, warmth blooming in your chest as you gave the cup a lazy swirl. You took another sip, and then another, until the taste barely registered anymore, just smooth, warm, and reckless. Your limbs felt soft. Loose. Like your body had already melted into the cracked velvet couch cushions. The kind of tipsy that made you bold and flirty, too slow to overthink the way you were watching Bucky from across the room.

The whole rehearsal space felt like it had tipped sideways into something more intimate. A couple of half-drained beers still sat forgotten on the amp stack, red cups littered the floor like confetti, and the overhead light had gone warm and low. A haze of sweat and old sound foam clung to the air, making your skin feel extra sensitive, even the brush of your hair along your shoulder could pull a sigh from your lips.

It was just you now, lazily draped across the couch with one leg over the other, red cup in hand and a tipsy smile tugging at the corners of your mouth and Bucky. Shirtless. Behind his drum kit.

Drums still gleaming under the soft amber glow, his sticks rested against his thigh as he adjusted the snare and flexed his neck, tattoos shifting with every movement. He looked like he belonged there, like sin made flesh: ripped jeans slung low, sweat glistening along the curve of his chest, his abs taut from the subtle movements of posture and play. A drum key stuck behind one ear. Black smudged down his bicep. A cigarette burned low in the ashtray beside his water bottle, forgotten. And he hadn’t looked at you in five minutes.

“You gonna come here and sit pretty for me, sweetheart?” he asked finally, glancing over his shoulder with that crooked grin that always made your thighs clench. “Need to run this set again before tomorrow.”

You tipped your cup toward him like a toast, voice syrupy and amused. “Pretty sure rehearsal’s over.”

He grinned wider, eyes dipping down your frame like he was already imagining the next setlist. “Nah, this part’s just for me.”

You tipped the last of your drink back in one long swallow, the vodka burn barely noticeable now, and set the empty cup down with a clumsy thud on the nearby speaker. A slow grin tugged at your lips as you rose from the couch, bare feet touching down on the cold concrete floor. The chill sent a little shiver up your legs, but you were too warm, too flushed from the booze and the way Bucky was looking at you, to care. Each step over to him felt slow and syrupy, your body loose with that low, humming kind of buzz.

Bucky leaned back slightly on the stool, legs spread wide and arms relaxed across his thighs, his cocky smile blooming the moment you stepped between them. “Come on then,” he murmured, voice rough with amusement. “Take your seat.”

You bit your lip, heat flaring low in your belly as you reached for his shoulders. Slowly, deliberately- you swung a leg over, your knees bracketing his hips, the rough denim of his jeans catching on your bare thighs. His hands didn’t guide you, just rested lazily on his thighs, letting you do it on your own, letting you choose it. Letting you straddle him like you wanted to.

Once you were settled, chest to chest, your arms looped around his neck, and his palms finally rose to steady your hips, strong and warm. He shifted slightly adjusting the floor toms position, his foot hovering near the pedal.

“You good?” he murmured, voice close enough to brush your cheek.

“Mmhmm.” You kissed his jaw, playful. “Sure you’ll focus?”

Bucky’s smirk deepened, his eyes flicking from your lips to your thighs as they pressed tighter against his hips. “Gonna be the most focused I’ve ever been,” he drawled, voice low and teasing, “long as you stay right here.”

The taps were light at first, snapping off the skin with fluid, practiced ease, but it was the bass pedal beneath you that had you sucking in a breath. Every pump of his foot sent a little jolt up his thigh, which meant you were bouncing. Not wildly. Not even enough to seem intentional.

But enough.

Enough to make your hips shift. Enough to make you feel the hard shape of him under your panties, right where your shorts had already ridden up. You held on tighter, your chest brushing his.

He didn’t say a word, Bucky just kept playing. Focused. Calm. Like he didn’t hear the way your breathing had started to hitch, shallow and uneven, catching each time you bounced down against him. Like he didn’t know what this rhythm was doing to you.

But you saw it – that twitch at the corner of his mouth. The slight strain in his shoulder as he held back from gripping you tighter.

You rolled your hips once, and his sticks stuttered.

“Bucky- ” you started, a breathy laugh catching in your throat.

His sticks stopped.

He let the silence settle for a beat, then one hand reached down to set them aside with an intentional clatter against the pad. With the other, he brought the smooth shaft of one stick up, slow and teasing, and ran it along the inside of your bare thigh. Not a playful tap, no, he dragged it. The wood was still warm from his grip, but the contrast to your flushed skin made you gasp. From your knee, up the delicate curve of your thigh, almost high enough to make you jump, then back down again, like he was tracing out a tempo only he could hear.

“Think that’s funny, huh?” he said quietly, eyes never leaving the place where the stick brushed your skin. “Bouncin’ on me like that, gigglin’ like you’re not already soaked.”

Your breath caught, your thighs twitching slightly around his hips. He didn’t push further, just held it there. Waiting. Watching.

Then both his hands slid down your waist and anchored on your hips.

“You gonna keep squirming on my cock like that and pretend it ain’t on purpose?”

You swallowed, gaze flicking to his mouth, then back up to his eyes, half-lidded, blue pools deep enough to swim in, were focused on you now.

“Didn’t say stop,” you whispered.

“Good,” he muttered, dragging his hands up the back of your thighs. “Then ride, baby. Go on.”

You didn’t need more encouragement. You started to grind, slow at first, letting the pedal do half the work, his thigh bouncing you into that perfect friction. Your panties had long since soaked through, the heat of him beneath you too much to ignore, too good to stop. You let your head fall forward against his shoulder as you found your rhythm, your hips rolling against the bulge in his jeans. He let out a low grunt, rough and sharp, one that went straight to your core.

His hands roamed, one splayed between your shoulder blades, warm and grounding, the other slipping beneath the hem of your shirt to grip your bare waist possessively. His fingers flexed like he was holding back, just barely resisting the urge to take over.

“That’s it,” he breathed, voice thick with heat. “That’s my girl. Use it. Fuckin’ ride the rhythm.”

Your breath hitched, shaky and high. You clung to his shoulders, fingers digging into hard muscle, your moans catching in your throat as your clit dragged over the ridge of his zipper with each bounce. The friction was maddening, constant and insistent. He adjusted the angle of his leg, and the next jolt of his thigh hit just right.

You whimpered, hips stuttering.

He felt it. Knew it. His foot didn’t falter just braced harder to keep the rhythm going, to keep you bouncing. “Feel what you’re doing to me?” he murmured, voice dropping to a growl. “You’re soaked, baby. Fuckin’ ruined my jeans, and we haven’t even gotten to the good part.”

You whimpered again, louder this time, your breath coming in little gasps now.

Your head dropped fully to his shoulder, face buried against his skin. “Bucky…”

His hand slipped lower, squeezing your ass with a low curse. “You close?” he asked, thrusting up against you, grinding in rhythm. His voice rasped against your ear. “I just know that little pussy’s clenching every time you drop down on me. You gonna cum in your panties like a good girl?”

You trembled, the tension coiling tight and hotter by the second. Your thighs burned from how hard you were squeezing him, your hips rocking in frantic little circles now, chasing friction wherever you could find it. You could barely think, barely breathe, just feel.

Your breath came in shallow pants, each one tighter than the last. You clenched down, chasing it- so damn close, but not enough. The pressure had your vision swimming, your thighs starting to tremble. You wanted more. Needed it. Something deeper. Something brutal.

You were so close it hurt. So close it made your eyes sting.

But it wasn’t enough.

And then his sticks hit the floor.

Before you could register it, he stood, lifting you with him. You gasped, legs instinctively wrapping around his waist.

“I was gonna wait,” he muttered, breath hot at your ear. “Take you home. Do it right.”

He kicked an amp cable out of the way, crossed the room in a few long strides, and bent you over the arm of the couch.

“But you had to grind on me like that, didn’t you?”

Your hands gripped the fabric, body arched, back curved like a bowstring drawn tight. You heard the sound of a zipper, the faint rasp of metal giving way to urgency, then the rustle of denim shoved just low enough to free him.

Cool air kissed the backs of your thighs as your tiny shorts were yanked down, the soft scrape of fabric dragging along your flushed skin. He didn’t bother taking them off completely, just enough to expose you, enough to make you feel bare and needy and offered.

He groaned behind you, the sound filthy and low. “Fuck. Look at you,” he muttered, one palm trailing up the curve of your ass, fingers squeezing, then parting you to look. “All that grindin’ and now this little pussy’s begging to be filled.”

A desperate whimper escaped your lips. You couldn’t even pretend to play coy anymore, your thighs were trembling, your cunt was aching, and you needed him.

The tip of his cock brushed against your entrance, dragging slow and deliberate through your slick folds, teasing you with shallow glides that made your whole body flinch. You gasped, toes curling against the floor.

“Bucky, please- ” you breathed, voice barely there.

“So wet,” he growled, cock sliding through your folds again, catching at your entrance but not pushing in. “You did this- bouncin’ like a fuckin’ toy on my lap. Thought I was gonna let that slide?”

Your fingers clawed at the couch cushion, your hips tilting back toward him instinctively. You were already clenching around nothing, needy and empty.

And then he pushed forward- slow and steady, thick and unrelenting- until he was buried in you.

You both gasped, loud and raw. The stretch knocked the air out of your lungs. His hands grabbed onto your hips, grounding himself there as you pulsed around him.

“Jesus,” he bit out, hips rolling in a deep, testing grind. You pushed back against him, needing more, gasping when your ass pressed flush to his hips. “Still fuckin’ bouncin’ on me. Can feel how tight you are, like you’re tryin’ to pull me deeper. Fuck.”

He pulled out slow, to the very tip, just enough to make you whimper and then slammed back in, the slap of skin-on-skin ringing out like a backbeat against the walls.

You cried out, the sound high and broken. Your back arched, thighs trembling.

One hand slid up your spine, firm and possessive, until it pressed between your shoulder blades, folding you further over the armrest. The other clamped down on your hip, dragging you back into every bruising thrust like he was keeping time with your body.

Each thrust was filthy, rough, possessive- like he was still chasing the rhythm you’d both started with, but now it was all instinct. The pace built slowly, steadily, until he was fucking you in deep, rhythmic strokes that had your entire body rocking into the couch. The slap of skin echoed louder with each impact, each wet thrust a messy testament to how badly you needed this.

He leaned over your back, panting against your ear. “You hear that?” he murmured, one hand now gripping the edge of the couch beside yours. “That’s your pussy talkin’ to me- fuckin’ singin’ every time I give you what you need.”

You whimpered, nodding into the cushion, dizzy from the pace and the heat of him pressed all along your back. The vodka buzz still hummed in your veins, and now the room spun in waves, your heartbeat pounding in your ears. The air smelled like sex and sweat and something dangerously addictive. You bit your bottom lip hard, trying to ground yourself, but the way he kept moving inside you made your entire body feel like it was vibrating.

But he didn’t let up, Bucky kept you there, bent and filled and aching, as he fucked you slow and hard, hips snapping with controlled power. Every thrust felt deeper than the last, every drag of his cock stretching you wide, leaving you panting and pulsing around him. You could feel the wet slide of him, the mess dripping down your thighs.

“Wanted to fuck you from the second you climbed in my lap,” he rasped, dragging his teeth along your shoulder. “Could feel how wet you were gettin’, how tight you were holdin’ back.”

You moaned, eyes fluttering shut, one hand reaching back to grab at his wrist. The other curled into the couch cushion like it could anchor you. “I didn’t mean to- ”

He cut you off with a particularly deep thrust that made you choke on a moan. Your fingers scrambled for purchase, nails dragging down the worn fabric as your body trembled from the inside out. “Didn’t mean to grind on my cock like a needy little tease? Nah, baby. You meant it. You wanted this.”

He didn’t slow. His cock dragged out just enough to make you feel the emptiness before he plunged back in, forcing another strangled sound from your throat. The rhythm he’d found was brutal and steady, hips slamming into you in a punishing rhythm that made your skin burn and your thighs quake.

Your mouth dropped open in a silent moan, eyes squeezed shut as you bit down on your lip, trying to stay tethered to your body as pleasure raked through you.

You nodded frantically, too far gone to lie now. “Yes- yes, I wanted it, I wanted you- ”

Bucky groaned behind you, his grip flexing hard on your hips. “Yeah, you fuckin’ did. Knew it the second you climbed in my lap, the second you started rockin’ that needy little cunt against me. Could feel it- every fuckin’ inch of you beggin’ for it.”

He shifted behind you, angling deeper, dragging another broken cry from your lips as he slammed into you with ruthless rhythm. The couch creaked beneath your bodies, each thrust a raw, pounding beat that left you trembling.

His grip never faltered. Every thrust hit deeper, rougher, the sound of skin slapping skin echoing around the rehearsal space like its own frantic percussion. Your breath came in ragged, high-pitched gasps, and your knees buckled again as he drove you forward on the couch. Sweat gathered at the base of your spine, slicking your skin where his abs collided with your ass.

“Fuckin’ takin’ me so good,” he groaned. “This pussy’s made for it. Squeezin’ me so tight- can barely hold it together.”

Your legs started to shake, overstimulated and dizzy, hands scrambling to hold onto something, anything. Your nails scratched at the worn upholstery, your forehead pressed against your forearm to muffle another whimper. “Bucky- oh my god- please- ”

“You close again?” he rasped, cock still pistoning into you, the grind of his pelvis smearing slick mess across your thighs. “I can feel it, baby. Feel you clutchin’ me.”

“Bucky- oh- fuck- please- I’m gonna- can’t hold it- Bucky, I’m gonna- ”

“Yeah you are,” he growled, voice dark, breath breaking. His hips snapping harder now, reckless with it. His hand slipped between your legs without pause, fingers working fast, rubbing messy, tight circles against your clit like he was determined to push you right over the edge. “Cum for me, baby. Cum just like you were about to in my lap. Wanna feel you lose it on me.”

You came with a cry; loud, wild, your whole body jerking as your walls clenched hard around him. The orgasm ripped through you fast and sharp, a white-hot shock of euphoria that rolled through every nerve ending. Your legs gave out, your hands slipped on the couch cushion, and all you could do was moan as your body shook with it. It wasn’t just pleasure, it was an undoing. The alcohol buzz and the climax blurred together in your bloodstream, turning everything into a dizzy, molten rush. Your vision spotted, your mouth hung open, and your breath sobbed out of you like it was being pulled from somewhere deeper.

Behind you, Bucky let out a raw, strangled noise that barely sounded human. His hands pulled your hips back, holding you firm as he spilled into you, groaning through clenched teeth. His fingers bruised into your flesh while his cock twitched deep inside, each pulse hot and overwhelming. His abs flexed hard against your back, his whole frame shaking as the orgasm rolled through him.

“Shit- fuckin’ perfect- could die in this pussy,” he panted, voice wrecked and reverent.

He didn’t let go, just stayed there, locked deep, holding you like you were the only thing keeping him grounded. One hand pulled from between your legs slid slowly over your waist, the other still gripping tight, and you felt him breathe the words against your spine.

“Fuck- fuck, baby.”

He stayed pressed against you, panting hard, like the pleasure had knocked the breath from his lungs too.

You both collapsed forward, panting. Your body was boneless, folded over the couch arm with his weight warm and heavy behind you. The room buzzed around you, the hum of the amp, the tick of the cooling drum pad.

For a long moment, the only sound was your heart racing and his breath against your shoulder. You felt the throb of your pulse between your legs, your skin hot and damp and aching in the best way.

Then, without pulling out, Bucky leaned forward and pressed a soft, open-mouthed kiss to the back of your neck.

“...Think I found my rhythm.”

[am-3-thyst]

𝙲𝚕𝚊𝚒𝚖𝚎𝚍.🖇️

✮ Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader ✮ Summary: You kiss Bucky goodbye before he heads out for the day — but hours later, that faint lipstick mark is still there. He noticed. He just didn’t care to wipe it off (Because secretly, he loves when people know he’s yours.) ✮ Genre: Fluff | Clingy!Bucky | Public Teasing ✮ Word Count: ~1.2k

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── ✦✦ ── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── ✦✦ ── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

You were still brushing crumbs off his shirt when you reached up and kissed him.

It was instinct — soft, slow, just beneath his cheekbone. His scruff tickled your lips and you hummed into it.

“There,” you said, with a smile. “Now you can go.”

Bucky stood frozen, eyes half-lidded like he wasn’t entirely present. “Wait… that’s it?”

You laughed. “You’ve already had three kisses this morning.”

“I’m a supersoldier. I need more than three,” he mumbled, stepping forward and pressing his forehead to yours like a literal menace. “Kiss tax. It’s part of my morning routine now.”

So you gave him another one — firmer, a little higher this time, leaving a soft print of cherry-pink lipstick on the edge of his jaw.

“There. Now go, soldier,” you said, pushing gently at his chest.

Bucky smirked and finally relented, grabbing his jacket and keys.

“I’m still gonna text you in five minutes,” he called on the way out.

“I expect it,” you grinned.

You didn’t think much of it.

Just a little goodbye kiss. A smudge of lipstick, maybe — nothing major.

Until later that afternoon, Sam texted you a photo.

���: Bucky, standing next to Sam at a small food truck table, sunglasses on, arms crossed, looking like the most intimidating man alive… except for the very visible lipstick stain on his cheek.

Sam: tell your man he’s got your kiss stamped on him like a threat 💀 You: wait. WAIT. did no one tell him?? Sam: we tried. he said “i know.” and then smirked like a smug bastard he’s INSANE

You were still cackling when Bucky walked in later, grocery bag in one hand, sunglasses pushed into his hair.

“Hey, babe.”

You pointed at him dramatically. “You left it on.”

He played innocent. “Left what on?”

“The lipstick!” you said, laughing. “Sam sent me photographic proof. You wore it the whole time!”

He shrugged, unfazed. “Yeah. So?”

You gawked. “Bucky! You had a full kiss print on your face.”

“Your point?”

“You didn’t even try to wipe it off!”

He walked over to you slowly, a lazy grin on his face. “Sweetheart,” he said, wrapping an arm around your waist, “you think I want to wipe off proof that someone like you loves me?”

Your heart did a very embarrassing flutter.

“I like it there,” he murmured, brushing his nose against yours. “Makes me feel claimed.”

“You are,” you said softly.

“Damn right,” he said, pulling you into a kiss.

Later that night, you caught him in the mirror, pretending to shave but carefully avoiding the exact spot your kiss had landed earlier.

“Don’t think I don’t see you sparing the lipstick zone,” you teased from the doorway.

He gave you a faux-scowl. “I’m preserving history.”

“History?”

He nodded solemnly. “Battle mark of affection. I earned it.”

You rolled your eyes and padded over, kissing his cheek again.

“Nope,” you said. “That one was just because you’re cute.”

Bucky turned to you, arms instantly sliding around your waist.

“And this one?” he asked, pressing his lips against yours.

You melted. “That one’s because you’re mine.”

He smiled.

“I was always yours.”

~end

───────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ─────────

💌 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 💌

@nerdreader @starstruckfirecat @baguwagu @sunday-bug @murnsondock @7batsinatrenchcoat @overwintering-soldier @surebutwhy @embervelour @thiscornerofmyfanficbrain @okaytrashpanda @aceofheartsssss @the-real-kellymonster🎀🩷

wanna be tagged in all upcoming theories + emotional damage + forehead kisses? ➝ reply or send me an ask and i’ll add you ♡

───────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ─────────

[am-3-thyst]

The Lucky Winner - Part 4

[Masterlist] | [Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3] | [AO3]

18+ Only | 6.8k | Homelander x fem!Reader | Insecurity. Jealousy. Implied shower sex. Phone sex. Mild voice kink. Homelander is being a sex pest again. Or just a pest.

Summary: Homelander insists on taking your relationship to the next level.

Author’s Note: I don't know why I decided that Part 4 is when I should include somewhat of a plot but it happened so the voice kink fic continues😂 Major shoutout to @anotherhomelanderblog for all the editing help and keeping me sane throughout the process 💗

“And you live like this?” Homelander asks incredulously, drying himself off. He hands you the damp towel and you promptly hang it up to dry, wrapped in a fluffy towel yourself.

“Most people live like this! Also most people are smart enough to not waste all their hot water on making out,” you say with a laugh and a playful eye roll.

“Ohoho, that was a lot more than making out.” Homelander’s brazenly parading around naked and you can’t help but follow the line of his slender body. It always feels special to see him without the suit. Although he still clearly prefers to keep it on, he’s not feeling particularly worried about swapping his superhero suit for the birthday one around you. 

“Well still—it’s no wonder we ran out.” 

Your lazy morning rolling around in bed quickly turned into messing around under the spray of the hot shower water. And while Homelander’s right and it was more than making out, you didn’t get to experience more than a few thrusts before the water turned cold, rudely interrupting you both.

Homelander has never been one for giving up. He held you in place, keeping you nice and warm as he thrusted into you. All the way to the finish line. Needless to say, the morning couldn’t have started better.

It could have been warmer though.

He finally finds his underwear somewhere in between the pile of his thick suit. You mentally wince at him reusing the same underwear he had on before he slept over last night. He may neither exert himself nor sweat, but it still catches you off guard. Many times you’ve offered him the space to store his spare clothes, but he denies the offer every time, saying it’s just as easy for him to fly back. 

This behaviour is equally as perplexing as him never changing into something you’d deem more comfortable. It’s always been the full suit or fully naked. You don’t think there has ever been a third option. The cartoonish nature of his persona comes through vividly in moments like these. While you haven’t rummaged through his portion of the wardrobe back in his place, you wouldn’t be surprised to see multiple versions of the same superhero suit. 

And yet, along with the rehearsed lines he can’t always help but avoid, this makes him seem larger than life. Unfamiliar. Untouchable. Unattainable.

Thoughts like these frequent your mind each time you see yet another headline speculating about his love life come across your newsfeed. Whenever someone mentions the dreaded topic out loud, your gut clenches, your heart drops and you get shaken by the idea that you’ve somehow stolen America's golden boy.

Homelander, on the other hand, has been nothing but eager to celebrate your relationship. You haven’t shared your concerns with him yet. You don’t think he would quite understand your worry about stealing him from his devoted fans. He’s been constantly coaxing you into uprooting your life and moving in with him, officially being with him. His little nudges like today are just the tip of the iceberg.

The idea of being offered to the media vultures as their new chew toy fills you with dread just thinking about it.

You turn away from watching Homelander redress. You unwrap the towel you’ve tucked in around your chest, bunching it up in your hands and bending over to wipe leftover water droplets off your legs. 

You don’t get very far before you hear a whistle. “Don't you look good enough to eat? Well, again.”

You automatically straighten up, covering what you can with your towel. Pointless, really. Homelander can easily see through whatever he wishes. Still one of his stranger powers, if you do say so yourself. You can never quite tell whether he’s staring at your tits or your heart—both options feeling equally voyeuristic.

You shake your head at his silly flirting. While he can be obnoxious and overly cheesy, there’s something to be said about being so blatantly flirted with. Knowing you’re desired so… carnally—as cliche as that feels to say in your head—feels reaffirming. Confidence boosting, even. 

This alone allows you to think that maybe having a public relationship wouldn’t change anything between the two of you.

You hear the familiar creak of leather as he puts his gloves on, stretching his fingers and squeezing his fists to get them comfortable.

“In fact, if you moved in with me—like I keep telling you to—we wouldn’t be having this problem at all.” 

Or not. The slightly pushy tone brings the recurring anxiety back up.

During the storm of your internal thoughts, you dig out a fresh pair of underwear. You’ve gotten into the habit of actively wearing the pretty pieces Homelander can’t seem to stop himself from sending to your home address—amongst the other obscenely expensive gifts. Ever since you’ve once dressed up for him, he made it his mission to dress you in lingerie of all the colours of the rainbow and more. Feigning scientific interest in seeing what colour matches your skin tone the best—though he still favours the Homelander panties that started it all. 

However, knowing how perverse he can be with his penetrative vision, helps with not feeling underdressed at any given time.

Homelander takes no note of your internal struggle, instead focusing on his fantasy of what life is meant to look like for the two of you while you start getting dressed.

“Then I could fuck you in the shower for as many hours as my lady wishes, hm?” He gives you a cheeky smile as he passes by, walking out of the bedroom and into the living room.

You laugh heartily at his comment while you pick out your clothes. Normally, you’d keep it cosy and comfortable enough. At least, before Homelander. Now you pick something a little more put together, knowing you’ll be stopping by the Vought tower as part of his plan for the day. 

“Hours seems a bit much. I don’t know if looking like a wet prune is a good look on me.” While you put your clothes on, you look up to see what he’s up to through the open bedroom door. While any other person would entertain themselves by turning the TV on or scrolling on their phone, Homelander just walks around. As if he hasn’t seen this space a thousand times over.

At your response, he turns to you. A bewildered look crosses his face before he lets out a sarcastic chuckle. “Funny.” He readjusts a photo on the wall, making sure it’s perfectly straight. It’s a selfie you took of the two of you on the couch. Not the best quality, but Homelander insisted you make it the centerpiece of the photo wall. “Don’t know about the prune part but wet is easily the best look on you.” He waggles his eyebrows at you. 

“It’s a little silly of you to think otherwise, don’t you think? I know you’re smarter than that.” While some might get easily offended at his words, you’re used to his crass words.

You watch as he points his gloved finger at you while he steps further backwards. 

Finally dressed, you come out of the bedroom, not bothering to shut the door. Homelander walks to the kitchen with you following.

“I just thought you liked it here.” You lean against the small breakfast bar as you watch him open the fridge and take out the jug of whole milk you keep stocked at all times for his sake only. 

He doesn’t bother pouring it out into a glass and neither does he close the fridge while he takes a big gulp, closing his eyes in the moment. Putting the jug down, he licks his lips clean as he opens his eyes. It’s bizarre how strangely erotic he manages to make the whole ritual seem.

“I do,” he says once his eyes are less glazed over and focused back on you. Properly snapping to attention, he acts offended. “Of course I do.” As if you suggested something so horrifying it insulted his very being. “But it would make things a lot easier.”

He takes another indulgent big gulp before closing the jug and putting it back in the fridge, shutting the door with a nudge of his elbow as he walks past.

He makes his way around while you’re still leaning against the breakfast bar. His lips trace the shell of your ear as he settles himself riiight behind you. “Imagine all the fun we’d have, huh?” He tilts his head to place a little kiss on your cheek, very close to your ear.

The timbre of his voice vibrating through your ear just warms you to your core. He still knows how to disarm you so thoroughly. If anything, he happily abuses this little quirk of yours.

“We wouldn’t have to settle for a fucking quickie in the morning.” His arms settle on your hips as he, excruciatingly slowly, drags his hips against your ass. “You know, I very much enjoy a good old breakfast in bed. What do you say? As soon as you move in, I’ll be waking you up with my tongue between your thighs. Now try saying no to that.”

“Nice try. You’ve done that here before.” You try to remain calm and collected but your voice betrays you, coming out in a stutter. While his voice—the sexy, slow tone he abuses anytime he wants to get his way—along with the visuals, is already wetting your fresh panties through and through.

“Hm, but there I wouldn’t have to think about flying back just to make it to a stupid meeting. I’d get plenty more time with you. Think about it. Every break in my schedule I could come back for a kiss and a cuddle. Maybe a little romp with my best girl.”

“Oh so suddenly we’re happy with quickies?” You chuckle breathlessly.

“Well y’know, I’m a busy guy. Gotta work with what I’ve got.”

“Speaking of—shouldn’t you be heading out? You’ve got a busy schedule ahead of you.”

“Alright, okay. I got the message. Think about it though, babe, will you?” Homelander finally allows you to gather yourself as he steps back, not so discreetly adjusting his dick after all that teasing. You constantly wonder where he gets this sky-high sex drive from.

“Sure. I’ll think about it.” You take the moment to walk around the breakfast bar, reaching for a coffee pod to pop into your machine for a quick pick-me-up. With a twist of your wrist you notice the time. “Oh, you should head out now if you don’t want to be late.” 

He slots behind you again, unable to stay away for even a moment. “Let me take you with me?” His arms wrap around your stomach, squeezing softly as he nuzzles his face into the crook of your neck, inhaling the scent of you in between little kisses.

The coffee machine finishes whirring, and with the smell of fresh coffee it breaks you out of the daze.

“Mhmm, then you’ll definitely be late. And I want my coffee. And some breakfast. You go have your meeting, I’ll be there in time for your interview.” 

“Promise?”

“Promise. Kiss goodbye?” You ask for it before he does. Immediately, he turns you around in his arms, trapping you in his hold so he can deliver what he deems an acceptable goodbye kiss. It’s long and deep and were you in public you’d be blushing to the tips of your ears. So much for the little goodbye peck you imagined.

Once Homelander leaves, you take the time to have a quick breakfast before preparing your overnight bag. While Homelander can’t take you to the set of the talk show he’s getting interviewed about his new movie at, he insists you come to his place to watch it live. Afterwards, he’ll be eager to fly back home to spend more time with you, listening to everything you’ve got to say about his appearance.

Entering the Vought tower always leaves you with a level of anxiety in your gut. This isn’t your territory, you don’t feel safe here. Each camera feels like the watchful eye of every stakeholder, observing you walk around freely as if you’ve not been greedily devaluing their best asset. 

You feel like the mistress everyone but the wife knows about. The overseeing eye of Vought management is already unhappy with you as is—Homelander said so himself, unaware or uncaring of the effect that information would have on you. It’s why you’ve started dressing better, trying to appear smart and classy. Worthy. Defending your position by his side.

You like to pretend like you belong. But everyone knows you’d be lost without him in tow.

This isn’t your world.

And it never will be.

Arriving at the penthouse allows you to release the breath you didn’t know you were holding. While Homelander’s space is odd at best and downright unliveable at worst, it’s part of you now. With its impersonal portraits of historical figures or perfect marble statues that make you feel self-conscious each time you undress, the decor leaves a bad taste in your mouth. Who is Vought to not ever allow him peace and quiet from this persona they’ve built for him? It really feels like he only gets to be himself when he’s around you. At home with you.

So why he constantly insists on the idea of you moving into this hellscape permanently confuses you to no end. Sure, your home isn’t luxurious by any means. It’s small and cluttered—less so now you’ve gotten rid of some of the Homelander memorabilia—but it’s comforting, warm, and inviting.

You’ve already gone through the effort of adding some warmth and home to this… space. Blankets and throws, pillows and trinkets that made you think of him. Anything that takes away from the sterile museum-like feel of the place.

Today you have brought a little picture frame. It’s the same photo you saw Homelander adjusting just an hour or so earlier. The print isn’t of great quality and neither is the photo, but he seems particularly fond of it, so you’ve gone ahead to frame this one for him too.

Dropping off your bag on the living room couch, you walk over to the bedroom, swapping out an existing impersonal historical portrait of Abraham Lincoln for the silly selfie of the two of you. You fret around with the positioning until it feels right, running your hand over the frame with an absent smile. The photo lets you forget about the madness of your life; it lets you instead think of the love you share with each other. However fragile it may feel at times.

Your phone rings in your pocket. You fumble around, like you’ve been caught doing something vulnerable and intimate. 

You swipe without looking at the screen properly, pressing the screen to your ear.

“There she is.” 

Something about the way he purrs into the phone melts your anxieties of the day into nothing. While grounding is what you need, his voice goes beyond that. You’re not grounded. Not with him. It feels like you’re flying instead. Lightheaded and full of excited nerves, you can’t escape the heartfelt bright smile lighting up your face.

“Hey baby. Ready for your interview?” 

“Am I ever not? You’ll be watching, right?” He knows you will. The question is rhetorical at best.

“Are you kidding? Of course I am.” You chuckle breathlessly into the phone. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

You make your way to the couch, sprawling across the leather, your phone still against your ear. Something about this makes you so giddy. Here you are in Homelander’s apartment, sitting on his couch with his voice in your ear. It feels like a fairytale.

It doesn’t feel real.

“That’s what I like to hear.”

Ever since Homelander’s discovered your little quirk—which admittedly was clear to him from day one—he’s been more than happy to ramble on and on and on. No matter what it’s about. He likes to have you listen.

“Is she already there?” You change the topic, not wanting to dwell on your inner discomfort for too long.

“Who? My co-star?” he asks with an innocent enough tone.

“Yeah. Her.” You bite your tongue to stop yourself from saying more.

“Careful there, you’re sounding a liiittle jealous.”

This talk show interview centres around Homelander’s new movie, Homelander: Hero’s Heart. The first one in his range that gave him a tangible love interest. His previous movies focused on action, patriotism and Homelander ultimately being the hero that saves the day. Vought are still on a mission to boost numbers in certain demographics—your demographic—so saving the damsel in distress was the logical next step for them.

It wasn’t too obnoxious. Just one on-screen kiss by the end of the movie. But you can’t shake the enormous pit of insecurity at the bottom of your gut anytime you think about them going through all those scenes together. Just how many takes was it really?

Okay, maybe you are a little jealous.

“I’m not. I’m just curious.”

No. You’re being unreasonable. Throughout all of the shooting Homelander came home to you, seeking solace. Seeking familiar and comforting touch. Complaining to you endlessly about the other actors’ poor skills.

Homelander clocked your jealousy early on. With a cheeky grin he prodded and poked, making you lash out and admit to your unsavoury feelings. The verbal conversation usually ended there. Instead, you got your frustration out physically. Night after night, he fucked you into the mattress, proving just where you stand. Until you couldn’t even stand anymore. 

Those nights, he’d sit you in his lap, pushing his thick cock inside you as he held you close. Face to face, chest to chest, he’d grunt and mewl in between kisses. Homelander would revel in your possessiveness of him, getting you to repeat ‘you’re mine’ over and over again. You’d rarely do any of the moving. Homelander liked taking it in his own hands in these moments. He’d wrap his hands around your hips, squeezing where he could reach, bouncing you with deliberate movements down onto his lap.

Logically, you know Homelander wouldn’t cheat on you with a random actress. But it’s hard not to compare yourself to her. She’s another gorgeous face amongst the constant stream of supes, actresses, models or celebrities he has instant access to. And you’re… well, you. The fact that he chose you out of the mix should leave you with some sense of relief, but it doesn’t. 

“Mhm, sure you are. As luck would have it, she couldn’t make it. Real shame, huh?” Homelander can be surprisingly sweet sometimes. To his credit, it was never his actions that made you jealous. Your own insecurity latched onto rotten ideas, spreading like mold across your healthy mind. 

Homelander plays into your possessiveness of him, more than eager to hear how much you love and want him. Only him. 

It makes you wonder if he had something to do with his co-star’s absence. 

“You know women are gonna go crazy over you after this. I’m sure they’re all waiting for you to spill some crazy stories about being a romantic on and off set.”

“Are they now? You know, I really don’t fucking care what they want to hear. I don’t care about them. I care about you.” 

There's a desperation to his response that catches you off guard. It's impossible to deny him the adoration he wordlessly requests.

“Oh. That’s—Ahah—I care about you too. You know I always love to watch you.”

“Good. Good. I want you to watch. I want you to listen... You’ll do that right? You’ll listen—”

“—to every word. To every single word.” The breathless quality to your tone shocks you.

It makes Homelander moan.

When did you both get so worked up over this?

“Good—fuck. Always such a good girl, aren't you? My biggest fan.”

“Not just a fan.” You huff out. You’re not offended per se, but after seeing what other so-called-fans say about him online or how little love they share with him, it would be an insult to label you as one of them.

“Pfft—of course you're not.” He scoffs in disbelief. Even he doesn’t believe his own words. “You are everything. You're everything to me.” 

Your eyes widen. Your heart pounds against your ribcage. The unashamed proclamation said so clearly by the strongest man in the world makes you pulse and clench.

You're not worthy of being his all.

It leaves you speechless. Over the past few weeks your mind has started waging war with your heart. Oddly, today feels like the final battle of which will win.

Your body is nearly shaking. The palm holding your phone feels clammy. You try to get comfortable, but you’d only achieve that by clawing out of your own skin. Something feels different—wrong—about today.

“Helloooo, don't go quiet on me now.” There's a new, dangerous tilt to his already deliciously rumbling voice that makes you soak your underwear. 

“Sorry… I just—you’re so—I just… I love you so much.” You trip over your words. Something you’ve said so many times feels oddly loaded.

“D’aww, how cute. That’s better.” With an audible swallow, you slide your hand down your body. Pressing into your flesh through your clothes as you go, trying to pretend it isn't your hand exploring your own body.

You imagine it’s his. Following the route it has done so many times before.

You ache with the need to be touched and filled and worshipped. Your cunt throbs painfully under your layers, soaked and weeping. Even the slight press of your fingers feels electric. Too little and too much at the same time.

You swallow the saliva that’s gathered on your tongue. You scrunch your eyebrows when you roll your hips into your hand, a gasp coming out involuntarily.

“I can hear you. Do it.”

“Y-you can?!”

This brings you back to the first phone call that kick started this whole relationship. Back then, you had some courtesy to not touch yourself to the sound of his voice. You’ve lost all that courtesy by now, but the reveal that he could hear you all along makes you embarrassed for your past self.

You undo the fastening on your bottoms with a shaky hand. Your hand immediately slides under your layers, into your panties, with your fingers already forming a familiar shape. Your eyes roll back when your fingers glide along your inner lips, gathering slick and bumping your clit where your fingers meet. You repeat this motion a few times, thoroughly wetting your pussy, letting your head hit the armrest like a deadweight, your phone still loosely tucked against your ear.

“Jesus Christ, listen to yourself. Might have to move into the bathtub before you flood my couch, you know.” 

“Not like you actually care.” You huff out half a laugh, barely coherent with your slurred speech. 

“No you’re right, I don’t. Now spread your legs for me, gorgeous, I want you to put your fingers in.” 

You nod as if he could see you—though for all you know, maybe he can.

You push your bottoms down far enough that they won’t be in the way. Adjusting yourself on the couch, you curl your fingertips inside yourself with a little wiggle, letting out a sigh. Like this, you’re definitely gonna make the couch wet.

“Feel good?” While he purrs low, you hear the sharp grin in his tone.

You hum softly as you focus on moving your fingers in and out. “Not as good as when you do it. Actually, hah, it doesn’t compare at all.” You’re not even trying to butter up his ego before his live appearance. He’s just that good to you.

“That’s the sp—fuck—spirit.” 

Having been with your lover many times, the familiarity of that stifled whimper leaves you gasping. You don’t need super hearing to know that Homelander’s wrapped his own hand around his cock. You’ve come to memorise and categorise all the pretty little sounds he makes.

You don’t even remember hearing him unclasp his belt, too lost in your own pleasure. 

“Are you…?” 

Through the phone comes a clipped exhale. “—Yes.” The rough, rhythmic stroking now becomes audible to even your human ears. Your cheeks feel hot. The sensation climbs up all the way to the tips of your ears.

“Oh. That’s really sexy.” You whimper, melting into the sofa as you spread your legs as far as the garment you pushed down allows. “Aren’t—aren’t you worried about someone walking in?” You alternate between rubbing your clit and fingering yourself as a way to make your body tingle all over.

The response you get is a barely restrained moan straight in your ear. His voice trails off into a sweet rumbly groan that has your fingers rubbing faster.

“Don’t care. You make me feel fucking crazy.” 

How is it that you have such an effect on him? From morning till night, he never seems to have enough. Before Homelander you were racking up two—three at most, really—self-love sessions a week. These days you’re lucky if you only end up with two a day. The resolve in his proclamation brings back some of the confidence today has been slowly chipping away at.

Plus, his absurd words make you snicker.

“I make you feel crazy?” Your voice is all breathy. With each moan in your ear, your own touch feels electric. Your fingers stick to rubbing your clit: circles that started slow, teasing and loose are now tight and fast, nearing on too strong a stimulation. 

“Uh-huh.” He’s barely responding at this point, but you don’t mind. 

“Mhm, really? You’re so good to me, you know that?” Knowing Homelander is there in his guest dressing room of the host’s set, fisting his sensitive cock raw because of you, makes your head spin. The gratification that fills you with is intoxicating. Drunk on the power you have in your hands, you change up the pace, rubbing your clit more languidly, taking your time to instead sweet talk your boyfriend into blowing his load into his underwear right before his interview.

“They don't deserve you.”

“You do so much for the world.”

“They never appreciate how much of an honour it is to have you serve them.”

“You’re so perfect.”

The combination of Homelander’s signature stuttered groan and the rustling of fabrics tells you your words are all it’s taken for him to finish. 

“Wow, what a show, superstar on and off the stage,” you tease him a little. You hear the familiar click of a belt come through the phone.

“Smartass. Speaking of, I gotta be on set in a few. But what kind of boyfriend would I be if I left you hanging like that. Need to hear my best girl cum her brains out on the other side.” 

“Don’t be silly, you’ve got to go live in a few.”

“Then you better hurry up.” He laughs airily. The orgasmic high makes him exude even more of this strange energy. “Don’t think I haven’t heard you going pretty crazy over there. Doubt it’s gonna take you long anyway. Never does when I’m talking to you, hm?”

“Oh my god.” You exhale, your hand back at full speed. You dig your feet into the couch, pushing against it as you stroke your clit faster, your hips meeting your hand firmly, accelerating your climb to ecstasy.

“Mhm, that’s right. That what I am to you, honey? Your god?”

“Y-yes… yes, you are.” Your lips are shut tight when you’re not talking, breathing heavily through your nose as you feel the warmth spread throughout your body. From your core, to your chest, to your limbs. You start to feel the tips of your toes tingle with the electric sensation.

Somehow, he always manages to make your body feel sensitive all over. Even indirectly.

“Gonna listen to me live like it’s gospel, aren’t you? Listen to eeevery word I say. Wouldn’t be surprised if you used to constantly fuck your brains out while watching me. What’s that, got nothing to say?”

You really have nothing to say. While he clearly knows it, it's embarrassing to admit to something you may have occasionally indulged in before he became a tangible part of your life.

It doesn’t stop you from whimpering as you feel the tethers loosen. 

“Come on baby, time’s ticking. You better come for me now—” 

You hear barely audible knocking at his door. The line picks up a foreign muted tone, but you’re not really processing it. Your orgasm takes over and you stutter out a choked gasp, heels pushing into the couch before they fully relax into the leather, the tingling waves of your orgasm spreading to all your limbs.

“Mhm, I’ll be a minute.” His voice sounds further away, like he’s covered the phone and moved it away from his ear while he talks back.

In retrospect, the shame of orgasming on the phone to him while he’s talking to someone else should’ve stopped you from getting there, but it’s him you’re talking about. It’s hard to restrain yourself.

“See, I knew you could do it. Now go put yourself together, missy. I want you to pay attention.”

“Uh-huh. Yeah, I will… Just—hah—gotta catch my breath a little bit. I will, I’m excited to see you.”

“Good girl. I love you, alright? I’ll see you soon.”

“I love you too.” You smile fondly.

Homelander ends the phone call and you take a moment to gather yourself. You breathe in deeply. The first big exhale lets you release some of the muscle tension you’ve gained as you hurriedly brought yourself to orgasm.

As you pull your now uncomfortably soaked underwear and bottoms back on, the next inhale brings the tension back in a different way. 

All your nagging thoughts return like a flood, crashing through you. Your gut churns, the anxious feeling of it all souring your post-orgasmic high. Is there even more you bring to this “relationship” besides sex?

Shaking your head to clear your thoughts, you get up off the couch to clean up and make yourself presentable in the bathroom. While nobody is here to see you, you feel dirty sitting in your wet and cooled underwear. You swap it for a fresh pair from your overnight bag, tossing the old ones in the laundry hamper.

Sitting comfortably on the couch in your den of pillows and blankets is a familiar enough routine. Due to your secretive relationship status, Homelander can’t take you with him. You watch from the safety of yours or his home, watching your favourite hero live on TV.

You click the remote to the channel Homelander’s talk show appearance will be broadcasted on and wait until the time they’re live with some pointless scrolling on your phone. You can’t help but gravitate towards the Homelander-centric gossip pages, Instagram fan accounts or Reddit forums. Each time relieved that there’s still no information on you. Nobody is none the wiser.

The TV speakers burst with the audience’s roar of applause, tearing your eyes up and away from your phone. You smile at the support he gets. Though it turns ugly and cracks very quickly. Some possessive part of you wishes you were there backstage cheering him on as he walks on set in front of all these people.

Homelander oozes confidence with every sure step. This is his element. Big bright smiles and a quick broad wave to the audience you don’t see. He looks handsome. Hair parted slightly, loose and charming, just like his smile. He’s calm and collected. Definitely not like someone who was just getting his rocks off a few minutes ago.

He brings the smile back all the way to your eyes. All sour thoughts dissipate when you see him like this. It’s not fair to feel awful when it’s time for him to have his moment. You know better than that.

While there’s hardly a need for it, he’s introduced to the audience. 

“Homelander, welcome, thank you for joining us.” 

“Always good to be here, thank you for having me.”

Homelander’s seated and the interview begins. So unlike any of the other usual guests he takes up the majority of the space with his larger-than-life quality. So much more suited for something better than this.

“I’m sure all the ladies are very excited for the movie’s opening weekend.” 

“Great start.” You roll your eyes as the audience cheers  and whistles again. Nothing like objectifying him the moment he walks into the room.

“It’s what I’m—well, what we’re all hoping for, it’s a wild ride. I can promise you that much.” While your lover is a little snarkier behind the scenes, he’s a class act in front of the cameras. You’re always proud to see him do so well.

“Well that’s a glowing review if I’ve ever heard one! We all enjoy a love story. Let’s not be modest here, you’ve been voted The superhero heartthrob. It’s no wonder this movie is already pulling record sales at the box office.” The interviewer speaks into the side of her palm, acting secretive as if each word wasn’t clearly picked up by the lav mic.

“Oh stop it, that silly thing.” He brushes the compliment off, shrugging his shoulders boyishly. 

“No seriously, I think this is exactly what the audience wanted. We all love a superhero flick, don’t we, folks? But the little touch of spice and romance? Instant crowd pleaser. Tickets are selling like hotcakes!” 

“Insipid cow.” You can’t help yourself but comment on the over the top vapid glazing happening right before your eyes. Muttering obscenities to yourself you miss Homelander’s response and only vaguely take in the following mindless chatter in its entirety.

They treat him like a circus animal. 

“Who’s your favourite cast member to do scenes with?”

“What is it like to juggle acting with protecting the city?”

“What’s your guilty pleasure when you’re off duty?”

One mundane—pointless—question after another makes you wonder how he puts up with the pomp and phoniness of it all. You know you couldn’t. You even imagine yourself sitting next to him. You see the difference. You see how differently the world would see you.

As soon as you started thinking of the labels the world would describe you with, you couldn’t help yourself but compare the two. Him; popular, handsome, loveable, patriotic. A true ray of sunshine. You on the other hand? You already envision the headlines. Nobody. Golddigger. Leech. Attention seeker. Maybe even a thief?

You’ve stolen America’s perfect poster boy and the penalty for said crime is the heaviest guilty conscience. 

There he is talking about his latest save of the week. His movie premiere and his day to day crime fighting activities. You can’t help but compare yourself to the woman interviewing him. She looks well presented, put together, classy. You never feel that way. Do thieves and criminals even get to feel classy?

It’s clear to you now that you don’t belong. It’s clear to everyone. Is it not? He must see it too. It’s only a matter of time until he realises that he’s trying to force you into a mold you were simply not born to fit into.

You often wonder how long until Homelander decides to move on.

The next line of questioning that catches you out of your doom spiral.

“Let’s circle back to the start. It’s a shame your co-star couldn’t make it today. What was it like to work with her as your love interest?”

Your ears perk up. Until now Homelander has never squashed the rumours of their supposed fling. You’re not entirely sure if it was due to Vought’s ruling or his own sick enjoyment derived from your jealousy.

“Oh well, she’s lovely. Things were kept very professional. She’s a very talented young woman, it was a pleasure to work alongside her. She got on well with everyone on the team, a real star. The main cast is usually made up of our superhero line-up, so she exceeded my expectations. Especially since I was a little wary myself of the change.” 

You can’t sit still, fidgeting in your spot, you run your tongue in between your teeth when you’re not nervously biting the inside of your cheek.

“Sooo all the rumours we’ve heard about a little behind the scenes romance are not true?” 

“No. Definitely not. Sorry. We all got on very well, but not that well if you catch my drift.” The mic catches the sound of the audience’s synchronized ‘ooh’ and you clench your fists.

He’s yours. You hate how they all think of him.

“Well you can’t blame the rumours. People are eager to see their favourite hero in love. It’s the first time Vought has released a love interest-themed movie. Why the change?”

“Well you tend to see us saving your homes and neighbourhoods. I think Vought wanted to show everyone that at the end of the day we go home and hang up the capes. We’re people too.”

You remember the evening he was whining to you about his premiere talking points. This one sounds awfully familiar.

“Do you? Hang up the cape?” The interviewer has a twinkle in her eyes like she hasn’t before. She clearly thinks that she’s getting the scoop of the year.

“Sometimes, when the time’s right. The city’s protection comes as the utmost priority but I have some downtime.”

He does. 

With you. 

Something that’s always felt exhilarating about this was the secrecy to it all. Knowing Homelander comes home to you. You’re the one you know he’s making hints to. You’re the one who’s going to praise him for a job well done once he’s back.

That has always felt good. Right?

So when did this excitement turn to dread?

“Could you share what you do in your spare time?”

“Well then you’d know where to look for me. Some things are better kept quiet.”

“Ooh a secret! Don’t we love a mysterious man, ladies?”

“Jesus fucking Christ, shut up already.” You groan hitting the couch cushion with the back of your head in frustration. This crowd flirting is getting old real fast.

“You make it sound a whole lot more exciting than it is. I just like to find my peace.” 

“That begs the next question. It’s been a few years since your last relationship. So after this movie everyone’s asking, are you looking to find your peace with a certain lucky someone? And what can the ladies do to get your attention?”

You straighten up from your lazy lounging. Feet on the ground with your elbows on your knees you intertwine your fingers and lean forward. You don’t remember him preparing for this conversation.

“First of all I’d like to say thank you to all the lovely ladies who have reached out to me or those who have written me a very sweet letter—I have read them all, don’t worry.” Homelander sends the camera a cheeky wink. Even in your tension you can’t help but chuckle at the blatant lie.

“But unfortunately for them, I am already in love. There’s a scoop for you.” He tilts his head towards the interviewer with a knowing smirk. There’s a mix of ‘ooh’ and gasps in the audience followed by applause.

Your eyes widen, jaw dropping and you barely get a gasp out. What the fuck is going on?

“Oh? Well isn’t that exciting! Who’s the lucky lady?” Scoop indeed. The interviewer is grinning ear to ear, knowing her live viewership is skyrocketing. Like it’s all a game. Like this isn’t your fucking life.

“I can’t say yet. But I know deep in my heart that she’s the one.”

“The one! Well well ladies, it’s time to pack your bags. Sounds like we’ll be seeing a massive rise in the sales of the vanilla Homelander-approved ice cream to soothe all the heartbreak you’ve just caused.” 

You can’t focus on anything they’re saying. Your heart is racing. The panic is quickly trying to take over. But you take a deep breath. Maybe he’s messing around. Maybe it’s some Vought initiative. Maybe it’s another fake PR relationship he hasn’t told you about? However much that would hurt. 

“So tell us everything you can. How long have you known each other? How did you meet?”

“We met a little under a year ago. One crazy encounter sprinkled with pure luck brought us together. But some details I will keep for myself. We’ve been keeping out of the public eye. My sweet love bunny is a little camera shy. And I get it, I’m a famous guy. Our love wouldn’t have had the privacy and time to bloom if we were public from the get go.”

No. Nonono. This can’t be happening.

“I think I just heard the entire country go ‘aww’. How romantic! Will you be coming public now?”

“Yes. It’s about time I shared her with the world. I’ve been selfishly keeping her to myself. But I really can’t wait for you all to meet her.” 

Homelander winks at the camera and you know damn well it’s not meant for the audience.

“Fuck.”

Taglist (you can add yourself to be tagged when I post a new Homelander fic)

@ker0senebunny @itsvaleriesucka @thychuvaluswife

@nervoussystemss @littlegaaby @natliecole @sing1art

@infinetlyforgotten @rafecamsgirlll @hom3landr @mrsdesade

@nommingonfood @jokesonyoupup @chaimshelii @gingeraleluke

[am-3-thyst]

the alchemy

summary: clark’s always been adamant on being private with his personal life. few friends, low profile, and a hushed relationship. he can’t understand why people would want to publicize everything about their life. that is until he sees you talking to one of the school’s football players.

pairing: quarterback!clark x student body president!fem!reader

tags: tooth rotting FLUFF, legally aged students making out, established secret relationships, clark being Whipped with a capital W, slightly insecure clark, emotionally mature reader, football descriptions, no use of y/n

The faint smell of donuts and caramel coffee fill the council office as you hear the soft click of the door lock. You turn around and you're immediately met with your boyfriend, clad in his plaid blue button-up longsleeve shirt, worn-out bag slung over his shoulders, and lips immediately placing a soft kiss on your cheek.

"Woah, woah, hold it there farm boy," you laugh, placing a hand right in the middle of his chest as his kisses quickly descended to your neck. The thought of him not actually locking the door haunted your mind.

"What?" He breathes. Still continuing his attacks on the column of your neck while carefully placing your food and beverage on your table. "I missed you."

With a little more effort on your push—which was exceptionally hard considering how much Clark has improved in terms of making you lose your mind—he finally pulls away. A bummed-out pout shaping his lips.

You smile even wider. Who knew the big friendly farm boy everyone walks all over on is actually the biggest grump when he doesn't get kisses?

No one, of course. Not one soul in Smallville High School knows because your relationship with Clark isn't even out to the public. Not even your closest friend knows about it—and you're sure his closest friends don't know either.

But it's been like that for three out of the on-going four years you two have spent in Smallville High and so naturally neither of you wanted to break the streak.

You run your head through his soft brown locks, giving him a sweet kiss on the lips. Clark's face immediately lights up, already pulling you off of the table you were leaning on to exchange positions. This time, he has a better view of the blank canvas that is your collarbone.

"Missed you," he repeated. "Brought you donuts and coffee from the Talon."

"Didn't know they did deliveries again." You humor him, grabbing the brown bag and pulling a donut out. Clark watched as you point the donut at him, urging him to take a bite. With his eyes locked in yours, he takes a slow and relaxed bite. You wipe the side of his mouth with your finger before taking your own bite. Groaning when the sweet taste of the glazed donut touches your tongue.

"They allow it for certain people." Clark plays along, nodding at you. His eyes wander to the gigantic bulletin board you had in the council office, seeing almost ten listed items now struck-off with a bright red marker. "Specifically people that are overworking themselves again."

You roll your eyes, rolling to his side as you grab the cup of coffee. "Who says I was? I just did my job."

"Babe, you aren't the only one on the council. You can't just cover for everyone's jobs just 'cause they aren't doing theirs," Clark replies, watching you eat.

"Says the one that always takes on Chloe's extra load," You retort with a sly grin. "You do know that the reason most of Chloe's writers are bailing on her is because they don't like her way of gathering her news, right?" You place down the coffee, still eating your donut as you place a hand on the one Clark had resting on the table.

Clark chuckles, "Chloe's my friend, what can I say? She's been like that since fifth grade."

"At least she's passionate about it. It's so rare to see someone so committed in their craft that I can't even deny whenever Chloe asks me for an exclusive… which, mind you, is almost seven times a week." You sigh, head subtly shaking.

"Weren't you the one that wanted somebody aside from me to interview you?" Clark furrows his eyebrows, putting on a thinking face. His eyes squint, "Something along the lines of not getting work done."

Your eyes roll back, finishing the glazed donut in your hand. "Yeah, 'cause I clearly remember how we spent twenty-five minutes eating each other's faces and five minutes actually answering questions."

You throw the crumpled brown bag to the trash bin from afar. You miss, badly, but Clark's quick to distract you from your lack of shooting skills by kissing you. Again.

"Let's shorten that twenty-five minutes then," he smiles into the kiss. Snaking his arm around your waist as he could still taste the sugary taste of the donut on your tongue.

The kiss was anything but sweet. It was full of hunger, desire… and something you can't quite pinpoint. Usually Clark has his own rhythm of sucking the air out of you but this time it's messy—all over the place. Like you'd disappear any moment now if he didn't move faster.

He doesn't mistake the very subtle jingle of door handle. He hears it crystal clear and yet, he doesn't pull away. When the sound registers in your ear, you pull away without a second to think.

You immediately grab a spare folder on the other table. Clearing your throat as you looked down on it, pretending to flip through the papers. Clark on the other hand looked directly at the student who came in.

It was Adam. The same guy he saw you with earlier.

"Oh—is this a bad time? I can come by later?"

"Actually," Clark begins but you cut him off.

"No, it's fine. Do you have a concern?" You ask directly. Putting on your professional mask as you looked at Adam by the door. Ignoring how you can actually feel Clark  glaring holes at the side of your face with his jaw clenched.

Adam stutters. Shifting from you to Clark, then back to you. "I, uh, I was wondering if there were any other tutors available? I'm kinda flunking Chemistry and I need to ace the upcoming test."

"Then study," you hear Clark mumble. It was a little louder than he had expected but who cares, obviously not him.

You inhale sharply, turning your head to the bulletin board for the tutoring sessions for the month. Your shoulders flunk when you see your name under the Chemistry border. The other one—Lana—was already done with her tutoring hours so it was only you left.

Your head turns to Clark. He had already seen the arrangement on the bulletin board, he was looking at you now to wait for your response to Adam's request.

"Uhm, you can take my slot. What time works for you?"

"Any time you're free." Adam smiles at you. Clark rolls his eyes.

You nod unenthusiastically. Taking the clipboard beside Clark and handing it to Adam. "You can write on the 4:30 PM row. I'll be at the library fifteen minutes prior to our schedule, and I can wait for you until quarter to five."

Adam happily writes his name, glancing up to see you and Clark exchanging looks. "Is he signing up for a tutoring class too?"

"No," the two of you say in unison.

Your eyebrows furrow slightly at Clark. The farm boy breathing deeply before he responds. "I'm asking about the, uh, football schedule," he looks at you for confirmation. When you nod approvingly, he does too. "Yeah, the football schedule."

"Oh… Well, shouldn't you be asking Coach Teague that?"

"How would you know?" Clark raises an eyebrow, sounding way sassier than you ever heard him speak. Adam looks at him with subtle surprise, masking it with a friendly smile. "Because I am in the football team?"

The air quickly shifts as Clark and Adam have a stare-down. Only broken off when you clear your throat. Adam reluctantly says goodbye, stepping out of the office with a wave directed to you.

When the door closes, you turn to Clark with your arms crossed. "What?" He groans. He knows that look all too well.

"Are you okay with me tutoring him?" You ask straightforwardly.

"Why wouldn't I be? You've tutored dozens of our classmates over the years." He shrugs. His hand slowly coming up to tug on the strap of his bag.

"You sure? 'Cause it's a yes or no question, Clark. I can have someone else cover for me if you don't want me to tutor him," you say genuinely. Brushing away the lock of hair that fell in front of his handsome face.

Clark's lips purse into a thin line as he nods, hands finding solace on your hips. "Yes, baby, I'm sure. Just… don't overwork yourself, okay? I don't want you gettin' tired from something that isn't even your job."

You bite back a smile, looking into his eyes with stars in yours while he pulls you in for a hug. Your head rests on his shoulder as you wonder to yourself—how exactly did I manage to score a man like this?

"Gotta go, handsome. I'll see you back home," you give him a chaste kiss. Using every self-control you have not to respond to Clark's obvious attempts of deepening the kiss.

The first tutoring session you had with Adam was a quick one. Adam had a pretty solid foundation, he understood the concepts clearly, his only flaw was in his application of said concepts. Usually, he'd do well on the conceptual-based questions while also failing the problems connected to it.

One session wasn't going to cut it and so he booked you for four other sessions. All of which had a longer time frame, extending thirty minutes more from the usual one and a half hour long session. That only meant that you had to spend two hours with him every Tuesday and Thursday for two whole weeks.

Now if Clark didn't find it bothersome the first time, he definitely did now.

"So, uh, we still up for six later?" Adam leans on the locker next to years, smiling.

"Yeah, uh, sure. Of course. I'll see you at the library." You smile back. You quickly turn back to your locker and grab your things fast. Adam wasted no time diving into another subject.

"Oh, by the way, I—y'know, I really appreciate you being my tutor. I know you're juggling a lot of responsibilities and still, you never come to a session late and…" your eyebrow arches, waiting for him to finish. Thankfully, he takes the look in your face as a hint. "I was wondering if you'd let me treat you to a coffee? Just something after our session to show my thanks."

Your response arrives fast, without any hesitation. "No, Adam."

Adam gets caught off-guard by the firmness in your voice. He didn't expect you to say yes right away but he didn't exactly expect you to deny it in a split second too. He thought you'd at least think it over for a minute.

"Oh! But, it's, uh, y'know, coffee as friends. I'm not asking you out on a date," he laughs awkwardly but you could see right through him.

"I appreciate the thought, Adam, but no. If you have any questions about the lessons we're discussing, you can reach out to me—but anything else besides that, please do not." You breathe deeply. Eyes catching on the tall figure at the end of the hall, watching your encounter with Adam. "I have to go. I'll see you at the library."

You don't give Adam a second to respond, immediately slipping out of his sight only to find the end of the hall empty. No plaid-wearing farm boy in sight. You swallow on nothing, beginning to feel a thump in your chest.

It takes you some time of walking around to finally catch a glimpse of him. He was standing beside Chloe, visibly talking about something as they had laughs on their faces. You walk over to them, locking eyes with Clark in the process.

Just as you were about to walk by them—and possibly strike up some small talk—your shoulder gets nudged by your friends.

"Hey! We were looking all over for you! Did you hear the news?" Janet, your friend, says.

"What news?"

"Not so fresh meat just made it onto the roster. Rumor says he's starting quarterback," another friend, Rose, says. Her tone held a bit of bite to it, as if she didn't want him on the spot in the first place.

"Now that's a nice headline," a bright voice speaks. All three of you turning to the shaggy-haired blonde. "What d'you think, Clark? Not so fresh senior meat now starting quarterback. Kinda has a ring to me."

You tried to act naturally, chuckling at Chloe's words despite your friends glaring at them. Since he is the topic, you look at Clark. Eyes round and awaiting a response from him.

He doesn't respond though. He simply shrugs, looking at you like your were nothing before pulling Chloe away from probably stirring up a fight.

"That guy has some problems," Rose rolls her eyes, checking her nails carelessly.

"Yeah. He's already senior and he's only just tried out for football now? Damn. Talk about a late bloomer," Janet says high-fiving Rose.

"At least he's cute… right?" Janet turns to you.

"Huh?"

"Clark Kent. He's cute, right?" When Janet repeats her question, you felt something inside of you twitch. Janet's calling your boyfriend cute, and Rose's agreeing with her too. They're checking your boyfriend out. Shamelessly.

But you can't even worry about that now—your mind is filled with the way Clark looked at you moments ago. Like you were nothing. Like he hasn't met you even once.

Of course, you two hide your relationship to the school but there's always something unspoken of each time you look into each other's eyes. It's a comfort and a pleasure at the same time. A cozy blanket in the cold air. Hot chocolate every Christmas. Donuts and caramel coffee in hidden rendezvouses.

There were none of those when Clark looked at you earlier. You can't help but feel there's something wrong.

"Hey Mr. and Mrs. K! I was wondering if Clark was around?" You ask with a smile.

Your relationship with Clark may be a secret to everyone in Smallville, but his parents are a definite exception. Yours, not so much.

Jonathan and Martha share a look you recognize to be an apologetic one. "He's, uh, he's at the barn. He's been there since he got home." Martha answers with a strained smile.

You feel even weirder because Clark's parents have been nothing short of supportive. You two may have hidden the relationship from them for four months but they definitely enjoyed the idea of their son going out with you.

When you nod determinedly, turning around to head to said barn, Jonathan calls you. "Clark's, uh… you may want to be careful approaching him. He's a bit pent-up, with the football and stuff."

You nod. "Oh, of course! I'll be careful. Maybe he just needs a little cheer up." 

You head over to the barn in haste. Walking up the loft to see Clark with his head down, writing something in his notebook as a stack of textbooks sat beside it.

"Knock knock." You knock on the wooden rails, letting the sound resonate through the barn.

Clark looks up from his notebook, smiling the moment he registers it was you. But you notice his smile didn't quite reach his eyes. Still, you set that aside.

"What a surprise," he replies, voice clipped. "I thought you'd be slumped up with your council work and tutoring."

"And miss out an awesome opportunity to spend time with the charming plaid-wearing farm boy? Pftt, never," you drop yourself beside him. Propping your elbow up on the backrest as you turned your body towards him.

Clark chuckles, looking back down on the coffee table as he began writing again. You felt an even stronger twitch in your body when he does that—ignore you.

He may be tired, drained, or pissed off—but he had never gone through a second of seeing you without kissing you the moment the coast was clear. He'd always sneak in the quickest of kisses even though you two would get caught if he was slower by a millisecond.

"Clark, hey," you touch his shoulder. "I missed you."

His head keeps itself in place, "Missed you too, baby. How was your day?"

"Clearly not as harsh as yours has been. Wanna talk about it? I can spend the night…" you pause. "Oh, also, I heard you're starting quarterback! How'd that happen?"

"Did you now?" He laughs dryly.

The smile on your face falters, his tone felt like a bucket of ice was dumped on your head without your knowledge. He drops his pen, leaning back on the couch as he actually looks at you for the first time this night.

"Well, the previous one was injured. I stepped in." His answer is short and direct. His voice lacking the enthusiasm you're used to. "How about your day?"

You blink. Once. Twice. Thrice.

"Clark, what's the problem?"

Clark's eyes flicker up towards yours, hurt and anxiety evident in your pupils. He feels a tinge of guilt in his chest. Licking his lips, he reaches out for you only for you to pull away.

"Did I do something wrong?" You question. Though no matter how firm your voice was, Clark knew it was close to breaking.

"No, no, baby, you did nothing wrong—" Clark's voice rises as he panics. Fully reaching out to you so he can pull you to his chest. "It's… it's me, okay? I… I just—" he takes in a deep breath. "Don't you think it's time we made our relationship public?" 

It's clear that you were surprised with his question. The sharp inhale and your raised eyebrows gave it away no doubt. But why wouldn't you be? Not once has Clark ever thought about making your relationship public. In fact, he was the one that actually proposed it in the first place.

You tried your best to understand him though. "Is there a reason why you want to make our relationship public?"

"Babe, we've been hiding our relationship for three years. We started when we were sophomores, we're seniors now. No one can worry about us anymore. We're graduating in a few months—who cares by now?" This is the first time his voice actually held some energy to it. His hands intertwined with yours as he looks at you for approval.

"Clark, I know when you're lying," you say. Clark's throat bobbing up and down as he clenches his jaw. You place a hand on his cheek, your other hand running through his hair comfortingly, "You know you can tell me anything, Clark. Let's talk about this like adults."

It takes him a second to actually decide to speak, and another second to construct the words in his head. "I don't like how people still think you're single," he starts. "The guys talk about you, people in the hall talk about you… I hear so many promises from people that they'll ask you out either after the game or after graduation—regardless, I can't even respond. I can't tell them that you're my girlfriend because in the first place, no one knows about us—no one'd believe me." You feel his heart beat faster. The continuous thump underneath his chest makes your stomach flip as well.

"Call me selfish, but I can't take it when other people look at you and think that they can have you." His voice drops, hands tightening on yours.

"Like Adam?"

A scoff comes from him. "Yeah, like Adam. Have you even heard half of the stuff he says about you in the locker rooms?" Clark's voice raises. His sharp features straining furiously before he feels your hand tighten around his. It prompts him to raise your intertwined hands, kissing your knuckles. "It's nothing bad, baby, believe me. He wouldn't be walkin' straight if they were bad. It was just that he's so in his head that he actually thought he can take you out on a date."

"So this is about Adam?" You arch a brow, testing the waters. When Clark shakes his head, looking away to hide the smile on his face, you laugh. "Well, y'know, farm boy, he actually just asked me out earlier."

"I know. I heard."

"Then you also heard what I responded with?" Your lips widen slowly.

He sighs, turning his head back to you. "Yes, I did."

You smile at him. He returns it, ten times wider than yours. Your heart flips as the smile finally reaches his eyes—finally feeling right.

Quiet envelopes you both. A comfortable silence before you snuggle on his lap, resting your head on his muscular chest. "I understand how you feel, baby."

One of the things Clark loved about you was your ability to always have him heard and understood. Even the dozens of times he's missed your dates, suddenly cancelling unannounced; you've always been there for him with a patient mind, an awaiting ear… and probably a grumpy attitude when Clark specifically dipped on a day you were really looking forward to.

Now, one thing definitely changed; if before you had to trap him in the barn, force him to be honest and say his feelings, you were content that now all you had to do was talk to him sincerely and directly, no interruptions, and no hotheads.

"Does this mean we're going public?" Clark asks cautiously.

You lift your head, letting your chin rest on the center of his chest. "Just do good on the game tomorrow, 'kay farm boy? We'll see how the day goes."

It wasn't the answer Clark wanted, but he accepted it. It was better than giving him the hard no.

And so you laid there the whole night, trying your best to stay awake while Clark told you about his day. His hands running aimlessly through your hair and body until you fell asleep. When you did, he took you to his bedroom and let you sleep there.

A soft and tender kiss on your forehead to end the night.

Loud roars of the crowd could be heard from any side of the field.

The bleachers were packed with people, majority came from Smallville High while some were from the rival school playing. It's been quite some time since the game started and yet, it still feels like a win can be called any moment now.

You were there—since the very start—sitting at the very front row with Chloe by your side. Your friends Janet and Rose sitting away where the cheerleaders were sat. Each time you watched Clark fall short of a goal, you could feel your heart thump even harder.

Way before the game started, you had another little rendezvous with Clark. Giving him the best good luck charm in the form of red lace—which God knows where he kept—and a kiss on the cheek.

Clark's been training for this game for so long now. Weeks of hardworking and sweat come to this very day where he finally gets to earn his teammates' respect.

31-28, in favor of the opponent.

The air gets struck out of your system when you see the opposing team score another point. Slowly building on their lead against the Crows. Your teeth unconsciously nibbles on your lower lip, pulling and biting the soft tissue as you prayed for a plot twist.

"C'mon Clark, c'mon," you mumble under your breath. Glancing at Jonathan and Martha from a far as they too shared nervous and worried looks.

You hear a ring from somewhere, and suddenly they're all splitting into their respective teams. "The Crows asked for a time out," Chloe says. You nod, noting that on the pad of paper that Chloe gave you earlier. Both of you have been noting game highlights since the start of the game.

"Should we try interviewing them?" The blonde was already standing when she asks you that, eyes narrowed at the group of players bundled far from them.

"No." You shake your head. Chloe looks at you weirdly, you sounded way too energetic. "It's not really the best time, Chloe."

Seven seconds remain on the clock. All players head back to the center line as the game resumes back. Your eyes lock with Clark despite the distance. You could barely make out the expression on his face while he could clearly see yours—full of anxiety and hope, hands in a prayer position in the middle of your face.

With a new found drive to make you proud, he turns to the front to look at the opposing team.

You watch as all of the players scramble fast as soon as the clock began. Clark inhaled, clocking his arm back before throwing the football with all of his human force, every fiber in his being hoping that the other quarterback is able to catch it before the time ran out.

The football felt like it was on air for more than five minutes. Every head in the football grounds followed the brown ball as it made its way across the field, every person holding in their breaths as the second player reached up as the time hit two seconds.

On the last second, he lands a touchdown.

Happiness shoots through your body as you jump with Chloe on the stands. Lungs screaming Clark's name as thunderous cheers filled the space, loud enough to even make the ground shake. The players run over to Clark, crashing into him while he throws away his helmet, eyes immediately searching for you. Just you.

Your heart begins beating faster, the idea in your head being thrown away as your legs move on their own.

Clark watches as you rush down the bleachers, sliding past everyone and anyone in your way. Confusion hits him for a second until he finally understands what you're going to do. Shrugging off his teammates, he runs over to the bleachers' side, the amount of adrenaline running in his veins was almost enough to push him to super speed onto your side and lift you up—almost.

The moment you reach the ground, Clark's already jumping over the fence, catching you in his arms.

"Clark!" You yell out, feeling his strong arms tighten around your waist as he spins you around. Your hair moves with the wind as it splatters messily all over Clark's face, his lips stretched into the widest and biggest smile you've ever seen from him. "You did—"

Your words are cut off as Clark lifts you even higher, crashing his lips into yours. The outside world is anything but a figment of his imagination now that he has you in his arms just after winning his first game as a quarterback—and the best thing of it all, was that it was in front of the whole school.

The deafening sound of cheers and wolf whistles make you smile into the kiss, head subtly pulling back only for Clark to hungrily chase after you, not letting you up so easily. When he finally does, with his lips all puffy and swollen, he's staring at you with nothing but affection.

"A real quarterback now, huh?" You tease, smirking lightheartedly at him.

Clark rolls his eyes, lunging forward to give you another kiss on your lips. "Not really, just your boyfriend."

You lose yourself in his smile, only to be pulled away from it when your head moves to the side. You see Clark's parents looking at you two with proud smiles while beside them were his friends—all of which had a shocked look on their faces.

Clark squeezes your side to get your attention back. A contented look grows on his face as he keeps his hold around you, making the moment last just a little longer before you two face the outcome of whatever just happened.

"Ready to put me down, farm boy?"

"Never.”

hearts, reblogs, and comments are highly appreaciated if you loved the fic !

[am-3-thyst]

contrition | b.b. (2)

✮ synopsis: two years of healing. that's what it takes for bucky barnes to believe he might deserve you again. two years of therapy, of learning to sleep in a bed, of discovering what james barnes wants when he's not running from who he used to be. two years apart before a leaked video of his past forces him to confront the truth.

✮ pairing: post-thunderbolts!bucky x fem!reader

✮ disclaimers (18+, minors dni): hurt/comfort, ptsd and trauma responses, references to past torture (hydra), trauma, panic attacks, explicit sexual content, dirty talk, praise kink, light dom/sub undertones (light), vibrating finger features (whoops)

✮ word count: 14k

✮ a/n: this is part 2 of 2! really recommend catching up at part 1 first 🤍

main masterlist

The apartment sounded wrong.

Bucky stood in the doorway of what used to be the bedroom—their bedroom—and cataloged the absence. No soft breathing. No rustle of sheets when you turned over in sleep. No quiet hum of your phone charging on the nightstand. Just his own heartbeat, too loud in the silence, and the hum of the refrigerator that had always been too loud but he'd never fixed because you said it was "charming."

Three weeks.

Three weeks since you'd left, and he still hadn't slept in the bed.

The couch had a permanent indent now, shaped to his body like a pathetic monument to his failures. He'd been meaning to flip the cushions. Hadn't. Same way he'd been meaning to call his therapist back. Hadn't. Same way he'd been meaning to do anything other than exist in this hollow space you'd left behind.

His phone buzzed. Sam, probably. Or Raynor. Both had been calling with increasing frequency, leaving voicemails that ranged from concerned to irritated to outright threatening. He let it ring out, watching his reflection in the black screen once it went quiet. He looked like shit. Felt worse.

The mission brief sat unopened on the kitchen counter where he'd thrown it two days ago. Valentina had sent three follow-ups, each more passive-aggressive than the last. He should care. Should worry about his standing with the team, about maintaining his pardon, about all the things that used to matter before you made everything else feel like background noise.

He didn't.

The apartment still smelled like you. Your shampoo lingered in the bathroom. Your coffee mug sat in the dishwasher—the one with the chip on the handle from when he'd knocked it off the counter during a nightmare. You'd laughed it off, said it gave it character. He'd been too raw from the dream to do anything but nod, but you'd seen through him like you always did. Made him tea instead of coffee that morning, kept your voice soft, didn't ask questions.

That was the thing that gutted him most. You'd always known how to navigate his damage without making him feel damaged. Until he'd made you feel like you were drowning right alongside him.

The journal you'd given him lay on the coffee table, still in its wrapping paper. He'd taken it out of the drawer the first night, set it there like placing flowers on a grave. Couldn't bring himself to open it. Couldn't bring himself to put it away either. So it sat there, gathering dust like everything else in his life.

But try for you, not for me.

Your words echoed in the empty space, bouncing off walls that held too many memories. The place where you'd slow danced at 2 AM to no music, just the sound of rain. The kitchen counter where you'd perched while he cooked, stealing bites and making him laugh. The doorframe where you'd stood that last morning, looking so fucking tired he'd wanted to drop to his knees and beg right there.

He should have.

Instead, he'd stood frozen like the coward he was, watching you leave with grief trapped in his throat like shrapnel. Three weeks later, he could still feel it cutting him up from the inside.

His metal arm whirred softly as he flexed the fingers. A recalibration, Shuri called it. Happened when the neural pathways got overwhelmed. Fitting, really. Everything about him needed recalibrating, and he didn't know where to start.

The velvet box hidden in his tactical bag mocked him from across the room. 

He'd bought it two months ago, in a moment of clarity where he thought he could push through his own bullshit long enough to do right by you. The plan had been simple: therapy, real therapy. Talk to Sam about going public. Stop letting fear drive every decision.

But clarity was a funny thing. It tended to evaporate the moment shit got real, and he'd gone right back to his patterns. Pushing you away so slowly you wouldn't notice until you were too far gone to reach.

Mission fucking accomplished.

His phone buzzed again. This time, he looked.

Raynor: Barnes. Answer your phone or I'm listing you as non-compliant. You know what that means.

He knew. Back to prison. Back to cuffs. Back to being the asset everyone was waiting to snap. Maybe that would be easier. At least in a cell, he couldn't hurt anyone else. Couldn't love anyone else into disappearing.

But even as the thought formed, he could hear your voice, sharp with frustration: "Stop. Just stop with the self-pity routine. You're not a weapon, you're a person who makes choices. So make better ones."

You'd said that after the nightmare, when he'd tried to punish himself by sleeping on the floor. Always cutting through his martyrdom complex with surgical precision. 

God, he missed you. Missed you like a physical wound, like something vital had been carved out of his chest and now he was just walking around with a hole where his heart used to be.

The front door opened—Sam, using the spare key you'd insisted on giving him. Because that was the kind of person you were. The kind who thought about safety nets and backup plans and making sure the people you loved were taken care of, even when they didn't deserve it.

"Man, you look worse than the last time I saw you," Sam said, not bothering with pleasantries. "And that's saying something."

Bucky didn't respond. Couldn't find the energy to deflect or defend. Sam's eyes swept the apartment, taking in the unchanged state of everything. The pictures still on the walls—you hadn't taken those. The blanket you'd crocheted still thrown over the couch. Your favorite cereal bowl still in the dishwasher.

"You planning on turning this place into a shrine, or you actually gonna deal with your shit?"

"Leave it, Sam."

"Nah." Sam moved into the kitchen, started making coffee like he owned the place. "See, I promised someone I'd check on you. Made that promise the day she called me crying because the man she loved was treating her like a ghost while she was still right there."

That got Bucky's attention. His head snapped up. "She called you?"

"Three weeks ago. Right after she left. Want to know what she said?"

Bucky's throat felt like sandpaper. "Sam—"

"She said, 'Make sure he's okay. Make sure he eats. Make sure he doesn't do anything stupid.' Even while her heart was breaking, she was worried about you." Sam turned, fixing him with a look that could peel paint. "So I'm here. Making sure. Even though what I really want to do is kick your ass for being the kind of idiot who lets the best thing in his life walk away."

"I didn't let her—" Bucky stopped, the lie dying on his lips. Because that's exactly what he'd done. Pushed and pushed until leaving was her only option. "I couldn't... I was going to hurt her."

"You did hurt her. Just not the way you thought." Sam poured two cups of coffee, set one in front of Bucky with more force than necessary. "You're so scared of the Winter Soldier showing up that you didn't notice Bucky Barnes was the one doing the damage."

The words hit like a physical blow. Bucky gripped the mug, needing something to anchor him. The ceramic was warm against his flesh palm, but he couldn't feel it with the metal one. Never could. Just like he couldn't feel you slipping away until it was too late.

"She's better off—"

"Man, if you finish that sentence, I swear to God." Sam sat across from him, leaning forward. "You want to know what she's doing right now? She's crashing on her sister's couch. Calling in sick to work because she can't stop crying long enough to get through a shift. Jumping every time her phone rings because she thinks it might be you."

Each word was a knife between his ribs. Bucky's hands trembled around the mug.

"But she's safe," he managed. "From me. From what I am."

"What you are," Sam said slowly, like he was talking to a child, "is a man too scared of his own happiness to let himself have it. You think pushing her away kept her safe? All it did was break both your hearts. Congratulations. Mission accomplished."

Bucky flinched. Those were the same words he'd thought earlier, but hearing them out loud made them real in a way that threatened to crack him open.

"I don't know how to fix it," he admitted, the words barely above a whisper.

"Start with therapy. Real therapy, not the bullshit check-ins you've been doing." Sam pulled out his phone, scrolled through his contacts. "I've got a guy. Specializes in PTSD, combat trauma. He's good. Discrete. And he won't let you get away with the stone-cold routine."

"Sam—"

"You said you'd try. She left, and you promised you'd try. So fucking try, Buck. Because I've seen you fight through impossible shit. I've seen you come back from the dead, literally. But you're gonna let fear kill the best relationship you've ever had?"

Bucky stared into his coffee, seeing your face reflected in the dark surface. The way you'd looked that last morning—hollow, exhausted, but still so fucking beautiful it made his chest ache. You'd been disappearing for months, and he'd been too wrapped up in his own damage to notice.

No. That wasn't true. He'd noticed. He'd just been too much of a coward to stop it.

"What if it's too late?" The question came out cracked, vulnerable in a way he hadn't allowed himself to be since that morning. "What if she's done?"

Sam was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was gentler. "Then at least you'll know you tried. Actually tried, not this half-ass self-sabotage you've been pulling. You owe her that. You owe yourself that."

Bucky thought about the ring hidden in his tactical bag. The journal gathering dust on the coffee table. The three weeks of silence that felt like three years. You'd asked him to try for himself, not for you. Because you'd known—god, you'd always known—that he couldn't heal for someone else. It had to be for him.

"The therapist," he said finally. "What's his name?"

Sam's smile was small but real. "Dr. Keene. He's got time Thursday if you're ready."

Thursday. Four days away. Four days to figure out how to walk into an office and crack himself open. Four days to stop running from the man he was so afraid of being.

"Yeah," Bucky said, and the word felt like the first true thing he'd said in weeks. "Yeah, okay."

Sam stayed for another hour, filling the silence with updates about the team, about Sarah and the boys. Normal things. Human things. The kind of life Bucky had told himself he couldn't have, didn't deserve.

After Sam left, Bucky sat in the too-quiet apartment and finally, finally opened the journal.

Your handwriting on the first page made his throat tight:

For all the stories you haven't told yet. You deserve to be more than your worst days. Always.

He picked up a pen, hand shaking slightly, and wrote the first words:

I fell in love with you on a Tuesday.

It wasn't much. It wasn't nearly enough. But it was true, and it was a start.

And maybe, if he could fill enough pages with truth, he'd figure out how to stop running from the only person who'd ever made him want to stay.

~ three weeks prior ~ The transport back to New York had been a special kind of hell.

Not the physical restraints—he'd worn worse, been treated worse. The titanium cuffs were almost gentle compared to HYDRA's methods. No, it was Walker's eyes that made him want to disappear. That mix of pity and disgust, the barely concealed I told you so hovering on his lips. It was Yelena going deadly quiet in the quinjet, which was somehow worse than her usual barbs. It was the way even Val—Val who'd seen every shade of monster there was—looked at him like a liability that needed containing.

Three bodies. Three ex-HYDRA scientists who'd been running a knockoff super soldier program out of a defunct pharmaceutical lab in Warsaw. The mission had been simple: infiltrate, gather intel, extract. No termination protocol. No weapons free. Just get in, get the data, get out.

He'd gotten in just fine.

Then one of them had smiled at him. Just a little quirk of the lips, and said, "Gotovy vypolnit' prikaz?" Ready to comply?

Not the words. Never the words again—Shuri had made sure of that. But something in the pattern, the cadence, the way the Russian rolled off his tongue like he'd been gargling broken glass. Something that bypassed all of Bucky's careful control and went straight to the place where the Soldier lived.

He'd come to with blood on his hands and Walker screaming in his ear.

The containment cell in the Tower's sub-basement was medical-grade, meant for enhanced individuals who posed a threat to themselves or others. White walls, no windows, temperature controlled to keep him comfortable while they figured out what the fuck had happened. He sat on the single bench, still in his tactical gear—they'd been too wary to let him change—and stared at his hands.

Flesh and metal. Both capable of equal damage.

His phone had been confiscated, but he could see it through the observation window, lighting up on the desk. Your ringtone—he'd assigned you something soft, something that wouldn't jar him awake from nightmares. It played three times in the first hour.

"You want me to answer that?" The tech on duty—Hollander, decent guy, three kids—gestured at the phone.

"No."

What was he supposed to say? Hey baby, I'm back in the city but currently in lockdown because I snapped and killed three people with my bare hands. How was your day?

Dr. Cho ran every scan imaginable. Blood work, brain scans, neural mapping. Looking for any trace of external manipulation, any sign that someone had found another way in. The results were horrifyingly clean. No drugs, no tech, no secret programming. Just Bucky Barnes, losing control because someone spoke Russian with the right inflection.

"It's a trauma response," Cho explained, professional but not unkind. "Like a soldier diving for cover when a car backfires. Your neural pathways remember the pattern, even if the trigger itself is gone."

"So I'm not safe." It wasn't a question.

"You're not unsafe," she corrected carefully. "But we should monitor—"

"How long?"

"Forty-eight hours minimum. Protocol."

Two days. Two days in a white box while you thought he was somewhere in Warsaw, doing hero work. Two days of your calls going unanswered because how could he explain this? How could he tell you that after all the work, all the fixing, he was still a weapon waiting to go off?

The door opened on day two. Yelena walked in like she owned the place. She dragged a chair across the floor, the screech of metal on concrete deliberately obnoxious, and sat backwards on it like they were having a casual chat.

"So," she said, examining her nails. "You had fun party in Warsaw."

"Go away, Belova."

"Cannot." She pulled out a bag of chips from her jacket—where the hell had she been hiding those?—and tore it open. "Valentina says I must watch you. Make sure you don't go—how she say—'full murder ‘bot again."

"I didn't—" He stopped. Because he had. Three bodies worth of had.

"You know what I think?" She crunched loudly, deliberately. "I think you are, eh, what is word... drama queen."

Bucky's head snapped up. "Excuse me?"

"You hear Russian, you freak out, you kill people." She waved a chip dismissively. "Is very dramatic. Like soap opera but with more blood."

"That's not—"

"'Oh no, someone spoke language of my tragic past, now I must murder.'" Her accent made the mockery somehow worse. "Is like me killing everyone who mentions Red Room. Would be very exhausting. Also, very messy."

"It's not the same thing."

"No?" She tilted her head, bird-like. "So trauma is competition now? Yours is special flavor?"

He glared at her. She popped another chip in her mouth, unbothered.

"You know what your problem is, Barnes?"

"Go ahead, enlighten me."

"You think you are only one with ghosts." She leaned forward, suddenly serious. "News flash—we all have them. Difference is, some of us learn to live with ghosts instead of letting ghosts live us."

"That's not—"

"Who calls you?" She nodded at his phone, still lighting up periodically. "Every twenty minutes, same ringtone. Soft. Like lullaby. Girlfriend?"

His silence was answer enough.

"Ah." She sat back, crunching thoughtfully. "And she does not know you are here, playing prisoner princess in tower."

"It's not her problem."

"Bozhe moi, you really are American again. Everything is 'not problem,' 'is fine,' 'don't worry about it.'" She switched to a terrible American accent for the last part. "Is exhausting, this pretending."

"I'm not pretending—"

"Your phone rings, and you look like someone is pulling out fingernails." She studied him with those too-sharp eyes. "But sure. Is not her problem."

Another call. The ringtone seemed louder in the silence that followed.

"You know what Natasha told me once?" Yelena's voice had gone softer, which was somehow worse than her mockery. "She said hardest part of having someone is letting them see you. All of you. Even ugly parts. Especially ugly parts."

"Natasha never—"

"Had someone? No. But she wanted to." She stood, leaving the chip bag on the chair. "Is why I think she would be very annoyed with you right now. All this self-pity, very boring. She hated boring."

She moved toward the door, then paused. "Your girlfriend—she is normal person? Not spy, not Avenger?"

He nodded reluctantly.

"Then she chose you knowing what you are, yes? Winter Soldier, metal arm, whole package?" She didn't wait for an answer. "So maybe—just maybe—she is stronger than you think. Maybe she doesn't need protecting. Maybe what she needs is boyfriend who answers fucking phone."

She knocked on the door to be let out, then turned back. "Oh, and Barnes? Next time someone speaks Russian at you and you feel like killing? Try counting to ten first. In English. Is what I do when Walker talks."

The door closed behind her, leaving Bucky alone with her words rattling around in his skull. His phone lit up again. This time, he could see the preview of your text:

Just tell me you're alive. Please.

Twenty-four hours later, when they finally released him past midnight, he had a dozen voicemails he couldn't bring himself to listen to. Not yet. Not when he was standing outside the Tower in yesterday's tactical gear, still smelling like violence and metal and shame.

He took a cab back to the apartment—couldn't call it home, not when you weren't there—and saw the anniversary dinner he'd missed. The gift waiting on the coffee table. The careful way you'd tried to make something special out of another night alone.

Three days. Three days of choosing his shame over your peace of mind. Three days of letting you think he might be dead rather than admit he was exactly what he'd always feared—a killer waiting for the right words to flip the switch.

When you finally called from that bar, drunk and scared and needing him, he'd already been drowning in guilt since Warsaw. The way you'd said you missed him, the texts that got progressively sadder, the mention of some asshole touching you—it had all crashed together into perfect clarity.

He'd been protecting himself. Not you. Never you.

Because protecting you would have meant answering the phone. Would have meant trusting you with the ugly truth. Would have meant believing—really believing—that you were strong enough to handle it.

Maybe she doesn't need protecting. Maybe what she needs is boyfriend who answers fucking phone.

Yelena's words echoed as he drove through empty streets toward you, already knowing he was probably too late. Already knowing that three days of silence had probably cost him everything.

But he went anyway. Because after three days of being a coward, showing up was the least he could do.

Even if it was too little, too late.

~ 2 years later ~

The therapist's office smelled like leather and lemon furniture polish. 

Two years in, and Bucky still noticed it every Thursday at 3 PM, still cataloged exits (two), potential weapons (letter opener, paperweight, his own hands), and the exact number of steps from his chair to the door (seven).

"You're doing it again," Dr. Keene observed, not unkindly.

"Doing what?"

"The risk assessment. You're safe here, James."

James. Two years, and he still wasn't used to anyone but you calling him that. But you hadn't called him anything in 730 days. Not that he was counting.

(He was absolutely counting.)

His metal fingers flexed involuntarily, the plates realigning with soft mechanical whispers. A phantom pain shot through his left shoulder—psychosomatic, Keene had explained. His body remembering trauma that technically belonged to a different arm. The original one, the flesh and bone one, long gone. Sometimes he still felt it, especially on cold mornings. Ghost sensations of fingers that had once known how to hold a rifle steady, play cards, touch a dame's cheek without fearing what came next.

"Hard habit to break," he said, settling deeper into the chair that had molded to his body over countless sessions. The leather creaked, and his spine automatically cataloged the sound—not danger, just furniture. Another lesson in rewriting instinct. "But I'm working on it."

That was the thing about therapy—the real kind, not the court-mandated check-ins he'd half-assed his way through before. It was work. Brutal, exhausting work that left him feeling flayed open and reassembled wrong. Some days he walked out of this office feeling like he'd gone ten rounds with Steve in his prime. Bruised in places that didn't show, aching in ways that had nothing to do with muscle or bone.

"Tell me about this week," Keene prompted. The man had the patience of a saint and the perception of a sniper. Salt-and-pepper beard, kind eyes that missed nothing, hands that never moved suddenly. Bucky had hated him for the first six months. Now he just mostly tolerated him, which was progress.

"Good week. Mostly." The words came out measured, careful. His throat felt tight—always did in this room, like his body was allergic to vulnerability. "Taught a self-defense class at the community center. Helped Sam with a mission in Lagos—clean extraction, no casualties. Didn't have any nightmares until Wednesday."

"What happened Wednesday?"

Your birthday. 

The thought hit him like a punch to the solar plexus, made his ribs feel too tight around his lungs. He'd seen the photos your sister posted—you laughing at some rooftop bar, wearing a red dress that made his mouth go dry even through a phone screen. New friends, new life. A guy's arm around your shoulders in one shot, casual and possessive in a way that made Bucky's metal hand whir anxiously before he caught himself.

"Just a date," he said. "Nothing significant."

Keene hummed, that particular sound that meant he saw right through the deflection but would circle back to it later. The man was like a bloodhound for emotional avoidance.

"How are the anger management exercises working?"

"Haven't punched anyone in eight months." The words tasted bitter, defensive. His jaw clenched hard enough to make his teeth ache. "Though Walker makes it tempting."

"John Walker is still part of your team?"

"Unfortunately." Bucky shifted, the leather protesting beneath him. His body felt too big for the chair suddenly, restless energy crawling under his skin like ants. "But I'm... managing it. The breathing exercises help. The grounding techniques. When he starts his shit, I just—" He paused, forced his shoulders down from where they'd crept up toward his ears. "I count to ten in Romanian now instead of Russian."

That got a small smile. "Why Romanian?"

The question sat heavy in the air. Bucky's chest went tight, that familiar sensation of memories pressing against the inside of his skull, demanding attention. "Because Russian makes me think of..."

Ready to comply.

The words echoed even unspoken, carved into neural pathways that would never fully heal. He could still taste the rubber of the mouth guard, feel the electricity racing through his veins like liquid fire, smell the ozone and burnt flesh and—

"Things I'd rather not think about," he finished, blinking hard to dispel the sense memory. His hands had clenched into fists. He forced them open, finger by finger. "Romanian just reminds me of hiding. Which wasn't great, but it was mine, you know? My choice to hide. My choice to run."

"That's significant progress, James. Reclaiming agency over your associations."

Agency. Everything came back to agency in this room. The agency HYDRA stole with voltage and scalpels and words that rewrote his DNA. The agency he'd surrendered to fear, convinced that distance was the same as protection. The agency he'd taken away from others—from you—in the name of keeping them safe.

"Can we talk about the journal?"

Bucky's entire body locked up, muscles tensing like he was preparing for a blow. The journal you'd given him sat on his desk at home, leather worn soft from two years of handling. Filled with his chicken-scratch handwriting, pages warped from tears he'd never admit to shedding. Letters to you he'd never send. Memories he was trying to preserve before they got lost in the fog of everything else. Apologies that would never be enough.

"What about it?"

"You mentioned last week that you've been writing letters to—"

"I know what I mentioned." Too sharp. He forced his shoulders to relax, unclenched his jaw. The taste of copper in his mouth meant he'd bitten his cheek. Again. "Sorry. I just... those are private."

"I'm not asking you to share them. I'm asking how it feels to write them."

How did it feel? Like performing surgery on himself without anesthesia. Like talking to a ghost that haunted his apartment, his dreams, his every waking moment. Like keeping you alive in the only way he had left—through words you'd never read, apologies you'd never hear, love letters to someone who'd moved on.

"Necessary," he said finally.

Keene waited. The man had turned waiting into an art form, comfortable with silence in a way that made Bucky want to crawl out of his skin.

"I know she's moved on," Bucky continued, the words scraping his throat raw. His metal thumb pressed against his thigh, grinding in small circles that would leave bruises later. "I know it's been two years. I know she's probably—"

Happy. In love. Getting married to someone who didn't need a manual for basic human interaction. Someone who could sleep through the night without waking up screaming. Someone who could touch her without checking for exit wounds.

"But I can't seem to stop. Writing to her, I mean. It's like... if I stop, it makes it final."

"And you're not ready for it to be final?"

"I'm never going to be ready for it to be final." The admission ripped something loose in his chest, left him feeling hollow and too full at the same time. "But that's my problem to deal with. Not hers. Not anymore."

They talked through the rest of the session about his progress. The VA meetings where he sat in circles with other broken soldiers, swapping war stories and coping mechanisms. The kids at the community center who'd gone from flinching at his arm to hanging off it like monkey bars, their fearlessness both heartbreaking and healing. The way he could walk past a flower shop now without feeling like his lungs were collapsing, though the smell of roses still made him nauseous.

"Same time next week?" Keene asked as they wrapped up.

"Yeah." Bucky stood, knees creaking in protest. His body might heal fast, but it still kept score. Old injuries that should have killed him ached in the rain. Phantom pains from wounds that had healed decades ago. The left shoulder, where metal met flesh, a constant reminder of what had been taken and what had been given back wrong.

The walk back to his apartment—new place, Bed-Stuy, far enough from your shared space that he didn't see ghosts on every corner—took him past the farmer's market. He bought plums without having a panic attack, which felt like a victory. The vendor smiled at him, genuine and warm, and he managed to smile back without feeling like a fraud.

Bought flowers too, white tulips that reminded him of nothing in particular. No associations, no memories, just simple beauty that he could practice caring for without the weight of history.

His apartment was sparse but lived-in. Books on the shelves—philosophy, poetry, the science fiction novels you'd gotten him hooked on. Dog-eared and worn, read and reread during sleepless nights when your absence felt like a physical wound. A couch that had never been slept on, because he used the bed now like a real person, even when the mattress felt too soft and his body craved the punishing hardness of the floor. Plants by the window that were miraculously still alive after six months—a small jungle of green that required daily attention, routine, care. The journal on his desk, closed but waiting, like a patient confessor.

He made dinner—actual dinner, not just protein bars and whatever he could eat standing over the sink. Grilled chicken, roasted vegetables, rice. Sat at the table like a functioning adult, used both knife and fork, didn't shovel food into his mouth like someone might take it away. Did the dishes immediately instead of letting them pile up, the warm water soothing on his flesh hand, the metal one impervious as always.

The gym was less crowded in the evenings. He preferred it that way—fewer eyes tracking his movements, fewer people trying not to stare at the arm. He sparred with Sam, who'd gotten better at reading Bucky's moods over the past two years. Knew when to push and when to pull back, when Bucky needed to go hard and when he needed to be reminded that he wasn't fighting for his life anymore.

"You're getting soft," Sam said, panting after Bucky pulled a punch that would've laid him out a year ago. Sweat dripped down his face, soaked through his shirt. Even holding back, Bucky hit like a freight train.

"Maybe." Bucky unwrapped his hands, flexing the metal fingers. Shuri had added new features in the last upgrade—pressure sensors that helped him gauge his grip, temperature regulators that meant he didn't burn or freeze anyone he touched. Small improvements that made him feel less like a weapon and more like a man with a very expensive prosthetic. "Or maybe I'm just getting better at not being an asshole."

"Nah, still an asshole. Just a self-aware one now."

They grabbed beer after, sitting on the roof of Sam's building. The city sprawled below them, lights like stars that had fallen and gotten stuck. Brooklyn glittered in the distance, and Bucky's chest tightened at the sight. Somewhere out there, you were living your life. Maybe in the same apartment, maybe somewhere new. Maybe alone, maybe with—

He cut that thought off at the knees.

"Sarah's asking about Thanksgiving," Sam said carefully. Too carefully.

"I'll be there."

"You said that last year."

"Last year was... complicated."

Last year, he'd been convinced you might show up at Sam's door. That you'd be there laughing with Sarah in the kitchen, flour in your hair and wine staining your lips purple. That he'd have to sit across from you at dinner and pretend his bones weren't trying to crawl out of his skin from wanting to touch you. 

He'd spent Thanksgiving on his fire escape instead, eating Chinese takeout straight from the container and writing letters he'd never send.

I'm thankful for the time we had, he'd written, three beers deep and maudlin. Even if I ruined it. Even if it hurt. Even if I dream about you every night and wake up forgetting you're gone.

"It's been two years, Buck."

"I'm aware." The words came out sharper than intended. His body tensed, ready for a fight that wasn't coming.

"Maybe it's time to—"

"Sam." A warning, low and final. The metal hand clenched around his beer bottle, not enough to shatter but enough to make the glass groan.

"I'm just saying. You've done the work. You're in a good place. Maybe it's time to reach out."

"She's moved on." The words tasted like ash, bitter and choking. "I check— I know she's doing well. That's all that matters."

It was a lie, and they both knew it. He did more than check. He had a Google alert for your name, scrolled through your sister's Instagram with the dedication of a detective working a cold case. Knew you'd gotten a promotion at work, that you'd adopted a cat named Alpine, that you'd taken up pottery classes on Thursdays.

(Thursdays. His therapy day. Like even your hobbies were avoiding him.)

Sam was quiet for a long moment, the kind of quiet that meant he was about to say something Bucky didn't want to hear. "You know she asks about you sometimes. When she calls Sarah."

Everything in Bucky went still. The city noise faded to white static, his heartbeat loud in his ears. "What?"

"Just... how you're doing. If you're okay. If you're happy."

If you're happy. Like happiness was a switch he could flip, a state he could achieve instead of something he glimpsed in peripheral vision before it vanished. He was better. He was functional. He was surviving. 

But happy? 

Happy was your laugh in the morning, coffee brewing while you danced to music only you could hear. Happy was your hand in his, unafraid of the metal and what it meant. Happy was two years gone and not coming back.

"What does Sarah tell her?"

"The truth. That you're doing better. That you're healing. That you—" Sam hesitated, and Bucky's stomach dropped. "That you still love her."

The beer bottle shattered.

Glass and foam exploded everywhere, shards glittering in the low light. The metal hand recalibrated, servo motors whirring as they adjusted to the sudden loss of resistance. Blood welled on his flesh palm where a shard had caught him, the wound already beginning to close.

"Shit. Sorry." He stared at the mess, mind blank. Two years of therapy, of anger management, of learning to control his strength, undone by your name and the word love in the same sentence.

"Yeah, that's about what I figured." Sam handed him a napkin, not even fazed. They'd been through worse. "Look, I'm not saying grand gestures or whatever. I'm just saying... maybe she deserves to know you're better. Maybe you both deserve some closure."

Closure. Like you could close a wound that had become part of your anatomy. Like you could stitch shut something that had fundamentally altered your DNA. His metal hand still tingled with phantom sensations, memories of holding you that the arm itself had never experienced. The flesh remembered, and somehow that was worse.

"I'll think about it," Bucky lied.

But the universe, it seemed, had other plans.

Bucky woke to his secure phone buzzing like an angry hornet. 47 missed calls, texts flooding in faster than he could read them. Sam's name, multiple times. Sharon. Yelena. Valentina. Even Walker, which was never good. His blood went cold, mind immediately cataloging possibilities—compromise, attack, someone hurt, someone dead, you—

"What is it?" he answered Sam's callback, already reaching for his go-bag. His voice came out steady, all business, even as his heart hammered against his ribs. "Who's compromised?"

"Buck..." Sam's voice was strange. Careful in a way that made Bucky's skin crawl. "You need to see the news. But—shit, don't watch it alone, okay? Come to my place. We'll—"

But Bucky was already pulling up news sites, his metal hand gripping the phone too tight. The screen cracked under his thumb as the headline hit him like a sniper round:

LEAKED: CLASSIFIED FOOTAGE SHOWS DECADES OF WINTER SOLDIER TORTURE

The blood in his veins turned to ice water. His vision tunneled, edges going dark. No. No, no, no—

The video was everywhere. Every major news outlet, every social media platform. Forty minutes of pure, unfiltered hell—footage HYDRA had apparently kept as some sick training material. Evidence of their success in breaking him down to base code and rebuilding him wrong.

His thumb hovered over the play button. He didn't want to see. Already knew what it contained, had lived it, bore the scars both visible and not. But there was a sick compulsion, a need to know what the world was seeing. What you were seeing.

The first frame made bile rise in his throat.

There he was, young and screaming. The footage was grainy, black and white at first—old film reels from the early days, when HYDRA still bothered documenting their experiments like proud scientists. Strapped to that chair that still featured in his nightmares, metal restraints cutting into skin that hadn't yet learned to stop feeling. They'd stopped bothering with anesthetic after the first few sessions—the serum healed him too fast, made pain relief pointless. More efficient to let him scream until his throat gave out.

The video quality evolved as it progressed through the decades. Jerky 8mm film giving way to steadier 16mm, black and white bleeding into washed-out color. By the sixties, the footage was clearer, the horror rendered in technicolor precision. Multiple angles capturing every convulsion, every plea. His younger self begging in Russian, then English, then wordless animal sounds as electricity rewrote his neural pathways. The technicians taking notes, adjusting voltage with clinical detachment. One checking his watch, bored.

He watched them attach the metal arm for the first time. No anesthetic for that either. Just a bone saw and cruel efficiency, his screams echoing off concrete walls. The smell—God, he could still smell it. Burnt flesh and ozone, metal cauterizing meat. They'd had to restart his heart twice during that procedure. The video caught that too, his body convulsing on the table, eyes rolled back to show only whites.

Three minutes in, and he was on his knees in his apartment, retching. Nothing came up but bile and the ghost of a sandwich from last night. His body shook, muscles remembering trauma decades old. The metal arm sparked, recalibrating frantically as his nervous system went haywire.

The video kept playing. He couldn't look away.

Year after year compressed into minutes. The chair. The words. The wipes that left him seizing, foam tinged pink with blood frothing from his lips. Training that was just sanctioned torture—bones broken and healed and broken again until he learned to move through pain like it was weather. They made him fight other Winter Soldiers, made him kill them bare-handed to prove his superiority. One had begged. The video caught that too, caught Bucky—no, the Asset—snapping his neck without hesitation.

But the worst parts were the moments between. When the programming cracked just enough to let James Barnes bleed through. Confused, terrified, trying to remember his own name. In one clip, strapped to the chair and waiting for the next session, he'd been reciting something under his breath. The audio picked it up clearly:

"Barnes, James Buchanan. Sergeant. 32557038. Barnes, James Buchanan..."

Over and over, like a prayer. Like a lifeline. Until the technician hit the switch and the electricity burned even that away, left him empty and ready to be filled with purpose.

By the end, the Asset barely looked human. Eyes empty, responding only to commands. They'd point, and he'd kill. They'd speak the words, and he'd comply. No hesitation, no recognition, no trace of the man who'd laughed with Steve in Brooklyn and danced with pretty girls and had a favorite sandwich at the deli on the corner.

The video ended with a mission briefing. December 16, 1991. The Asset nodding, accepting orders to kill Howard and Maria Stark without a flicker of emotion.

Bucky stayed on his knees for a long time after it finished, shaking. His phone rang and rang—Sam, probably, or one of his therapists. He couldn't answer. Couldn't form words past the scream trapped behind his teeth.

This wasn't the sanitized version from his pardon hearings. This wasn't redacted files and clinical language that let people maintain distance. This was the raw footage. This was what had been done to him, to the person he'd been, to the man who'd just wanted to serve his country and come home.

Forty minutes of torture, and that was just what they'd chosen to document. Seventy years of this, and the world was seeing it over morning coffee. Commenting on it. Sharing it. Debating whether he deserved sympathy or a bullet, whether this made him more victim or more monster.

An hour passed. Maybe two. Time went strange when your past was being broadcast to the world. His apartment felt too small, too exposed, like the walls might collapse under the weight of all those watching eyes. He'd turned off his phone eventually, couldn't stand the constant buzzing. Everyone had seen it. Everyone knew exactly what had been done to him, what he'd been reduced to.

The knock at his door was soft. So soft he almost missed it over the sound of his own ragged breathing. He didn't move at first, couldn't seem to make his legs work. The knock came again, barely there, and then—

"Bucky?"

Your voice through the door, small and wrecked.

He was on his feet before conscious thought caught up, body moving on pure instinct.

Two years of staying away, of respecting boundaries, of keeping his distance—all of it evaporated at the sound of you saying his name like that.

He yanked the door open and you were there. Hair wild, face swollen from crying, wearing pajama pants and a sweater that didn't match. Like you'd thrown on whatever was closest and come to him.

Like after two years of silence, you'd seen that video and your first instinct was to come to him.

You looked at him for one suspended moment—taking in his red eyes, the tremor in his hands, the way he was barely holding himself together—and then you were moving.

You crashed into him with enough force to knock the breath from his lungs. Your arms went around his neck and you were sobbing—great, body-shaking sobs that he felt in his bones. He caught you on instinct, metal arm around your waist, flesh hand cradling the back of your head. Your feet left the ground as he held you, held you like he'd wanted to for 731 days.

You were here. In his arms. Shaking apart, but here.

He'd imagined holding you again a thousand times. In those imaginings, it was always different—softer, maybe. Definitely not with you crying so hard you could barely breathe, not with his own eyes burning and chest cracking open. But even like this—especially like this—he hadn't felt this complete since the last time he'd held you. Like the world had finally stopped spinning wrong. Like his lungs remembered how to take in air.

You didn't say anything at first. Couldn't, probably, around the sobs. He just held you, one hand stroking your hair while you shook apart in his arms. You were warm and solid and real, and you still fit against him like you'd been carved from the same stone. He pressed his face into your hair, breathed you in—floral shampoo and something uniquely you that made his knees weak.

"I've got you," he murmured, the words coming out rough. "I've got you, sweetheart. It's okay."

But that just made you cry harder, fingers digging into his shoulders like you were afraid he'd disappear. He maneuvered you both inside, kicking the door shut without letting go. Muscle memory had him moving to the couch, sitting down with you still wrapped around him. You ended up in his lap, face buried in his neck, and he just held on while you fell apart.

Time went liquid. Could have been minutes or hours that you cried, and he just sat there, hand running up and down your spine in the same soothing pattern he'd used to use when you had nightmares. Your tears soaked through his shirt, and he could feel you trying to get closer, like you could crawl inside his chest if you just held on tight enough.

Eventually, the sobs slowed to hiccupping breaths. You pulled back slightly, just enough to look at him, and Christ—your eyes were swollen nearly shut, face blotchy and tear-stained. You looked absolutely wrecked.

"There she is," he murmured, thumb coming up to brush tears from your cheek. His hand moved without permission, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear with the kind of casual intimacy he'd lost the right to two years ago. "Hi, pretty girl."

Fresh tears welled in your eyes. "I couldn't—I tried to watch it all but I—I c-couldn't—" Your voice cracked, broke completely. You had to take several shuddering breaths before trying again. "Twenty minutes. That's all I could—and you lived it, Bucky, you actually—oh god—"

"Hey." He caught your face in his hands, thumbs sweeping away the new tears. "It's okay. It was a long time ago."

"It's not—" A sob cut you off. You pressed the heels of your hands against your eyes, shoulders shaking. "It's not okay! N-nothing about that is okay! I knew—fuck, everyone knows what happened to you, in theory. The trial, the pardons, all of it's p-public record. But seeing it—"

Your breath hitched, caught, turned into another sob. "Actually s-seeing what they—the chair, Bucky. The way you... you screamed. The way you b-begged them to stop and they just—they just—"

"Breathe," he said softly, pulling you back against his chest when your breathing went too shallow, too fast. "Come on, sweetheart. Match me. In and out."

You pressed your ear to his chest, and he breathed slow and steady until you started to match his rhythm. His hand found your hair again, stroking through the tangles. Your whole body trembled against him, little aftershocks of grief.

"Like you weren't even h-human," you whispered against his shirt. "Like you were just... parts to be rearranged. And the early footage, you were so—you were just a kid, basically. Twenty-six and sc-screaming and—"

Another wave of sobs took you. He held you through it, jaw clenched against his own emotions. 

This was why he'd never told you the details. Why he'd kept it vague—'conditioning' and 'programming' sounded so much cleaner than the reality.

"I'm being—" You pulled back suddenly, laughing through your tears but there was no humor in it. "God, I'm being ridiculous. You're the one who—who lived through it and here I am, cr-crying all over you, making you comfort me through your trauma—"

"Stop." His voice came out sharper than intended. He gentled his grip on your face, made sure you were looking at him. "Don't do that. Don't apologize for caring. Don't apologize for being human."

"But I—"

"No." He was firm on this. "You think I'd rather you saw that and felt nothing? You think I'd prefer indifference?"

"I just—" Your face crumpled again. "I asked you. Remember? About the n-nightmares. About what they did. And you said—you said 'standard Hydra shit' and I let it go. I should have pushed. Should have—"

"I wouldn't have told you." Simple truth. "I wasn't ready. Couldn't even say the words out loud in therapy, let alone to you."

"But you were so alone." The words came out broken, wet. "For d-decades, you were alone. They hurt you and broke you and put you back together wrong and you couldn't even—you couldn't even remember who you were supposed to be. And then you c-came back and I—"

You pressed a hand to your mouth, muffling another sob. "I left you alone again. You pushed me away because you were sc-scared and instead of fighting for you, I just—I left. I left you alone."

"You didn't leave me alone." He pulled your hand away from your mouth, laced their fingers together. "You left because I made it impossible to stay. Because I was too much of a coward to let you see all of me."

"You're not a c-coward." Fresh tears tracked down your cheeks. "You survived that. You survived decades of that and you're still—you're still kind. Still good. Still—" A hiccup interrupted you. "Still the best man I've ever known."

"Sweetheart—"

"I missed you," you said, the words tumbling out between sobs. "Every day. Every f-fucking day. Even when I was angry. Even when I tried to date other people. Even when I—" Your breath hitched. "I couldn't get you out of my head. Out of my heart. Like you were carved into my bones and I couldn't—couldn't scrape you out no matter how hard I tried."

"I know." His own voice cracked. He felt raw, exposed. "Me too. Every fucking day."

"I'm sorry." You were crying harder now, barely able to get words out. "I'm s-sorry I didn't fight harder. Sorry I wasn't strong enough to—to stay and make you see that you were worth fighting for."

"Hey, no." He pulled you closer, pressed his forehead to yours. "No apologies. Not for protecting yourself. Not for having boundaries. Never for that."

"But—"

"We both fucked up," he said quietly. He hardly meant it, he never blamed you, but it seemed to be what you needed to hear. "We both could have done better. But we're here now."

"Yeah," you whispered, voice small and wrecked. "We're here now."

You stayed like that for a long moment, breathing each other's air, existing in the same space for the first time in two years. Your body still shook with aftershocks, little tremors and hiccups that broke his heart.

"I should—" You started to pull back. "I should go. This isn't—you don't need me falling apart on your—"

"Stay." The word ripped out of him, desperate and raw. "Please. Just—you can take the bed. I'll take the couch. Not like before. Not—" He swallowed hard. "Just stay. Let me know you're safe. Let me—let me take care of you for once."

You searched his face, and he watched you see it—all the longing, all the fear, all the love he'd never learned how to hide.

"Okay," you whispered, and started crying again. "Okay."

Neither of you moved for a while after that. You stayed curled in his lap, his arms around you, while the city lights painted patterns on the walls. Every so often, a fresh wave of tears would take you, and he'd hold you through it, murmuring nonsense into your hair.

"I watched them put the arm on," you said at one point, voice hoarse. "No anesthetic. You were awake and they just—they just cut—"

"I know," he said when you couldn't finish. "I know, baby. It's over now."

"It's not over. You still dream about it. Still have days where you can't—" Another sob. "I should have been there. Should have helped somehow—"

"You did help." He pressed a kiss to your warm temple, tasted salt. "You helped by being the first person in years to look at me like I was worth saving. Even if I didn't know how to let you."

Later, he'd give you clothes to sleep in—soft things that would smell like him. You'd brush your teeth side by side, and he'd pretend his heart wasn't breaking at how right it felt. He'd make up the bed with fresh sheets while you changed, and when you emerged drowning in his henley, he'd have to look away.

When you paused in the bedroom doorway, looking back at him with swollen eyes and something fragile in your expression, he'd be ready.

"Thank you," you'd say, voice still rough from crying. "For letting me stay. For—for being here."

"Always," he'd reply, and mean it with every atom of his being.

You'd smile then—wobbly and complicated—and close the door. He'd make up the couch and lie there listening to you breathe in the next room, marveling at the miracle of your presence.

But for tonight, you were here. Safe in his space, under his protection, breathing the same air. After 731 days of nothing, it was everything.

It was enough.

For now, it was enough.

The couch was too short for his frame, but after two years of therapy, Bucky had learned to stop punishing himself with discomfort. He'd gotten good at making himself comfortable in spaces that didn't quite fit. Still, sleep came in fragments—twenty minutes here, an hour there. His body kept jerking awake, convinced he'd dreamed the whole thing. That you weren't really in his bed, wearing his clothes, breathing his air.

Around 3 AM, he heard the bedroom door creak open. Soft footsteps on hardwood, hesitant but moving closer. He opened his eyes to find you standing there in the darkness, silhouetted by the city lights filtering through the windows. You'd put his henley back on, and it hung to mid-thigh, making you look smaller than you were.

"Baby?" The endearment slipped out before he could catch it, voice rough with sleep and surprise. He squinted, trying to read your expression in the dark. "You okay? Need something?"

You didn't answer. Just stood there for a moment, arms wrapped around yourself, before moving toward him with purpose. He sat up, ready to give you the couch if you couldn't sleep in the bed, ready to move to the floor if that's what you needed. But you didn't ask him to move.

Instead, you crawled right into his space, onto the couch that was definitely not built for two people. He accepted you immediately, arms opening on instinct as you fitted yourself against him—chest to chest, your face buried in his neck. The couch groaned under the combined weight, but held.

"Hey," he murmured, pulling the blanket up over both of you. His hand found your hair, still messy from sleep. "Bad dream?"

You shook your head against his throat. Your arms went around him, holding on tight, and he could feel the way your breath hitched. Not crying, but close. He understood without explanation—you'd woken up remembering. The video, the torture, the decades of pain compressed into forty minutes of footage. You'd needed to touch him, to feel him solid and whole and here.

"I've got you," he whispered into your hair. "I'm okay. I'm right here."

You made a small sound and pressed closer, like you could protect him retroactively from things that had already happened. One of your hands found the juncture where metal met flesh, fingers tracing the scars there with devastating gentleness. He tensed for a moment—old habit—then forced himself to relax. To let you touch. To let you see.

They stayed like that until dawn crept through the windows, dozing in and out of sleep. Every time he surfaced, you were there, heartbeat against his chest, breath warm on his neck. Real. Present. A miracle he still couldn't quite believe.

When morning came properly, neither of them acknowledged how naturally they'd fitted together in sleep. How your leg had hooked over his hip, how his metal hand had splayed possessively across your lower back. They extracted themselves carefully, both pretending not to notice the reluctance in the separation.

"Coffee?" he offered, voice still gravelly.

"Tea, if you have it." You stretched, his henley riding up to reveal a strip of skin that made his brain short-circuit. "Coffee makes me jittery these days."

These days. Two years of changes, small evolutions he hadn't been there to witness. He turned to the kitchen to hide the way that knowledge sat heavy in his chest.

"Still take it with honey?"

"Yeah." You padded after him, bare feet on hardwood. 

He busied himself with the ritual of morning—filling the kettle, finding the good honey (wildflower, local, from the farmers market you'd always loved), selecting eggs from the fridge. You perched on one of the bar stools at the counter, watching him move through his space with an expression he couldn't quite read.

"You cook now," you observed.

"Turns out eating actual food is part of that whole 'taking care of yourself' thing Keene keeps harping on about." He cracked eggs into a bowl, whisking them with practiced efficiency. "Who knew?"

"Your therapist sounds like a smart man."

"Don't let him hear you say that. His ego's big enough already." He glanced at you, taking in the sleep-rumpled hair, the way his clothes draped over your frame. You looked soft and accessible and untouchable all at once. "I've got some sweatpants that might fit better than the boxers, if you want—"

"These are fine." You tugged at the hem of the henley self-consciously. "If that's... if you don't mind."

"I don't mind." Understatement of the century. Seeing you in his clothes was doing something to his brain that felt both ancient and brand new. "Never minded."

Silence settled between them as he cooked, but it wasn't uncomfortable. You sipped your tea and watched him work, occasionally commenting on the changes in his apartment—the art on the walls, the plants that hadn't died, the general sense that someone actually lived here instead of just existing.

He was plating the omelets when you spotted it. The journal, sitting on the counter where he'd left it last night. Your whole body stilled, mug pausing halfway to your lips.

"Oh," you said quietly. "You use it."

Understatement of the century.

"Yeah." He set your plate in front of you, then leaned back against the opposite counter, giving you space. "Every day, pretty much."

You reached out, fingers hovering over the worn leather cover. "What do you write about?"

"Everything. Nothing." He shrugged, aiming for casual and missing by miles. "Therapy stuff. Memories I want to keep. Things I should have said."

"Letters," you said, not quite a question. "Sam mentioned letters, once."

"Yeah."

You were still staring at the journal like it might bite. Or like it might break your heart.

"You can look, if you want." The words came out steadier than he felt. "It's... a lot of it's to you anyway."

Your eyes snapped to his. "You don't have to—"

"I know. But we're doing honesty now, right? Being real?" He gestured to the journal. "That's about as real as I get."

You hesitated for another moment, then pulled the journal toward you. Your hands shook slightly as you opened it, and he had to look away. Focused on his coffee instead of the way your face changed as you read his messy handwriting, years of thoughts spilled onto paper.

He knew what you were seeing. Pages of apologies, observations, dreams he'd documented so he wouldn't forget them. Lists of things he wanted to tell you—your laugh sounds different in my memory than it did in real life. I bought plums at the market and almost called you. I still can't sleep on the left side of the bed.

The poetry was in there too, terrible attempts at capturing feelings too big for prose. He'd tried to write about the way you used to hum while cooking, how you'd steal his socks and act surprised when he'd find you wearing them. How loving you had felt like drowning and breathing all at once.

You were crying again, silent tears sliding down your cheeks as you read. Occasionally you'd make a small sound—half-laugh, half-sob—at something particularly pathetic he'd written. He wanted to take the journal back, spare you both this vulnerability. Instead, he gripped his mug tighter and waited.

Finally, you looked up. Your eyes were red but clear, seeing him in that way you'd always had. Like you could look past all the armor and see straight to the soft, desperate heart of him.

"Two years," you said softly. "You wrote to me for two years."

"Seven hundred and thirty-one days." He set down his mug, needing his hands free. Needing to move. "I know how it looks. Obsessive. Unhealthy, probably. Keene says it's—"

"Human," you interrupted. "It looks human."

You stood, rounding the counter until you were in his space. Close enough that he could see the flecks of gold in your eyes, count the tears still clinging to your lashes. You reached up slowly, telegraphing your movement, and he realized what you were doing. Giving him time to pull away, to redirect.

He didn't.

Your hand touched his face, and for the first time in two years, he didn't flinch. Didn't turn to offer the other cheek, the flesh side. You cupped his jaw with careful fingers, thumb brushing over stubble, and he let his eyes close. Let himself have this moment of being touched without apology.

"I wrote too," you admitted. "Not in a journal. In my phone. Little notes I'd never send. Anger, mostly, at first. Then just... observations. Things I wanted to tell you. Dreams I had where you were still there when I woke up."

He opened his eyes to find you closer still. Your other hand came up, and now you were holding his face between your palms like something precious. Something worth keeping safe.

"Can I—" you started, then stopped. Took a breath. "I want to kiss you. Is that—would that be okay?"

Instead of answering, he brought his metal hand up to cradle your cheek. Watched your eyes flutter closed as you leaned into the touch, no fear or hesitation. Just trust. Just love, somehow still intact after everything.

"Always," he murmured, and closed the distance.

The first press of lips was careful, tentative. A question asked and answered in the space of a breath. You made a small sound and pressed closer, and suddenly he was seventeen and eighty and every age in between, kissing you for the first time and the thousandth time all at once.

Your lips were chapped from crying, and you tasted like honey tea and salt. He'd never tasted anything better. One of your hands slid into his hair and he groaned, the sound swallowed between your mouths. Two years of missing this, of waking up reaching for you, and here you were. Soft and warm and real.

The kiss deepened, something desperate creeping in at the edges. He walked you backward until you hit the counter, lifted you onto it without breaking contact. You gasped against his mouth and wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him closer, and his brain went white-static at the feeling.

He'd always loved kissing. Loved the intimacy of it, the way it could feel more vulnerable than sex. Loved how you'd melt against him, how you'd make those little sounds when he found the right angle, the right pressure. He kissed you like he was relearning a language he'd never truly forgotten, muscle memory and discovery all tangled together.

When you pulled back to breathe, he trailed his mouth down your jaw, found that spot below your ear that had always made you shiver. Still did. Your hands tightened in his hair, and he smiled against your throat. Some things didn't change.

"Bucky," you breathed, and he had to kiss you again just for the way you said his name. Like a prayer, like a promise, like coming home.

His hands found your waist, rucking up the henley to find bare skin. You were warm and sleep-soft under his palms, and when he spread his fingers wide, he could span most of your back. The metal hand was gentle, sensors calibrated to exactly the right pressure. No hiding, no hesitation. Just touch.

You shifted against him, and he became suddenly, devastatingly aware that you were wearing his boxers and nothing else under them. His hand slid to your thigh, fingers brushing under the fabric, and you made a sound that short-circuited several major brain functions.

"Wait," you gasped, pulling back slightly. Your lips were swollen, eyes dark, and it took every ounce of control not to dive back in. "Are we—what are we doing here?"

"I don't know," he admitted, resting his forehead against yours. Both of you were breathing hard, bodies lined up in ways that made thinking difficult. "What do you want us to be doing?"

"I want—" You stopped, seemed to gather yourself. Your hands were still in his hair, nails scratching lightly at his scalp in a way that made him want to purr. "I want to do this right this time. I want to be sure we're not just... falling back into old patterns."

"This doesn't feel like old patterns." His thumb stroked along your ribs, feeling the expansion of your breath. "This feels new. Better. Like we might actually know what we're doing this time."

"Do we though?" But you were smiling, small and real. "Because I'm sitting on your kitchen counter at 8 AM, wearing your clothes, and I'm about five seconds from doing something really stupid."

"What kind of stupid?"

"The kind where I drag you back to that couch and show you exactly how much I missed you."

Jesus. He pressed his face into your neck, trying to get his bearings. "That doesn't sound stupid. That sounds—"

"Like we're skipping steps again." Your fingers gentled in his hair, stroking now instead of gripping. "Like we're using physical stuff to avoid talking about the hard stuff."

She was right. Of course she was right. Two years of therapy for both of them, and here they were, ready to fall back into bed without addressing any of the things that had driven them apart.

"Okay," he said, pulling back to look at you. It took effort—every instinct screaming to stay close, to take what you were offering—but he managed it. "Okay. You're right. We should talk."

"Such a responsible adult," you teased, but there was affection in it. Love, even. "Therapy’s really done a number on you."

"You have no idea."

He helped you down from the counter, both of you adjusting clothes and trying to pretend the kitchen wasn't charged with enough sexual tension to power Brooklyn. You settled back at the counter with your rapidly cooling breakfast, and he took the stool next to you this time. Close enough that your knees touched. Small victories.

"So," you said, cutting into your omelet. "Talk. What do we do now?"

It was a good question. The question, really. Two years of growth, of therapy, of learning to be whole people instead of broken halves. They couldn't just slot back together and pretend nothing had happened. But they couldn't pretend they weren't still inevitably drawn to each other either.

"I don't know," he admitted. "But I know I want to try. Real try, not the half-assed thing I was doing before. I want to tell you about the hard stuff. I want to trust you with all of it, not just the parts I think you can handle. I want..." He paused, gathered courage. "I want to be the partner you deserved two years ago. If you'll let me."

You set down your fork, turned to face him fully. "I want that too. But I need—we both need—to be whole people first. Not trying to fix each other or complete each other or whatever codependent shit we were doing before."

"Agreed." He risked reaching out, covering your hand with his metal one. You turned your palm up, interlacing the fingers, and something in his chest eased. "So what does that look like?"

"I think..." You squeezed his hand, thinking. "I think it looks like taking things slow. Like actually dating this time, not just falling into living together because it's easier. Like being honest about the scary stuff, even when our brains are telling us to protect each other."

"Therapy homework," he said with a grimace. "Keene's gonna love this."

"Mine too. She's been saying I need to practice healthy boundaries for months."

"So... boundaries." The word felt foreign in his mouth when it came to you. But necessary. "What do you need?"

You considered this, thumb stroking over his metal knuckles absently. "Time. Space to keep being my own person. Regular check-ins about how we're feeling, even when—especially when—it's uncomfortable. And..." You looked at him directly. "I need you to trust me. Really trust me. With the missions that go bad, with the nightmares, with the days when you can barely get out of bed. All of it."

"That's gonna be hard," he admitted.

"I know."

"But I want to try."

"I know that too."

They sat there for a moment, hands linked, breakfast cooling between them. It wasn't the passionate reconciliation his body wanted. Wasn't the dramatic merger of souls that movies promised. It was quieter than that. More solid. Real in a way that all their previous attempts hadn't been.

"So," he said eventually. "Want to go on a date with me?"

You laughed, bright and surprised. "A date?"

"Yeah. Friday night. I'll pick you up and everything. We can do the whole first date thing properly this time."

"We already slept together on our actual first date."

"Which is why we're doing it better this time." He brought your joined hands to his lips, kissing your knuckles. "What do you say?"

"I say..." You pretended to consider, but your smile gave you away. "Pick me up at seven. And Barnes? Bring flowers."

"Yes ma'am."

You stayed for another hour, talking through logistics and boundaries and all the unsexy parts of rebuilding a relationship. He drove you home on his bike—you still remembered exactly how to move with him through traffic—and walked you to your door like a gentleman.

"Friday," you said, and it sounded like a promise.

"Friday," he agreed.

You went up on your toes and kissed his cheek, soft and brief. Then you were gone, leaving him standing on your stoop with his hand pressed to his face like a teenager.

He made it back to his apartment before the full weight of it hit him. You were back. Not in his bed, not in his life fully, but back in his orbit. They had a date. A real date, with parameters and boundaries and all the things Keene had been telling him he needed.

He picked up his phone, scrolled to his therapist's contact.

"I need an emergency session," he said when Keene answered. "Something happened."

"Are you safe?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm—I'm good. Really good. That's kind of the problem."

A pause. "This is about her, isn't it?"

"How did you—"

"James. We've been working together for two years. I know your 'she's back in my life' voice."

"I have a 'she's back in my life' voice?"

"You have several. Which one is this—the panicked one or the cautiously optimistic one?"

Bucky considered, thinking about your hand in his, the way you'd kissed him like you had all the time in the world.

"Cautiously optimistic," he decided.

"Then I'll see you Thursday at our regular time. And James? Good job on reaching out instead of spiraling."

"Thanks."

"Oh, and James? Flowers. Don't forget flowers."

"Already on it."

He hung up and stared at his journal, still open on the counter where you'd left it. Evidence of two years of missing you, wanting you, learning to be someone who could deserve you.

Time to put all that work to use.

He had a date to plan.

~ six months later ~

The couch had become sacred ground.

Not in the way it used to be—a monument to his cowardice, the place he'd slept to avoid your bed. Now it held different memories. Better ones. The afternoon he'd spent relearning your body. The night he'd finally told you about Warsaw, really told you, while you held his hand and didn't flinch. The morning he'd made love to you slow and quiet while rain streaked the windows.

Tonight, you were draped across his lap, wearing one of his t-shirts and not much else, pretending to watch whatever movie he'd put on. He wasn't paying attention either. Too focused on the way you kept shifting against him, the little sighs you made when his fingers traced patterns on your bare thigh.

"You're not watching," you accused, but your voice was breathy, distracted.

"Neither are you." His metal hand slid higher, fingertips brushing the edge of your underwear. The sensors registered heat, dampness, the way your muscles tensed in anticipation. "Got something more interesting in mind?"

You turned in his lap to face him, straddling his thighs with a flexibility that still made his brain short-circuit. "Maybe."

"Maybe?" He gripped your hips, pulled you flush against him. You were already wet—he could feel it through the thin fabric between you both, and it made his cock twitch with interest. "Gonna need more than maybe, sweetheart."

Instead of answering, you rocked against him, a slow roll of your hips that made you both catch your breath. Your hands braced on his shoulders, fingers digging in just enough to ground you both.

"Missed you today," you said, and it wasn't what he expected. Your voice was soft, honest in that way that still sometimes caught him off guard.

"I was only gone eight hours."

"I know." Another roll of your hips, more deliberate this time. "Still missed you."

Something in his chest went tight and warm. Two years back together, and you still missed him when he was gone. Still wanted him when he came home. Still looked at him like he was something worth keeping.

And in his bedside drawer, hidden beneath old mission reports and spare magazines, sat a small velvet box that had been waiting three years. The one he'd bought drunk on love and convinced he'd found forever. Even through your separation, through all the therapy and growth and pain, he'd never been able to throw it away.

Now it waited for the right moment—not rushing this time, not desperate. Just certain.

"Show me," he said, voice rougher than intended. "Show me how much."

Your eyes went dark at the command. You loved this—when he got demanding, when he stopped treating you like glass. It had taken months to learn your signals, to trust that you'd tell him if something was too much. Now he could read your body like his favorite book, knew exactly when to push and when to ease back.

He slid his metal hand between you both, pressing the heel against you through your underwear. You gasped, hips jerking forward, and he smiled. "That's it. Take what you need."

You ground against his hand with increasing desperation, chasing friction. He watched your face, cataloging every expression—the way your brows drew together when something felt particularly good, how your mouth fell open when he increased the pressure. Beautiful. Fucking perfect.

"Not enough," you whimpered, movements becoming frantic. "Need—"

"I know what you need." He pulled your underwear aside with his flesh hand, metal fingers finding your clit immediately. The temperature difference made you cry out—cool metal against overheated flesh. "Always so wet for me. So ready. Been thinking about this all day too, haven't you?"

You nodded frantically, beyond words as he circled your clit with devastating precision. The upgraded sensors were incredible, letting him feel every twitch, every pulse of need. He could tell you were already close, wound tight from anticipation.

"Want to try something," he said, slowing his movements just enough to make you whine. "Trust me?"

"Always." No hesitation, and that trust still humbled him.

He shifted his hand, two metal fingers sliding through your wetness before pressing inside. You were soaked, taking them easily, and the sound you made went straight to his cock. But that wasn't the best part—the best part was activating the subtle vibration function Shuri had installed for "therapeutic purposes."

"Oh fuck—" Your whole body went rigid, then melted against him. "Bucky, what—"

"Upgrade." He curled his fingers, finding that spot that made you see stars while the vibrations worked you from the inside. "Good?"

You couldn't answer, too lost in sensation as he worked you higher. Your wetness coated his fingers, dripping down to his palm, and he had to grit his teeth against the urge to forget the foreplay and just bury himself inside you.

"Look at you," he murmured, free hand tangling in your hair to keep you facing him. "Taking it so well. So perfect for me. Can feel how close you are—clenching around my fingers, trembling in my lap. You gonna come for me?"

You nodded desperately, movements erratic as you rode his hand. He increased the vibration, pressed his thumb to your clit, and watched you shatter. Your orgasm hit hard, back arching as you cried out. He worked you through it, drawing it out until you were shaking and grabbing his wrist.

"Too much," you gasped, but he didn't stop. Just gentled his movements, eased the vibrations down to a subtle hum.

"You can take it." He kissed your neck, felt your pulse racing under his lips. "Know you can. Always so good for me, aren't you? Can give me one more."

You made a broken sound as he resumed his rhythm, oversensitive and overwhelmed. Your whole body trembled, caught between pulling away and pressing closer. He loved you like this—completely undone, trusting him to take care of you even when it bordered on too much.

"That's my girl," he praised as fresh wetness coated his fingers. "Getting even wetter. Body knows what it needs even when your brain's all fuzzy. Just feel, sweetheart. Let me make you feel good."

The second orgasm built slower, your body fighting it even as it climbed. He could tell the exact moment you gave in, stopped resisting and just let it happen. You went limp against him, only his hand in your hair keeping you upright as you came again, quieter this time but no less intense.

"Beautiful," he breathed, finally easing his fingers out. They were soaked, glistening in the low light. "So fucking beautiful."

You made a small sound when he lifted you, rearranging you both so you were on your back on the couch, him kneeling between your spread thighs. Your underwear was ruined, twisted to the side and soaked through. He pulled them off, tossed them somewhere behind him.

"Look at this pretty cunt," he said, running a finger through your folds. You twitched, sensitive, and he smiled. "All swollen and wet. Can see how hard you came—still clenching around nothing, still dripping for me."

"Please," you whispered, the first word you'd managed in minutes.

"Please what?" He freed his cock, groaning at the relief. He was painfully hard, had been since you first climbed in his lap. "Tell me what you want."

"You." Your hands reached for him, shaky but insistent. "Want you inside me. Need to feel you."

"Yeah?" He rubbed the head of his cock through your wetness, coating himself. You were furnace-hot, slick enough that he had to grit his teeth for control. "Think you can take it? Already came twice, might be too sensitive..."

"I can take it." There was steel under the desperation in your voice. His girl, always stronger than you looked. "Please, Bucky. Need you."

He pushed inside in one smooth thrust, and you both groaned. You were molten around him, cunt fluttering with aftershocks that made him see stars. Perfect. Like you were made for him, shaped by him, existing just for this.

"Fuck," he breathed, having to stay still or risk ending this embarrassingly fast. "Feel so good, baby. So wet and tight and perfect. Can feel you trying to pull me deeper. Greedy little thing, aren't you?"

You clenched around him deliberately, and he had to press his forehead to your shoulder for composure. Two years, and you still affected him like this. Still made him feel desperate and possessive and completely fucking gone for you.

He started to move, slow and deep, watching your face for signs of discomfort. But you just gazed up at him with trust and heat and something that looked a lot like awe. Like he was something worth looking at that way, even after everything.

"Love fucking you like this," he told you, picking up the pace. "Love watching you take my cock. Love how wet you get, how you stretch around me. Could live inside this sweet cunt."

You moaned, arching into him. Your hands clutched at his shoulders, his arms, anywhere you could reach. He caught them, pinned them above your head with his metal hand. The position made you clench around him, and he smiled.

"Like that? Like being held down?" He thrust harder, deeper, watching your tits bounce with the force. "Like knowing you can't move, can't do anything but take what I give you?"

You nodded frantically, and he could feel fresh wetness where you were joined. Perfect. His perfect girl, who trusted him with your pleasure, who let him take control because you knew he'd take care of you.

"Gonna come again," he told you, rhythm getting rougher. "Gonna fill this pretty cunt up. Mark you from the inside, make sure you feel me all day tomorrow. Would you like that? Walking around full of my come, knowing who you belong to?"

"Yes," you gasped, and he could feel you getting close again. "Yes, please, yours—"

"Mine," he agreed, and reached down to rub your clit with his flesh hand. "All mine. This cunt, this body, this perfect fucking girl. Mine to fuck, mine to fill, mine to take care of."

You came with a cry, convulsing around him. The feeling of your cunt gripping him, trying to milk his cock, sent him over the edge. He buried himself deep and came hard, grinding against you as he filled you.

"That's it," he groaned, still pulsing inside you. "Take it all. Such a good girl, taking everything I give you."

You stayed locked together as you caught your breath, both trembling with aftershocks. He released your wrists, smoothing his hands over the marks he'd left. Not bruises—he was always careful about pressure—but evidence of his grip that would fade within the hour.

"Okay?" he asked, pressing kisses to your temple.

You hummed contentment, boneless and sated beneath him. "More than okay. That was..."

"Yeah." He knew what you meant. The intensity, the connection, the way it felt like coming home every single time.

He eased out carefully, both of you hissing at the sensitivity. His come immediately started leaking out of you, and something primal in him loved the sight. Marked. His.

"Stay there," he ordered, heading to the bathroom for a washcloth.

When he returned, you'd curled onto your side, looking soft and fucked out and perfect. He cleaned you gently, carefully, smiling when you twitched at the contact.

"Sensitive?"

"Mmm. Good sensitive." You caught his hand, brought it to your lips. "Love you."

"Love you too." The words came easy now, no hesitation or fear. Just truth.

He gathered you up, carrying you to bed properly. Tomorrow you'd deal with the real world—missions and therapy and all the work that went into building a life together. But tonight, you had this. Each other. A love that had survived separation and learned how to stay.

"Hey," you mumbled against his chest as he settled you both under the covers.

"Yeah?"

"We're really doing this, aren't we? Making it work?"

He pressed a kiss to your hair, pulled you closer. "Yeah, sweetheart. We really are."

And for the first time in your relationship, he thought of that ring in his dresser without a doubt in his mind.

feedback is always appreciated! ♡

[am-3-thyst]

attrition | b.b. (1)

✮ synopsis: six months. that's how long it takes for you to realize love isn't enough. six months of bucky sleeping on the couch, of missed anniversaries and empty drawers where his things should be. six months of being loved by someone who treats you like you're already a ghost.

✮ pairing: post-thunderbolts!bucky x fem!reader

✮ disclaimers (18+): heavy angst, toxic relationship dynamics, emotional manipulation (unintentional), alcohol use/intoxication, unwanted touching (from minor character), violence, ptsd and trauma responses, therapy avoidance, communication breakdown, emotional neglect, mild sexual content (minors dni), depression, co-dependency, anxiety, self-destructive behaviors

✮ word count: 14.7k (woof)

✮ a/n: ANGST CITY BABY. but this is part one of a two-part series and i p r o m i s e (promise promise) there's a happy ending on the horizon. but i've gotta drag everyone through the emotional trenches first 🤠 (also the text messages keep formatting all wonky and i've given up trying to fix them. sry.)

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The candle wax had started pooling at the base, creating small rivers that threatened to spill onto the tablecloth your grandmother gave you. You'd been watching it for the past twenty minutes, cataloging its slow destruction while the roast chicken developed a skin that could probably deflect bullets.

Which, given who you were waiting for, felt grimly appropriate.

Your bare feet had gone numb against the kitchen tile, a bone-deep cold that crept up through your ankles. The dress—the one that made you feel like you could conquer an imaginary boardroom and bar fights with equal efficiency—now clung uncomfortably to your ribs, each breath a reminder of how long you'd been sitting here, waiting. Your stomach had given up growling an hour ago, resigned to its empty fate.

Six months. The number sat heavy behind your sternum, a weight that pressed against your lungs with each inhale. You'd moved in together at three months—a decision that had felt like destiny at the time. His toothbrush next to yours. His combat boots by your rain boots. His leather jacket slowly accumulating the smell of your perfume. 

It had seemed romantic then, this swift collision of lives. Now the apartment felt like a beautiful prison you'd both walked into willingly, locking the door behind you.

The wine had gone warm in your glass, taking on that sickly sweet quality that made your teeth ache. You'd stopped drinking after the second one, some optimistic part of you still believing he'd walk through the door in time to share the bottle. That same part of you had carefully wrapped the small gift sitting on the coffee table—nothing major, just something that had made you think of him. A leather journal, worn and vintage, the kind he always touched in antique shops but never bought. You'd written something inside it this morning, when hope still felt like a reasonable emotion.

Your phone sat dark beside your plate. No messages. No missed calls. The silence of it felt accusatory, like even the device had given up on pretending this was normal.

When the key finally scraped in the lock, your spine straightened involuntarily, vertebrae clicking back into alignment after hours of slumping. Your heart kicked up its rhythm, that Pavlovian response to his arrival you hadn't managed to train out of yourself yet. Even now, even angry and hurt and tired, your body betrayed you with its eagerness.

Bucky filled the doorway like he always did—not just with his physical presence but with that particular gravity that made rooms reorganize themselves around him. Exhaustion hung on him like a second skin, in the slope of his shoulders and the way he held his head. His shoulders carried that specific tension that meant the mission had gone sideways, muscles bunched under his jacket like he was still ready to fight. The cut on his cheek was fresh, still weeping slightly, and his tactical pants bore smears of something dark that could be mud or blood or both.

He stopped mid-step, keys still dangling from his flesh hand. His eyes—that impossible blue that still made your stomach flip traitorously—tracked from your face to the dress to the table set for two. The wine bottle. The wilted salad. The candles drowning in their own wax.

You watched the exact moment comprehension hit him. His pupils dilated slightly, jaw going slack before tightening again. The keys landed in the bowl with more force than necessary, the sound sharp in the quiet apartment.

"Shit." The word came out raw, scraped from somewhere deep in his chest. "Sweetheart, I—"

"It's fine." The words jumped out before he could finish, your voice pitched just high enough to sound almost believable. Already you were moving, hands reaching for plates like this was all part of the plan. The ceramic was cool under your fingers, grounding you. "You're here now. Are you hungry? I can reheat—"

"Don't." His voice cut through your bustling, low and rough like gravel. When you looked back, he hadn't moved from the entryway, just stood there like he was cataloging damage from a bomb he'd accidentally detonated. One hand braced against the doorframe, knuckles white.

"Really, it's nothing." You turned back to the table, focusing on the simple task of stacking dishes. Your hands stayed steady even as something hot and tight crawled up your throat. "I made too much anyway. You know me, always overestimating portions."

"What time did I say?" The question came out carefully neutral, but you'd learned to read the microscopic changes in his voice. The slight rasp that meant self-hatred was creeping in.

"Seven-ish?" You kept your tone light, breezy, the voice you used when pretending everything was fine during your mother's phone calls. "But honestly, I should have checked. I know how these things go."

"It's nine." He said it like he was confessing to a crime. "Nine oh seven."

"Bucky, really—"

You glanced at him, saw something shift in his expression as he took in the scene again. His eyes moved from the table to you, cataloging details with that sniper's precision that never quite turned off. The dress. Your bare feet. The careful way you'd done your hair. Then his gaze caught on something over your shoulder, snagging like fabric on a nail.

The coffee table.

His whole body went rigid, that predator stillness that meant his brain was processing a threat. Except the threat was a small wrapped package, sitting innocent and damning in the lamplight.

Your stomach dropped somewhere around your knees.

"What—" he started, voice strangled.

"Oh, that's nothing." The words tumbled out too fast as you moved, scooping up the gift before he could step closer. The paper crinkled under your grip, and you fought the urge to crush it completely. "Just something I saw. Picked up. Seriously, not important."

His face went pale—not the gradual drain of color but an instant bleaching that made him look hollow, ghostlike. The cut on his cheek, half-healed and forgotten until now, stood out angry and red against his bloodless skin. You watched him piece it together in real time, could actually see the moment understanding clicked behind his eyes.

His left hand—the metal one—betrayed him first. The plates shifted and recalibrated with soft mechanical whispers, the way they always did when his emotions ran too hot, too fast for his body to process. A tell he'd never managed to suppress.

His gaze drifted past you, landing on that stupid Seinfeld calendar stuck to the fridge. The one he'd bought you three months ago, cackling like an idiot in the checkout line about how George Costanza somehow perfectly captured your shared existential dread. It hung there between old takeout menus and photo booth strips from better days, garish and wonderful and so utterly them that it hurt to look at.

You watched him stare at it, watched him count backwards in his head. Watched the last piece slot into place.

"It’s today," he said slowly, like he was defusing a bomb. Like the words might explode if he said them too fast. "It's—fuck." The profanity came out as barely more than a breath. "Fuck. Six months."

"It's really not a big deal." You were already shoving the gift into the nearest drawer, the wood protesting as you forced it shut. Your chest felt tight, like someone had wrapped steel bands around your ribs and was slowly tightening them. "Just a random Tuesday, you know? I mean, who even counts months? That's so high school."

"You made dinner." His voice had gone hollow, echoing strangely in the small space. Each word seemed to cost him something. "You got dressed up. You bought—"

"I like cooking." The words came out too fast, too bright, like shattered glass catching light. Your smile felt like it might crack your face. "And this dress is comfortable, I wear it all the time. You probably just haven't noticed because you're—anyway, should I heat up the chicken? You must be starving."

"Stop."

The word came out rough, almost angry, but when you looked at him, you could see all that fury turned inward. His flesh hand was clenched into a fist so tight you could hear his knuckles pop. The metal one hung carefully still at his side, like he didn't trust it. Didn't trust himself.

"Just—stop pretending this is okay."

"But it is okay." You forced the smile wider, until your cheeks ached with it. The expression you'd perfected after months of practice. "I understand. Your work is important. The world needs saving. What's a dinner compared to that?"

Something shifted in his expression—frustration bleeding into something that looked almost like disappointment. His jaw worked like he was chewing on words, trying to find the right ones. You recognized that look. It was the same one he got when he wanted you to yell at him, to throw something, to be anything other than understanding.

But you couldn't give him that. Wouldn't. Because if you started letting the hurt show, you might never stop. The dam would break, and you'd drown both of you in the flood.

"I forgot our anniversary." He said it flatly, like stating evidence at a trial. Like maybe if he said it out loud, it would hurt less. It didn't.

"It's just a day." You busied yourself with clearing plates, needing the physical action to keep yourself anchored. The fork clinked against china, a tinny sound that made you wince. "We're together every day. That's what matters, right?"

"You don't believe that."

"Sure I do." Another lie, smooth as silk. You'd gotten good at them. Had to, living like this. "Besides, when you think about it, anniversaries are kind of arbitrary. Why six months and not seven? Why celebrate time at all when—"

"What was in the box?"

He'd moved closer while you rambled, silent as always. Ghost-quiet, they probably called it in his files. Now he stood between you and the kitchen, blocking your escape with his body. This close, you could smell the mission on him—cordite and copper and something acrid that might have been burning plastic.

"Nothing important. Just… something that made me think of you." You shrugged, aiming for casual and landing somewhere around manic. Your hands fluttered like birds with broken wings. "But honestly, it's stupid. You probably wouldn't even—"

"Show me."

"Bucky—"

"Please." The word caught you off guard, soft and desperate. It hit you in the solar plexus, knocked the air from your lungs. "Just... let me see what you got me."

You could have refused. Should have, maybe. Instead, you found yourself retrieving the small package, the drawer sticking slightly as you pulled it open again. Your hands trembled as you held it out, and you hated them for the betrayal.

He took it carefully, like it might explode. Or like it was precious. The same way he'd touched you, in the beginning, before he'd learned you wouldn't break. The paper fell away with careful movements of his flesh hand, the metal one still hanging useless at his side.

The journal revealed itself slowly—leather worn soft with age, the color of whiskey in low light. You'd seen him run his fingers over similar ones a dozen times in antique shops, always putting them back with a small shake of his head. Like he didn't deserve nice things. Like he couldn't allow himself even that small pleasure.

"I thought—" Your voice caught, and you had to swallow hard to continue. "You're always writing on those loose papers, and they get everywhere, and I thought maybe—but it's dumb. You probably prefer the papers. It's not—"

"It's perfect." His voice came out raw, scraped. Like the words hurt coming up.

He opened it with careful fingers, found the note you'd tucked into the first page. You watched his eyes track over your handwriting, watched his jaw tighten with each word. You'd written it last night, three glasses of wine deep and feeling sentimental. Something about how his stories deserved a better home than scattered napkins and receipt backs. Something about being grateful for every day, even the difficult ones.

Now it felt like evidence of your naivety.

"It's really not," you said quickly, the words tumbling over each other in their haste to get out. "I can return it. Get you something more practical. Or nothing. Nothing's good, too."

He looked up at you then, and the devastation in his eyes made your stomach flip. It was the look he got sometimes when he woke up from nightmares, before he remembered where he was. When he was. Lost and guilty and carrying too much weight for one person's shoulders.

"Why are you doing this?"

"Doing what?"

"This." He gestured vaguely between you, the journal still clutched in his flesh hand like an anchor. "Acting like nothing matters. Like I didn't just—like this doesn't—" He stopped, frustrated, the words tangling up behind his teeth. "I fucked up. I forgot something important. Why won't you be angry?"

"Because I'm not angry." Your voice stayed steady even as your nails dug crescents into your palms. "I'm fine. We're fine. Everything's—"

"Fine," he finished, bitter as black coffee. "Yeah. You keep saying that."

You shifted your weight, suddenly hyperaware of your body. How your feet ached from standing, cold and numb against the tile. How the dress pulled at your ribs with each breath. How your hands couldn't seem to stop moving, straightening things that didn't need straightening.

"Look, why don't you get cleaned up?" You couldn't meet his eyes, focusing instead on a spot just over his shoulder. "I'll put the food away. We can just... reset. Pretend this didn't happen."

"Is that what you want? To pretend?"

"I want—" The words caught in your throat like fishhooks. It felt like a test.

You forced another smile, felt it stretch your face into something that probably looked more grimace than grin. "I want you to eat something. And maybe put something on that cut. It looks deep."

His flesh hand went to his cheek automatically, coming away with fresh blood. He stared at it like he'd forgotten he was bleeding. Like physical pain was so far down his priority list it barely registered.

"It's nothing."

"Now who's deflecting?" The words slipped out before you could stop them, carrying more edge than you'd intended. A crack in the facade you'd been so carefully maintaining.

His eyes sharpened, zeroing in on that first real break in your performance all night. "Say it."

"Say what?"

"Whatever you're thinking. Whatever you're pushing down." He moved closer, and your body responded without your permission—heart rate spiking, breath catching, skin prickling with awareness. "Come on. Tell me what a shit boyfriend I am. Tell me how I'm ruining this."

"You're not—"

"I am." His voice was rough, urgent. Desperate in a way that made your chest ache. "I know I am. I can see it happening and I can't—I don't know how to stop it. So just say it. Please. Be mad at me."

"I can't." The admission came out small, tired. True. "I can't be mad at you when I know what your life is like. When I know what you carry. It would be like... like being mad at the rain for falling."

His metal hand clenched, servos whirring softly in the quiet apartment. 

"I'm not the weather," he said quietly. "I'm a person who makes choices. And I chose wrong tonight."

"You chose to save lives." You moved past him toward the kitchen, needing distance. Needing air that didn't smell like gunpowder and guilt. "Hard to argue with that math."

He caught your wrist—flesh hand, always the flesh hand when he was trying to be gentle. His thumb found your pulse point automatically, and you knew he could feel how it jumped at his touch.

"That's not... You know that's not what this is about."

"Isn't it?" You looked down at his hand on your wrist, at the blood still drying in the creases of his knuckles. At the flesh and bone that could be so gentle and so violent, often in the same night. "Every time you walk out that door, you're choosing them over me. And that's... that's right. That's what heroes do. I just need to be better at accepting it."

"Don't." His grip tightened fractionally. Not enough to hurt, never enough to hurt, but enough to feel the desperation in it. "Don't make me into something noble when I'm fucking this up. When I'm hurting you."

"You're not hurting me." The words tasted like ash. "I'm fine."

He made a sound that might have been a laugh if it wasn't so bitter. "You keep saying that word."

"Because it's true."

"No," he said quietly, "it's not. And we both know it."

You stood there in your kitchen—his kitchen, this shared space that felt more like a crime scene now—and wondered how you'd gotten here. How six months of loving this man had taught you to swallow so much disappointment it had become second nature. Your throat felt full of unsaid words, accusations and pleas and declarations all tangled together into something too big to voice.

"I need to change," you said finally, extracting your wrist from his grip. The skin there felt too warm, like his touch had branded you. "This stupid dress is giving me a headache."

That was a lie too. The headache was from clenched teeth, from holding your face in that careful smile, from the effort of pretending everything was fine when it was anything but. But he let you go, watching you retreat with eyes that seemed to catalog every step like evidence of his failures.

You made it to the bedroom door before his voice stopped you.

"I love you."

The words hit you in the back like bullets. You closed your eyes, hand tightening on the doorframe until your knuckles went white. Your lungs forgot how to work for a moment, chest tight with everything you couldn't say.

"I know," you said without turning around.

Because you did know. That was the worst part. You knew he loved you the way he knew how—desperately, violently, silently. The way a soldier loves peacetime. The way a ghost loves being seen. The way a weapon loves being put down.

It just wasn't enough anymore.

But you couldn't say that. Couldn't risk the weight of that truth. So you did what you'd gotten so good at doing.

You pretended it was fine.

The bedroom was dark when he finally came to bed, but you weren't sleeping. Couldn't, with your mind running circles and your body still humming with the tension of the evening. You'd changed into one of his old shirts and curled up on your side, facing the wall, listening to the sounds of him moving through the apartment. The shower running. The medicine cabinet opening and closing. His footsteps, heavier than usual with exhaustion.

The mattress dipped behind you, and you felt the heat of him before he even touched you. He smelled like your soap now, the gunpowder and blood washed away, leaving just Bucky. Just the man you'd fallen in love with, who was somehow both exactly who you'd thought he was and nothing like it at all.

His flesh hand found your hip, tentative at first, then more certain when you didn't pull away. You never pulled away. That was part of the problem, wasn't it? You'd made yourself so available, so understanding, that he'd forgotten you had edges. Forgotten you could break.

"You awake?" His voice was rough in the darkness, barely above a whisper.

You didn't answer, but your breathing hitched, giving you away. You felt him shift closer, his chest pressing against your back, his arm sliding around your waist to pull you against him. The metal arm stayed wedged between them, carefully positioned so the plates wouldn't touch your skin.

"I'm sorry," he breathed against your neck, lips brushing the sensitive spot below your ear. "I'm so fucking sorry."

You closed your eyes, feeling the familiar routine begin. This was how he apologized when the words weren't enough, when his voice failed him like it so often did. With touch. With his body. With careful, focused attention that used to make you feel cherished.

His hand slipped under the hem of your shirt, fingers splaying across your stomach. Not demanding, just... present. Asking. Always asking, even after six months, like he still couldn't quite believe he was allowed this. His lips pressed against your shoulder, your neck, the spot where your pulse jumped traitorously.

You turned in his arms because you were weak. Because despite everything, your body still responded to his like a flower turning toward the sun. His eyes were dark in the dim light filtering through the curtains, pupils blown wide with want and something that might have been desperation.

He kissed you like he was drowning and you were air. Like he could fix everything broken between you if he just tried hard enough, loved you thoroughly enough. His flesh hand cradled your face like you were something precious, thumb brushing across your cheekbone with aching gentleness.

You let him, because this was easier than talking. Easier than admitting that the distance between you had grown so vast that even this—this thing that had always worked—felt like putting a bandaid on a bullet wound.

He undressed you slowly, reverently, his touch mapping every inch of skin like he was memorizing you. Like he was afraid you might disappear. And maybe you were, in a way. Maybe you'd been disappearing for months, becoming less solid with each missed dinner, each forgotten plan, each night you fell asleep alone.

His mouth followed his hands, pressing apologies into your skin that he couldn't speak aloud. He knew your body like a mission he'd studied, every sensitive spot, every place that made your breath catch. He applied that knowledge with focused intensity, watching your face in the darkness for every micro-expression, adjusting his touch based on the smallest reactions.

It was good. It was always good. He made sure of that with technical precision, with the kind of attention to detail that should have made you feel worshipped. His flesh hand worked between your thighs with practiced movements, finding exactly the right rhythm, the right pressure. His mouth on your breast, your throat, swallowing the sounds you made like they were sustenance.

But even as your body responded, as heat coiled low in your belly and your hands tangled in his hair, some part of you stayed separate. Observing. Cataloging the way he held himself so carefully above you, weight balanced on his right arm while the left stayed pressed against the mattress. The way his breathing stayed controlled, measured, even as sweat beaded on his forehead. The way he watched you with that same focused intensity he brought to everything, like making you come was a mission objective to complete.

When he finally pressed inside you, your back arched and his name fell from your lips like a prayer. He stilled for a moment, forehead pressed to yours, sharing breath in the darkness. You could feel the tremor in his arms, the effort it took to maintain that careful control.

He moved like he was handling something breakable. Deep, measured thrusts that built a steady rhythm designed to take you apart by degrees. His flesh hand found yours, lacing your fingers together beside your head, while the metal one stayed planted firmly on the mattress, bearing his weight.

You wanted to tell him to let go. To stop being so careful, so controlled. To give you something real instead of this perfect performance. But the words stuck in your throat, trapped behind months of fine and okay and it doesn't matter.

He knew exactly what angle made you gasp, exactly how to roll his hips to hit that spot that made stars explode behind your eyelids. He applied this knowledge ruthlessly, efficiently, until you were shaking beneath him, nails digging into his shoulders as waves of pleasure crashed over you.

He watched you fall apart with dark satisfaction, like he'd successfully completed a mission. His own release followed shortly after, his body shuddering silently above you, face buried in your neck. Even then, even lost in his own pleasure, he was quiet. Just harsh breathing and the whisper of your name, barely audible.

After, he held you too tightly, both arms around you now that the careful control wasn't needed. The metal arm was cool against your overheated skin, and you pressed into it, into this part of him he tried so hard to keep separate.

"Better?" he asked quietly, and you could hear the hope in it. Like maybe this had fixed something. Like maybe you'd forgotten about the cold dinner and the lonely wait and the wrapped gift hidden in a drawer.

"Yeah," you whispered, because what else could you say? How could you tell him that technically perfect sex couldn't fill the emotional void between you? That you needed more than his body—you needed his words, his presence, his time?

"Good," he murmured, already drifting toward sleep. The mission was complete. Objective achieved. Girlfriend satisfied.

You lay there in the darkness, listening to his breathing even out, feeling the weight of his arms around you. Six months of this. Six months of being loved by a man who couldn't say it out loud unless he thought he was losing you. Six months of being held by someone who only knew how to hold on too tight or let go completely.

Tomorrow, you told yourself. Tomorrow you'd find your voice. Tomorrow you'd stop pretending everything was fine.

Tonight, you just closed your eyes and pretended to sleep, counting his heartbeats against your back and wondering when love had started feeling so much like loneliness.

The morning light was doing that thing where it slanted through the blinds just wrong, striping across your face in a way that guaranteed a headache by noon. You'd been awake for the past hour, maybe two, caught in that special purgatory between sleep and consciousness where all your mistakes liked to parade themselves for review.

Bucky was still wrapped around you, flesh arm heavy across your waist, metal arm tucked carefully behind his back. Even in sleep, he kept it away from you. Like his subconscious had been programmed with the same careful distance as his waking mind.

You studied the ceiling, counting water stains like constellations, and tried to remember when it had become like this. When you'd become someone who catalogued disappointments instead of joys. Someone who lay in bed calculating the exact weight of a sleeping man's arm across your ribs.

It hadn't always been like this.

Six months ago, you'd been the woman who'd laughed—actually laughed—when he'd awkwardly admitted his therapist had suggested he ask you out. Not a polite titter or an uncomfortable chuckle, but a real, surprised burst of laughter that had made him jump.

"Oh my god," you'd said, wiping tears from your eyes while he sat frozen across from you at the dive bar he'd chosen. "Shit. That's definitely the most honest thing anyone's ever said on a first date."

His face had done something complicated—surprise melting into confusion, then something that might have been the birth of a smile. "You're... not going to throw your drink at me?"

"Why would I?" You'd raised your beer, foam sloshing dangerously close to the rim. "At least you're, I don’t know. Working on yourself. Do you know how rare that is, these days?"

He'd clinked his bottle against yours, and there it was—a real smile. The kind that transformed his whole face, made him look younger, softer somehow. "To horrible first impressions?"

"To honesty," you'd corrected. "Even the awkward kind."

That had been the beginning. Or maybe the beginning had been earlier, in your bookstore that smelled like dust and old paper and the obscure eighties rock you played just loud enough to discourage teenagers from using it as a hangout. He'd wandered in looking lost, all broad shoulders and careful movements, like he was afraid of breaking something.

Five visits. That's what it had taken. Five separate occasions of him pretending to browse your stacks while stealing glances at you over copies of Kerouac and Murakami. You'd watched him work up to it like a man approaching a live wire, and when he'd finally asked—voice rough, words tumbling over each other—you'd said yes before he'd even finished the sentence.

You'd slept together after that first date. It had surprised both of you—the way you'd crashed together outside your apartment, the way he'd kissed you like he was starving for it, the way you'd pulled him inside without a second thought.

"I don't usually—" he'd said after, lying in your bed looking shell-shocked and unbearably soft in the lamplight.

"Yeah, me neither," you'd admitted, then traced a finger along his flesh arm, marveling at how someone so dangerous could be so gentle. "But I'm glad we did."

He'd pulled you closer then, nose brushing against your temple. "Me too."

Those early days had been full of small revelations. You'd discovered he kept notes—actual handwritten notes on receipt backs and napkins and torn corners of newspapers. You'd found them scattered around his apartment like breadcrumbs: likes her coffee with cinnamon when she's sad and wears dad's old college sweatshirt on laundry day and laughs at commercials but only when she thinks no one's watching.

"Is this... about me?" you'd asked, holding up a scrap that read hates cilantro but won't send food back.

He'd flushed, reaching for the paper, but you'd held it out of reach. "My memory," he'd said quietly. "It's not always... Some days are harder than others. I don't want to forget the important things."

You'd kissed him then, soft and lingering, tasting the vulnerability in his admission. "I hate cilantro," you'd confirmed against his lips. "But I love that you noticed."

He'd come home bleeding more nights than not in those early months, before the move, when boundaries were still being negotiated. You'd gotten good at first aid by necessity, keeping supplies under your bathroom sink like some people kept spare towels. He'd sit on a stool while you worked, and inevitably—always—his hands would find your waist. He'd press his face against your stomach like he was trying to breathe you in, to memorize the feel of you through your sleep shirt.

"I'm okay," he'd mumble into the fabric while you cleaned a gash on his shoulder.

"I know," you'd say, even when he wasn't. Even when his hands shook against your hips and his breath came too fast. "I've got you."

Those were the nights he'd kiss you like a drowning man, desperate and deep, mapping your mouth with his tongue like he was trying to memorize the geography of you. You'd discovered early on that he loved kissing—could spend hours just making out like teenagers, all wandering hands and bitten lips and breathless laughter when you had to come up for air.

"This okay?" he'd ask between kisses, even after months together, checking in like he still couldn't quite believe he was allowed this.

"More than okay," you'd assure him, and watch his pupils blow wide before diving back in.

He'd sit through terrible spy movies with you, the ones with ridiculous plots and worse dialogue, because he'd noticed your collection and drawn his own conclusions. You'd curl up on his couch while Hollywood's version of espionage played out in technicolor absurdity.

"That's not how any of that works," he'd mutter when the hero rappelled through a ventilation shaft.

"That's the point," you'd say, tucking your feet under his thigh. "If I wanted realism, I'd watch the news."

But he'd watch anyway, adding dry commentary that made you laugh harder than the intentional jokes. During the love scenes, he'd trace patterns on your ankle with his thumb, pretending he wasn't affected while his ears turned pink.

The moving in together had been gradual, then sudden. Your toothbrush at his place. His favorite mug at yours. Until one day he'd looked around your apartment—at his jacket on your coat rack, his books mixed with yours, his reading glasses on your nightstand—and said, "This is inefficient."

"What is?"

"Paying for two places when we're always together anyway."

Not the most romantic proposition, but the way he'd been fidgeting with his car keys, nervous energy radiating off him in waves, told a different story.

"James Buchanan Barnes," you'd said slowly, "are you asking me to move in with you?"

"Maybe. Yes. If you want." He'd run his flesh hand through his hair, messing it up in that way that made your chest tight. "I want to wake up with you every day. Not just sometimes. Every day."

You'd said yes, of course. How could you not, when he looked at you like that? Like you were his anchor in a storm he couldn't name.

But somewhere between then and now, something had shifted. The notes stopped appearing—or maybe you'd stopped looking for them. The movie nights became fewer, his commentary sharper when they did happen. He still kissed you like he was drowning, but now it felt like he was already too far underwater to save.

"Hey," his voice, rough with sleep, pulled you from your reverie. "You're thinking too loud."

"Just thinking," you said softly, not turning to face him.

"Yeah?" His lips found the spot where your neck met your shoulder, pressing a kiss there that felt like an apology. "What about?"

The way we used to be. When loving you felt like breathing instead of drowning.

"The Donovans," you said instead, nodding toward the wall. "They're at it again. Who starts rearranging furniture at six in the morning?"

He huffed a laugh against your skin, and you could feel him listening. Sure enough, the telltale scrape of something heavy being dragged across the floor filtered through the thin walls, followed by muffled voices.

"Maybe they're trying to spice things up," he murmured. "New feng shui, new marriage."

"Is that what we need? Better feng shui?"

His arm tightened around you, pulling you back against his chest. "I don't think there's a furniture arrangement that fixes what I've mangled."

The honesty of it caught you off guard. For a moment, it felt like before. Like you were still those two people who'd found something unexpected in each other.

Then his phone buzzed on the nightstand, and you felt him go still. The mission alert tone. Because of course it was.

"I know," you said before he could speak. "You have to go."

"I—" He paused, and you could feel the weight of words unsaid pressing against your spine. "Yeah. I do."

You sat up, pulling the sheet around yourself, watching him dress in efficient movements. His tactical gear was kept in the closet now, easy access. When had that become normal? When had you stopped noticing the weapons hidden around your shared space like deadly décor?

At the door, he paused. "About last night—"

"Bucky." You finally looked at him, taking in the guilt etched into every line of his face. "Just... be careful, okay?"

Something flickered in his eyes—surprise, maybe, at the lack of accusation. "Always am."

"No," you said quietly. "You're really not."

He crossed back to you in three strides, cupping your face in his hands—both of them, metal and flesh—and kissed you like he used to. Like you were oxygen and he'd been holding his breath for too long. When he pulled back, you were both breathing hard.

"I love you," he said, fierce and desperate. "Even when I'm shit at showing it. I love you."

"I know," you whispered. "That's what makes this so hard."

He left then, and you were alone with the ghost of his kiss still on your lips and the weight of everything unsaid settling into your bones. You made coffee, adding cinnamon like you always did when you were sad, and tried not to think about how he'd remember that detail but forget your anniversary.

Love was funny that way. It could be in the small notes scattered like breadcrumbs and still get lost in the larger leaving. It could be desperately real and still not be enough.

You found a piece of paper stuck to the coffee maker as you reached for a mug. His handwriting, clearly recent—the pen he'd used was still uncapped on the counter:

she only listens to Fleetwood Mac when she can't sleep. Dreams instead of Rumours = the bad kind of insomnia

You stared at it for a long time, remembering last Tuesday when you'd played "Dreams" on repeat at 3 AM, curled on the couch while he'd been supposedly asleep. He'd been listening. Taking notes. Still trying to decode you like you were a mission he could complete if he just gathered enough intel.

You carefully folded it and put it in the drawer where you'd hidden his anniversary gift. Another piece of evidence that you'd been loved by Bucky Barnes. Another reminder that sometimes love, no matter how real, wasn't enough to make someone stay.

The nightmare came a few weeks later, on a Tuesday.

You'd been having a good day, or at least good by recent standards. Bucky had been home for a full week—some kind of record lately. He'd even cooked dinner, that pasta dish his mother used to make, though he could never quite remember if it was oregano or basil she'd used. You'd eaten together at the actual table, phones face down, talking about nothing important in that comfortable way that made you ache for how things used to be.

Maybe that's why you'd let your guard down. Why you'd curled into him that night instead of maintaining the careful distance that had become your default. He'd seemed present, actually there with you instead of wherever his mind usually wandered. His arm had been warm around you, and you'd fallen asleep to the steady rhythm of his breathing.

You woke to darkness and the sensation of being trapped.

At first, your sleep-addled brain couldn't process what was happening. The pressure around your throat was firm, mechanical, unforgiving. Metal fingers pressed against your windpipe with calculated precision, not quite cutting off air but making each breath a conscious effort. Your hands flew up instinctively, fingernails scraping against vibranium that wouldn't yield.

"Bucky." The word came out strangled, barely there.

His eyes were open but vacant, seeing something that wasn't you, wasn't this room, wasn't this year. In the dim light, you could see his face contorted with rage—no, not rage. Fear. Raw, primal terror that belonged to some other time, some other place where he wasn't safe, where he had to fight to survive.

"Soldat." The Russian fell from his lips like acid. More words followed, too quick and slurred with sleep for you to catch, but the tone was clear. Orders. He was following orders.

Your vision started to blur at the edges. Not from lack of air—not yet—but from the tears that came unbidden. This wasn't him. This wasn't your Bucky who kept notes about your coffee preferences and kissed you like you were precious. This was the Winter Soldier, and he was going to kill you in your own bed.

"James." You forced the word out, put every ounce of love you had into it. Your hand found his face, palm against stubble and scars. "Baby, please. It's me. You're home."

For a moment, nothing. The pressure continued, steady and sure. Then—a flicker. Something in his eyes shifted, pupils contracting as consciousness clawed its way back. You watched the exact second he came back to himself, watched the recognition slam into him like a physical blow.

The hand released so fast you gasped, air rushing back into your lungs in a painful burst. But the sound of your breathing—ragged, desperate—seemed to break something in him.

"No." The word ripped from his throat, raw and disbelieving. He scrambled backward so violently he fell off the bed, hitting the floor hard. "No, no, no. What did I—Oh god."

"I'm okay," you tried to say, but your voice came out wrecked, harsh. The sound of it—the damage he'd caused—made him flinch like you'd struck him.

He was on his knees now, staring at his metal hand like it was covered in blood. Maybe in his mind, it was. "I was—Jesus Christ, I was killing you. I was—" His breath came in sharp pants, heading toward hyperventilation. "Your neck. Let me see your neck."

"Bucky—"

"Let me see." It came out as almost a roar, desperate and wild.

You pushed yourself up, hand going unconsciously to your throat. Even that light touch made you wince, and you knew without looking that there would be marks. A perfect blueprint of his hand in bruises.

He saw your wince. Of course he did. And the look that crossed his face—you'd seen him shot, stabbed, thrown from buildings. You'd never seen him look like this. Like someone had reached inside and torn something vital loose.

"I… I put my hands on you. I tried to—" He couldn't finish, just stared at you like you were already dead, like he'd already lost you to his own monstrosity.

"You were asleep," you said, voice still rough but steadier now. "You were having a nightmare. You didn't know—"

"Does that matter?" He laughed, but it was a broken sound, closer to a sob. "Does it fucking matter that I was asleep when I'm strong enough to snap your neck without trying? When I—" He pressed his flesh hand to his mouth, shoulders shaking. "I could taste it. The mission. Kill the target, eliminate the witness. You were just—you were just a body to eliminate."

"But you stopped." You moved to the edge of the bed, needing to be closer even as he flinched away. "You heard me and you stopped."

"This time." He looked up at you then, and his eyes were wet, desperate. "What about next time? What happens when I don't wake up in time? When I squeeze just a little harder, hold on just a few seconds longer?" His voice broke completely. "I'll kill you, and I'll wake up with your body in our bed, and I'll have to live with that. I'll have to know that the last thing you felt was me hurting you."

"That won't happen."

"You don't know that!" He was on his feet now, backing toward the door. "Nobody knows that! I don't even know what's in my head, what they put there. Seventy years of programming, of turning me into a weapon, and you think—what? That love is enough to fix that? That I can just will myself better?"

You wanted to say yes. Wanted to believe it. But the words stuck in your throat—the throat that still ached from his grip.

"I'm sleeping on the couch," he said, and it sounded like a sentencing. Your heart dropped into the pit of your stomach.

"Bucky, please—"

"I can't." He stopped in the doorway, one hand braced against the frame like he needed it to stay upright. "I can't lay next to you knowing what I'm capable of. I can't touch you with hands that—" He looked down at the metal arm, gleaming dully in the darkness. "I was okay with being a monster when it was just me. But I can't—I won't let you be collateral damage."

"You're not a monster."

He turned then, and the look he gave you was almost pitying. "Tell that to your neck."

You sat there, on the edge of the bed you'd shared for three months, and listened to him settle on the couch. Heard him punch a pillow, once, twice, muffling what sounded suspiciously like sobs. You wanted to go to him, to hold him and tell him it wasn't his fault, that you weren't afraid.

But you were afraid. Not of him—never of him—but of the ghosts in his head that could turn him into someone else. Of the war between who he was and what they'd made him.

Your fingers found your throat again, tracing the shape of his hand in tender skin. Tomorrow, there would be bruises. Purple and blue and sickly yellow, a necklace of trauma you'd have to hide with scarves and makeup. But worse than the physical marks was the knowledge that he'd never forgive himself for this.

That he'd use it as evidence in the case he was always building against himself: why he didn't deserve love, why he couldn't have nice things, why James Buchanan Barnes was too broken to be saved.

You pulled his pillow against your chest—it still smelled like him, like cedar and something indefinably safe—and tried not to think about how this was the beginning of the end. How he'd pull away now, inch by inch, until there was nothing left but the empty space where love used to live.

In the living room, you could hear him moving restlessly, probably calculating the exact distance needed to keep you safe from him. Always the protector, even when the thing he was protecting you from was himself.

You wanted to tell him that the real damage wasn't the bruises that would fade in a week. It was this—the distance, the self-hatred, the way he was already grieving a relationship he'd decided was too dangerous to keep.

But your throat hurt, and your words weren't working right, and sometimes love wasn't enough to overcome seventy years of programming.

So you held his pillow and listened to him not sleeping on the couch, both of you alone in the dark, measuring the distance between what you had and what you were about to lose.

The bar was too loud and too warm, and you'd lost count of your drinks somewhere around the third toast to "getting the gang back together." Your college friends were all talking over each other, five conversations happening at once, and you were pretending to follow along while the room tilted gently to the left, then right, like a ship in uncertain waters.

Your phone sat face-up on the sticky table, silent. Three days. Seventy-two hours since the last check-in, which had been just one word: Alive. You'd stared at it for so long the letters had started to blur. Alive meant not dead. It didn't mean safe or whole or missing you or anything else your desperate brain wanted to read into it.

"Another round?" Derek—or was it Dylan?—appeared with a tray of shots that glowed an alarming shade of blue. He'd been in your International Relations class senior year, the guy who always sat too close during group projects and somehow never had his portion of the work done on time.

"I'm good," you said, but the words came out slurred, tongue thick in your mouth, and somehow there was already a shot glass being pressed into your hand. The glass was cold, wet with condensation, and your fingers felt clumsy around it.

"Come on," he said, sliding into the booth beside you. The vinyl squeaked under his weight, and suddenly the booth felt half its previous size. His thigh pressed against yours, heat seeping through your jeans. "Like old times."

Nothing about college had involved Derek-or-Dylan sitting this close, but your brain was too fuzzy to form the words. Thinking felt like trying to swim through honey. The shot burned going down, tasted like artificial raspberry and the kind of decision you'd regret in the morning. Your throat closed around it, body trying to reject what your mind had already accepted.

Someone was laughing too loud. Sarah? Stephanie? The girl who'd lived down the hall junior year. Her engagement ring caught the bar lights, throwing little rainbows across the table. Engaged. Normal. Safe. Her fiancé probably slept in their bed. Probably came home when he said he would.

Your phone buzzed. Your heart leaped—stupid, traitorous thing—but it was just your credit card app, politely informing you of suspicious activity at "O'Malley's Tavern." Yeah, you thought hazily, five rounds for people you haven't seen in years was pretty fucking suspicious.

You picked up your phone, thumb hovering over Bucky's contact. The little green dot that showed he was active had been gone for days. Off the grid. Radio silent. But that didn't stop you from opening the messages, from reading the last exchange from four days ago:

You: be safe Bucky: Always am.

Liar, you thought, and started typing.

You: hey

You stared at the word, deleted it, tried again. Your vision swam, letters doubling and tripling before reforming.

You: heyyyy. i miss u

Derek-or-Dylan was saying something about his job at a consulting firm, his hand gesturing wide enough to brush your shoulder, your arm, coming to rest on the back of the booth behind you. His cologne was too strong, something that probably had a name like "Masculine Musk" or "Power." It made your stomach roll. You shifted forward, but the room swayed with the movement, and you had to grab the edge of the table to steady yourself.

You: i know ur probly saving the world rn but i wanted u to know You: taht i love u You: that** You: even if ur being stupid lately

The words looked wrong on the screen, but you couldn't figure out how to fix them. Your fingers felt disconnected from your brain, moving of their own accord.

"You okay?" Derek-Dylan asked, and his hand was on your knee now, squeezing gently. His palm was damp through your jeans. "You seem distracted."

"I'm fine," you mumbled, trying to pull your leg away. But in the booth, trapped between him and the wall, there was nowhere to go. Your skin crawled where he touched you, but your body felt too heavy to properly react.

You: ur therapist called btw You: well not called but like. sent another email You: oh i hacked ur email. sry. You: i mean not rlly since u left it up on my laptop but whatever You: ur gonna get in troubel You: trouble* You: i dont want u to get in trouble

The shots were hitting harder now, making your thumbs clumsy on the screen. Everything felt like it was moving through water. Someone was telling a story about their promotion, their engagement, their perfect life that definitely didn't involve a boyfriend who slept on the couch and disappeared for days without warning.

Your chest felt tight. When was the last time you'd been able to breathe properly? When was the last time your lungs didn't feel like they were working at half capacity?

You: do u even miss me anymore You: or am i just another thing u have to manage You: like ur therapy u dont go to

Derek-Dylan's hand was back, higher this time, fingers pressing into your thigh. The pressure made bile rise in your throat. "You were always the quiet one," he was saying, voice low and too close to your ear. His breath was hot, smelled like beer and those terrible shots. "The mysterious one."

"Bathroom," you managed, practically falling out of the booth. The floor rushed up to meet you, and you caught yourself on the edge of the table, glasses rattling. Someone's drink sloshed over the rim, ice cubes scattering.

"Whoa there," he said, reaching for your elbow, fingers wrapping around your arm. "Let me help—"

You: i went out tonight You: trying to be normal You: but nothing feels normal without uYou: withuot You: without* You: fuck

The hallway to the bathroom was narrower than it should be, walls pressing in like they were trying to squeeze the air from your lungs. You leaned against the cool brick, phone bright in the darkness. The screen swam in and out of focus. More words pouring out now, without filter, without thought, like blood from a wound you couldn't stem.

You: dereks being creepy You: or dylan You: idk his name You: he keeps touching me You: i dont like it You: i want to come home but home doesnt feel like home when ur not there You: when ur on the couch You: when u wont even look at me

[Incoming call from Bucky - 10:16 PM]

Your phone started buzzing. Not a text. A call.

Bucky's name filled the screen, and your heart lurched so hard you nearly dropped the phone. Your hands were shaking—when had they started shaking? You stared at it, paralyzed, watching it ring. Once. Twice. Three times.

[Missed call - 10:16 PM]

Immediately, it started again.

[Incoming call from Bucky - 10:16 PM]

You should answer. Of course you should answer. But your hands were trembling and your throat felt thick with unshed tears and you were so fucking drunk and what if he was angry about the texts? What if he was calling to tell you to stop, to leave him alone, to finally say the words that would make this ending real?

[Incoming call from Bucky - 10:17 PM]

The third call. This time, your trembling thumb hit decline.

The texts started immediately.

Bucky: Hey, sweetheart. You okay? Bucky: Can you pick up? Bucky: Please answer Bucky: I just need to know you're safe Bucky: Baby, please

That last one made your eyes burn, tears hot and sudden. When was the last time he'd called you baby? When was the last time his voice had sounded anything but carefully controlled? Your chest ached with missing him, a physical pain that made you press your hand against your sternum.

You stumbled out the back exit into an alley that smelled like garbage and rain and piss. The cold air hit your overheated skin like a slap, and you had to lean against the wall to keep from sliding down it. The brick was rough against your palms, grounding you even as the world spun.

Your phone rang again. This time, muscle memory had you answering before your brain could catch up.

"Hey." His voice filled your ear, warm and worried with something sharp underneath. Like honey poured over broken glass. "There you are. You okay?"

"Bucky?" Your own voice came out small, wobbly, and you hated how desperate you sounded.

"Yeah, sweetheart. It's me. Where are you?"

"I'm..." You looked around the alley like it might provide answers. Dumpster. Fire escape. Puddle of something you didn't want to identify. "I'm out. With friends. College people."

"Okay." He kept his tone gentle, but you could hear movement in the background—keys jingling, a door closing, footsteps on pavement. "You having fun?"

The question broke something in you. The tears you'd been holding back spilled over, hot on your cheeks. "No," you admitted, and then the words just tumbled out, sloppy and slurred. "No, 'm not having fun. I miss you and I'm tired and everyone's talking about their perfect lives and Derek won't stop touching me and I just want to come home but you're not even there, you're in Warsaw or wherever saving the world and—"

"Who's touching you?"

The words cut through your rambling like a blade. All the gentleness gone, replaced with something cold and dangerous that made your drunk brain struggle to catch up.

"What?" You blinked, trying to process the sudden shift through the fog of alcohol.

"You said someone's touching you. Who?"

"I—Derek. Or Dylan? From college. He's just... he kept putting his hand on my leg and I didn't..." You trailed off, some sober part of your brain finally catching up to what you were saying. To who you were saying it to. Your stomach dropped.

Silence. The kind that made your skin prickle with unease, that made you want to take the words back, swallow them down with the rest of your mistakes.

"I'm coming to get you," he said finally, and his voice was too calm, too controlled. The voice he used when he was trying very hard not to kill someone. "Tell me where you are."

"You're in Warsaw," you said, confused. Your brain felt like it was operating on a five-second delay.

Another pause. When he spoke again, something in his tone made your chest tight. "I've been back for three days. Debriefing at the Tower."

The words hit you like cold water. Three days. He'd been in New York for three days and hadn't come home. Hadn't even told you he was back. The pain of it was sharp, sudden, cutting through the alcohol fog.

"Oh." It came out small, pathetic. You pressed your free hand against the brick wall, needing something solid to hold onto.

"Send me your location," he said, and you could hear him moving faster now, the sound of a car door opening. "I'll be there in twenty."

"You don't have to—"

"Location. Now." Not harsh, but firm. The voice that brooked no argument.

You fumbled with your phone, nearly dropping it twice before managing to share your location. The blue dot pulsing on the map looked lonely, lost. Like you felt.

"Good girl," he said, and the familiar endearment made your eyes burn fresh. "Now listen to me. You're gonna go wait out front where it's well-lit. You're not going back inside. You're not talking to Derek or Dylan or anyone else. You're just gonna wait for me. Understood?"

"Okay," you whispered.

"Say it back."

"Wait out front. Don't go inside. Don't talk to anyone."

"That's right. I'll be there soon."

"Bucky?" Your voice cracked. "I'm sorry. About the texts. I shouldn't have—"

"Don't." His voice softened, just slightly. "Don't apologize. Just... just wait for me, okay? We'll talk when you're safe."

Safe. Like you weren't safe now. Like you ever felt safe anymore, even in your own home, with him sleeping a room away like a stranger.

"Okay," you said again.

"Twenty minutes," he promised, and then he was gone.

You stared at your phone screen, at the string of messages you'd sent, each one more pathetic than the last. Your reflection in the dark screen looked distorted, wrong. Mascara smudged, lips still stained from whatever was in those shots, eyes too bright with tears and alcohol.

Twenty minutes. You could wait twenty minutes.

You pushed off the wall, the world tilting dangerously, and made your way to the front of the bar on unsteady legs. Each step required concentration, like walking a tightrope. Three days. He'd been home for three days.

You wrapped your arms around yourself, suddenly freezing despite the warm night. Your skin felt too tight, like it didn't fit right anymore. Everything felt wrong. The streetlight above flickered, casting strange shadows that made you dizzy.

Five minutes passed. Then ten. Time moved strangely when you were drunk, too fast and too slow all at once. You watched cars pass, their headlights blurring into streaks of light. Counted them to keep your mind off the way your stomach churned.

"There you are."

You jumped, nearly losing your balance. Derek-or-Dylan stood there, that same too-wide smile on his face. Up close, you could see the flush on his cheeks, the slightly unfocused look in his eyes. He was drunk too, but not as far gone as you.

"Thought you got lost," he said, moving closer. "Come on, let's get you back inside."

"No." You shook your head, which was a mistake. The world spun harder. "I'm waiting for someone."

"In this state?" He laughed, but it wasn't a nice sound. "You can barely stand. Here—"

He reached for you, and you tried to step back, but the wall was already against your spine. Nowhere to go. His hand wrapped around your upper arm, grip too tight, and you could smell his cologne again, that awful musky scent that made your stomach revolt.

"Stop." The word came out slurred, weak. "I said I'm waiting—"

"Don't be like that." He crowded closer, his other hand coming up to rest on the wall beside your head, caging you in. "We were having fun inside, weren't we?"

"No." You turned your head away, but that just exposed your neck. His breath was hot against your skin. "Please, just—"

The sound of tires squealing made both of you jump. A black car pulled up to the curb so fast it fishtailed slightly, leaving rubber on the asphalt. Your drunk brain took several seconds to process what was happening—car, familiar car, Bucky's car, Bucky—before he was already out, moving with the kind of purpose that made your foggy mind finally understand why people crossed the street when they saw him coming.

He didn't run. Didn't need to. He just strode forward with inevitable violence in every line of his body, and Derek-or-Dylan was already backing up, hands raised, mouth opening to form words that never made it past his lips—

The crack of bone was loud in the quiet street.

Derek-or-Dylan screamed, dropping to his knees like someone had cut his strings. His wrist—god, his wrist was bent like wrists weren't supposed to bend, and your stomach lurched hard enough that you had to swallow back bile. The world tilted sideways, and you gripped the brick wall harder, rough texture the only thing keeping you upright.

"Touch her again," Bucky said, voice conversational, almost pleasant, like he was discussing the weather, "and I'll break the other one. Then start on your legs."

He wasn't even breathing hard. Hadn't broken a sweat. Just stood there in dark jeans and that leather jacket you'd bought him for his birthday, looking like he'd done nothing more strenuous than walk across a room. But there was something in his stance, in the casual way he watched Derek-or-Dylan writhe on the ground, that made your drunk brain whisper dangerous even as your body sang safe.

"My wrist," Derek-or-Dylan moaned, high and panicked. "You broke my fucking wrist!"

"Yeah," Bucky agreed, matter-of-fact. "I did."

Then he turned to you, and it was like watching a storm clear. All that cold violence melted away, replaced with something soft, concerned, yours. His eyes tracked over you, cataloging damage—checking for hurt you couldn't even identify through the alcohol haze.

"Get in the car, baby," he said, voice gentle now. He held out his hand—flesh hand, always the flesh hand when he was being careful with you.

"Okay," you said stupidly, the word coming out slurred. You were still staring at Derek-or-Dylan clutching his wrist and moaning on the sidewalk. Your brain felt like it was operating on a ten-second delay, trying to connect crack with bone with Bucky did that with for you.

You pushed off the wall and immediately regretted it. The world spun violently, your legs deciding they were more suggestion than requirement. You would have fallen if Bucky hadn't been there, suddenly, impossibly fast, arm around your waist.

"Whoa," he murmured. "I've got you."

"'M really drunk," you informed him, like maybe he hadn't noticed. Your words mushed together at the edges. "Like... really, really drunk."

"I can see that." Was that fondness in his voice? You couldn't tell. Everything sounded underwater.

He guided you to the car like you were made of spun glass and bad decisions, opening the passenger door and basically pouring you into the seat. Your limbs felt disconnected, uncooperative. The leather was cool against your overheated skin, and it smelled like him—that mix of cedar and metal and something uniquely Bucky that made your chest ache even through the drunk fog.

He rounded the car, pausing to crouch beside Derek-or-Dylan. Through the windshield, you watched him say something that made all the color drain from Derek-or-Dylan's face. Even from here, even drunk, you could see the man nodding frantically, like a bobblehead having a panic attack.

Then Bucky was sliding into the driver's seat, the door closing with a solid thunk that felt like safety. Like coming home. Even though home didn't feel like home anymore and you were too drunk to remember why.

"Seatbelt," he said quietly.

You stared at the buckle like it was advanced calculus. Your fingers felt like they belonged to someone else, clumsy and too big. "Can't," you mumbled. "Fingers're drunk too."

He leaned over to help, and suddenly he was so close you could see the flecks of gold in his eyes, could count his eyelashes if your vision would stop swimming. His hands—even the metal one—moved with perfect precision while yours fumbled uselessly in your lap.

"Are you hurt?" he asked, pulling back to look at you properly. His eyes were doing that thing where they went all intense and worried. "Did he—"

"No." You shook your head, which was a terrible idea. The car started spinning. Or maybe you were spinning. Hard to tell. "Jus'... grabbed my arm. Wanted to..." You frowned, trying to remember. "Something. Dunno. His breath smelled bad."

"I know." His hand came up like he was going to touch your face, then dropped. "I know."

The engine purred to life, and then you were moving. You pressed your forehead against the cool window because it felt nice and also because holding your head up was suddenly very difficult. The city lights blurred past in long streamers of color that made you dizzy.

"You've been back for three days," you said, though it came out more like "you've'n back fr'three days."

His hands tightened on the steering wheel. "Yeah."

"Were you gonna tell me?" The words were getting harder to form. Your tongue felt too big for your mouth.

Silence stretched between you, long enough that you almost forgot what you'd asked.

"I needed time," he said finally. "To think. To figure out how to..."

"How to what?"

"How to keep you safe." The words came out raw. "How to be near you without being a danger to you. How to—" He cut himself off, jaw clenching tightly.

You wanted to laugh, but it came out as more of a hiccup-sob hybrid. "You broke his wrist."

"He was touching you."

"Could've jus'... asked him to stop." The words kept sliding into each other.

"No," he said, and there was something final in it. "I couldn't have."

You turned to look at him, which required way more effort than it should have. The streetlights kept catching his face in flashes—sharp jaw, furrowed brow, eyes fixed on the road like it personally offended him. He looked tired. He looked dangerous. He looked like everything you wanted and couldn't have and your drunk brain couldn't remember why that was important.

"'M drunk," you announced, like maybe he'd forgotten in the last thirty seconds.

"I know."

"Really, really drunk."

"I know that too." His lips twitched, almost a smile. "The texts kind of gave it away."

Oh god. The texts. You groaned, trying to sink through the seat and into the road below. "Fuck. 'M sorry. Shouldn't have—they were so stupid—"

"I told you not to apologize."

"But 'm being stupid, and you were prob'ly busy with... with whatever, and I just—"

"Baby." He said it soft but firm, like punctuation. "The texts were fine. More than fine. They were..." He paused, and you watched him search for words through your blurry vision. "They were the first honest thing either of us has said in weeks."

That shut you up. You stared at him, trying to process his words, but thinking felt like trying to catch fish with your bare hands. Slippery. Impossible.

"We need to talk," he continued. "But not tonight. Tonight, you're drunk and I'm..." He trailed off.

"Angry?" you supplied, though it came out more like "ang-ry?"

"Yeah." He glanced at you, something soft flickering in his eyes. "But not at you. Never at you."

"He was jus'... just some guy from college," you said, words tumbling over each other. "He didn't... didn't matter."

"He put his hands on you." The words came out flat, matter-of-fact. "That matters."

You thought about arguing, but the thoughts kept sliding away before you could catch them. Something about hypocrisy and beds and sleeping alone, but it was all too muddy, too complicated for your drunk brain to sort through.

"Missed you," you said instead, small and honest and probably too raw. "Know 'm not s'posed to say that. Know we're... whatever we are. But missed you so much I couldn't—can't breathe sometimes."

His hand found yours across the center console, fingers interlacing. It was the first time he'd touched you voluntarily in weeks, and the simple contact made your eyes burn with tears you were too drunk to control.

"I know," he said quietly. "Me too."

You squeezed his hand, probably too hard, but he didn't pull away. "Feel sick," you admitted.

"I know, sweetheart. We're almost home."

"Not home," you mumbled, the words spilling out before you could stop them. "Just 'partment. Home's where you are, but you're never there."

You felt more than saw him flinch, but the world was getting fuzzy at the edges and spinning faster now, and you couldn't remember why that was important. His thumb rubbed circles on your hand, and you focused on that sensation, let it anchor you as the city lights blurred past.

You were drunk. Really, really drunk. But somehow, in the midst of all that spinning and blurring and too-much-ness, one thought stayed crystal clear:

He'd come for you. He'd been home for three days without telling you, but when you'd needed him—really needed him—he'd come.

You didn't know what that meant. Didn't know if it changed anything.

But for now, for this moment, with his hand in yours and the familiar streets leading back to whatever home was these days, it was enough.

The rest of the night exists in fragments. Snapshots through a drunk haze that would embarrass you later, when sobriety brought all the sharp edges back.

Bucky's hands, impossibly gentle as he helped you from the car. The way you'd swayed into him, and how he'd let you, just for a moment, before steadying you with careful touches. The elevator ride where you'd pressed your face into his chest and breathed him in like you'd been suffocating for weeks.

"Easy," he'd murmured when you stumbled over your own feet at the apartment door. "I've got you."

And he did. Those careful hands working the zipper of your jeans. Pulling your sweater from each arm. The fabric pooling at your feet while you stood there, too drunk to be self-conscious, too tired to pretend you didn't need him.

"Arms up," he'd said softly, and you'd complied, letting him pull one of his worn t-shirts over your head. It smelled like him. You might have cried about that, but the memories blur together, everything soft and underwater.

His boxers, rolled at the waist to fit. A glass of water pressed into your hands. "Drink all of it." Two ibuprofen. "These too."

And then—miracle of miracles—the bed. Not the couch. The bed, with its too-soft pillows and sheets that had forgotten the shape of him. You'd curled on your side, expecting him to retreat to his usual post in the living room.

Instead, the mattress dipped behind you. Arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you back against a chest you'd mapped with your fingers a hundred times but hadn't touched in weeks. His lips found the nape of your neck, pressing kisses there like prayers, like apologies, like promises he couldn't keep.

"I love you," whispered into your hair. "I'm so sorry. I love you so fucking much."

You'd wanted to respond, to turn in his arms and demand he explain why love felt like leaving. But sleep was already pulling you under, and his warmth was the first comfort you'd felt in months, and so you'd let the darkness take you while he held on like you might disappear.

Consciousness returned like a slap.

Your mouth tasted like something had died in it. Your head pounded in rhythm with your heartbeat, each pulse sending spikes of pain behind your eyes. But worse than the hangover was the memory, creeping back in horrible HD clarity.

The texts. Oh god, the texts.

Derek's hand on your thigh.

Bucky breaking his wrist with the casual efficiency of someone opening a jar.

Three days. He'd been back for three days.

You opened your eyes carefully, squinting against the morning light that streamed through the curtains like an assault. The bed was empty beside you, but still warm. He hadn't been gone long. The indent of his body remained in the sheets, a ghost of pressure that made your chest constrict so suddenly you couldn't breathe.

Your ribs felt too tight, like someone had wrapped wire around them and was slowly twisting. Each inhale scraped against something raw inside you, something that had been bleeding quietly for months but suddenly felt fatal. You pressed your palm flat against your sternum, hard, trying to counter the implosion happening behind your bones.

From the kitchen, the sound of cabinets opening. The clink of a pan. Coffee brewing—the smell both nauseating and necessary.

You sat up slowly, the room tilting slightly before settling. Your hands shook as you reached for the water on the nightstand, downing what was left and wishing it was enough to wash away everything about last night. But it wasn't. Nothing would be.

Because now, in the harsh light of sobriety, you could see everything clearly. The past six months stretched out behind you like a road map of small heartbreaks. The progression from sharing a bed to him sleeping on the couch. From daily texts to radio silence. From being partners to being strangers who happened to share a lease.

And last night—last night he'd held you like he used to. Kissed your neck. Whispered that he loved you.

After being home for three days without telling you.

After weeks of treating you like a roommate he was too polite to evict.

After, after, after.

Your chest felt hollow, carved out. Like someone had reached in and scooped out everything soft, leaving just the sharp edges behind. Your lungs forgot how to expand properly. The air felt too thick, too heavy, like breathing through water. You could feel your pulse everywhere—throat, wrists, behind your eyes—each beat a reminder that you were still here, still alive, still hurting.

"Hey." His voice from the doorway made you jump. He stood there in sleep pants and nothing else, hair mussed, looking unfairly good for someone who'd probably been up all night. "I'm making breakfast. Eggs and—"

"I can't do this anymore."

The words fell out of your mouth like stones. Heavy. Final. They surprised you as much as him, but once they were in the air, you couldn't take them back. Didn't want to.

His face did something complicated—a flash of confusion before understanding hit. You watched the color drain from his skin, leaving him gray as ash. The spatula in his hand clattered to the floor.

"What?" The word came out cracked.

You pulled your knees to your chest, made yourself small. Your body curled in on itself like it was trying to protect what was left of your heart, arms wrapped so tight around your shins you could feel your own bones. The hangover pounded behind your eyes, but this pain was worse. Necessary, but worse.

Your throat felt like it was closing, muscles constricting around words you'd swallowed for months. When you tried to speak, it came out raw, scraped: "I can't... I can't keep doing this, Bucky. I can't."

"Hold on." He moved into the room, movements jerky, uncoordinated in a way you'd never seen from him. "Just—wait. We can talk about this. We need to talk about this."

"Do we?" Your voice broke, tears already burning hot. They came sudden and violent, like your body had been storing them up for this exact moment. Your sinuses ached with the pressure of holding them back, but it was useless. They fell anyway, hot tracks down cheeks that felt numb with shock. "Because we haven't talked—really talked—in months. You sleep on the couch. You were home for three days without telling me. You can't even—"

A sob cut off the words, harsh and ugly. It ripped from somewhere deep in your chest, from that hollow place where your heart used to live. Your shoulders shook with the force of it, whole body trembling like it might fly apart.

"You can't even touch me unless I'm drunk and someone else tried to first."

"That's not—" He stopped himself, running both hands through his hair. The metal one caught the light, gleaming dully. "Fuck. Fuck, that's not fair."

"Isn't it?" The tears were falling freely now, hot and humiliating. Your nose ran, and you didn't care. Your face felt swollen already, eyes burning like someone had poured acid in them. "Tell me what's not fair about it. Tell me I'm wrong."

He couldn't. You both knew he couldn't.

"Please." The word ripped from him, raw and desperate. He dropped to his knees beside the bed, and seeing the Winter Soldier kneel like that should have meant something. Would have, once. "Baby, please. Don't do this. Not like this. Not when you're—"

"Hungover?" You laughed, but it came out like another sob, wet and broken. Your chest hitched with it, breath coming in sharp gasps that hurt. "When should I do it, then? When you're on another mission? When you're sleeping on the couch? When you're here but not really here at all?"

"I'm trying—"

"No." The word came out stronger than you felt. "You're not trying. You're hiding. You're running. You're doing everything except trying."

His hands clenched into fists on his thighs. You could see the war in him—the need to reach for you battling the fear of what his hands could do. Had done. That eternal fight between who he was and what he'd been made into.

"I love you," he said, like it was an argument.

"I know." Your voice broke completely, dissolved into something unrecognizable. The words scraped your throat raw. "That's what makes this so fucking hard. Because I love you too. I love you so much I can't breathe sometimes."

Your hand pressed against your chest again, harder this time, because it felt like your ribs might crack open from the pressure building inside. Your heartbeat was all wrong—too fast, too hard, skipping beats like it was trying to escape.

"I love you so much I've been disappearing, piece by piece, waiting for you to see me. To come back to me."

"I'm right here—"

"No, you're not!" The words exploded out of you, ripping something on the way up. Your voice went hoarse with the force of it. "You haven't been here in months! Your body's here, but you—the real you—you're gone. And I can't..."

You pressed your palms against your eyes, trying to stem the tears, but they leaked through your fingers anyway. Your whole face felt hot and tight, skin stretched too thin over too much pain.

"I can't compete with your ghosts anymore. I can't compete with your guilt. I can't love you hard enough to make you stop punishing yourself, and it's killing me to try."

When you lowered your hands, he was staring at you like you'd shot him. Like you'd reached into his chest and torn something vital loose. His face was wet—when had he started crying?

"I'll go back to therapy," he said desperately. "I'll—I'll sleep in the bed. I'll tell my therapist everything. I'll—"

"It's not about the bed." Your voice came out small, exhausted. Empty. Like you'd cried out everything inside you and now there was just echoing space. "It's not about the therapy or the missions or any of it. It's about the fact that you've already left me. You just forgot to take your body with you."

"No." He shook his head, frantic now. "No, that's not—I'm here. I'm right here. Please, sweetheart, please just—"

"You were home for three days." You said it quietly, but it hit him like a physical blow. You watched him flinch, watched his whole body recoil. "Three days, and you didn't come home. Because this isn't your home anymore, is it? It's just... a place you keep your things. A place you sometimes sleep."

"That's not true—"

"Then why didn't you come home?"

Silence.

The kind that said everything.

"I needed time," he said finally, voice wrecked. "To figure out how to fix this. How to be better. How to—"

"You can't fix this alone." The tears had slowed but not stopped, steady streams now instead of the flood. Your eyes felt raw, lids swollen. Everything hurt—face, chest, throat, heart. "That's what you've never understood. You keep trying to solve me like I'm a mission. Like if you just find the right approach, the right angle, you can complete the objective without any mess. But love is messy. It's supposed to be messy."

"I know that—"

"Do you?" You met his eyes, those blue eyes you'd fallen in love with, that still made your heart skip even now. Even through the wreckage. "Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like you've been trying to love me without letting me love you back. And I can't... I can't do that anymore."

Something in him seemed to break then. Really break, not the careful controlled way he'd been falling apart for months. His shoulders shook, and when he reached for you, it was with both hands. Metal and flesh, no distinction, just desperate need.

"Please." His voice was raw, ruined. "Please don't leave me. I'll do anything. I'll—Christ, I'll quit the team. I'll tell everyone about us. I'll—"

"I don't want you to quit the team." You were both crying now, the space between you salt-soaked and aching. Your chest felt cracked open, everything spilling out. "I don't want you to change who you are. I just wanted... I wanted you to let me in. To trust me with more than just the good parts."

"I trust you—"

"With everything except yourself." You pulled back, even though it physically hurt to do it. Your skin felt too tight, like leaving his reach might tear you apart. "And I can't build a life with someone who treats me like I'm too fragile to handle their damage. I'm not... I'm not some civilian you need to protect, Bucky. I'm supposed to be your partner."

"You are—"

"No." You stood on shaking legs, needing distance. Needing air. Your knees almost buckled, muscles weak from crying, from hurting, from holding yourself together for so long. "I'm your secret. Your liability. Your guilt. I'm everything but your partner."

He was on his feet too now, frantic energy radiating off him in waves. "Tell me how to fix this. Tell me what to do."

"I can't." The words tasted like ash, like endings, like everything you never wanted to say. "Because you're asking the wrong question. It's not about what you do. It's about what we do. Together. And you can't... you won't let there be a together."

"That's not—"

"You sleep on the couch." Each word hurt to say, like coughing up broken glass. "You were home for three days. You missed our anniversary. You haven't touched me without apologizing in months. You love me, I know you love me, but you love me like I'm already gone. Like you're just waiting for me to figure it out too."

He stood there, chest heaving, and you could see it—the moment he realized you were right. The moment he understood that he'd been pushing you away so slowly, so carefully, that neither of you had noticed until there was nothing left to push.

"I don't know how to stop," he admitted, and it was the most honest thing he'd said in months. "I don't know how to be in love without being terrified. I don't know how to wake up next to you without checking to make sure I didn't hurt you in my sleep. I don't know how to come home without bringing the blood with me."

"I never asked you to be perfect—"

"I know." His voice broke. "I know, and that's... that's the worst part. You never asked for anything except me, and I couldn't even give you that."

The silence stretched between you, filled with everything you couldn't fix. Six months of small abandonments. Six months of loving each other wrong. Six months of him leaving without moving and you staying without being seen.

Your body felt strange, disconnected. Like you were floating above yourself, watching this happen to someone else. The tears had stopped but your face still felt wet, tacky. Your chest moved with breath but you couldn't feel it, couldn't feel anything except the yawning void where your heart used to be.

"I need to pack," you said finally. The words came out robotic, empty.

"No." But there was no fight left in it. Just despair. "Where will you go?"

"I don't know." You couldn't look at him. Couldn't watch him realize this was really happening. "My sister's, maybe. Just... somewhere that isn't here."

"This is your home—"

"No." You turned to face him one last time, memorizing the way he looked in the morning light. Beautiful and broken and everything you'd ever wanted. "It was supposed to be. But homes are where you feel safe. Where you feel seen. And I haven't felt either of those things in months."

He made a sound then, wounded and raw, and it took everything in you not to go to him. Not to take it back. Not to settle for the half-life he was offering. Your body swayed toward him against your will, muscle memory overriding logic. But you locked your knees, clenched your fists, held yourself still through sheer force of will.

"I love you," you said, because it was true. Because it would always be true. "But I can't disappear anymore. Not even for you."

You made it to the doorway before his voice stopped you.

"What if I—" He swallowed, started again. "What if I go to therapy. Really go. What if I... what if I try?"

You paused, hand on the doorframe. The wood was smooth under your palm, solid. Real. An anchor in a world that felt like it was dissolving.

"Then try. But try for you, not for me. Because I can't... I can't wait anymore, Bucky. I can't put my life on hold hoping you'll decide you deserve to be happy."

"I don't know how to be happy," he admitted.

"I know," you said softly. "That's why I have to go."

You left him standing there in the bedroom you'd shared, in the home you'd built, in the life you'd tried so hard to make work. The sound of his grief followed you—not sobs, but something worse. The quiet, breathless keen of someone watching their world collapse and knowing they'd lit the match themselves.

You packed mechanically, throwing things into bags without thought or care. Your hands moved on autopilot while your mind went somewhere else, somewhere numb and far away. He didn't try to stop you. Didn't follow. Just stood frozen in the bedroom doorway like crossing the threshold might shatter what little was left.

When you wheeled your suitcase to the door, he was there. Red-eyed, hollow, looking like a ghost of himself.

"I'm sorry," he said. "For all of it. For being too broken to love you right."

"You're not broken," you said, and meant it. "You're just... lost. And I can't be your map anymore."

The door closed behind you with a soft click that sounded like an ending.

You made it to the elevator before the sobs hit, great heaving things that made your whole body shake. Your knees gave out and you sank to the floor, suitcase abandoned, hands pressed over your mouth to muffle the sounds tearing from your throat. Your stomach cramped with the force of it, muscles seizing, lungs burning.

You'd done it. You'd left. You'd saved yourself from disappearing completely.

It was the right thing to do.

So why did it feel like dying?

read part two here!

[am-3-thyst]

[am-3-thyst]

passion project

bucky barnes x reader

summary: based on this request — as bucky’s best friend, you had the honor of being subjected to his constant teasing and charms, none of which you thought were truthful. it all comes to a head when he starts distancing himself from you after a night out.

warnings: 18+, mdni, smut, piv, oral (f receiving), unprotected sex, pull out game is very strong, praise, pet names (sweetheart, baby, doll, pretty girl, handsome), alcohol consumption, language, bucky big flirt in this fic, reader is a little dramatic, jealous bucky, you and bucky have an? argument?, no use of y/n

word count: 11.6k

a/n: YIPPPEEE my first request finished <3 (everyone disregard that it took me like two weeks to finish this i got stuck at the argument scene and didn't know how to progress bc i didnt wanna make bucky an asshole)

masterlist

Distance is not something that you know when it comes to Bucky. In fact, your first meeting with him was him pretending to be your boyfriend.

You had a particularly rough day at work. You weren’t with your friends or anyone else– you just wanted to spend a night alone at the bar near your apartment before going home for the night. However, men in New York just didn’t enjoy giving you a chance of peace.

You leaned away from the man that was giving you advances that you didn’t want, trying to deny drinks that you were sure he had tampered with. You gave dry responses to the man that you don’t even remember anymore, but you supposed you have to thank him.

A scent of cedarwood and clean soap filled your nostrils as a warm arm gently slipped over your shoulders. A body was beside yours, standing protectively. Someone that you didn’t know. 

“Hey, sweetheart,” he said, giving you a small smile. His words were spoken loud, as if he was giving a performance. “Thanks for waiting for me. Who’s your friend?”

You blinked at him, momentarily thrown off. Then, you saw the look in his eyes. He was giving you an out. In a matter of a few seconds, you weighed your options. It was either this man with dangerously striking blue eyes that smelled good, or the drunkard that smelled like throw up and shit. So, you leaned into this stranger’s embrace, gave him a pretty smile, and hummed.

“Didn’t wait for too long, baby,” you sighed. “Missed you.”

You didn’t even answer the question about your “friend,” and the two of you just ignored him until he took the hint, and walked away. Except the hint was your savior glaring at him with murderous intent in his eyes. You didn’t know it at the time, but Bucky was fully capable of committing those kinds of crimes for you. 

When the drunkard was far enough away, his arm slid off your shoulders, his hand moving down your back, but not low enough to make you uncomfortable.

“Can I buy you a drink?” you asked him, grateful. “You kinda saved me back there, handsome.”

He laughed at your words. “I was going to ask you if you wanted a drink since you just went through something traumatizing, pretty girl.” 

“I’ll pay for yours, you pay for mine?” you offered. 

“Deal,” he grinned. 

The two of you introduced yourselves to each other not too long afterwards, toasted, and found out that you were both alone that night. Bucky spent the rest of the night by your side at the bar, the two of you just chatting. 

It was the start of a friendship that you weren’t looking for, but welcomed easily with open arms. Bucky was easy to talk to, easy to get along with, and he was comfortable for you to be around. 

Around the beginning of your friendship, you noticed he would sometimes come to hang out with you with a busted lip or a cut on his face. You were sure there was another injury somewhere under the layers of clothes he was wearing, too. When you finally asked– when you finally felt ready to ask, he was honest with you when he told you what he did for work. At first, you thought he was shitting with you. Then, he told you to look up his name online. 

“You’re ancient,” you said, your eyes falling on the birthdate of the man titled as Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes of the 107th Infantry Unit in World War II. Then, the name of the Winter Soldier came next on the articles you were reading. 

“Yes, because every man wants a beautiful woman to call them old, sweetheart,” he said, rolling his eyes at you.

“You look good for being over a century old though, handsome,” you grinned.

“I’m like, ninety-something. Don’t age me up.”

Bucky showed you his metal arm that night. He took off the gloves he wore, and took off the jacket that seemed to be glued to his body. You inspected the dark metal in awe– asked if you could touch it.

He was patient with you. Answered all of your questions. You learned that he could feel sensations on the prosthetic– that his friends in Wakanda made sure of it. He told you it was made of vibranium, which was the same material made of Captain America’s shield– his best friend.

You learned a lot about Bucky that night. That night, you became more than just his friend. You became someone important to him. He didn’t know it, but he was already important to you before the confessions of his past. 

He asked you if you were scared of him. If you wanted him to leave. 

“Where would you go if you left?” you asked, frowning at him. “We’re supposed to watch those shitty reality shows tonight. Are you going to leave me to watch them by myself?”

You’ve never felt more relieved to see that smile come back to his face, to watch the tension leave his shoulders. Bucky shifted on the couch, assuming the same position that you two always did. 

Distance was not something that you two were familiar with from the start of your friendship together. Whenever you waited for him at your meeting spots, he would come up behind you like some sort of ghost. You started to get used to it– being randomly held by him.

“Sweetheart,” he would greet you, an arm slipping over your shoulders. “Missed me?”

“Take a lap, Sarge,” you’d tell him, shoving his arm off of you only to loop your arm through his. “Who would miss your face around here?”

“Ouch,” he chuckled, shaking his head at you. “And here I thought– I believed you when you said I was handsome.”

“Oh, you are,” you hummed, tugging him along to get in line for the aquarium– Bucky’s choice for your hangout that day. “I’m trying to keep you humble.”

Most of your time would be spent hanging out in your apartment. The two of you would talk about anything and everything. Well– you were talking. Bucky was listening to you. 

“Sounds a little stressful,” he said, patting his lap once you were finished with your long winded tirade about how your girl friends were horrible on night outs, and you weren’t looking forward to next Saturday night.

“Very,” you agreed, and dropped your head on his thigh, just as he was indicating for you to do.

You closed your eyes, sighing deeply as he started to card his hands through your hair, gently massaging your scalp. To comfort you, maybe. You were certain that he had no idea how to navigate the struggles of a friend group of five women– your four friends– that were trying to get laid, while you were desperately trying to make sure none of them ended up kidnapped or dead by the end of the night. 

“You gonna find someone to spend the night with on Saturday, too?” he murmured to you, and you opened your eyes. 

You raised an eyebrow at him, and smiled teasingly. “Why? You want me to include you in the same girl talk debrief that the other girls get on Sunday mornings?”

“Gross,” he scoffed, clasping his entire hand over your face, making your entire body jolt with surprise. 

“You’re the one that asked,” you huffed. You grabbed his wrist, pulling it away from your face and raising it up in the air. Bucky let you, his limb being pliant under your touch as he allowed you to flail it around like it was made of nothing at all. You watched as his fingers moved like noodles in the air, mildly amused for a few moments. “I’d tell you if you’re really interested, y’know.”

“I’m just asking so I know where you’ll be, doll. You’re stressin’ about your friends, so let me stress about you,” he said, his voice going softer for just a moment. 

You stopped thrashing his hand around the air, and looked at him. He was looking down at you, eyes never leaving your face. There was something unreadable in his gaze that made you pause. Your lips parted, closed, then you gave him a smile. 

“I’ll text you if I go home with someone, handsome. I don’t think I will, but I’ll let you know if I do,” you promised him, dropping his hand to your stomach. 

Bucky hummed, a little noncommittally as he patted your abdomen a few times before resting completely. His other hand continued to run through your hair, sending shivers down your spine. 

“I’m sure it won’t be difficult for you if you do decide for it,” Bucky said. “Guys flirt with you all the time.”

“That was one time, and I was alone at the worst bar on the street, Buck. It wasn’t even flirting. That was harassment,” you corrected him, raising an eyebrow.

Bucky shrugged. “You’re a little oblivious when people flirt with you, pretty girl.”

The rest of the night was spent arguing over the fact that you were not oblivious towards men flirting with you. Bucky was very adamant that you were. You denied all accusations like a politician that had something to hide. 

Neither of you managed to find common ground, and you ended up falling asleep on his lap. Woke up the next morning to find that Bucky didn’t leave. In fact, he didn’t even move you off his lap. He fell asleep, sitting upright, and refused to move in fear of waking you up. He refused to accept any apology from you and swore your couch was comfortable. You disagreed, but quickly shut up when he said that it was better than the hard dirt grounds of World War II. 

You hated it when Bucky pulled that shit on you. Bucky loved doing it. He always had a smug grin on his face.

Other times would include quieter moments. Where you both ended up in your bed. By this point in your friendship, Bucky had a drawer in your dresser of spare, comfortable clothes. He would get changed in pajamas for the night, and you two would be laying in bed. Bucky would be reading one of your more raunchy fantasy novels with confusion all over his face as to why you read these books, but still continued to turn the page. He’d have his head against your shoulder, and you’d scroll through your phone watching videos before falling asleep.

Flirting and touching was his default, you believed. Your assumption was only strengthened when he told you stories about the forties, and how he used to try to get Steve to go out on dates with girls that he set him up with. You managed to get him to admit that he was quite the charmer back in the forties. 

The only time there wasn’t any flirting was when he opened up about himself– when the conversation went serious on both of your ends. Then, the banter would stop and you both would give each other your undivided attention.

The touching wouldn’t stop, though. Even if he was the one leading the conversation, exposing you to the depths of his mind, he would play with your fingers. Touch your hair. You figured it was to busy himself from the fact that he was being so vulnerable with you. You never brought attention to it, allowed him to do what he needed to get through the words that he was forcing out of his throat– to tell you the things that he wanted you to hear.

You generally assumed that Bucky was just a touch starved man once you learned about his past. Coupled with him returning to the world and coming back to his personality, you figured he was just returning to his roots as a charismatic guy. You never thought anything of it, if you were being honest. Until you did. 

You should’ve realized it when you started taking pictures of him during your outings together. Your camera that only shot still life or animals gravitated towards him without even noticing. Your very first photo of him was a candid shot.

Bucky wasn’t looking at you. He was smiling at the cat that you both had taken interest in, that was at the park that you two were strolling through. He had crouched down, holding a hand out for the cat to come to him if it wanted to. And it did. Came and sniffed his palm, then nuzzled the warmth of his hand. Bucky smiled. A soft, gentle smile that took your breath away– and you took the picture without thinking.

It started your collection of photos of Bucky.

Bucky, the only person you had ever taken pictures of. The only person you wanted to take pictures of. He became your subject matter overnight. Your phone camera roll was filled with photos of him from your apartment— pictures of him on your couch, in your kitchen cooking, asleep in your bed. 

Your favorite picture of him right now was when the two of you went out to a bookstore together. He was walking down the aisles in front of you, and you meant to take a picture of his back. Another candid photo, another photo where he was unknowing. Except, he turned around. He was going to point out something to you, but stopped when he saw you had your camera in hand. You were caught. 

“What are you doing, pretty girl?” he asked, raising an eyebrow at you.

“Smile. You’re looking exceptionally handsome right now,” you said, lifting your camera to your eye, so you could see him through the viewfinder. 

Bucky let out a small laugh, shaking his head at your words. However, he didn’t argue. Didn’t fight back. His hands found their way naturally into his pockets. He tilted his head at you in a kind of boyish way that reminded you of the old photos you saw at the Smithsonian when the two of you went together. 

And just like you asked him to, he smiled. Not at your camera, but at you. Your heart stuttered for a few moments, your finger froze over the button, and you had to remind yourself to take the picture. 

You were forever glad that you did. 

You stared at the photo for a long time, smiling to yourself– smiling back at Bucky’s face caught in time. You had the picture printed out on a mini Polaroid printer, and attached it to the back of your phone, but turned around so only you would know what was there. That was enough for you. You simply wanted to carry his smile with you wherever you went.

“What does it mean when your closest guy friend is always touching you, but doesn’t seem to like… make a move?” you brought up one day during a Sunday brunch with the girls. 

Your friends looked up at you, raising an eyebrow. It was only the three out of the five of your group– you’d known the two of them since the beginning of high school. The three of you were generally closer since the other two had joined your little circle during the last couple years of university. 

“Is this about your mysterious best friend that you won’t tell us anything about?” Leah teased you, a fat grin on her face. “What was his name again? Jamie?”

“James,” you corrected, clearing your throat. “And there’s nothing to tell about him. Just answer the question.”

“Well,” Mel hummed, picking up her mimosa. “What kind of touches are we talking about? Like just accidental hand brushing or…?”

You were thankful that Mel was taking you seriously at least. 

“Like… Cuddling on the couch during movies. Head on each other’s lap when we talk. He has a drawer at my place because he sleeps over sometimes– not intentionally. It just gets late, and I tell him it’s fine and to just stay over. So I told him to just bring a change of clothes, and I just wash his stuff whenever he uses them.”

“He sleeps… on your couch?” Leah asked slowly.

“No, we sleep in my bed together. Like when you guys come over…” you trailed off, voice dying down, looking down at your breakfast. 

“Like when we all of us cuddle in your fucking bed? Like when we were in college cramped onto a twin bed?” Leah demanded, eyebrows shooting to her hairline.

You don’t answer her. You stab a fork into your pancakes, and poke the inside of your cheek with your tongue awkwardly. You can’t look at either of them in the eyes right now. They’re a little too judgmental for your taste.

“How does he talk to you? Like sweetly or?” Mel asked, frowning at you.

“I mean– he calls me all these pet names. All the time. Calls me pretty and beautiful.”

“So you sleep next to the guy in the same bed, he’s always touching you, calls you all these sweet and cute things– never popped a boner or anything? Never tried to get a little handsy with you?” Leah asked.

“Leah!” you hissed, looking around at the other patrons in the restaurant to see if anyone heard her. “We are in public. Can you keep your voice down?”

“No, but she’s right though,” Mel said quickly, placing a hand down on the table. Her eyebrows are furrowed as she leans in, “Is he gay?”

You’re taken aback for a moment. “Uh– I… I don’t know. It never came up. I don’t think so? He’s had girlfriends before.”

You’re suddenly brought back to memories of your conversations with Bucky where he talks about Steve and Sam very fondly. 

He has plenty of memories with Steve that he speaks of with nostalgia. There are times when he talks about not Captain America, but Steve Rogers with so much pride in his voice that you can’t help but smile. At this point, you were certain that you could meet Steve on the street at any time, and you would know him like he was your own childhood friend.

Then there’s Sam. Bucky swears he hates the man, but you can hear the smile trying to crack through his words. Like he’s trying to hide how he really feels for a long winded bit that he’s doing. Despite all his sharp words, Bucky still talks about Sam. That has to count for something. 

“He might swing both ways, maybe leaning towards men,” Leah hummed, leaning back in her seat like the code was just cracked. “I mean, has to be, right? You’ve known him for almost what, an entire year now and nothing’s happened? Men don’t just befriend women at this age just to be friends.”

“I disagree with that last statement, but I do think that you’re reading too much into him,” Mel quickly said, nodding. “Men and women can definitely be friends without expecting anything from each other.”

You drown out the rest of their talk– the debate of whether or not men and women can just be friends. You’re spiraling. The polaroid hidden in the back of your phone case is weighing your purse down exponentially as the realization hits you. 

You were in the perpetual friendzone. Bucky didn’t bat an eye at you. He flirted with you, touched you without flinching, and laid down next to you in your own bed without his gaze lingering.

This was a man that was raised in the forties, and if you were correct in the little that you knew about that time period, anything premarital was some sort of sin. People were shamed. Disowned. Stoned. Excommunicated from the church.

And here Bucky was– doing just that. Doing all that and much more.

Yeah.

You were fucked. 

A light buzz within your purse caught your attention. You reached for your phone, eyes falling onto the notification of the man you were just talking about. 

You read the message over and over again, unable to believe what you were seeing for a few moments. 

Handsome [11:32am]: Stark’s throwing a party next Friday night. Do you want to come meet everyone?

The jet landed down, and the sound of the decompressors of the jet doors opening signaled the end of a successful mission. 

While the others clambered off with ease, good moods, and joy, Bucky couldn’t help but feel a wave of irritation wash through his body. The mission wasn’t difficult by any means, but the load of missions was what pissed him off. 

It’d been two weeks since he last saw you.

Bucky was simply surviving off of stupid images that he learned were called ‘memes’ that you sent him every day. That, and your cute good morning! and sleep well :) text messages which never failed to truly make him have a great morning and a well rested sleep.

Sometimes, if he got lucky, you sent him a picture of yourself. The first time that you did, he had to Google how to save images to his camera roll. After that, it was over for you. It didn’t matter what kind of picture that you sent. Even if you weren’t the full subject, he saved it. 

There was a picture where you were only partially in it, and you were trying to show off the matcha lavender drink that you bought. Another photo where your face was cut off at the top because you were cuddling with Mel’s puppy at her house. Some more stupidly angled photos of just your eyes— Bucky learned those ones being sent to him meant you wanted his attention. 

He also had pictures that he took of you. None of which, you were aware that he took. It was easy to hide. You often walked ahead of him when you were together, or your attention was focused on something else. It wasn’t difficult for a trained assassin to steal a photo or two.

Besides that, you slept like the dead next to him. Slept on his shoulder, and his lap like you owned the space. Bucky had a collection of you sleeping, though he wouldn’t admit it. It sounds creepy, but he found it endearing. 

The first time he was in your bed, and you sleeping beside him— he couldn’t fucking close his eyes. 

Were you stupid? That oblivious?

Bucky knew that you were comfortable with him, but to invite him into your bed without assuming anything? Yes, he was your friend, yes he was respectful, but he’d also been flirting with you for months on end waiting for you to pick up on the hints. 

Obviously, he wasn’t going to do anything. With each repeated time, it got a little bit easier. He found himself being able to take a small nap beside you in your bed. 

It was a comforting feeling— the warmth radiating off of your body. He was surrounded by the smell of your clean sheets, the scent of the laundry detergent that you used mixing with the shampoo you washed your hair with, and the perfume that stuck to your skin.

You moved in your sleep. Towards him. He would wake up to find you curled up beside him, like you would be if the two of you were cuddling on the couch and watching something. Bucky never pushed you away during these moments, but he never pulled you closer. 

Part of him felt guilty, if he really thought about it. 

You were normal. Someone that trusted him outside of the heroics. You treated him like any other guy on the street. You didn’t expect him to be anything else other than your friend. 

And Bucky was. He was a damn good friend to you, and he considered you one of his closest friends, too.

Simply, somewhere along the way… it shifted. He couldn’t tell when. There was no epiphany. Just a quiet realization one day. When he looked at you… he saw peace. A possible future with him, as something more than just a weapon.

Beside you, he felt different. As if the years and the war hadn’t affected him, hadn’t altered his brain in some sort of way that made him headstrong and tough around the edges the way he acted with the rest of his friends. 

With you, he felt softer. As if the walls were broken down without any fanfare or gracious ending. There wasn’t anything special that you needed to do or say to him. You just existed, and made breathing easier for him. 

Bucky quietly decided that even if you never looked his way, that it was okay. He would stay by your side, simply as another friend of yours if that’s all you’d ever want from him. Your presence alone was all he needed. You, without even realizing it, gave him something that he didn’t know was possible anymore. 

You gave him hope.

“We’re gonna meet your so-called friend that you always bail on us tonight?” Sam asked as Bucky came out into the common areas. 

The mission was finally showered off of him, and Bucky felt a bit lighter now. He just needed to change into that semi-formal attire that Stark shoved into his hands— the same clothes that were tied with a threat if Bucky didn’t wear it. 

“She said she would,” Bucky replied.

“Are we sure she’s even real?” Natasha asked, walking by to grab an apple from the fruit bowl. “Pretty sure Barnes is just strolling through New York getting fresh air by himself these days.”

“Sure,” Bucky shrugged, ignoring the chuckles of laughter at Natasha’s half-hearted jab. 

Bucky fished his phone out of his pocket, turning it back on. There should be some texts from you, waiting for him after his mission. And he was right. 

Pretty Girl [12:03pm]: what do the other girls wear 

Pretty Girl [12:05pm]: i googled iron man parties and they look rly fucking fancy sarge WHAT DOES BLACK WIDOW WEAR 

Pretty Girl [12:27pm]: i think ur saving the world… save my outfit when ur free pls </3

Bucky couldn’t help the smile that came onto his face, trying to imagine the panicked look on yours as you floated through your closet. 

Bucky [6:42pm]: Natasha and Wanda wear dresses. 

Your reply comes instantaneously. Bucky still can’t understand how you text so quickly.

Pretty Girl [6:42pm]: like?? floor length??? 

Bucky [6:45pm]: No. I’m wearing just a button up and slacks, if that makes you feel better. 

Pretty Girl [6:45pm]: what color

Bucky [6:46pm]: Black

Pretty Girl [6:47pm]: mmm.. very nice. brings out your eyes

Pretty Girl [6:47pm]: i’ll see you in a couple hours :) 

Bucky hated Stark’s parties with a passion. Despised them. This time? He couldn’t wait for it to come any sooner. 

In fact, he turned straight back to his room and got ready like a teenager waiting for his very first date to come. And he sat there, on the edge of his bed, waiting for the time to come. 

When the sounds of the party started, he went outside. Slowly but surely, guests started filtering in. Tony put on his best facade, greeting everyone with much vigor. Bucky didn’t understand how he could do it every single time. 

“Why are you hanging by the door for?” Sam asked, clapping a hand on Bucky’s shoulder. “She’ll come when she comes— and she’ll find you when she does.”

“Just… making sure she gets in safe,” Bucky grunted.

“Ugh. Just drink, dude,” Sam groaned, pushing a glass of amber liquid into his hands as he guided him towards a group of them— Natasha, Clint, and Rhodey. All three of them were sitting together at the conversation pit, chatting together. 

Bucky supposed he could wait here. You would text him if you didn’t find him right away, too. He relaxed beside Sam, though he was still on edge. 

He couldn’t focus too much on the conversation in front of him. They were talking about Rhodey’s most recent date, if he was correct. A disaster, by the sounds of it. Bucky let out a chuckle when they all laughed, just to sound like he was absorbed into the conversation just like the rest of them. 

“Speaking of dating— looks like Cap’s found someone he’s finally interested in,” Natasha said, a smirk on her face. “She’s cute. Anyone know who she is?”

Bucky’s eyebrows raised. “No way. Steve?”

“Turn around,” Natasha said, pointing behind him. “They’ve been chatting for the past ten minutes.”

Both Bucky and Sam turned to look, only for a pit to form in Bucky’s stomach.

You were there. Absolutely beautiful— dressed so effortlessly stunningly in a way that made the breath get caught in his throat. Then again, you could be in pajamas and an old hoodie, and Bucky would be a fool for you. 

You sat at the bar counter, absolutely flushed. Not from drinking too much alcohol, no, the drink in your hand was completely full. The skin of your cheeks are tinted a shade of red from embarrassment and shyness in a way that Bucky had never been able to see before. Your eyelashes are fluttering against your cheeks as you struggle to maintain eye contact with Bucky’s oldest and longest friend. 

Steve stood beside you, so fucking close. He leaned onto the bar counter with an elbow, a small smile on his face as he talked to you. His eyes never left your face, even when you couldn’t look him in the eyes. 

The conversation between you two is never ending. You’re both responding in quick succession despite the fluttering party around you, ignoring the noise and the chatter. You two are completely absorbed in each other’s words. It’s like nothing else matters. 

You say something that makes Steve chuckle. His head hangs low just for a moment, and he shakes his head. You have a shy smile on your face as you trace the rim of your glass, speaking to him softly. You’re nervous. You’re shy. You look almost a little scared of what he’ll say next. 

When he does respond, you let out a soft laugh, pulling your lip between your teeth before shaking your head shyly. Your cheeks are getting redder by the second.

Then, Steve leans in— whispers something in your ear. 

You freeze for a second, your lips part, and you stare at Steve. You’re flustered. Steve’s grin goes even wider as he pulls back to look at you, and he finishes the rest of his drink. 

Steve looks quite satisfied with himself for your reaction, the pure flushed and embarrassed look on your face. You’re unable to react for a few moments before you’re turning away from him quickly, unable to look him in the eyes— and Steve is laughing at you while you’re fanning your face with your hands. 

“Since when has Steve had moves like that?” Sam asked, eyebrows raised. “She’s like butter for him.”

Bucky has never seen you like this before. There’s never been a moment where you have ever acted like this for him before. Not once, not ever. 

Despite the fact you’re so embarrassed at whatever he had to say to you, you’re still talking to him. You can’t even look him in the eyes, but you’re responding to each and every single thing he’s saying to you. Just like Sam said— you’re melting for his words. 

Bucky has a pit of despair in his gut. He has to look away. He can’t watch the scene in front of him anymore. A long breath enters and exits his chest as he slowly tries to think rationally. 

Rationality fully leaves when Sam’s voice breaks his meditation. 

“There he is!” Sam exclaimed, standing. “Introduce us to your friend, Steve!”

Steve’s walking over, with you. Steve’s hand is on your back, leading you over to the group of them. You look relaxed, the blush is mostly gone from your cheeks, but Bucky can’t focus on anything except for the fact you’re extremely close to Steve. 

Sam moves to greet Steve, and two hands clap together before chests hit in a brother hug, their other hands hitting each other’s back. 

“Well, I’m not the one who should introduce her,” Steve chuckled, shaking his head.

You give Sam a polite smile before sidestepping both men, going men, dropping onto the couch beside Bucky. Immediately, he shifted over to give you space. You notice, and Bucky tries not to react to your gaze. 

As you settle, you give a nod to Natasha and Rhodey on the opposite couch. Natasha gives you a smile in return, but she looks a bit confused. 

You introduce yourself as Bucky’s friend— the one that Bucky goes to see all the time. 

“The one that’s not real?” Sam asked, surprised. 

“You tell them I’m not real?” you asked, looking at Bucky as you lean back into the cushions.

“They say it on their own,” Bucky muttered. You stared at him for a few moments. You heard the edge to his voice, and he cursed in his head for being so blatant with his irritation. 

“Are you okay?” you whispered, your voice softer, only for him to hear. He wanted to scream. Not at you, but at himself. 

Bucky doesn’t look at you. Instead, he gets up, handing you his drink before walking away without another word. He can feel your eyes on him, feel the way you straightened on the couch in panic as he left without warning. 

He fucking hates this. 

Only two tells. He only needed to do one thing, say one thing, and you immediately could tell something was off about him. He hates even more that he just walked away from you without even saying a word, but he needs a second to collect his thoughts. 

For the rest of the party, Bucky avoided you like the plague. He felt your eyes on him. He refused to look at you. Even when the crowd thinned out, and the party dwindled down to just the team and you, Bucky avoided you. 

Eventually, you took your leave. 

It was Steve who saw you to the door. Steve offered to give you a ride home. You rejected, giving him a smile and saying you’ll just call an Uber or something, and wait in the lobby. Steve wasn’t having it. Something about it being too late at night, and he was right. 

Bucky could see, out of the corner of his eye, you looking at him. He didn’t look back. 

So, you left with Steve, Steve’s jacket on your shoulders to keep you warm for when the night air hit you. 

Shortly after, Bucky excused himself to his room, and his phone went off in his pocket. He re-read your text, feeling more and more like a fucking asshole with each read. 

He tossed his phone to the side, dragging a hand down his face. Bucky couldn’t answer you. Not tonight. 

Pretty Girl [1:32am]: is everything okay?

Just like you thought, you and Steve became extremely good friends right away. You practically knew him and everything about him right away from the very beginning, thanks to Bucky. 

You didn’t even mean to approach him first, but your eyes found him when you were looking in the crowd when you arrived. He was attempting to get a drink when you dropped in on the bar, and opened up with—

“Is Bucky gay and not telling me?”

Steve choked on the water he originally had in his hands before looking at you. You belatedly introduced yourself to him, telling him who exactly you were to Bucky before repeating yourself, asking him if he and Bucky were dating or if Bucky and Sam were dating or if all three of them were in some… throuple… situation. 

Thankfully, Steve took it like a champ. He laughed so loud it made you grin before he shook his head and confirmed that Bucky is indeed single, and has been since the forties. 

Then, he asked you why you even assumed. 

Your next question—

“How the hell do I get your dumbass friend to like me then?”

Steve looked intrigued at that point. Leaned against the bar, hooked on your every word. You told him about your situation with him— how touchy Bucky was with you. The cute names he called you. How he was always at your place.

You told him how your friends thought he must not like girls, which is why you even had to ask Steve in the first place. 

Then he whispers to you, in your ear for only you to hear—

“I’m certain he’s already in love with you if he’s doing all of that.”

Steve had such a big grin on his face after saying it— and he couldn’t stop telling you how happy he was to meet you. How he’d noticed how Bucky was just a generally brighter guy these days, but wouldn’t say much about you, as if he wanted to keep you to himself. 

Steve said he understood why Bucky fell for you, from how you were talking about him.

“My words don’t mean much,” Steve said, smiling at you, “but thank you for looking at Bucky like this. Like he’s a man.”

That first half of the party was almost like a blur for you. You had practically reached enlightenment just by speaking to Captain America. All of your world’s issues had been solved by your conversation with the man, and you could only remember bits and pieces from how scrambled your brain was.

You were so embarrassed from admitting all of it to Bucky’s friend. Your feelings about having to ask for advice on how to get Bucky to look your way to Steve telling you that you already had Bucky wrapped around your finger. All of it had you on a euphoric level that you had never experienced before.

Yet, if Steve’s so fucking certain, then why is Bucky ignoring you? 

You remembered the second half of the party better than the first. Bucky moving away from you on the couch. At first, you thought it was because his friends were around. You tried not to let it bother you– the way that he created distance between the both of you. 

Despite the fact your heart was racing because you received verbal confirmation from Bucky’s best friend that Bucky had feelings for you, you tried acting normal. The same way that you always acted with him. Touchy. Casual. The same flirting routine that you two always use.

Yet, you don’t think he looked your way once the entire night. You tried. You desperately tried to corner him, to talk to him. You should’ve known better to try to get the former Winter Soldier alone.

Bucky doesn’t know this because you’ve never told him, but he has read receipts on. You know he’s seen every single one of your text messages. You know he’s read every single one of them the second you’ve sent them, which means there’s no mission.

You’ve gone over a week without contact with him. You’ve gone longer without seeing him, but never without any form of communication. There was always some sort of text or call, something to connect the two of you together. 

You didn’t have the clearance to go in and out of the Avengers compound. You couldn’t just waltz in there. All you could do was text and attempt to call him, and wait for him to text you back. 

But you don’t want to bother him if he doesn’t want to talk to you anymore. You’re better than that— you’re not going to chase attention from someone who clearly didn’t want yours. You’re still not sure what you did to offend him, but you’d try one last time. 

Feelings aside, you valued him deeply as your friend. You thought he felt the same way. You weren’t sure if you were hurt from feeling a friend breakup, or having to get over your crush over him. Either option fucking sucked.

You call him one more time during your lunch break, only for the phone to go immediately to voicemail. You let out a deep sigh, and wait for the prompt to allow you to record your message. 

“I’ll stop calling and texting you now,” you said, your heart beating so wildly in your chest you’re certain that your phone’s microphone can pick it up. “I don’t know what I did, but… Yeah. I’ll leave you alone now. I wish you the best, I guess. Stay safe, handsome.”

You hang up, sending the message. You turn your phone off next. You don’t want to know if he’s texted you or called you back, and you don’t trust yourself by just simply turning on the do not disturb feature on your phone. You’re the type to still look at notifications to see if you were disturbed. 

You try to power through the rest of your day on autopilot. 

Your plan is to complete your menial work tasks. Tasks that should have been so easy to complete without a single bat of an eye, but no. The universe wanted to make your life harder. As if to just laugh at you, add onto your plate, and make you feel even more miserable.

The emails you received from your team were full of dumpster fires that you needed to put out for your clients. You were pulled into emergency meetings that you didn’t have time for. Those same clients were calling you, frantic and fucking pissed that your company wasn’t delivering what you had promised them. 

All at the same time, your upper management was cracking down on your boss, who was then taking it out on all of you— and you had no time to deal with his tantrum. You were one fucking person, dealing with your own meltdown in your own personal life, but expected to deal with everyone else’s. 

You didn’t get out of work on time. You couldn’t. It was impossible. You had a mountain of tasks that had no end in sight. You didn’t take your final break at the end of the day. Honestly, your head was pounding. 

Still, you didn’t go home right away. Didn’t turn your phone back on. You went to the grocery store instead. You couldn’t handle the thought of sitting in your lonely home, by yourself with your own thoughts. 

You should’ve just gone home. 

You roamed up and down aisles that you didn’t need to go down, only for a rambunctious child to slam into you with an open container of fruit juice in his hands, spilling all over your clothes before falling backwards. The kid’s parent had the audacity to yell at you.

You barely had half the mind to walk away before breaking down in tears yourself because why is your kid drinking unbought juice in the store and running around unsupervised? while the kid’s mom screamed at you to pay for the juice. 

You didn’t even buy anything at the store. Just dropped your basket off at the register and left before you ended up exploding. Apologized to the cashier for the inconvenience before making the walk home. 

A soft curse fell from your lips as you shoved your key into the door— it was fucking jammed again. You shook the door, tears prickling in your eyes. You were sticky, uncomfortable, angry, overstimulated, and so fucking sad. You’re about to slam your fist into the door in utter rage and frustration when it opens.

“You really need to tell your landlord to fix your door, doll,” Bucky murmured to you, “Even I had trouble getting in earlier.”

You’re staring at him, like a deer caught in headlights. He looks sheepish, eyes trained on the ground at your feet. For a moment, you wonder how the fuck he’s in your apartment. Then you remember you gave him a key a long time ago for emergencies.

Your silence must’ve alerted him. His eyes finally drag upwards, and widen when he sees the state you’re in. His eyebrows furrowed. He’s quiet, for just a moment. Then, his inner thoughts come forth.

“You look like shit.”

“Yeah. Because that’s exactly what I want to fucking hear from you after uncalled for radio silence,” you said dryly, coming to your senses. You watch him cringe at your tone before you push past him, walking into your apartment. 

Your work bag is unceremoniously dropped onto the nearest chair, and you shrug off your cardigan next. You can hear Bucky shuffling behind you as you make your way to your bedroom for another change of clothes before you drown yourself in hot water. 

By the time you come out of the bathroom, no longer sticky, muscles slightly relaxed from the spray of the water, you find that Bucky had made dinner for the two of you. It’s nothing fancy or extreme– just some pasta and chicken that you definitely didn’t have in your fridge before. You vaguely wondered if he had gone shopping before he even came over. 

You want to press him. Tell him to get the fuck out of your house. But God, the food smells good, he looks good in his stupid fucking sweatshirt and jeans that screams boyfriend material, and you’re so tired. 

You can feel his eyes on you, cautious. The tension in the air is thick. You could probably eat it for dessert, if you wanted to. For now, you take your time stabbing into the pasta in front of you and bringing it to your lips. You fill your stomach, ignore his stare, and ignore the way that he doesn’t eat his own share of food. 

“I got your message,” Bucky finally spoke.

“Great. Why are you here then?” you replied, dropping your fork onto the plate. It clattered loudly against the ceramic, and you finally sat back in your seat. Your arms crossed over your chest as you finally looked at him.

Bucky was still looking at you. His lips were parted, as if he was trying to come up with the words to speak. His fists were clenched on either side of his plate, and then his mouth shut. He took in a deep breath from his nostrils, and shook his head, lowering it as he did.

“Are you here to return my apartment key? Didn’t have to make me dinner to do that. You could’ve slipped it through the mail slot, but whatever. Hand it over,” you said, holding out your hand to him.

His head immediately snapped up, and a crease formed between his eyebrows. He looked hurt– but not in a kicked puppy kind of way. Almost scandalized, like he was offended that you even suggested that to begin with. 

“I’m not returning your fuckin’ key,” he responded, voice a little tight. 

You frowned, raising your eyebrows at him. You lowered your hand back down, and tilted your head at him as you observed him for a few moments. You were both in a quiet standoff, one that you didn’t fully get. 

 “I’m sorry, did I misunderstand something between us?” you finally asked, tone clipped. “I’ve texted you. Called you– like an obsessive fucking girlfriend for nearly two weeks now. I can’t even say that you ghosted me because ghosting is a term that you use for people in relationships or people in talking stages, and we clearly aren’t in either of those–”

“What the fuck is ghosting?” he cut you off, exasperated. 

“I just fucking told you!” you shouted back, throwing your hands into the air. 

Then, you looked at him. Really looked at him. Despite his tone, he was genuine. Confused. He wanted to know, and you were going off on a tangent on him. It wouldn’t be fair to him or you to keep going if he had no clue what you were saying. So, you took in a slow breath of air before you explained. 

“It means you ignored me. Fell off the face of the Earth without any explanation– no rhyme or reason. I had no clue what happened to you, or if I did something to hurt you. There was no closure, no understanding. I don’t know what I did to piss you off, so now I’m pissed off at you,” you said, trying to keep your voice as even as possible. “And now, you come into my fucking apartment, make me dinner, and try to act like everything is okay? That’s just a load of bullshit, James. I have to get texts from Steve to make sure that you’re alive, and not dead in some random country!”

Bucky’s eyebrow twitched, and he sat back in his own seat. You watched as he sucked on his teeth, and slowly exhaled. 

“You and Steve text? How often does that happen?” he asked, his voice low.

“Are you for real?” you asked, a laugh escaping your lips. You couldn’t even try to mask the confusion that was on your face now. You stared at him, blinking. “Out of everything I just said– that’s what you’re going to take away from that? Not that I’m mad– you’re not even going to apologize?”

“Just answer the question, please,” he murmured, his shoulders rising as he took in another, small breath.

Your eyebrows furrowed as you stared at him. You couldn’t read his face. There was something distant in his eyes. He was guarded, far away, and not the Bucky that you knew. 

“I’ve texted him more than you’ve texted me these past couple weeks,” you answered, clenching your jaw. “Which, by the way– you texted me absolutely nothing. So you can guess how often me and Steve text.”

“So you two really hit it off then, huh?” Bucky said, though it sounds more to himself than to you. He’s looking down at this full plate of food now, avoiding your gaze as his tongue is poking at his cheek. He almost looks pissed off. 

“What the hell are you even talking about?” 

His eyes flickered up. “You and Steve. At the party. That’s where you met, right? He brought you home, didn’t he?”

“He did, since the person that I assumed was going to be my ride home avoided me all night,” you shot back. You could feel your already thinning patience dissolving into nothing at all. “How is this relevant to the conversation that we’re having?”

Silence settled like a stone wall as you stared at each other. The two of you met another dead end to your conversation, with nowhere to go. This was the first time you had ever argued with Bucky like this, and you could feel your relationship with him slipping through your fingertips. You don’t know this side of Bucky. Your agitation was already through the roof, and Bucky was mad about something that you didn’t even understand, but you could see it in his eyes. 

Then, you watch his anger dissipate. It cracks, like he’s conceding. Like he doesn’t want to be mad. He’s fighting an internal battle, struggling with himself in his mind. You don’t know which part of him is winning yet.

Bucky scrubs a hand down his face as he slouches in his seat, and rests his elbows on the table, burying his face in his hands for a few moments. He takes two, slow, deep breaths as he tries to compose himself. 

“Steve’s a good guy,” he finally spoke through a clenched jaw. “A great guy even. I’m glad you two seem to be getting along.”

Your temper freezes in its place as you stare at him. What?

Bucky lifts his head, lacing his fingers together in front of his mouth. He’s still not looking at you, eyes trained somewhere behind your head. 

“I– I haven’t seen someone make him laugh like that in so damn long, and I know you really well, so I don’t doubt that you’ll make him happy either. And I’ve never seen you act so fucking shy in front of guy before, and I’m glad it’s Steve that made you act like that–”

The words are spilling out of Bucky’s mouth faster than you can comprehend. Your mind is trying to keep up with the clusterfuck of information that you’re suddenly receiving from him. You’re doing your best to decipher what he’s saying to you, while sitting in front of you, looking like a sad, lonely, kicked fucking puppy. He looks like you’ve just abandoned him. 

“–and God I just wish that it was me that you looked at like that because I’ve been with you this entire time for over a year now, and I’ve been flirting with you every single fucking day that I’m with you and you never seem to notice–”

“You’re jealous?” you finally cut him off, your mind finally catching up with his words. “You’ve been ignoring me because you’re jealous that I was talking to Steve at the party?”

You watch as Bucky’s lips part, and he slowly falls backwards into his seat. His chest rises and falls rapidly as he attempts to catch his breath from the long winded, incoherent rant. He clenches his jaw like he’s about to break his teeth into pieces. Then, he nods once, swallows thickly, and looks you in the eyes. Nervously.

You can't believe what you're hearing. He's jealous. The guy you've been ripping your hair out over, the one you've embarrassed yourself in front of Captain America over is jealous.

You got up from your chair, and went over to your bookshelf. You could feel him watching you as you pulled out one of your photo albums– a black binder. Sleek, inconspicuous, unassuming. You brought it back to the table, dropping it down in front of him before sitting back in your seat, taking a slow breath. 

Silently, you gestured for him to open it, looking down at it before looking back at him. You watched as he slowly reached for it, moving his plate away to make more space. 

Then, he saw it. 

Your possession of candid photos, spanning over the last five months. Just Bucky, and Bucky alone. In nearly all of them, Bucky wasn’t looking at you. You thought that he would have been aware that you were taking the photos, with his assassin senses, but Steve told you otherwise– he trusts you, he said. 

You watched as Bucky continued flipping through the photo album, page by page, confusion riddling his features with each turn, each new photo that he saw. There were photos from your excursions together.

The photos taken on your DSLR camera were the ones where he wasn’t facing you. Where he had no clue that you were even pointing the camera at him. These photos were taken outdoors, when you were outside doing something else in the world. At an aquarium. At the park. At a nice cafe that you saw online that you dragged him to. You had made sure the flash was turned off on your camera, made sure that he wouldn’t be able to see you sneaking photos. You always tried to be sure there was something near him that you could pretend to be taking a photo of instead, too. 

In some of the recent photos, his face was clearly shown. At some point throughout your process of sneaking photos of him, you realized that he thought you were just tapping away at your screen. It was one of the many benefits that you had from the fact that Bucky didn’t use his phone often, other than to contact you. 

These were photos of him in your kitchen when he made dinner or of him on your couch, your legs on his lap. Some photos were of him sleeping on the other side of your bed, completely unaware that you had put your camera to his face

“You don’t take pictures of people,” he murmured, fingers brushing over the photos. “You told me you think people become the fakest version of themselves on camera.”

“You’re right. I don’t. I fucking hate it,” you answered with a shrug. “And they do.”

“Then what’s all this?”

“Photos of you through my eyes– exactly how I see you. An entire collection of it, actually. I hoard those photos. I have more of them that I need to go get developed, and add to that album, actually,” you admitted. 

“Why?” 

You could only stare at him for a few moments, your heart thumping wildly in your chest, threatening to crawl up your esophagus and show itself to Bucky. He looked like he was putting together the pieces, just as you had done yourself. But he needed the confirmation.  

“I asked Steve if you two were dating. That’s what we were talking about at the party.”

You watched as Bucky’s head snapped up towards you, eyebrows raised up to his hairline. You’re certain that if he had water, he would’ve choked like Steve did. 

“Sweetheart, what the fuck–”

“And then we kept talking about you,” you cut him off, looking away from him, clearing your throat. “And I asked Steve how I could get you to like me– to notice me– and stop just flirting with me like a friend. He told me that if you were flirting with me at all, there’s a pretty good chance that you already like me. Which is why I got shy.”

You can feel heat crawling up your neck, blossoming under your cheeks, and on either side of your head to your ears. It was your turn to avoid his gaze. You kept your eyes down on your hands, which were folded onto your lap. You could hear your heart in your ears. Your stomach flipped over in your body in unnatural ways, and you wish you didn’t eat any of the food Bucky made. 

Then, you saw Bucky’s metal hand on top of yours. You didn’t even hear him stand or get out of his chair. It was moments like this that you forgot how quiet he could be– how he made himself loud for you, how he made his presence known for your own comfort. It was one of the many things that he did for you without you even realizing it. 

Your breath hitched as you turned, finding him on one knee beside your chair, looking up at you. His thumb brushed over your knuckles, gently, comfortingly, sweetly, in a way that made your heart stutter in your chest. 

You met his eyes. They were soft. Just like how he had looked at you that day in the bookstore, when you told him to smile for you. A small smile was on his lips as he looked up at you, unguarded and raw. 

“I’m really sorry, doll,” he whispered, and you released a soft breath. “I didn’t– I should’ve just talked to you instead of running from you. I was scared. I didn’t know what to do. I… didn’t want to be rejected by you.”

“So you thought pushing me away completely would be better?” you shot back with a frown, but there was no real anger to your words, and Bucky could tell.

“Can I make it up to you?” he asked. “Take you on a date? An actual date– maybe one where we can take a photo together instead of you taking ones of me like a creep hiding something.”

A laugh fell from your lips as Bucky squeezed your hands. His smile only grows at the sound of your laughter, and you can’t find it in you to be a brat to him. Not when he’s kneeling beside you, holding your hands, and asking so nicely. Then again, you were always soft for him. 

Then, you reached for him. You grabbed him by the collar of his sweatshirt, pulling him up as you leaned down, meeting him somewhere in the middle. His lips are on yours within seconds, and they’re as soft as you had imagined– as you know they are because you’ve put your lip masks on his lips with your fingers more times than you can count. But God, feeling them directly on yours is a different sense of euphoria that you never would’ve known until now. 

You slowly slink out of your chair for comfort, until you’re on the floor with Bucky, body pressed against his. Your hands are on his shoulders, his wrapped around your back to hold you tight against him. You’re breathless against his lips, slotted against him perfectly like he was made for you. You could probably stay like this forever. Kissing him slowly in the dining area of your apartment. 

When you finally parted, his forehead pressed against yours. Your breaths mingle, fanning against each other’s faces as you look at each other. The tension is back, but different. You both react at the same time.

Bucky dives back in for another kiss, a hand coming to cradle the back of your neck to support you. You can feel his tongue swipe the seam of your lips, requesting entry that you would never deny him. He immediately takes the chance to explore, while your hands explore underneath his clothes, searching for skin.  

A low, guttural groan escapes his throat. “This is backwards, baby,” he murmurs against your lips. “We should be going on dates first before all of this.”

“Are you complaining?” you asked, hands moving up his abdomen, and resting on his sides. 

“No, but I wanna be a gentleman for you, make it up to you for the bullshit I put you through–”

“Technically, we have been going on dates this entire time,” you reassured, peppering a series of kisses along his jaw and down his neck. Bucky lets out a soft sigh, moving his head to the side to allow you space to keep pressing your lips to his skin. “Since we both liked each other, we just never said it out loud.”

You can feel his resolve of being a gentleman breaking with each kiss. His hands tighten around you, and you can feel his pulse quicken under your lips. Gently, you nip onto a soft spot, listening to him let out another groan before you placate the ache with your tongue. 

Then, you’re being hoisted off the floor with a shriek falling from your lips. You grab onto Bucky’s shoulders quickly, and you look at his face– there’s determination all over his features as he makes his way down the hall to your bedroom. The resolve has shattered. You’ve broken him. 

Bucky’s been in your bedroom before. He’s been in your bed before, been under your sheets, slept comfortably through the night with him on the other side of the bed– but God, this is so much better.

Clothes are thrown off, damn near ripped at the seams, littered all over your floor, and Bucky’s hands are all over you. He’s laid you down onto your pillows, and his head is between your legs before you can come to your senses– and you feel the warmth of his tongue flattening against your aching core.

You both moan into the room at the same time, almost in harmony. You weakly push yourself onto your elbows to look at him, to watch him, and he’s hooking your thighs over his shoulders, pulling you deeper into him to lock you in place. Then, you meet his eyes as he takes another pass. 

Bucky doesn’t need to say a single word for you to understand that he’s been waiting to taste you on his tongue for months. He eats like a man that’s been starved, like a man that had spent years in the desert, and you were the first drop of water that he’s had. 

You can only fall back against the pillows, reaching for him, grabbing onto his hair– which makes him groan against you. The vibrations alone make your body tremble against him. He’s enjoying every single moment, eyes falling shut. His hand shifts, thumb moving to press against your clit, and your body reacts instantly, thighs clenching around him. 

“Bucky– fuck–” you gasped out, and you fall apart instantly. He groans into you, almost in approval as he licks up all of your arousal and juices until there’s nothing left. You’re twitching, sensitive, and pushing on his head– damn near sobbing for him to give you a break. 

Reluctantly, he does get up. And he looks like he’s the one who just came. He’s breathless, chest rising and falling, expression fucked out and beautiful. Bucky licks his lips, then wipes the area surrounding his mouth before he slots himself between your legs, lowering himself down to you.

“So good for me, baby,” he praised softly, kissing your forehead as his elbows rested on either side of your head. His kisses moved further down your face until his lips met yours again in a slow, gentle kiss. “So, so good for me. Can you keep going?”

“God, if you don’t fuck me I might kill you.”

You could feel him grin against you as he slowly shifted, and you felt him slowly drag the length of his cock against your folds, coating himself in your slick. A soft gasp fell from your lips as he moaned out your name. He dropped his head into your shoulder, trying to ground himself as he lined himself up with your aching hole, and pushed in.

You can feel him deep– every ridge and vein, pulsing inside of you. He’s thick and girthy, long, stretching you out more than you’d ever been before, and it’s too much, and not enough at the same time. You need him painting the inside of you, staining you, claiming you– you can’t tell him that right now. Not yet. You just got the man. 

You know that you’re not much better. You’re wet around him, walls twitching and crying at the feel of him. Your legs are trembling around his hips, fingernails clawing at his shoulders and digging deep as you try to catch your breath. You’re impossibly full, but you need him to move.

And he does.

The first pull back has you seeing the gates of heaven. When he sinks all the way back in, you’re sent straight to hell. 

Bucky fucks you into the bed like a man on a mission, full of sin and no regrets. His hands are all over you, grabbing at your waist to hold you in place while his lips are busy marking your chest in places where only you and he will know. When your back arches off the bed, his lips close around a stiff nipple, tongue lapping around the hardened peak and sucking. 

You’re sensitive, breaths erratic, and he’s too good. 

“I can’t– I can’t–” you whimpered, fingers digging into his chest. 

“Oh, but you’re doing so well, baby,” Bucky praised softly. 

You can barely open your eyes to look at him, but when you do? There’s a light sheen of sweat that’s coating his skin, and his eyes are on you, watching every single part of you, burning you into his memory– the way you look under him as he fucks you– how your breasts move in correspondence with each thrust of his hips, how fucked out and cock drunk you look, how your body spasms and twitches under his ministrations. He’s compartmentalizing every single detail of you. 

“Bucky, please,” you moaned out, a shaky breath escaping your lips.

“Gimme one more, doll– Can you do that for me?” he groaned, his hips picking up speed, “Need you to cum on my cock, pretty thing.”

There’s a neediness in his voice that makes your walls flutter around him, that shoves you off the edge a second time that night– just like he wanted you to. A curse falls from his lips as his hips stutter against you, and he rides out your orgasm as long as possible before he’s pulling out of you, his own release spilling all over your stomach and chest. Bucky catches himself on his elbows before he collapses on top of you, breathing heavily.

Part of you wants to tell him what a waste. You keep it to yourself for now. 

“Kiss, Bucky,” you muttered instead, reaching for his face.

He chuckles, almost breathy, and leans back down to you. He’s careful to avoid the hot, sticky mess that he’s left behind on your body, but he kisses you regardless. A sigh escapes your throat as he meets your lips.

Before long, he’s completely leaving you, muttering something about needing to clean you up. You stay there, boneless and sated, drifting off to sleep. You don’t even realize he’d come back until you feel a warm washcloth on your skin, wiping away the remnants of misdeed that you two had committed just moments prior. 

Then, you’re being hoisted into his arms again, and the sheets are pulled over your bodies. His lips press against your forehead as his arms wrap around you, tugging you closer to his chest. Once again, Bucky is in your bed. Like he’s been countless times before, but this is different. It’s changed. You like it better this way.

You’re listening to the steady beat of his heart, allowing it to be your lullaby for the night when he breaks the silence. 

“Is this a yes to the date?” Bucky whispered.

A grin breaks out on your face, and you press a kiss to his bare chest. “Yes, handsome. You can take me out on a date.”

masterlist

taglist: @duacruel @natsomens @decthaxhrcv @shortandb1tchy @iyskgd @ifuckwithyouanyday @miss-chuchu @bighappypiels @snnoopyy @messrkarmaismygf13 @thebuckybarnesvault @aekzla @simp4f1 @its-in-the-woods @lvrrinx @herejustforbuckybarnes @djotummy @star-yawnznn @gallifreyansass @nanikio @jmclouds @sundaepoet @the-salty-asian

[am-3-thyst]

The Walk Home

A little short and sweet one-shot.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x you (I think it's actually gender neutral? please let me know if I'm wrong)

Word Count: 2.1k

Summary: After Bucky walks you home for weeks, you finally confront him about the deeper feelings neither of you has dared to name. What begins as uncertainty and hesitation slowly gives way to honesty, vulnerability, and a long-overdue kiss.

Trigger warnings: I don't think there are any? This is just fluff, guys. One kiss. (That's all you get from me today, lol)

Author's Note: Apology fluff for the emotional wreckage of Chapter 7 of my "New Avengers" series, which also dropped today.

Masterlist

You’d initially found it a little strange that Bucky Barnes, the former assassin turned reluctant hero, chose to walk you home every evening after work. At first, you chalked it up to quiet politeness, something instinctive in him. He was a soldier, so looking out for people came naturally to him.

But over time, something shifted.

What started as short, polite conversations turned into shared laughter and lingering glances. The space beside you began to feel like it belonged to him. And though you never said it out loud, you started looking forward to the time you spent together. 

After each mission debriefing, he’d be there, waiting. Always the last to leave, always lingering just long enough for you to notice. You found yourself stalling too, taking your time packing up, heart beating just a little faster in anticipation as you waited for him to say it.

“I’ll walk you,” he’d murmur, almost casually.

And every time, you’d nod like it didn’t mean anything, like you hadn’t spent the entire day hoping he’d still be there when the meeting ended. You told yourself it was just a habit, just Bucky being kind. But as days turned into weeks, and weeks into months, you stopped believing your own excuses.

He became a quiet, calming constant. And each night, his presence lit something in your chest that you tried and failed to ignore.

Once or twice, you’d tried to poke at it, just enough to see if he’d give something away. But he always brushed it off with a chuckle and that disarming grin that was impossible not to return. “Just making sure you don’t get into trouble,” he’d say, like it was nothing. But it didn’t feel like nothing.

You started to notice the small things, the way his eyes would flick to your lips when he thought you weren’t looking, the way his fingers would brush against yours at crosswalks, the way his voice softened when he asked about your day.

He never said anything more, and you never pushed. But the tension between you started to build, quiet but persistent. You could feel it in the air, in the pauses between words, in the way your body leaned just a little closer to his each night. It was subtle, but undeniable.

Still, he insisted there was nothing to it. "Because I’m a nice guy," he’d say with that same familiar smile.

But you knew better.

You knew the way your heart reacted wasn’t friendship. You felt it in the way you looked forward to the end of each day, in the warmth that stayed long after you said goodnight, in the way you found yourself imagining what it might feel like if he finally closed the distance.

And yet, you said nothing either. Maybe because you were afraid to lose what you already had. Or maybe because your feelings had grown so slowly, so quietly, that by the time you realized how deep they ran, you were already in too deep to risk it.

You told yourself he’d make the first move, sure he’d be the one to speak up, but he never did.

Until finally, one night, the tension between you became too much for you to ignore.

The sun had already dipped below the horizon, leaving the streets washed in soft orange and fading violet. You walked at your usual pace, side by side, surrounded by the low hum of passing cars and distant city sounds. But tonight, something was off.

Bucky was quieter than usual. His shoulders were tight beneath his jacket, hands shoved deep into his pockets, his gaze fixed ahead like he was miles away. You kept sneaking glances at him, noting the hard line of his jaw, the crease in his brow, the restlessness in how he moved. It was subtle, but it made your chest tighten.

You could feel your own nerves rising, the words you’d kept locked away for weeks sitting heavy on your tongue. You’d rehearsed what to say so many times, but now that the moment was here, it didn’t feel any easier.

Still, you knew you couldn’t keep pretending nothing was happening. 

You slowed to a stop under a streetlamp, the light casting a soft glow across the sidewalk. The sound of Bucky’s steps continued for a few paces before he noticed you weren’t beside him. He turned, concern flickering across his face as he stepped back toward you.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, his voice low and careful.

You hesitated, searching his face for any hint that he already understood what this was about. But all you saw was guarded confusion, and your heart beat faster.

“Bucky,” you said, your voice steadier than you felt, “we need to talk.”

He shifted, visibly uneasy, his posture growing stiff. “About what?”

You crossed your arms, trying to keep your composure. “This. You walking me home every night. You act like it’s just something you do out of habit, but it’s not, is it? I just... I need to know what this really is.”

His eyes widened slightly. He opened his mouth to respond, but no words came. He looked away, drawing in a slow breath, then exhaled hard. His jaw flexed, and he shifted again, like he was trying to ground himself.

“I told you,” he said finally, voice quiet but tense. “I’m just being a friend. Making sure you’re safe. It’s not a big deal.”

You stared at him, your patience thinning. “You call this friendship?” you asked, trying not to sound too sharp. “Every night. You ask about my day like it matters. You brush your hand against mine like you don’t even realize you’re doing it.” Your voice softened. “You look at me like...”

Bucky froze. His breath caught. His shoulders tensed even more, but he didn’t look away. “Like what?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper.

You stepped toward him, close enough now to see every shift in his expression. “Like you want more,” you said gently. 

A beat of silence passed, stretching longer than it should have. You could almost hear the pause in the air around you.

He didn’t speak.

His gaze stayed on yours, but he looked like he was caught between wanting to move forward and wanting to run. Then, slowly, his eyes dropped to the ground. He took a small step back, dragging a hand through his hair.

“I…” His voice cracked slightly, barely more than breath. The hesitation hit you like a punch, because you knew he felt it, but he was still holding back.

Afraid he might pull away completely, you shook your head and stepped in with quiet resolve. “Don’t,” you said, voice softer than your racing heart, but steadier than the storm behind your ribs. You met his eyes and held them. “Don’t tell me you don’t feel this. I see it in the way you look at me, in the way you're always there, even when I don’t ask.”

Your voice cracked a little, the weight of your feelings pushing past your restraint. Still, you kept going. “Are you really going to stand there and tell me none of it means anything? That you don’t feel anything at all?”

Bucky’s jaw clenched. He looked down, his throat bobbing with a hard swallow. His hands balled into fists at his sides, his body rigid with tension. When he finally looked up again, something in his expression had changed, like he’d stopped fighting and started facing it.

“I’m trying,” he said, voice low and rough. “I’m trying not to mess this up. Not to make it worse.”

Your chest tightened. “Worse?” you repeated quietly, the word stinging. You let out a tired breath, shaking your head. “Bucky, it’s already complicated. You walk me home every night like it’s nothing. You act like this doesn’t mean anything. But it does. And it’s driving me crazy not knowing if I’m the only one who feels it.”

You stopped, breath catching before you said too much. The silence stretched. You looked away, heat rising to your face, suddenly exposed and unsure.

But Bucky didn’t back off this time. Slowly, he stepped closer. The tension in his shoulders eased just slightly, and when he looked at you again, his walls were down. His eyes were clear, open.

“I care for you,” he said, barely above a whisper. “More than I’ve let on. You’re not imagining it.” He paused, then added, “But I’m scared. I haven’t let myself feel something like this in a long time. And the thought of screwing it up terrifies me.”

The honesty in his voice hit you hard. It cut through your frustration and settled into something gentler. You nodded slightly, breath catching as the weight of the moment finally settled between you.

“So,” you said, voice soft but sure, “you’ve been walking me home every night because you’re afraid?”

Bucky let out a short, dry laugh, more of an exhale. “Yeah. That’s pretty much it.”

You shook your head with a small smile, your chest lightening. “Well... if you’re going to keep walking me home, maybe it’s time we face our fears and stop pretending.”

His gaze lifted again, surprised by the shift in your voice. He looked at you like he was still catching up, like he wasn’t sure it was okay to hope.

“So...” he said slowly, carefully, “what happens now?”

You took a step closer, closing the last bit of distance between you. Your voice was soft, steady. “Now?” You smiled. “Now you kiss me. And we figure out the rest together.”

He looked at you for a long moment, breath shallow, something shifting in his expression. The hesitation faded from his eyes, replaced by the determination you’d been hoping to see. He stepped forward slowly, carefully, as if the moment might break if he moved too fast.

When his fingers reached for you, the rough pads of them brushing your jaw, you felt a quiet spark jump across your skin. You leaned into the touch, eyes fluttering shut as his hand cupped your cheek, his thumb drawing a slow line along your cheekbone. His touch was steady, but you could feel how hard he was trying to keep it that way.

You breathed him in: leather, faint cedar and sandalwood cologne, and something underneath that was just him. His breath warmed your lips as he paused, inches away. 

Then he kissed you.

It began soft and tentative, the kind of kiss that asked rather than assumed. Your lips parted instinctively, inviting him in, letting him know how much you wanted this too. The kiss deepened naturally, gently, like neither of you wanted to rush it but couldn’t keep holding back either.

Your fingers found his jacket, gripping it lightly as you leaned in closer. The tension that had hung between you for so long slowly melted away with each passing second. 

His other arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you in. You felt his hand press gently against your lower back, anchoring you. A quiet sound escaped him, something between a sigh and a breath of relief. It mirrored your own.

You let your fingers drift up to his neck, settling behind it, where his hair was soft. His shoulders, always so tense, finally relaxed beneath your touch.

Everything else fell away: the traffic in the distance, the city lights, the chill in the air. For a moment, it was just you and him, your breaths syncing, your hearts pounding in rhythm.

When the kiss broke, it was slow, like neither of you really wanted it to end. He rested his forehead against yours, and you stayed like that, eyes closed, breathing together.

When you opened your eyes, he was already looking at you, walls down, clear affection in his sapphire eyes. 

A small, breathless laugh slipped out before you could stop it. You touched his jaw lightly, fingers brushing over the stubble there. “So,” you murmured, half-smiling, “does this mean you’re officially walking me home now?”

Bucky let out a quiet laugh of his own, his arm still around you. His eyes warmed, and the weight he'd carried for so long seemed to lift a little.

“Yeah,” he said, voice low but sure. “I guess it does.”

The two of you began to walk again, hand in hand. The silence between you wasn’t awkward or filled with things left unsaid. It felt easy and natural. 

And for the first time, it didn’t feel like you were walking beside someone pretending not to care. It felt like the beginning of something real.

Tag list: @lovely-seb @calwitch @its-in-the-woods

[am-3-thyst]

Setting the Scene

Pairing: Camboy!Bucky Barnes x Club Owner!Female Reader

Summary: You're a woman in power, and you always get what you want.

Word Count: Over 400

Warnings: Woman in power, mention of sex and blackmail, mention of Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?).

A/N: Teaser for a new AU thanks to @artficlly and her Spin the Trope challenge. I got "camboy" and "club owner". Calling this AU Sin Wrapped in Silk (thanks @targaryenvampireslayer for confirming my instinct on the name!). ❤️ Not beta read and written on my phone, so any and all mistakes are my own. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

Power is a fleeting and fragile thing. Many believed it was easy to influence the world around you and command attention, but every move had to be done with precision and appear effortless. If anyone caught a glimpse of weakness, that’s when they dug their claws in. And you? Well, anyone who tried to strike learned that their claws weren’t as sharp as they thought because your teeth were already in their jugulars. It was almost amusing when they realized they were playing checkers while you played chess.

Looking out at your club, you smiled. Watching your clientele bathed in glowing lights, moving in time to the music, drinks flowing, you could practically smell the temptation of sex and bad decisions in the air. You wouldn’t call them weak for giving in since that wasn’t fair. They were human and they wanted to feel something, if only for a moment. It didn’t mean you couldn’t use their indiscretions against them if you needed to. 

You raised the drink in your hand when one of the men made eye contact through the glass. You narrowed your eyes until he looked away, wordlessly and triumphantly shutting down any hopes that he’d have you tonight. Your cunt deserved worship and a goddess like you needed more than a quick fuck from a man who didn’t know where the clit was. 

“Your boy toy’s show is about to start,” you heard behind you.

You turned with a raised eyebrow and looked between your bodyguards. Loyalty wasn’t easy to come by, but these two had proven more than once that they were your knights, utterly devoted to you and your invisible crown. “He isn’t my boy toy yet.”

But he would be.

“Yet is the key word, ma’am.”

You smiled, something sincere. “And I always get what I want, don’t I?”

You weren’t a woman who lingered in the world of “want”. You took action. And the beautiful ex-soldier with the scars and tattoos? The man with a voice hot enough to melt butter? And a cock big enough to split you in two? He was going to be yours. If only for a night to scratch your itch.

But you should’ve known that the man didn’t have claws. He had teeth as sharp as yours and he knew where to leave marks that wouldn’t fade. He was your match.

And maybe… he was worthy enough to wear a crown and stand beside you.

Would you to know what you lovelies think of this reader. Love and thanks for reading this teaser! ❤️

[am-3-thyst]

Ride 'em, Cowboy (an MCU ficlet)

Mature, Bucky x Female Reader, Established Relationship, Sexual situation but no actual sex, Breeding Kink, Chubby Bucky, Tattooed Bucky, No Cowboys or Cowboy Hats were harmed in the writing of this fic, ~400 words. Also on AO3.

Summary:

"Well, okay, darlin', if this is what you want..." It's the cowboy hat's fault, really.

Written (sort of) for @artficlly's Spin the Wheel Challenge. We were joking around as she spun and I was teasing her about a Breeding Chubby Tattooed Cowboy Bucky. Then I went to Costco and came up with this.

“Sweetheart, I am so ready for this.”

You close your eyes, shivering in anticipation on the bed. You smell Bucky’s sweat, feel the warmth from his skin next to yours. His rough hand lightly dancing over your naked skin, shoulder to breast, before resting, cupped, over your stomach.

“Gonna put my baby in here,” he murmurs into your ear. You groan, wanting to lean into him, unable to because of the restraints holding your wrists.

“Bucky, please,” you murmur, turning your face to him as far as it can go. “I just want to see you.”

“No, baby, you know that’s against the rules.”

“But—”

“Mm-mm.” He rests a finger on your lips; you try to suck it in, but he’s too smart, too quick.

Even if he does cup that same hand around your cheek and lean in for a searing kiss.

“Don’t be doin’ that, I’ll want to give you my cock to suck next, and how’m’I gonna get a baby in you that way?”

“First time for everything,” you gasp, breathless. He chuckles, so low and full that his belly shakes against you. “Please let me look at you…”

“All right, sweetheart, hold on.”

A moment later, the blindfold is gone, and there he is, your beautiful man, kneeling between your legs, ready to thrust into you. Cock standing proud and thick below the paunch of his belly. Your name tattooed above his heart.

Cowboy hat perched on his head. He pushes it back and winks at you.

“Hi, darlin’,” he says.

You cock your head to the side. “Huh.”

He frowns. “What?”

“The hat’s all wrong,” you decide. “Can we do a do-over?”

Bucky stares at you. “A do-over.”

“Yeah.” You pull your hands out of the wrist restraints—thank God you’d invested in the velvet-lined elastic versions—and twist around to fumble in the box sitting by the side of the bed. “Not a cowboy. What about…”

“Oh, God,” groans Bucky, pinching the top of his nose. “Babe. Does this have to be a production? Can’t we just—?”

“Aha!” You sit up in triumph, holding a chef’s toque and a tie adorned with dollar signs. “The billionaire who falls in love with a sous chef!”

Bucky sighs, long-suffering. “I love you. So much.”

You kiss his cheek. “You are the best boyfriend ever.”

And then you plop the chef’s hat on his head.

The Challenge Masterlist ~ My MCU Masterlist

[am-3-thyst]

Two-Man Job (Some Maintenance Required)

pairing: john walker x fem!reader x bob reynolds [AU]

summary: Your shower broke during what felt like the worst day of your life. Two plumbers help you out—in more ways than one.

Maybe you just needed them to fuck the frustration out of you.

tags: plumber AU, no use of y/n, she/her pronouns, porn with very little plot, size kink (if you squint), threesome, double penetration, unprotected p in v (practice safe sex!), dubcon (just to be safe), eiffel tower (but they’re not high-fiving lol), hate fucking, squirting, creampie, degrading names, bratty reader, john degrades while bob praises

notes: sentryagent got me on a chokehold and i wanted an excuse to write them sandwiching reader; why is it so hard to describe the eiffel tower position; oh & i made a mood board !!; first time posting a fic, please be nice <3; this is completely self indulgent, i’m sorry; not properly proof read

NSFW / 18+ only / MDNI

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You’ve had a long day.

Your boss had been on your ass. Customers were worse than usual. Traffic on the way home felt like a punishment. You weren’t sure how many more little disasters you could take before you finally snapped.

All you wanted was to get home, take a hot shower, maybe relieve some stress with your vibrator, and knock out. That was it. That was the plan.

You’d just stepped under the water, letting it run down your body, when the universe decided to push you one step closer to your breaking point. The showerhead sputtered—and then stopped entirely.

The sudden lack of water left your skin cold.

“Are you fucking kidding me…”

You fiddled with the shower knob, hoping to reset something—only to twist it too far. With a metallic groan and a loud clunk, water burst from the base of the fixture, spraying everywhere—out into the bathroom floor.

You yelped and stumbled out of the tub, grabbing a towel in a rush, wrapping it around your dripping body as you snatched your phone. You dialed building maintenance, biting back curses as you explained the issue. The woman on the other end promised someone would be up in a few minutes.

You considered getting properly dressed, but you hadn’t even finished your shower. What was the point of getting dressed just to get undressed again?

So instead, you pulled on a thin satin robe from your closet—just as someone knocked at your door.

You were halfway down the hall when another knock sounded, harder this time.

“Coming!” you called out, not caring if you sounded impatient.

You opened the door to a tall, broad man with dirty blond hair that matched his beard. His work shirt had John stitched onto the chest. He didn’t even pretend to smile—just stared at you like you’d personally ruined his day.

Behind him stood another man—dark hair, soft eyes, toolbox in hand. He smiled a little, hesitant, as your gaze flicked down to his name tag. Bob.

“Plumbing,” John said flatly. Just that. No hello, no how are you.

Your eyes bounced between them. “Doesn’t it usually take one guy to fix a shower?”

Bob gave a small laugh. “Oh, uh, he’s training me. I’m new.”

“Right,” you muttered.

“We’ve been knocking for three minutes,” John added, stepping inside

You stared at him. “I was getting dressed.”

He raised an eyebrow like he didn’t believe you.

You stepped aside to let them in fully, then turned and led them toward the bathroom.

“We were told your showerhead broke?” Bob asked politely.

“Yeah. It just gave out mid-shower,” you said, gesturing toward the mess. “Water sprayed everywhere. Thought I was gonna drown in there.”

“Doubt you’re that fragile,” John muttered, crouching at the base of the tub, already unscrewing the faucet with rough, practiced hands.

You blinked. “I’m sorry, did I offend you by asking for help with my broken shower?”

“Didn’t expect to get a bath in the process,” he grumbled, nodding toward the water pooling on the tile.

You rolled your eyes. “Relax. It’s barely even a puddle.”

Bob gently cut in, trying to keep the mood light. “Do you have anything we could use to soak it up?”

“Yeah, I’ve got some bath mats.”

You laid them down while John started working. You backed up to the door but didn’t leave—just stood nearby, arms crossed, watching. John was at the valve now, Bob a couple feet behind him, crouched beside the toolbox, handing him parts and tools as needed.

The space felt even smaller with them in it. Your bathroom wasn’t exactly generous to begin with, and now it was filled with two large, solid men—both of them tall, broad, shoulders brushing walls as they moved. You couldn’t help but notice the way they towered over you.

At one point, John muttered something about needing to replace the showerhead but also adjust the valve. He dropped to one knee, leaning over the edge of the tub, twisting something inside the wall.

Without realizing it, your feet dragged you closer. First a step, then another. You weren’t trying to hover—you just wanted to see what they were doing. It’s your bathroom, after all. You don’t exactly trust this grumpy plumber and his nervous trainee not to botch it.

You keep drifting in, hovering behind John, watching. Until you were right next to him, peering down, wet hair dripping over your shoulders.

John twisted a valve.

“You planning to supervise me the whole time?” he muttered.

“Do you plan on fixing it right the first time?”

That earned a grunt. Bob glanced between the two of you, like he wasn’t sure whether to step in or slowly back out of the bathroom.

You leaned over a little more. Your damp hair dangled beside John’s arm.

A drop slid off and landed on his shoulder.

He stilled. Then looked up at you, deadpan. “You’re dripping on me.”

You muttered a sorry, pushing your hair back. But before you could help it, you leaned in again—just slightly—and another droplet landed on the back of his neck.

“Okay, seriously. Back up. You’re dripping like a wet dog.”

You should’ve apologized. Really, you should’ve just walked out and let them work. But between the hell of your day and the way he’d been snapping at you since the moment you opened the front door, you felt something sharp and bratty uncurling inside your chest.

You snorted. “Should I have taken the time to blow-dry my hair while my bathroom was flooding?”

“You could’ve at least wrapped your hair up.”

You groaned, finally stepping back toward Bob, who offered an apologetic smile.

“What’s it like dealing with him all day?” you asked, not bothering to lower your voice.

Bob laughed nervously. “He’s not so bad. He’s actually taught me a lot. He’s great.”

You raised an eyebrow. “I find that hard to believe.”

“Bob, hand me the channel lock,” John snapped.

He glanced up, then paused when he noticed you still lingering in the bathroom.

“You sticking around for moral support, or what?”

You folded your arms. “I’m here to make sure you don’t make it worse.”

John muttered something under his breath. Then, “Ah, shit—”

You stiffened. “What?”

He didn’t answer, just adjusted something behind the valve. You moved closer, nervous now, crouching near his side, your knee nearly brushing his shoulder.

Then it happened.

A metallic pop. A gurgle. And suddenly a cold blast of water sprayed out from the pipe. Straight across the bathroom. Straight onto you.

You gasped and stumbled backward, soaked in seconds. Your satin robe clung to your body instantly—thin, now translucent in the light. Your nipples stiffened at the shock of the cold, pressing visibly through the fabric.

Bob froze. Tool in hand, eyes wide, clearly trying very hard not to stare.

John did stare. Briefly. Blinks once. Then raises a brow.

You caught their silence too late. You looked down and—

Your face went hot.

“Oh my god,” you muttered, yanking your arms up to cover your chest. “Seriously?”

“I—I didn’t—I didn’t see anything,” Bob stammered, gaze darting toward the ceiling.

John wiped water from his face, totally unbothered. “You were the one standing there like you wanted a free car wash.”

You glared. “Maybe if you weren’t taking so long—!”

“Then stop distracting me and let me finish.”

“Then hurry up, you grumpy asshole!”

That seemed to flip something in John.

He slowly stood, rising to his full height, and took a single step forward—slow, deliberate, almost threatening.

You instinctively backed up, only to bump into something solid. Broad. Warm. Bob. You hadn’t realized he was standing directly behind you now.

You gulped, trying to ignore the sudden heat blooming between your thighs. John was looking down at you, shoulders squared, jaw ticking. Behind you, Bob’s quiet presence only added to the intensity—another large body caging you in.

John narrowed his eyes.

“Do you just like bitching at me about how I do my job, or are you always this fucking bratty?”

You blinked. Only in bed, usually. The thought slipped out before you could stop it.

“What was that?” he asked, voice sharp, although you’re almost certain he heard you.

Shit. You didn’t mean to say that out loud.

Bob cleared his throat behind you, a nervous note in his voice. “Hey, John… maybe we should just—”

“No, Bob,” John interrupted, gaze never leaving yours. “I think this little tease has something to get off her chest.”

You suddenly became hyper aware of the robe clinging to your soaked skin. Your nipples, hard from cold and arousal, pressed through the thin satin. You shivered, though you weren’t sure if it was from the temperature or the way their bodies loomed close.

“What’s your problem, huh?” John murmured. “You wanted two guys to come up here and hate-fuck the attitude outta you?”

Your breath hitched.

You weren’t exactly denying it. If anything, part of you wanted to push him further, just to see what he’d do, while the rest of you ached for him to take control and ruin you for mouthing off.

John stepped in close again. His fingers caught your chin, tilting your face up. His lips crashed into yours—hungry, rough, all tongue and teeth. You whimpered into it, knees buckling slightly as he deepened the kiss.

Bob caught you from behind, hands landing firmly at your hips to steady you. Your ass rocked back against his crotch, and you felt it—him—hardening through his jeans.

He didn’t pull away.

Instead, he leaned in and kissed you next. Slower. Sweeter. His lips moved like he was trying to memorize the shape of yours. His groan was quiet, breath warm against your cheek, and it made your thighs clench.

Your hands slid down between them. You cupped their cocks through the denim—both of them thick and straining against their jeans. John hissed, Bob sighed, and the sound nearly made you moan.

John didn’t wait. He shoved his zipper down with one hand.

Bob fumbled with his belt, awkward and flushed, and you smiled at how adorable he looked—shy and hard as a rock. You helped him undo it, brushing your lips over his in a soft kiss that made him sigh again.

Their cocks were out, thick and pulsing against your palms.

You wrapped your hands around them both.

John let out a low grunt. “Look at her. So fuckin’ eager.”

“She’s perfect,” Bob murmured, his lips brushing your ear. “…Feels good.”

You alternated strokes, slow and steady, your palms slick with pre-cum. Then you kissed them again—first John, rough and fast, then Bob, soft and warm. They tasted so different. One fire, the other honey.

It wasn’t enough. You needed more. They did too.

John’s hands rested gently but insistently on your shoulders, guiding you forward with slow, deliberate pressure. You bent at the waist, your back arching until your torso was almost horizontal, knees only slightly bent. Still standing but just barely.

You looked up at him through your lashes, lips parted just enough to let your breath ghost over the head of his cock. He twitched in your grip, and you smirked—just a little. Not enough to push him too far. Just enough to tempt.

“You gonna just stare at it, or put that bratty mouth to better use?” he growled.

Your smile faded as you slowly wrapped your lips around him, inching down, letting your tongue drag along the underside. He was hard, already slick with need, and you moaned deliberately, knowing he could feel the vibration.

“That’s more like it,” John muttered, hand tightening in your hair. “All that attitude, and look at you now, mouth made for cock.”

Bob remained standing behind you, hands skimming down your waist.

“Do you want me to…?” he asked, voice gentle, uncertain.

You released John from your mouth with a pant. “Yes,” you nodded quickly. “Yes. Please.”

John scoffed, degrading as ever. “Needy little thing. Can’t wait to get filled, huh?”

Your chest was bent forward, ass arched back, hands braced on John’s thighs as you took him into your mouth—his cock thick and hot against your tongue. Behind you, Bob aligned himself, his hands steady on your hips. You felt the blunt head of his cock press against your slick folds, and you braced for the stretch.

“I’ll go slow,” Bob promised, voice shaking.

John chuckled darkly, threading a hand through your hair. “Don’t bother. She’s soaked already.”

Bob pushed in.

You cried out around John’s cock as the stretch hit all at once, your body rocked forward with the force of it. Bob groaned behind you, shaky and deep, his hands tightening on your hips.

John’s cock slid deeper into your mouth. “That’s it. Choke on it, slut.”

You moaned around him, your throat fluttering. Bob’s thrusts picked up slowly, each one matched by the roll of John’s hips. You were their toy—mouth full, pussy stretched, your body nothing but sensation.

Bob let out a soft, broken groan, his hips stuttering as he eased deeper. His voice was barely more than a breath. “You okay, baby?” he asked and all you could do was whimper.

His voice trembled, like it took effort just to speak through how good you felt. “Fuck… you’re perfect…”

Bob leaned over your back, his chest pressed against you. One hand wrapped around to squeeze your breast, his fingers gently teasing your nipple as he pressed kisses to the curve of your neck.

John tangled a fist in your hair, tugging just enough to keep your head in place. “She likes being used. Likes choking on cock while we wreck her from both ends.”

You whimpered, unable to form words. Every thrust pushed you deeper into John’s cock, and every drag of Bob’s cock made your legs tremble. Slick dripped down your thighs.

Behind you, Bob was nothing but gentle—his hands steady on your hips, his touch easing rather than demanding. He whispered praises against your skin with every slow, deliberate roll of his hips, voice warm and low between soft kisses to your neck and shoulder. “Feels so good bein’ inside you, sweetheart.”

John felt your throat tighten around him and pulled away to let you breathe. After a beat, John guided you to stand up straight again, then lifted your leg, hooking it over his arm to open you wider.

Bob stayed behind you, cock still buried deep, both arms wrapped tight around your stomach. His hand slid down and found your clit, rubbing slow, precise circles that made your whole body jolt.

“One hole,” John muttered, stroking your cheek. “That’s all she gets. And she’s fuckin’ dripping for it.”

“It’s too much,” you gasped, overwhelmed, but you didn’t ask them to stop. Didn’t want them to.

“You can take it,” Bob whispered, kissing your temple. “You’re doin’ so good, baby…”

They started again—both of their cocks sliding into your cunt together, thick and slick, rubbing along each other inside you. The pressure was unbearable in the best way. You were so full you swore you could feel them in your gut.

“Ah—ah—fuck, yes—yes—” Your words dissolved into moans, barely coherent.

John lets out a chuckle that dissolved into a groan. “Can’t even tell which one of us she’s clenching around harder.”

Your legs gave out, but they held you up.

Every thrust made your vision blur, every roll of their hips pushing you closer to the edge. You sobbed their names, helpless against the tidal wave building inside you.

“F-Fuck—John, Bob—”

They didn’t stop.

Bob kissed your shoulder. “Go on, angel, come for us.”

John cussed through gritted teeth.

You shattered.

Your orgasm hit hard, ripping through you in waves. You cried out, thighs shaking as you came. A sudden gush of wetness sprayed out of you, soaking their skin, the floor, everything. Your body trembled with each pulse, barely able to stay upright as they kept moving inside you, drawing out every last drop.

And then they both groaned, deep and guttural. Their cocks twitched as they came inside you together, hot and thick, and you felt it fill you.

They slowed to a stop, panting. No one said a word for a moment, just the sound of heavy breathing echoing in the bathroom.

When they finally slipped out of you, you whimpered. Your walls fluttered at the sudden emptiness—sore and slowly adjusting after being stretched so full.

Your legs wobbled, knees giving a little, and Bob caught you in his arms, strong but gentle.

“It’s okay,” he murmured, a little breathless. “I got you…”

You barely had time to catch your breath before you felt it—hot cum slipping down your thighs in sticky trails, making you shiver. Your cheeks burned at the thought that both of them had filled you. Their cum, thick and warm, still leaking out of your swollen cunt.

John’s eyes dropped to where it dripped between your legs, then slowly dragged back up to your face. He groaned under his breath.

“Messy little thing.”

And then—with perfect timing—the showerhead sputtered, then kicked on, water pouring steadily.

John announces, gruffly, “Shower works now.”

You let out a breathless laugh, still trembling.

Bob tightened his arms around you, nuzzling into your hair. “We should, um, probably test the water temperature. See if it’s all good.”

You smiled against his chest, the thought of another round already making your thighs clench. “Yeah… just to make sure.”

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(i originally posted this on my other blog, but i decided to make a separate blog for fics)