binkybonkybucky

[binkybonkybucky]

this was so hot dear gOD i love it when bob is so pitifully down bad it’s sinful. and the fact that he’s fixated on hands of all things…i have tons of pictures of my nails and i even have a tattoo on my finger so the thought of someone else appreciating my hands more than me is borderline absurd but gosh i get it. don’t even get me started on using sentry’s suit for a color match because that’s beyond devious for poor bob. he’d be an absolutely goner if there was an accent nail with a dark cobalt blue base topped with a gold french tip.

Claws

Pairing: Pervish?Bob/Robert Reynolds/The Sentry/The Void x Thunderbolts!Fem!Reader!

Summary: You come home with a fresh manicure and Bob is absolutely enchanted by them.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Smut, Fluff, Reader and Bob are in this odd inbetween where they both have feelings for one another but they haven’t acted on it. Bob is definitely soft as hell in this.

Smut Warnings: Bob’s got a hand kink and he’s a bit pervy about it?, Handjob, Fingering, Squirting, Cum Eating, Finger Sucking (a little bit of gagging), Scratching, Spit Kink, Hair Pulling, Teasing, Dirty Talk, Reader definitely has dominant vibes in this, Bob is certainly a sub in this, Begging, Mentions of Masturbation,

Author’s Note: This was a request and I was definitely interested in writing this and it was absolutely fun as hell. I hope y’all enjoy :)

Word Count: 7,240

Bob didn’t know where his obsession with hands came from. Maybe it was connected to the kind of hunger that lived just under his skin, that soft-burning ache for touch he had never quite managed to silence fully–even when he was given it in abundance. Or maybe it was something simpler, something more human–a fascination with the way people were able to express themselves through their hands. The way they moved, the way they gestured when they talked, the way they were decorated to suit the person–whether it was with rings, tattoos, or manicures–and the way they touched what they loved.

But yours?

He was absolutely hypnotized by them.

He had memorized the shape of your fingers before he’d ever touched them accidentally. The slight bend of your knuckles when you curled your hand around a mug of coffee in the mornings in the compound kitchen, while you tried to make casual conversation with him. The way you sometimes picked at your palms nervously when you were trying to ease your own anxieties. He even memorized the way you tapped your nails on anything and everything–tables, countertops, mugs, windows–but most importantly when you’d tap them up your thighs when you were bored during briefings. All these things you did, the little quirks you had, they were cauterized into his brain, and it took up a reserved spot specifically built for things you did that drove him crazy–such as touching him.

Because when you did–whether it was by accident or not–that contact was enough to ruin him for hours.

A pat on the back after a mission. A brush of your fingers against his when handing him notes or files or coffee. That one time you had smoothed a wayward piece of hair behind his ear, with your freshly filed nails grazing his cheekbone–where he had nearly stopped breathing and ceased to exist, making it one of his favourite memories, so much so that he purposely tousled his hair into chaos before seeing you sometimes, just to give you the opportunity to fix it again and recreate the same spark it gave him before.

Sometimes, he imagined your hands on his chest, palms flat, pressing warmth into the stretch of skin just below his collarbones. Or your fingertips gliding down his ribcage, leaving a trail of invisible fire in their wake, making him arch toward your touch so he can beg for more of it. But it was the thought of your nails–those glossy, always filed things–that plagued him the most. He could practically feel them scraping slow, aching lines down his back when he pictured you under him. Could imagine them wrapped tight around the base of his cock, the sharp edge of the nail of it swiping ever so gently over the head in a teasingly cruel manner.

He touched himself to those thoughts more times than he would admit. Stroking himself in the dead of night with your name falling out of his mouth in whispered gasps, hips twitching, his free hand gripping the sheets like they might somehow shield him from the raw need that curled in his gut. There were nights where he didn’t even need to try–his brain just went on autopilot and did all the work.

Then there were days where he was so out of control that a glance across the room at you doing something so mundane like typing on your laptop would make him stiffen in his sweatpants. Days when his bottoms felt too tight and his thoughts turned feral just from watching you. He’d make some excuse–bathroom, food, forgetting mission notes–and would escape quickly to handle the situation, praying no one noticed.

Because how the hell was he supposed to explain that your hands–specifically–drove him completely nuts. How was he supposed to explain that everything you did had him hanging on by a thread in anticipation? It was a double edged sword that he knew he didn’t want to hold or draw. He couldn’t out himself, and there was no chance he would, or at least he thought that…

Until…You came back to the compound on a lazy Tuesday afternoon, fresh from your day of gallivanting around the city. The elevator had pinged as the door slid open into the common room. Bob had been lounging on the couch, an old, torn up copy of 1984 in hand, half-reading, and half-daydreaming about you–which was the norm these days. His long legs were tucked under a deep green throw blanket, plucked from the foot of his bed, just so he had something comfortable pressing on him.

When you stepped out of the elevator, his eyes peeked up at you from over his book, attempting to have a semblance of a cover-up so you didn’t think he was staring. You were wearing a white fitted top, and a pair of high-waisted blue jeans that hugged every curve and dip you were blessed with. You were holding an iced coffee in one hand and had your shoulder bag perched on the other, and almost instantly, he noticed your nails.

They were at a medium length, curved like almonds almost, and they were painted a deep gold, accented with little silver specks that caught the natural light that spilled in through the tall windows of the open common space.

You stopped dead in your tracks when you saw him, quickly tapping your watch to pause whatever you had been listening to, before pulling out your earbud.

“Hey! Didn’t expect you to be home on your day off, I thought you said you were going out with the rest of the team?” You asked, stepping further into the space with an effortless kind of grace that made Bob’s heart stutter. You bent slightly to set your shoulder bag down on the floor beside the entryway bench, your shirt riding up just an inch to reveal the soft skin of your lower back–just enough to make his throat go completely dry.

You fished your earbud case out of the tight front pocket of your jeans, the fabric clinging to you like seconds skin, and he couldn’t help but take quick glances at the way your body shifted as you pulled out the white compartment. With a little pop, the earbud clicked into place, and the case joined your bag, your nails making that same crystalline tapping noise against the plastic that nearly electrocuted his nervous system. A shiver sneaking up his spine before he could brace for it.

“I…I thought it would be nice to just st-stay in for the day. Just to really relax and recoup, y’know?” He replied, eyes flickering down to your hand again as it curled around the clear cup of your iced coffee. He couldn’t look away from the way your golden nails glinted when you adjusted your grip–like you were sprinkling sunlight across the room with a flick of a wrist. He gulped, trying to provide a little relief for his throat.

A small smile pulled lazily at your lips, like you had caught him staring but you let him off the hook anyways. You stepped further into the common room, kicking off your shoes in the process, leaving them a few feet apart from each other, splayed across the polished wood, as you approached the couch.

”You wouldn’t mind if I joined you then, hmm?” You asked, lifting your brow, almost too casual for it to be innocent. You were standing over him a bit, the condensation of the iced coffee cup dripping onto your palm–he wanted to lick the droplets off so bad, but he refrained from even moving a muscle. With the semi-close proximity he could smell your perfume–sweet pineapple, with lemon, mint, and neroli–and he nearly forgot how to function. It felt like all his senses were at play and it was only going to end with him spontaneously combusting under the pressure, but he knew he had to keep his cool.

He cleared his throat, shaking his head maybe a little too quickly.

”No, no. Be my gu-guest,” He said, his voice cracking at the end as his throat tightened. He gestured to the far end of the couch, moving his feet to make room for her, praying his face didn’t look as red as it felt. But instead of moving straight there, you stepped closer–to his side–and gave him a teasing glance as you reached over him to grab one of the spare throw pillows, your arm brushing his shoulder.

“Thanks,” You murmured, and the sound of your nails brushing against the ribbed fabric–the sinful scrape–as you adjusted the pillow against the armrest sent another wave of heat down his spine. You settled in slowly, lounging back against the dark brown leather, legs curling under you as you brought the iced coffee to your lips, taking a sip, the straw clicking softly against your teeth. Bob’s jaw flexed, eyes flicking to the glimmer on your nails again, his stomach twisting before he looked away in shame.

“So…What’re you reading today?” You asked lightly, tipping your chin towards the book that was in his lap now. His hands–suddenly sweaty–tightened on the worn paperback, and he fumbled for something intelligent to say, but all he kept thinking of was your hands, and the water droplets that tricked down your palms, and the gold nail polish that curled even tighter around the plastic, as if they were simulating curling around him…

He licked his dry lips, adjusting the blanket over his legs to hide the growing tension in his lap, “Uh…Orwell. Just rereading.” He mumbled. You tilted your head, humming thoughtfully as you ran your index finger along the condensation on your cup. Bob’s eyes followed the motion like a dog watching their leash come off the hook, and you were watching with a smirk on your face.

”Hm…Definitely a heavy read for a day off,” You commented, voice lifting. Then you paused your movements, glancing at him from under your lashes, “But…It’s fitting.” You added, like you were making reference to something he couldn’t quite catch onto.

”Fitting?” He asked, confused. Trying to keep his voice neutral. You shrugged, and your smile turned devilish, or teasing in a way only Bob caught.

”It’s about repression, isn’t it?” You responded, almost like you knew it was going to get to him…And it did, because Bob nearly choked on his own tongue. Your brows lifted in innocent amusement as you took another sip, tapping your nails absently on the cup’s lid letting the acoustic sound echo lightly. His skin was on fire. Every nerve in his body screamed at him to look at your hands again, your mouth, the shape of your nails and the softness of your skin. His sweatpants were tightening dangerously under the blanket, and all you were doing was sitting there, being normal.

You shifted beside him with a little sigh, the movement slow, almost like a cat. The worn leather couch dipped with the change in weight, and Bob could feel the heat of you bleeding through the slight gap of cushion between your bodies.

And then you looked down at your nails, dragging your thumb over the smoothness of the polish like you weren’t unraveling every last thread of his self-control.

“Y’know,” You murmured, cocking your head slightly as you turned your palm toward yourself, admiring the sheen, “I’m still on the fence about this colour.” And before he could even process what was happening, you extended your hand out to him, fingers splayed ever so slightly, the sunlight catching the gold and silver flecks like you were holding stars in your palm. “What do you think?” You asked. Your voice was sweet, curious, innocent. And yet it hit Bob like a goddamn sucker punch to the gut, because he knew that you knew exactly what you were doing.

Up close, the gold looked familiar.

Not just because it shimmered like something precious, something sacred–but because it stirred something in Bob’s mind that had been sleeping, curled in a corner of his subconscious. He couldn’t quite place it at first, more because it felt like his brain was boiling, melting in the heat of your presence, your fingers still outstretched–glinting, hovering like a threat–right over where his paperback book now precariously covered the pulsing, growing tension beneath the blanket in his lap.

He was sweating. He could feel it at his temples, down the back of his neck, on the insides of his palms that now gripped the book like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to this plane of existence.

You were still holding your hand there.

Still waiting.

Still looking at him.

And so, because it was expected, because you’d asked–because it was you–he swallowed down the panic and the arousal that clawed up the back of his throat and rasped, “I…I like the color. It’s really…Really pretty. And…Gold.” You tilted your head like you were studying him. And that smile curled slow and sly on your lips, the kind of smile that spoke fluent intentions.

“Hm. I thought you might say that,” You mused, like it wasn’t the most loaded thing you’d said all week, then you dropped the bombshell, “I actually used Sentry’s suit for a colour reference, so…That’s probably why you like it so much.”

Bob’s heart flatlined for a second.

His eyes went wide, lips parting slightly, and he just stared at you like he’d been shot. Like he’d just realized that not only were you very much aware of what you were doing–but you’d taken it one step further.

He let out a nervous, breathless little laugh–one that barely cleared his throat. It sounded strangled, broken at the edges.

”Wh-Why would you use Sentry’s suit for a colour reference?” He asked, already dreading the answer, knowing it was going to make him even more flustered. He wanted to melt into the couch and disappear into another timeline, just being in this position made him feel ill.

You shrugged with a soft, knowing little smirk on your lips, before lifting the straw back up to your lips and taking a slow sip. The tip of your tongue peeked out to catch a stray droplet at the corner of your mouth.

“Well,” You started, resting the cup back on your thigh, “Because I wanted to give you something pretty to look at, of course. Since you like staring at my hands so much.”

The air left his lungs in a single, panicked wheeze.

You knew…

His mouth parted, his breath caught, and for a full second all he could do was stare at you, every muscle in his body seizing like you’d turned a spotlight on his dirtiest secret.

“I–” He started, but the words wouldn’t come. Your lips curved into something even more wicked, and then you bit your lower one, slowly, deliberately, dragging it between your teeth like you were savoring every second of his unraveling.

“Do you really think I don’t notice you drooling all the time?” You asked, your voice dipping lower, softer–dangerously close to a whisper, “You think I don’t feel your eyes on me?” Bob was speechless, and he could feel a bead of sweat dripping down the back of his neck from the nerves and embarrassment he was feeling. It felt like his insides were boiling into a puddle of sludge, until he saw you reaching out.

Immediately he tensed up at your movements, watching as your well manicured hand pressed onto his stomach–slow, and gentle–resting it there, your fingers splayed over his t-shirt. The heat of your palm burned through the cotton like it was branding him, and his entire body stiffened beneath your touch.

And then–

The sound.

That soft, sinful, scraping sound of your glossy nails dragging lightly across the fabric of his shirt–barely there, but loud in his ears. Crkk–krrkk–krrk. Each little scrape made the hair on his arms stand up, a shiver crawling up his spine so fast it left goosebumps in its wake. It was the exact kind of noise he fantasized about in the dark: your nails against sheets, against skin, against him.

Bob’s eyes snapped shut, his jaw clenched so tight he thought his teeth might crack, and a broken, shaky breath slipped past his lips like a prayer he hadn’t meant to say out loud.

“Y-Y/N…” He whispered, trembling beneath your touch, “Please don’t tease me like this…Don’t drag your nails down my st-stomach like that.” You tilted your head, expression shifting slightly–not cruel, but curious. Fascinated. Amused by how easy it was to ruin him.

“Why?” You murmured, shifting even closer now, your knees pressing against his, “You getting turned on by this?” Bob let out a soft, desperate sound–somewhere between a groan and a whimper–and you felt his stomach flutter beneath your hand as you ghosted your nails down to the hem of his shirt, pausing there, your fingertips toying with the edge. His breathing was shallow…Laboured like he was in pain.

You slipped your hand under the hem of his t-shirt, the cotton lifting just slightly as your fingers made contact with his bare skin, instantly feeling the heat of him. The tips of your nails glided over the tight ridges of his abdomen, slowly tracing between the lines, teasing each muscle like you were aping out the lines of his tension just to watch him crumble.

He twitched, his eyes closing tightly.

Like the sensation was too much and not enough all at once.

Goosebumps erupted beneath your touch, rippling down his sides as your hand drifted lower, tracing the very faint trail of hair that disappeared beneath the waistband of his sweatpants. Your fingertips paused there, right above where he was aching, and you could feel the way his breath hitched. He was holding himself together by a thread–shaking, twitching, whimpering–but still trying to be polite about it.

You let out a small sigh, and slipped your hand out from beneath his top. In one swift movement, you leaned forward, carefully placed your iced coffee down on the table beside the couch, your phone clattering after it. Then, without a word, you grabbed the book–the one he’d been pathetically clutching like a shield–and tossed it to the floor. Bob had made a little noise of protest like you had ripped off a piece of armor, his hands immediately adjusting the blanket over his lap, but before he could even react, you rose from your seat and climbed onto him, straddling his lap with slow, fluid control, placing your knees on either side of his waist. The blanket was between you, but not enough. Not enough to hide the fact that he was hard and straining against the fabric of both his sweatpants and the blanket, his hips jerking subtly up toward the pressure of you settling against him.

He let out a strangled, choked sound, and his face flushed a deep, almost cherry red, as he tilted his head back like he was in absolute agony. You adjusted yourself leisurely in his lap, grinding just a little–not enough to give him what he wanted, but just enough to make his breath stutter, and to make it known that you could feel him under you.

Slowly you reached out and rested your hands gently against his chest, feeling the rapid, terrified rhythm of his heart under your palms. With the way he was looking at you–his blue eyes wide, lips parted, with a deeper flush creeping up his throat rising like a tide–it made you want to ruin him slowly.

”You know…” You whispered, leaning closer, the words spilling across his lips like smoke, “I think it’s sweet that you like my hands so much.” He inhaled sharply, lashes fluttering low as his jaw clenched like he didn’t want to believe you. His voice cracked on the edges of desperation when he spoke.

”You don’t have to lie to me to ma-make me feel better…I know I’m a creep for having this…This stupid thing.” He replied, like you were teasing him out of pity more than anything else. You let out a soft, disbelieving laugh.

”I’m not lying to you…And I don’t think you’re a creep Bob.” You breathed, your voice dropping to something low and intimate, like a secret passed between lovers, “I like that you stare and that you admire them from a far.”

And then–without warning–you brought one hand up to his hair, threading your fingers through the soft waves of his light brown locks. You tangled through them gently, letting your nails scrape just a little against his scalp, and then tugged. Firm enough to make his spine go rigid beneath you, firm enough to tilt his chin up so that his throat was exposed to you. His breath caught in his throat and then released in a trembling exhale, a soft moan following close behind.

You leaned in, letting your lips press softly against the thrum of his pulse just below his jaw. Once. Twice. Your breath fanned over the sensitive skin, and you felt him tremble beneath you, his hips shifting, bucking up ever so slightly as his cock pressed insistently against the fabric of your jeans through the blanket. He was hard–achingly so–and you could feel him pulse with every tiny movement of your hips.

“Y/N…” he gasped, broken, a plea falling from his lips like prayer.

You smiled against his neck, your lips brushing the heat of his skin as you whispered darkly, sweetly:

“Do you think about my hands when you’re alone at night?” He let out a shaky whimper, flinching at your words, “Do you imagine them wrapped around your cock? MY nails dragging along the shaft, my fingers squeezing the head just enough to make your thighs shake?” Your words vibrated against his throat, and the strangled moan he let out was nothing short of devastating. His hands clenched at the blanket on either side of you, his whole body visibly shaking beneath the weight of your voice, your heat, your hands.

“…Ye–Yes,” He choked, breathless and raw. “Fuck, yes…” The confession sounded like it had been ripped from his soul, shame-laced and trembling–but you didn’t give him time to retreat. You pulled on his hair again, a bit harder this time, and he moaned—open-mouthed and helpless–his body arching beneath you as you gripped him like he was yours, as you leaned in.

“That’s what I thought,” You whispered darkly against the shell of his ear, “I bet you come so fucking quick too, don’t you? Just from thinking about my hands wrapped around your cock…” He was whining now, almost crying, and god, you’d never seen anything so beautiful. His face was flushed, his eyes glassy, his lips trembling like he was already at the edge.

”Please…”. He rasped desperately, “Please Y/N…Please touch me, I can’t–I need it–“ You shifted back just enough to find his mouth, then kissed him–slow and deliberate. His lips parted instantly beneath yours, a quiet moan escaping him in a desperate effort to express how he was feeling. He melted into the contact, chasing it even as you pulled away. His hands came up to cradle your face like it was instinct–his touch gentle, but desperate, like he didn’t know whether to worship you or fall apart under you.

Before he could kiss you again, you slid your fingers back into his hair and gave it another firm tug, guiding his head back and breaking the contact. His breath hitched. You leaned in close, eyes heavy with intent, and whispered against his mouth.

“Take your shirt off.”

He obeyed without hesitation, dragging the cotton fabric up over his head with shaking hands. You helped him halfway, your palms brushing his warm skin, lifting until the shirt was off and discarded somewhere behind the couch.

And now he was bare.

The sunlight from the tall windows bathed his skin in warmth, making every line of his body look more pronounced, giving him a golden haze on his normally pale skin. His chest rose and fell with uneven breaths, the shape of him stretched taut with tension–like every muscle had been wound up, just waiting for your touch. You took your time admiring the details.

His collarbones were sharp, framed by the mess of his light brown hair. His chest was smooth and pale, but peppered with tiny freckles and beauty marks of various shades. You leaned forward and brushed your fingertips across one, then another. Your nails dragged slow, featherlight paths over his skin, and the effect was immediate: his stomach tensed, a shaky breath leaving his lips.

You trailed lower. Across his ribs, over his stomach–watching each muscle shift and contract beneath your touch. He was trying to stay still, to hold it together, but you felt the way his hips jerked beneath you when your nails dipped along the lines of his abdomen, just soft enough to tickle, just sharp enough to tease.

He looked like he was on the verge of falling apart.

His throat bobbed with every swallow, and when you glanced up at him, his eyes were locked on yours–wide, glassy, pleading. His lips were parted, pink and swollen from your kiss, and his hands trembled where they held your waist like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to do more.

Then his hand shifted.

It released your side and reached up slowly, tentatively, toward yours. He took your wrist gently, holding your hand between both of his, and brought it up like it was something holy, something fragile. He didn’t even look away from your eyes as he whispered:

“Can I suck on your fingers?” Your breath caught for a moment, but immediately you nodded at him, mesmerized by the question. He didn’t wait for further permission.

He guided your hand closer, turning it palm-up, and then dipped his head to it, tongue warm and wet as it slid over your thumb. The contact was molten. He wrapped his lips around the digit, sucking gently, cheeks hollowing as he kept his eyes locked on yours. It was deliberate, drawn out–like he wanted you to feel every second of it, every swirl of his tongue against the pad of your thumb.

Then he moved on.

Index finger next. The wet glide of his lips, the soft pressure of his tongue, his lashes fluttering but never fully closing. He looked wrecked already. Adoring. Starving.

When he got to your middle finger, his lips went tight. He sucked it deeper, his cheeks coloring as he pulled it in further than the others–so far that your knuckle brushed the back of his tongue. The reaction was immediate.

His throat flexed around it.

He gagged softly. A delicate, broken sound that made more saliva spill past his lips and down your hand. His chin glistened with it. Drool sheen catching the light like something obscene. He pulled back with a wet gasp, your finger slipping from his mouth with a faint pop, spit connecting in thin strands between your hand and his lips.

“Fu–Fuck,” He panted, voice cracked and sticky, “They taste so good…”

You felt the breath leave your chest.

He took your palm in both hands like it was something to be worshipped and leaned in, licking a slow, messy stripe from the heel to the tips of your fingers–leaving your skin glistening, sticky with spit. Then he pressed a kiss to the center of your palm, slow and soft and somehow more obscene than anything else he’d done.

Your throat tightened with need.

You cupped that same palm against his flushed cheek, his skin hot beneath the slick, and leaned forward. He met you halfway this time.

The kiss was messier now. Wetter. Your chin smeared with the same spit that coated your hand. Bob moaned against your mouth like he couldn’t help it, lips parting wide, letting you taste the sweet, hot tang of him and your skin all at once.

And the moment you ground your hips against his again, harder this time, more deliberate, he gasped into your mouth–hands flying to your waist, bunching the fabric of your shirt in trembling fists. His cock throbbed beneath you through the blanket and sweatpants, and he was practically panting against your lips when he pulled back just far enough to speak.

“Can I ta–take your shirt off now?” He stammered, breathless, voice pitched high with need.

You smirked, dragging your thumb along his jaw. “Okay.”

He wasted no time. Bob sat up just enough to tug your shirt up, and you lifted your arms to help him, the fabric sliding over your body in a single fluid motion. When it was gone, he froze.

Your white lace bra was sheer, delicate, hugging your curves in a way that made his lips part and his fingers twitch where they rested on your sides.

You didn’t let him get lost in it.

You rolled your hips once more, just enough to make his breath stutter again, then leaned in close, mouth brushing the shell of his ear.

“I’m gonna take my jeans off,” You murmured. “While I’m doing that, you do the same with your sweatpants.”

His entire body tensed. You felt it. The tremble. The barely-there nod.

”Okay.” He whispered, voice wrecked. You slid off him slowly, every movement deliberate, letting your body drag over his lap just enough to make him shiver. Your fingers moved to the button of your jeans, flicking it open with ease, the soft click echoing like a starter’s pistol in the space between you.

Bob sat completely still, his lips parted, his breath shallow as you slowly began shimmying the denim down your hips. He watched–eyes wide, and hungry–while you slid the jeans past your thighs, and down your legs, as your nails brushed the outside of your skin, pushing them off completely.

The matching white lace of your underwear made his mouth go dry.

It clung to you delicately, barely there, sheer in the light, hugging every curve like it was made to be seen–made to ruin him. You hadn’t meant to match the bra and panties, but now, under his gaze, it felt like fate. His cock twitched visibly beneath the blanket at the sight, and his hands clenched into the couch cushions. He scrambled a little, tugging the waistband of his sweatpants down with shaky fingers, lifting his hips as he kicked them off the rest of the way, the fabric pooling awkwardly at the foot of the couch before he shoved it aside. He was left in just his boxer briefs, tented from how hard he was, and damp from the pre-cum that was dripping from the tip.

You returned to him like a wave rolling back over the shore, lifting the blanket just slightly, before slipping under it with the kind of practiced ease that made Bob suck in a sharp breath. You resumed your place straddling him, but this time it was different–hotter. More bare. The thin layers between you did nothing to hide the friction now. You sank back down into his lap, feeling the thick, pulsing weight of him pressing right up against your lace-covered core. The heat of it seared into you instantly, and you let your hips roll–just once, slowly–dragging forward across him, letting the stiff line of his cock drag right over your soaked panties.

He moaned into your mouth.

The kiss was immediate and eager, your lips crashing together with an urgency that left no space for hesitation. His moan vibrated against your tongue, deep and soft and desperate. He panted between kisses, adjusting himself underneath you, hips twitching toward the pressure, his hands gripping your waist like he was drowning in you.

And then you pulled back.

Just far enough to look him in the eyes. Your chest heaved slightly from the kiss, lips tingling, and your palm lifted slowly–hovering in front of his mouth.

“Lick it,” You whispered, voice thick with authority and something darker. You didn’t have to explain. He knew exactly what you meant.

Bob’s eyes locked on yours–dark with want, lips wet–and without hesitation, he leaned forward and flattened his tongue against your palm.

The heat of it, the glide.

He licked slowly, then went back again, wetter this time. Keeping his eyes on yours like it was the only thing that mattered to him in those moments. Like watching your face while his tongue coated your skin was the only thing that truly made him realize that what he was doing was real.

You pulled your hand away, leaving a wet sheen across your palm where Bob’s spit clung, then let your fingertips trail down the center of his chest. Your nails moved in slow, teasing paths, catching on the extremely fine hair along his sternum, watching every twitch of muscle beneath your touch. He was breathing hard already, chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven waves, eyes flicking between your face and your hand as it slid lower and lower.

When you circled his nipple with the sharp tip of your nail, he gasped–his back arching, a shiver racing across his skin like lightning. His lips parted, but no words came out, just a breathy moan that cracked open in his throat.

You smiled at the reaction, giving him a gentle kiss on the cheek, before letting your hand drift further–slow, steady, and unstoppable–until you reached the waistband of his boxer briefs.

He tilted his head back, inhaling sharply, like even the anticipation of your touch was too much to bear. You let your fingers slip just under the elastic, teasing at the edge, feeling the heat of him pulsing beneath–but not quite touching him yet. You stayed just at the threshold. Cruel. Controlled. Making him wait.

His hips bucked up slightly, instinctive and helpless, chasing your hand. He whined, soft and broken.

“Please,” He rasped, voice barely holding together. “Y/N, please…Touch me…Fuck, I need it…” You arched an eyebrow, your lips curving.

“You can do better than that.” The flush on his chest deepened, and he looked up at you like you’d cracked him wide open. His hands trembled against your thighs, gripping them like he was afraid you might disappear if he didn’t anchor himself.

“Please,” He begged again, voice wrecked, more desperate now, hips wiggling under you. “Please, I want your hands on me…I want you to touch me, I need it so bad, I’ve been thinking about it for so fucking long. I–I’ll do anything, just…Please, Y/N, please–”

That was enough…You slipped your fingers into the waistband and tugged.

The fabric dragged slowly over his hips, down his thighs. You pushed it further, baring him completely, and then you paused–just for a moment–to take in the sight of him.

He was hard. So hard he twitched when the air hit him. His cock sprang free, flushed dark and angry-red at the tip, the shaft thick, veined, and glistening with a glossy bead of pre-cum that rolled slowly from the head. When it hit the flat of his stomach, it left a wet smear across his skin. His abs tightened beneath it.

God.

It was gorgeous.

You shifted back on your knees, eyes dragging down to his lap, then back up to his face. Your own lips parted slightly, breath catching in your throat. He was well-endowed, thick and long, but it wasn’t just size–it was everything…

Your thighs clenched, and then without breaking eye contact, you raised your spit-slicked hand and wrapped it around him. Bob let out a shattered, breathless moan, hips jerking up into your grip like he couldn’t stop himself. His head dropped back against the couch, lips parted, neck tight with strain.

You stroked slowly. Tight. Controlled. You let your fingers squeeze a little more firmly with each pass, the drag of your palm leaving wet trails of his own spit smeared down the length of him.

He whimpered.

You twisted your wrist slightly at the top and dragged your thumb through a fresh bead of pre-cum, smearing it slowly over the swollen tip in a lazy, circular motion.

“Fuck…Y/N.” His voice cracked, like it had splintered straight down the middle. “Oh my god–” You leaned in close again, your breath fanning against his flushed jaw, lips brushing the corner of his mouth.

“Prettiest cock I’ve ever seen,” You whispered, and then gave him another slow stroke, just to hear the way he moaned at the praise–like the words alone could make him come apart. You tightened your grip just slightly, the wet glide of your hand making a slick, obscene noise as you picked up the pace. Bob’s cock twitched in your palm with every stroke, the head flushed and leaking with steady drips of precum that added to the mess between your bodies.

“God, listen to you,” You purred, your breath hot against his lips. “So fucking loud for me.” Bob moaned–guttural, desperate–his head tipping back against the couch cushions. His thighs were shaking beneath you now, his body visibly trembling with the effort to keep himself from coming right then and there. But the sounds you were coaxing out of him? Absolutely divine. His breath came in quick, stuttering pants, every exhale a broken sound.

“Fuck…Can I…Can I t-touch you too? Please?” He begged, his voice cracking apart with need, his hand fluttering up toward your waist like he didn’t know if he was allowed to make contact without permission. You smiled softly, leaning in to brush your mouth against the corner of his lips.

“If you want,” You replied quietly.

That was all it took.

Immediately, he shifted beneath you, sitting up a little straighter so that your torsos nearly pressed together. His hands were trembling as he brought them to your hips, slipping up beneath the blanket with reverent care. You were still stroking him–slower now, teasing, your thumb smearing the mess over the head of his cock just to make him whimper again–and when his fingers finally slid beneath the lace of your panties, you sucked in a soft gasp.

“Jesus Christ… Y/N,” He whimpered, breathless, his voice barely holding together. His middle and ring fingers slid through your soaked folds with a soft squelch that made both of you shiver. “You’re so wet. Fu-Fuck.”

Then he leaned in again, catching your lips in a kiss that was messier than before–hungrier. Spit-slicked and open-mouthed, your tongues brushed, tangled. Your moan vibrated into his mouth as he circled your clit with maddening gentleness, then slipped two fingers inside you with almost no resistance.

The stretch was perfect. Your hips jerked forward, pressing down into his touch as he curled his fingers slowly, his palm grinding against your clit with every forward motion. You were panting now, moaning softly between the kisses, your hand still pumping his cock in slick, tight strokes.

The air was hot between you. Sweaty. Tense. Each sound–your breathy whimpers, his choked moans, the rhythmic squelch of his fingers inside you and the slick, wet slap of your palm gliding over his cock–echoed through the living room like they were trying to shame you into slowing down. But neither of you cared–nobody was home, and you would clean up afterwards.

Bob was a wreck. His body was trembling beneath you, his brows drawn tight, lips parted around helpless little gasps as your strokes grew faster, sloppier.

“Y/N…Fuck. Your hand, your hand feels so good–gonna…Shit, I’m gonna–”

You leaned in, whispering into the curve of his neck, your voice low and thick. “Don’t you dare cum until I say.”

He whimpered again, hips twitching, and the sound he made when you rolled your hips forward into the heel of his palm–shuddering, needy–made your body seize up. He pushed his fingers deeper, curling them just right, rubbing that spongy spot with trembling precision while his palm never stopped grinding against your clit.

You cried out–sharp, gasping–your thighs squeezing around his wrist. “Fuck, Bob. Right there…Right fucking there–!”

Bob kissed you again, deeper, his hand steady now, his fingers fucking into you faster, rougher, while your own hand faltered–just slightly–around his cock. But you picked it back up immediately, giving him faster, firmer strokes, your slick fingers sliding along his shaft with filthy, wet sounds that only got louder as your body began to tense.

And then–it hit.

Your back arched. Your mouth fell open.

“Bob–!”

You gushed around his fingers, your panties soaked instantly as a hot rush of liquid poured out, flooding over his palm, dripping down his wrist, the wetness pressing into his lap.

“Oh my god,” He gasped, eyes wide, fingers slowing as he felt your body pulse around him. “Did you just–?”

“Yes…Fuck…Yes!” You panted, your entire body trembling against him, breath ragged. He looked down in awe, eyes darting between your soaked panties and the wet mess now streaked down his arm, and he moaned, deep and low.

That was it.

You tightened your grip again–faster now, harder–stroking him through his ragged breathing, through the mess of spit and precum already slicking his cock.

“I want you to cum for me, Bob,” You whispered hoarsely. “All over yourself. Right now.”

He didn’t last three more strokes.

With a strangled cry–loud and cracked–his body arched off the couch, his thighs trembling, his cock twitching hard in your grip as thick ropes of cum spilled up over his abs, dripping down his stomach in hot, messy streaks. His mouth hung open, jaw slack as he moaned through it, every pulse of pleasure ripping a sound from the depths of him like it was being torn free.

“Fu–Fuck, Y/N, oh my god–.” You kept stroking, easing him through it, feeling every throb and twitch beneath your fingers, watching the way his whole body trembled with overstimulation. His head lolled back, cheeks flushed red, chest heaving with each uneven breath.You smiled down at him, your own legs still trembling from your orgasm, your thighs wet and sticky.

And then–slowly–you brought your cum-slick fingers to your mouth and sucked one between your lips, moaning softly at the taste, and all Bob could do was whimper at the sight. Those well manicured nails stained with his release almost made him get hard again. You cleaned off your palm with your tongue keeping eye contact with him the entire time as his chest was rising and falling with ragged awe.

“I should get my nails done more often,” You murmured, voice wicked-sweet.

And Bob could only nod, completely and utterly ruined.

[binkybonkybucky]

i’m giggling at wayv and their gay asses. but also like, hendery low key owned this era, especially with his fits and styling. i know for a fact the stylist did not want him running of with those grills but that’s not gonna stop hendery anytime soon

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅random bf hendery texts𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅

a/n: hey guyssss. its been like a week. heres some hendery texts because hes genuinely bias wrecking me so hard rn. yall better still be streaminf big bands. lmk what yall think!

warnings: swearing, VERY suggestive. my usual.

[binkybonkybucky]

i practically shouted when she walked in on them

They were supposed to be in the gym, working up a sweat by avoiding each other’s fists, not working up a sweat by fisting each other’s cocks. 

^this had me straight up REELING. i loved how unhinged the reader was once they were cornered in the armory like yes girl hold your ground!

and then when bucky was punishing steve and she was like “i didn’t do anything” i giggled because yeah queen you tell them 🗣️

insatiable

steve & bucky x assistant!reader

summary: you're in charge of keeping the avengers schedule clean and functioning properly. what happens when two super soldiers divert from what their original plans are, and you walk in on them getting it on? now, they won't leave you alone.

warnings: 18+, mdni, smut, no use of y/n, established relationship (steve n bucky), threesome, piv, creampie, cum eating, oral (f + m receiving), fingers will be put in mouths, language, dirty talk, dom ?? bucky, switch steve, sub reader, they lowk talk you through it, lots of orgasms, riding, handjobs, pet names (doll, sweetheart, sweet girl, pretty girl, baby), steve and bucky are gambling, this is just filth idk what to say

word count: 10.7k

a/n: me??? freaked out??? never!

masterlist

You were going to kill someone. 

You weren’t sure how you were going to do it, seeing as the people that you worked for were all highly trained assassins, soldiers, or flew around the sky in metal suits– but you were going to kill one of them. Or all of them. 

You gave them one task. Just one. Not even a task– a simple request. To put their dry cleaning out in the hallway every Tuesday morning so you could run it out to the cleaners. That way, if there was a party that Tony was throwing Friday night, there would be enough time for the cleaners to go through all of the clothes and have it ready for pick up by Friday morning. 

Now, you were going through all of their rooms. You had their permission, of course.Even if you didn’t, they didn’t particularly mind. You’d been working with them for a while now. 

In terms of keeping their lives together off the field, you were their saving grace. You kept them in the good graces of America and the rest of the world. You worked overtime to do any damage control online, combing through forums and squashing any potential harmful rumors that could possibly appear. At this point, you could be an agent yourself with the amount of computer and investigative work you were doing. 

You kept track of their meetings with government officials because they sure as hell didn’t want to meet with anyone. You took notes since they didn’t care to pay attention, then condensed them later and dropped it off at their rooms– personalized notes in a way that you knew they would actually pay attention. Then, you would be the one to form up some sort of reply to those same government officials to tell them to politely fuck off in a way that made Captain America smile at you gratefully.

You kept the pantries and the fridge stocked with all of their favorite goodies, even the more hard to find, out of season fruits. You once found the personal phone number of a company’s CEO and demanded they put you on a special delivery list because Sam was getting pissy that his favorite preworkout mix was always out of stock at the wholesale market down the street. Wanda was very particular to this strawberry farm in Japan. You learned an entire new language just to make sure you could communicate with the owner. 

It wasn’t totally thankless work. There were more than a few perks that you had when it came to working for the Avengers. 

For one, your salary was through the roof (thanks to Tony), and you didn’t even have to spend it on rent in New York. They gave you your own room with a bathroom, and you were free to use the common areas in the compound as if you were part of the team yourself. You could use their kitchen and gym, walk around the floor in your pajamas during and after work hours if you really wanted to, and no one would say a word to you.

It was assistant work, but you weren’t required to wear fancy pants suits or skirts to work. The last time you wore something nice to a full day of work was your first day, when you didn’t know how relaxed they were.

You didn’t know any other assistant that clocked into work wearing sweatpants and a tank top. When you were wearing your nicer clothes, the others would make a face at you and ask you who died. You would only roll your eyes at them before going into a conference room. After your meetings, you would simply go back to your room to change into something more casual. 

The added security they gave you was nice, too. They treated you like a friend, not just an employee. They invited you out for their team gatherings because to them, you were part of their team. You may not be fighting on the field with them, but you helped keep their lives in check. They made sure to let you know that they appreciated you.

Oftentimes, when they would come home from missions that were overseas, you would find different trinkets and souvenirs waiting for you. Bucky was the type to leave them in your room without ever saying a word to you. In the beginning, you had no idea that it was him. Steve and Natasha presented you their presents directly, handing them to you with smiles on their faces. The others would leave them on your desk with a note. At this point, you had an entire bookshelf in your room dedicated to the little things that they had brought back for you during their trips. 

It touched your heart every single time that they even thought about you while they were out there. That they saw something on the street in the middle of their mission, thought that you would like it, and paused their pursuit just to get it for you. 

One time, Bucky got you an obsidian rock with a gold shine on it. It looked like his arm. Steve later told you that he found it on the ground, and thought you’d like it. He was right. You polished that rock and put it on your nightstand. 

You had to remind yourself of those sweet gifts right now, as you were hauling laundry through the halls. Your blood pressure was rising with each step. 

No one was around. 

Steve and Bucky should be down in the gym around this time– it was their allotted training time. Everyone knew better than to try and get in the way of two super soldiers in training, though sometimes others would just watch them spar. It wasn’t a good idea to try and get in the middle of it though. 

Natasha and Clint were most likely in the firing range practicing some new tricks with the arrows that Clint had just designed in the lab. He’d been so excited to finally play around with them, to show off his new toys to Natasha. He’d been waiting for her all week to give him some time, and she finally followed him down there. 

Sam told you that he would be spending his free day in the lab, messing with Redwing. This morning, he grunted to you that he completely had to fix the poor machine. During their last mission, Bucky had ‘accidentally’ slammed into Redwing, squashing it into a wall. Something about the look in his eyes lets you know that Sam doesn’t believe that it was an accident. 

Tony was completely out of the compound for the next two days. He and Pepper were on a much needed couples trip. If you remembered correctly (and you did), it was their anniversary trip. You had tried convincing the scientist to take a longer trip– you even cleared out his schedules completely, and planned the trip for him months ago. He merely gave you a smile and let you know it was okay. You still didn’t expect to see him for another week. 

Wanda was in the kitchen, with Vision. It was her turn to cook lunch for the remaining members in the compound, and Vision insisted on assisting her. That means, her prep and cooking time would be increased by triple as she attempted to walk him through every single step patiently. 

Honestly, there was no party since Tony wasn’t around. There was no reason that you should be grabbing their laundry, but it was the routine. If you broke routine now, after doing this for so long, then you might as well throw away your entire schedule. That, and you were slightly afraid of the amount of clothes that would pile up in their rooms if you simply let it rot for another week. 

You should’ve let the fucking laundry fester.

“Fuck–” Steve groaned at the same time Bucky moaned his name.

You saw sin and felt regret fill your entire body. Then, they met your eyes. Both men, stopping in their actions of pure pleasure– wide eyed, breathless, flustered– staring at you with shock. They were both sweaty, tangled in each other, completely bare. You’d seen more of them than you ever thought you’d have the privilege of witnessing. 

You tore your eyes away as quickly as you could. You felt your heartbeat pounding in your neck as you searched for the laundry basket that you knew was to the right of Bucky’s door– and snatched it like it owed you some sort of debt. You didn’t say a word before you slammed the door shut, and ran down the hall, dragging everyone’s dirty clothes and secrets with you. 

From what you could tell– no one knew about the relationship between the two of them, and you sure as hell weren’t going to sell them out either. If this was something that they would keep private between themselves, then so be it. It was just a damn shame that they had to be all over each other when you were doing your job. 

You did what any logical person would do in this situation. 

You avoided them.

In hindsight, it shouldn’t have been too difficult. You knew their schedules like the back of your hand. You knew what time Steve woke up to go run outside because he preferred to breathe fresh air instead of using the treadmill. You knew what time that Bucky generally fell asleep after his insomniac brain calmed down for the night. You knew what time both of them sat down for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. You controlled their meeting schedules, debriefs, and other things. You had full access to the security cameras in the compound from a few taps on your phone, and you could definitely look for them if you thought they were hiding somewhere. Avoiding them should not have been hard for you. 

Then again, you really did think you knew their schedules. But if you really did, you wouldn’t be in this predicament in the first place. They were supposed to be in the gym, working up a sweat by avoiding each other’s fists, not working up a sweat by fisting each other’s cocks. 

You pushed the mental image out of your mind as you walked down the hall, squeezing your tablet to your chest a little tighter. You needed to focus. You had a meeting with some officials later that you couldn’t fuck up. You needed to complete a presentation on why they should leave the Avengers alone for the thousandth time that year. 

However, it was like both men decided overnight to make your life a living hell. 

Both Steve and Bucky were in the conference room that you were supposed to be in. Their hushed conversation died down when you entered. Your steps faltered, but you gave them a small, polite smile. There was a chair’s distance in between them, and your eyebrows furrowed briefly at it. Usually, they sat beside each other during the team meetings and debriefs. 

“Good morning,” you greeted. “You guys don’t have to be here for this meeting. It’s not on your agenda.”

“You’re defending us to assholes every other week. I think it’s fair we sit in, maybe intimidate them a little bit,” Bucky muttered, sitting back in his seat, relaxed and poised. His ankle is crossed over his knee as he stares at you, a tilt in his head. Every single one of your movements is being observed. He’s watching you like some sort of predator, and you’ve never felt smaller. 

You looked at Steve next, for help, but maybe you should’ve known better. Of course he would agree with his fucking boyfriend because he just gave you a pretty smile, and nodded. 

And the committee that came in didn’t know about your inner turmoil, and none of them wanted to sit in between either of the super soldiers. Once the chairs had filled up, once you finished shaking hands with everyone– you realized this was their plan from the start. You had to sit yourself right in between them, pretend that you weren’t screaming inside, and start the meeting.

It was a little easier once you got going. You could ignore both men. They didn’t say much, only nodded in agreement with your words or grunted in disapproval when the committee said something fucking stupid. 

Eventually, thanks to your pie charts and eloquent words, you managed to push back and gain some more freedom for your bosses-slash-friends after a two hour long argument. You watched as the committee left, giving them a pretty, satisfied smile as they muttered under their breath about getting you next time. 

“Is that how these meetings always go?” Steve asked you. 

“Just about,” you sighed, running your hand through your hair. “They just spew bullshit at me, and they think they’re right. Obviously, they’re not.”

“You hold your ground pretty well,” he murmured. “I’m sorry that we leave you to deal with this. With them.”

You could only shrug, though there was a little tingle of pride that began to blossom in your chest. Well, to be fair– this is why they hired you to begin with. To make their lives easier in every single aspect. Not just laundry and snacks. 

“You guys fight out there. It’s my job to make sure that you guys can keep fighting the important battles,” you told him, briefly meeting his eyes. 

Steve stares at you, for just a few moments. He’s studying your features, looking you up and down. Briefly, you recognize something in his eyes. There’s admiration. It makes you feel giddy. Noticed. A smile comes onto your face. 

It’s quiet in the conference room for a few moments as you finish organizing the notes and packets that you received from the useless officials that were just in the room moments ago. You grab your tablet next, and move to stand.

“About what happened earlier this week–” Bucky began to speak, and your body bristles.

No. You do not want to talk about this. Not now, not ever. You can go the rest of your life pretending that you never saw them, actually. 

“I have another meeting to get to,” you cut him off, shoving the rolling chair behind you so hard that it hits the wall. It’s a lie. You have no meeting. This was your only calendar item for the morning, and you’re free until after lunch.

Still, you’re all but running out the door seconds later. You don’t turn back even when Steve calls out your name to try and get you to stop. You’re disappearing down the hall, rushing to your private office as fast as you can, and locking the door behind you. 

Neither man gives up on attempting to corner you.

You’ve found solace in latching onto another team member every single chance that you get. 

You’ve stuck by Clint’s side in the hallways, chatting with him over updates on his kids when you know that Steve and Bucky are waiting for you around the corner to ambush you. You give him ideas on what gifts to give to his kids, and you even start an Amazon wishlist for him so that he can easily send some presents back home. 

When Tony returns from his anniversary trip with Pepper (that you accurately guessed he would take a week instead of two days), you started to spend your free time in the lab with him. You even started allowing him to spew random science terms at you that you normally would nod off to. Right now, it’s the best thing you could’ve ever asked for, especially when you can see Bucky’s shadow in the corner of your eye, stalking you. 

You wondered if this is what it was like to be hunted by the Winter Soldier. 

You avoid Sam, though you know it confuses him. Sam is a little too close for comfort with both super soldiers. He would invite them into a conversation, and then Sam could possibly be dragged away from that same conversation, and leave you alone to confront the same demons that you’ve been hiding from for over a week now. You’re still polite with him, but you try not to be caught with him alone. 

You don’t even try with Vision. 

Wanda and Natasha are definitely your safest bets. Out of everyone on the team, they were the ones that you got closest with first– that broke down the wall of boss and assistant. They were more than overjoyed when you were hired, and they were the only ones on the team that listened to you when you asked them to set their laundry out, and to update the digital list when they wanted more snacks or supplies.

So, you remained glued to one or both of their sides. You didn’t tell either of them what was going on, even though they both could tell you were on edge. 

You still remained professional throughout each debrief meeting and team gathering. You conducted each mission report with ease, ignoring the gaping hole that Steve and Bucky were burning into the sides of your head. You smiled politely, and quickly excused yourself out of the room each time. You didn’t want to be caught alone with them. 

If, on the off chance, you didn’t have anyone to grab onto, you locked yourself into your own room or office. You knew you couldn’t keep living like this. You just hoped that both of them would drop it, and the three of you could just forget about it. 

And it seemed that’s exactly what happened. 

After about another two weeks of avoiding them, they both stopped staring. Stopped waiting for you around corners, stopped sitting in during your personal meetings with the committees, and they continued as they were before. Steve would give you his polite smiles from across the room as he greeted you. Bucky would wish you a good morning in the hall as he walked by.

Your world finally went back to normal. You didn’t have to use a buddy system to go around your workplace. You didn’t have to leave the compound entirely, spending the night at your parent’s place because you didn’t feel like using the designated room you had in the apartments complex in the compound in fear that the men would somehow catch you off guard– and you definitely didn’t have to look over your shoulder trying to hide from soldiers that had much more experience than you did when it came to hunting. 

You could finally breathe again.  

You looked down at your tablet, running the stock of the weapons room before cursing to yourself. Very briefly, you wondered if someone on the team forgot to sign off on their casings– if they took more than they thought they did.

You looked through the lot numbers with a frown, shaking your head. You needed to get more, order more of the generic kinds of bullets that they had for their rifles and handguns. Then, you needed to go beg Tony to make some more of the special kinds of bullets and have to ask him to forgive you even though it wasn’t your fault for not noticing. He always would. 

Except you knew this would end in another impromptu team meeting where Tony would stress the importance of signing when you take shit from the collective team armory. You know a few of them, like Clint and Wanda, would tune out during the meeting. After all, they didn’t use guns. 

“You would think that F.R.I.D.A.Y. would be programmed to have this shit weighed like one of those hotel mini fridges that auto charges the room,” you muttered to yourself, tapping your screen. You sat down on the bench behind you, letting out a deep sigh. 

“Oh, shit. Are we going to be pulled into another meeting?”

You straightened at the voice, turning around. Bucky was at the entrance of the door, a frown on his face. He looked a little breathless, and he was wearing a compression shirt with the Avengers logo on his bicep, along with sweatpants. He must’ve gotten back from the gym– actually from the gym. 

You couldn’t help the smile that came onto your face at the slight despair in his voice. You turned back towards the shelves, shaking your head.

“It’s not a meeting. Think of it as a… get-together. Just a chat,” you replied.

“Right– because being yelled at by Stark is just a chat,” Bucky snorted as he walked into the armory, going towards his locker. He unlocked it, grabbing a towel to wipe at his forehead. 

“I mean, I don’t see your sign-outs on the log,” you hummed, pulling up the spreadsheet onto your screen. “And you sound pretty defensive. Seems like you’re guilty of something, Bucky.”

“Not sure what you’re talking about,” he responded. “I’m not the only one that doesn’t use the sign out sheet. I know Sam doesn’t.”

“Are you just ratting him out now to save your own ass?” you scoffed.

“I’m lessening my load of the blame.”

You rolled your eyes, your smile growing just a bit wider as your eyes scanned the shelves one last time, checking to make sure you did a proper count before you placed the order. 

“Is there anything you need me to get for you?” you asked him, scrolling through the cart on your tablet screen one more time. “Any spare parts or wiring for your arm that Tony doesn’t have? Do I need to contact Princess Shuri for anything?”

You could hear the gears in his arm whirring, and you looked up at him. You watched as Bucky flexed, and you felt your mouth go dry for a moment as you stared. His arm was pretty– but Bucky himself was just pretty. The compression shirt he wore also did little to hide every single line and contour of his muscles as he flexed. You followed the line of sweat that went down his neck, disappearing down the collar of his shirt. 

He was looking down at himself, thankfully, and not at you. He couldn’t see that you were blatantly ogling a taken man. You moved your eyes up towards his face right as he looked back at you, and you gave him a trained smile, waiting for his response. 

“Arm’s good. Thank you,” he answered, giving you a nod.

“Anytime. Just let me know, or send me a text if you need me to get you something,” you said, looking back down at your tablet.

Out of the corner of your eye, you could see him still turned towards you. Still watching you. Briefly, you felt a flash of PTSD wash through your body– like how you felt over a month ago when you were trying to avoid him and Steve entirely. 

You forced your body to relax because that war had already passed. You’ve had several conversations with both Steve and Bucky– just like this one that you’re having right now– and you’ve been completely fine. You busy yourself with the order, input Tony’s business card number that you know by heart, and choose the express delivery option. 

You let out a sigh of relief when you see that the delivery will come within two days. Enough time before their next mission. 

“Lucky for you, no team meeting needed,” you said, standing. “Only because I caught the low stock in time.”

“My savior,” he chuckled, shaking his head. 

You’re moving now, thoughts already occupied to your next task– which is the pantry– when Bucky’s hand clasps over your upper arm. His grip isn’t hard at all. You could easily slip out of his touch if you wanted to. No, this is just to stop you from leaving. Not to hurt or harm you.

“Did you think of something?” you asked, eyes dropping down to where he had his hand on you. 

“Yeah,” he nodded, and released you. 

Your arm feels cold without him there. Then, you feel something behind you– a presence. You look over your shoulder, and Steve is standing in the doorway, blocking your only exit route. You freeze, looking between them for a few seconds.

Dread is filling your stomach as you clutch your tablet in your hands. Bucky gently takes the device from you before you can break it, putting it into his locker so you can’t even create an excuse for needing to be somewhere else. You look at him damn near helplessly as he shuts his locker, and presses his back against it. 

“I thought we were over this,” you said slowly.

Steve shrugged, crossing his arms over his chest as he leaned against the doorframe. “We just let you think that we were. I didn’t realize that the civilian we hired was actually an agent when she didn’t want to be caught.”

“Take a seat,” Bucky told you, gesturing back towards the bench.

You can’t do anything but listen. Once you’re seated, Steve enters the armory, closing the door behind him. He doesn’t linger too far away from the door. Maybe it’s to ensure that you can’t run. Even if you get close, you don’t have that much faith in yourself to outmaneuver them. They hold you with too much regard in their heads. 

“Why can’t we just… I don’t know– not talk about this?” you frowned at them as they stood in front of you. “I’m pretty sure I’m not the first person that’s walked in on their friends fucking each other like rabbits– we do not have to discuss the logistics of me seeing all three seconds of your possibly extensive intimate life.”

“You… have a very indecent mouth,” Steve said slowly, and Bucky snorted, rolling his eyes. 

“You haven’t told anyone?” Bucky asked, looking you up and down.

“Why would I?” you asked, exasperated. “That’s not my business to tell! Is that what this is about? I could care less if you were fuck buddies or married– literally, I do not care. Is this some leftover stigma that’s instilled in your bones from the forties? Guys, we’re in the 21st Century. Men being in a relationship is not uncommon these days. I grew up with gay uncles. This is not new for me or literally anyone on the street.”

“Is that what we are to you? Gay uncles?” Steve asked. There’s an amused look on his face that makes you want to laugh, but nothing about this scenario is funny to you. You want to leave. Run. Start looking over your shoulder, and jump at shadows again. 

“Grandpas, maybe, with the way you both hold a fucking grudge,” you muttered. 

The way Bucky raised his eyebrows at you makes you straighten up completely. You clear your throat, slightly intimidated, and you look everywhere but their face as you try to come up with your next words.

“Listen, okay, I’m sorry,” you said, swallowing thickly. And you really do mean it– you don’t want to walk in on any of your friends doing the deed. “I thought you both were in the gym. Like you were supposed to be, and it was laundry day. If you guys just put your fucking baskets out in the hall like I’ve told you several times, then I wouldn’t have seen you guys naked, and heard you guys moan each other’s names, but I promise I haven’t told anyone. I’ll take this to my grave.”

They’re both silent for a few moments, and you mustered up the courage to look at them. Steve and Bucky aren’t looking at you. They’re looking at each other, having some sort of silent conversation that you know only couples that have been together for years can have. 

You honestly have nothing else to lose. 

“By the way– who the fuck has sex on a Tuesday morning, and doesn’t lock their bedroom door?” you added, watching both of their heads snap back towards you. “Especially a couple that is trying to remain hidden?”

A laugh fell from Bucky’s lips as Steve chuckled beside him, shaking his head. Just like that, the tension you felt in your body was disappearing. 

“You got us there,” Steve nodded, hands on his hips.  

You let out a breath of relief, shoulders sagging just slightly. You rubbed your palms onto your thighs, and closed your eyes briefly as you let yourself relax for a second. “Can I go now? Are we done here?”

“Not quite.”

Your head snapped back up. “What? Is this not it?”

“I heard something interesting, a few months back from Nat,” Steve started, and your eyebrows furrowed at him. You had no idea where the conversation was going now. “You know, she’s always trying to set me up on dates, and I keep shooting her down.”

“Right,” you nodded slowly, then gestured between them. “And now I know why. Do you want me to try and get her off your case without alerting her?”

“No, no. That’s not it,” Steve shook his head, smiling at you. “She tried setting me up with you.”

Your lips parted, and you blinked at him. You could feel the color draining from your face as your heart worked overtime to keep all your bodily functions working properly. You were going to kill Natasha. Yeah– that’s who you were gonna murder in cold blood. 

“She told me that you confessed to her something about climbing me like a tree–”

“Stop fucking talking,” you cut Steve off, raising a hand up in the air. You couldn’t look at him, and your eyes were trained on the ground as your other hand came to cover your face. You tried focusing on your breathing. Slowly, you lowered your hands to your lap as you took in a breath. “Obviously, I didn’t fucking know you were a taken man. I wouldn’t have said that shit if I knew–”

“She also said that you stare at me a lot during training,” Bucky interjected. 

“You know… I used to think talks between girls were sacred, confidential… I’m gonna kill her,” you murmured, more to yourself than either of them. 

The armory was silent, save for the thumping of your heart wreaking havoc in your chest out of pure shame and embarrassment. Maybe you wouldn’t even have time to kill the assassin. You were certain that you were going to die here. Maybe from heart palpitations. 

Your leg started to bounce up and down as you pulled your lip in between your teeth. Your clothes were clinging onto your skin uncomfortably, and your blood was burning, heating and blossoming in color that you were certain that both men could see. You could feel the weight of their eyes on you, never pulling away, consistently watching you. 

You can’t even deny it. You can’t deny what Natasha said, try to say that she’s lying because that wouldn’t be right either. You did say that about Steve, and just moments ago you were looking at Bucky like you were going moments away from having a wet daydream. You were attracted to both men, and that was a clear and obvious fact. 

You took in another breath, and held it for a few moments.

You’re scared. They must be disgusted with you, you think. You’re not only their friend, but their assistant. You work with them, handle their private schedules, and you know everything about them. It’s not right for you to be having these kinds of thoughts about them, let alone voicing it out loud to anyone. Forget about losing your job– you’re afraid of losing their trust. 

“It was… inappropriate for me to talk about you, and look at you like that,” you decided to say, coming up with the best professional apology that you could muster. “I’ll be careful to make sure that it doesn’t happen again.”

“Sweetheart, what? No– we’re actually about to ask you if you wanted to join us in bed.”

The pounding in your chest stops abruptly as your head snaps up towards Bucky. You’re certain he could see the shock and confusion all over your face, and he gives you a smile– almost boyish. There’s no repulsion on his face. He almost looks a little giddy, relaxed.

“Don’t get me wrong, I love Steve, but he’s all fuckin’ muscle. There’s nothing soft about his body,” he continued, a deep sigh escaping his chest.

“You think there’s anything soft about you?” Steve demanded, raising an eyebrow at him. “You have a vibranium arm. Do you think that’s comfortable to sleep next to?”

“I have another arm, Rogers. I don’t know why you insist on taking the left side of the bed,” Bucky shot back. 

“It’s my preference,” Steve grunted. 

Bucky rolled his eyes at Steve, crossing his arms as he turned slightly to look at his boyfriend. They’re engaging in some light hearted banter, one that you don’t care enough to tune into. Not when you’re trying to make sense of what was just said to you.  

Time doesn’t exactly feel real, but you’re watching them argue in the way that you’ve watched your parents argue many times before. You’re certain that they’ll make up soon, give each other a light peck on the lips, and then walk out of the room holding hands and talk about what they’ll eat for dinner soon. But, the question still remains–

“You want me to sleep with you? Both of you?” you finally asked.

They both turned to you, not like they just suddenly remembered that you were there. No, they were fully aware of your presence the entire time. Steve gives you a smile, and nods. And Bucky hums.

“Only if you want to,” Steve said.

“Why me?” you asked. It’s the only logical question you can think of at the moment.

“Because you’re the only one who knows about the two of us,” Bucky shrugged, like it’s the most obvious answer in the world. “And you’ve shown obvious interest in us. It’s a win-win scenario for all of us, isn’t it?”

“In that case, then it doesn’t have to be… me right? I’m sure you could go find a third to join you somewhere else. Someone discreet that can keep secrets,” you quickly said, your mind reeling. “I don’t– I don’t want to be some last minute option to some fantasy–”

“Hang on,” Steve quickly cut you off, coming forth. He’s kneeling in front of you know, hands closing over yours. He’s eye level with you, stopping all of your self deprecating thoughts before it can start spilling out. “You’re not a last minute option. Truthfully, you’re the first option and the only option. Since we heard what Natasha said, we’ve actually been discussing it– discussing you. There’s just not an easy way to bring all of… this up. Also, it’s not just a fantasy, sweetheart. Bucky and I have been with girls before, you know that right?”

“I… have been made aware,” you nodded slowly.

Steve shrugged at you. “So it’s just us wanting to get back into it, just sharing someone with each other. And we like you. You’re reliable, smart, and very pretty. You’ve kept our secret for the past month, and we are very thankful for that. And like we said– no pressure. If this isn’t something that you want to do, then we don’t have to. You don’t have to. It’s just an offer.”

Man. You hate Captain America. 

The leader of the Avengers– fuckin’ great at speeches and good at talking people down from heightened emotions. He’s talking to you incredibly softly, gently. His hand is warm on top of yours, grounding you in place where you sit. He doesn’t stray away from eye contact, and the blue of his eyes are cozy– if that even makes sense. It does, to you. 

You look behind him, towards Bucky, and he offers you a nod of agreement. 

“You don’t have to decide right now, doll,” Bucky added. “Just let us know whenever you’re ready– oh. Steve rarely uses his room, by the way. So, if you make up your mind, you know where to find us.”

With that, Steve stands. He offers you one last smile, and they both leave you there in the armory to sit with your thoughts. Your dirty fucking thoughts. 

A week went by since that afternoon. They had gone on an overseas mission, came back with a few cuts and scrapes. You sat through a few government meetings with fake smiles plastered onto your face. You greeted both Steve and Bucky whenever you saw them over those seven days. You had regular, civil conversations with them. 

They came up to you when you did your regular tasks, asked you about things around the compound. You found a new gift on your bed from Bucky when they returned from the mission. Steve asked you about the debrief that was scheduled next week. Both of them asked you if it was really necessary for them to attend Tony’s party at the end of the month, and if they really needed to be fitted for a new suit.  When you said yes, they both groaned. You threatened to drag them to the tailor if they missed their appointments.

It was too normal. As if the conversation you had with them never happened, as if they didn’t offer to turn your world upside down. Well– they didn’t say that. You had just laid awake in your bed, imagining what they would do to you.

Those three seconds that you witnessed were all you had as a preview, but those three seconds felt like a lifetime. You could only imagine what would happen if you were involved in the mix between two super soldiers with insane amounts of stamina. They reserved the gym’s sparring area for two hour blocks because they could keep fighting for hours at a time. The only reason they didn’t go for longer was so they could go for the punching bags instead, and work on their forms. 

Would you even survive a single night with them?

The question echoed heavily throughout your mind as you stood in front of Bucky’s door. You knew better this time– you knocked. And you waited, but not for long. It opened, just a crack, and you saw the soldier peek through the sliver he created, then visibly relax when he saw it was just you. 

“Come on in,” Bucky told you, opening the door wider for you. 

You forced your feet to move, to step through the threshold of his door. Steve was already in bed, but moved to sit up against the headboard when he saw you. Both men were in pajamas– Steve in a t-shirt and shorts, Bucky wearing a white tank top and cotton pants. They were both watching you, curious.

“I’ve never done something like this before,” you told them, feeling a little exposed under their gaze. You laced your hands together nervously, just to give yourself something to do. “Have you guys?”

“Nope,” Bucky answered. “It’s new for all of us.”

That made you feel slightly better. You watched as Steve came off of the bed, and both men moved to stand in front of you– just a singular step away. You looked up at both of them, breath caught in your throat.

“Are you sure about this?” Steve asked, voice soft, reassuring. You nodded, and he let out a small laugh before he shook his head. “You gotta say it, pretty thing. We won’t do anything you’re not comfortable with.”

You studied their faces for a moment. They were both being patient with you, waiting for you to give them permission. Steve’s gaze was gentle, soft, just like he was in the armory, but there was something darker swirling behind his eyes. Bucky was a little more blatant in his hunger. His jaw was clenched as he looked at you, storm grey eyes looking you up and down, before settling on your face as he waited for your answer. 

“I’m sure,” you whispered, finally releasing the breath you were holding. 

They must’ve really talked about this in depth because their actions were coordinated. Careful. Almost like a dance. 

Bucky reached for you first, pulling you into him while Steve sidestepped you to stand behind you, effectively sandwiching you behind both men. In one quick second, Bucky’s lips were on yours, while Steve busied himself with gathering your hair to the side to attach his mouth to your neck and shoulders. 

“You smell good. Did you just shower?” Steve hummed against your neck.

Of course you showered before coming here. Why wouldn’t you? You scrubbed and shaved every part of your body until you were silky smooth. You lathered on your lotion to ensure that your skin was bouncy, then made sure to layer on your perfume and waited the perfume amount of time to ensure that it soaked into the crevices of your pores before you made the journey to Bucky’s room. You didn’t just do your regular date night ritual— you went above and beyond. 

“Yeah,” you murmured against Bucky’s lips— and he took it as an opportunity to slip his tongue into your mouth. You couldn’t help but let out a soft noise against his mouth, and he squeezed your waist in appreciation. 

Steve’s hands shifted at your hips, tugging at the hem of your shirt, tugging the material upwards. Bucky released your lips briefly to allow Steve to pull your shirt over your head, and watched as Steve cupped your breasts from behind. He kneaded the mounds slowly, your breath hitching as he experimentally massaged you, trying to see what you liked the most. 

“Mm… You’re right, Buck. It is nice to have someone soft,” Steve chuckled, pressing a kiss to your shoulder.

“Ah, Steve—“ you gasped, pressing back into his chest as Steve took your nipples in his fingers, rolling the slowly hardening peaks between his fingertips. 

“You owe me money,” Steve said to Bucky, and you could hear a grin on his voice– almost bragging. “I made her say my name first.”

“There’s still more bets on the table,” he grunted, swatting Steve’s hands away from you. You were being torn away from the warmth of Steve, and pulled into the cool touch of Bucky. The temperature difference was alarming, but it wasn’t unwelcome. 

“Bets?” you whispered to Bucky as he hoisted you into his arms, your legs being wrapped around his waist. 

You’ve been in Bucky’s room before, but not for long periods of time. You’ve only been here to grab his laundry basket, hang up his dry cleaning and his suits in his closet, and drop off any new gear that had been developed in the lab onto his bed. But now, Bucky’s bringing you to his bed. 

“Don’t worry about it, doll,” he hummed, pressing a quick kiss to your lips before he laid you down onto the mattress. “Just relax.”

Then, you were being dragged away from under him, and up the bed. You were half laying, half sitting against Steve’s chest, who was resting back against the headboard, like he was when you first walked into the room.

“You’re hogging her all to yourself, Buck,” the blonde soldier clicked his tongue disapprovingly. His hand came up from behind you, cradling your jaw to turn you to face him, to kiss him. Unlike Bucky, who was trying to take it easy on you, it seemed like something had snapped within Steve. The kiss was hungry, deep, and he didn’t ask for entry. He demanded it– licking into your mouth and exploring like he owned the space. 

If Bucky cared that Steve was suddenly taking all of your attention, he didn’t show it. No, Bucky busied himself with other matters that were more important to him. Like taking your shorts off of you. 

Steve didn’t let you break the kiss from him. In fact, his hand tangled into your hair, holding you in place as Bucky dragged the last remaining fabric off and away from your body, then settled himself between your legs and Bucky kissed your other lips. 

You couldn’t keep kissing Steve back, not when Bucky’s tongue was doing pretty circles around your clit, and one of his fingers was poking at your entrance, but never fully pressing inside. Steve didn’t hold it against you thankfully. He kept one hand in your hair, keeping your head tilted to the side to give him some space to watch the show in front of him while his other hand paid attention to a hardened nipple.

“Jesus– fuck, Bucky,” you whimpered, your hips twitching up into Bucky’s face. 

Bucky chuckled against you, and his vibranium hand came to your stomach to gently keep you in place, warning you to stay put. You would say that it wouldn’t be too hard not to, with two super soldiers having their hands all over you, but you were having a difficult time staying still. 

Their touches were barely anything at all. They continued to ghost over your skin. The only real pressure you got was Bucky’s tongue, but even that wasn’t much. He was enjoying every single little sound you made, every little tremble of your legs around his head– and Steve was humming right beside your ear. Both of them were enjoying the sight in front of them.

They were trying to break you, and it was working. 

“Please,” you begged, so impossibly needy.

“Please what?” Steve asked you, pressing a kiss to your temple. “What do you want, sweet girl?”

Anything, at this point. But Bucky’s moved away from your core, and Steve’s also removed his hand from your chest. They’re both on the same fucking wavelength– they’re adamant on making your life harder. What did you expect though? These two grew up together, fought in the same war together, and went through hell and back for each other– of course they would have each other’s back like this. 

“Your pussy is soaked, doll,” Bucky said, cutting through your mental conflict. You looked back down at him, and nearly sob when he takes his fingers, and parts your folds, and tilts his head at the sight of you– fully on display for him. A smile comes to his face when he watches your aching hole squeeze around nothing at all. 

A moan rips through your throat as Bucky sinks two fingers inside of you without warning, all the way down to his knuckles. Steve adjusts his hold on you, locking his arm around your waist as he presses a comforting kiss onto your shoulder. 

Just as quickly as Bucky filled you, he’s leaving you– and the loss is immediate. You let out a whimper, but Steve moans when he sees the arousal left behind on Bucky’s fingers. 

“Shit– she really is wet,” Steve muttered, and Bucky grinned, shifting onto his knees between your legs. You can only watch with uneven breaths as Bucky brings his fingers to Steve’s mouth– and he licks all of your juices clean off of Bucky’s fingers.

“Our poor girl is so deprived, huh?” Bucky hummed, watching Steve for a few moments before looking back down at you. “All you do is work. Never heard you talk to the other girls about getting fucked good. Don’t worry, pretty girl. We’ll take care of you. Just gotta let us know what you want.”

“God– I want your cock,” you whimpered, breathless. You met his eyes as a grin came over his features, and he lowered himself on you, capturing your lips in an open mouthed kiss. You could feel the outline of him through his pajamas pressing against your leg, hard, thick, and waiting for you–

“Fuck,” Steve cursed behind you. It wasn’t one that sounded like he was enjoying what he saw. In fact, he sounded annoyed. You and Bucky broke the kiss, and looked at him. His eyebrow was creased, and his jaw was clenched. 

Confusion and worry washed over your features as you looked between both men, but Bucky quickly pressed another kiss to your lips, a silent reassurance that everything was okay before he sat back on his knees and pulled his tank top over his head. 

“Now you owe me money, Steve,” Bucky told him, relishing in his win as he undid the tie on his pants.

Oh. Another bet, you realized.  

“Shut the fuck up, and fuck her already,” Steve grunted, reaching forward to grab your legs, spreading you open for his boyfriend.

“Working on it. Be patient,” Bucky chuckled, and kicked his pants off– now just as naked as you were. Your eyes immediately traced down his body, watching as the length of him stood proud, slapping against his stomach as it came free from the confines of his pajamas.

Your mouth went dry at the sight of him. All of it went straight down to your core, producing extra arousal for him to allow him to just slip in easier because there was no way that he would fit otherwise. In fact, you could feel Steve’s dick against your back this entire time, hard and thick, and you didn’t even know if he would fit you either–

“You’re staring,” Steve murmured behind you, nipping at your neck.

“Am I not supposed to?” you whispered back, making him chuckle as his lips moved up to your jaw, trying to catch your lips again. He was distracting you, while Bucky got into position, dragging himself between your folds. It wasn’t working well.

You felt the head of Bucky’s cock slowly press in, and your mouth paused against Steve’s lips. Bucky cursed above you as Steve’s hands tightened behind your knees, keeping you just where you needed to be for Bucky as he slowly pressed in, bottoming out completely. 

“Holy shit,” Bucky groaned, hands finding purchase on the curve of your waist. You leaned your head back against Steve’s shoulder as you nodded in agreement. You couldn’t say a word in response. “Steve– fuck– you’re gonna love her pussy.”

“Stretch her out good for me,” Steve said.

Bucky took those words like a challenge. 

You were already so tightly wound up from Bucky’s mouth on you, their hands all over you but not doing anything much, and now? Your first orgasm ripped through you without any warning– and you found out another bet was won by Bucky at that moment. Even so, Bucky continued fucking into you like this was the only thing task he had to complete, and he was doing it well. 

He pulled out all the way until only the tip of his cock was left behind, and then dove right back in– hard– meeting your hips with such vigor that made you see stars behind your eyes. You were reduced to a whimpering, moaning mess under Bucky– and he was eating it up. Your chin fell to your chest, and you could see it– you could watch where he entered and exited you with each thrust, and the sight made you tremble in Steve’s arms. 

“Are you gonna cry?” he cooed at you, almost mockingly, grabbing your face to force you to look at him. All the while, he never stopped fucking you. If it wasn’t for Steve’s assistance, you were certain that you would’ve tried wrapping your legs around his waist now, or pulling away from him out of pure overstimulation. “Sweet thing, you gonna cry on my cock?”

“Think you broke her, Buck,” Steve chuckled from behind you. 

“All stupid and cock drunk, aren’t you?” Bucky grunted, hips slamming into yours to force a noise out of you, and his fingers slipped into your mouth. “Gotta wake up, baby. You gotta fuck Stevie after me, remember? We can’t leave him hanging. He’s being so good for us, so patient.”

You could only give him a muffled reply with his fingers stuffed into your mouth, tears prickling into the corners of your eyes, and he hummed in response– satisfied with your answer.

Bucky’s fingers left your mouth, much to your despair, returning to your waist. His thrusts grew deeper, harder, less calculated. You heard Steve’s breath hitch behind you, felt him shift a little against your back. You could feel Bucky’s cock twitch inside you.

“Shit, doll— can I cum in you?” Bucky moaned, meeting your eyes. His voice was softer now, a little desperate. “Tell me where I can—“

“Inside me,” you choked out, your voice a little hoarse. “Please, it’s okay— I’m on the pill—“

His hand was wrapping around your throat a second later, his mouth on yours in a wet, messy kiss. Your own walls began to tremble around him as your legs began to shake. Moments later, you felt it. The warmth of his load spilling inside you, the tremble of his body against yours as he came, and he was moaning into your mouth, your name falling from his lips.

Slowly, Steve let go of your legs. You could feel your muscles scream with the release, finally happy to be resting in a more natural position as they came down. Bucky still continued to kiss you, murmuring soft praises about how good you are and how sweet you feel around his cock. 

He’s slipping out of you moments later, partially soft, and your body goes rigid as his fingers scoop up his cum and shove it back into your hole. 

“Can’t waste a drop, doll,” Bucky clicked his tongue at you, leaning back down to press another kiss to your lips. “Don’t let any of it spill before you get on Steve’s dick.”

Gently, he’s pulling you up. You have no feeling in your body— you’re sated and boneless, but he’s right. Steve’s been waiting, patiently, quietly, and you turn to him.

“Take this off, Steve,” Bucky grunted, tugging on his shirt as he dropped onto the bed beside the two of you. You’re also reaching for the hem of Steve’s shirt, pulling it off of Steve’s body, and tossing it off to the side somewhere. 

You rested your hands on Steve’s shoulders, looking down at him— his bare chest, as his hands rested on your hips. He was also checking you out, looking in between your legs where you definitely failed to keep Bucky’s release fully inside of you. 

He sucked in a breath at the sight, and looked back up at you. 

“Feel good, sweetheart?” he asked you. 

“Yeah,” you nodded, giving him a smile. “Wanna make you feel good, too.”

“Jesus,” he groaned, head leaning back and hitting the wall. You took the chance to trail your hands down his chest, and Steve’s lips parted, watching your every move as his hands on you tightened. Your hand dipped below the waistband of his shorts, going directly for his cock, feeling him out. 

Ah.

Bucky definitely stretched you out for Steve, but the fit would still be tight. Where Bucky was long, and filled you in all the way, Steve would be ripping you apart. 

You stroked him just a few times, spreading the precum that leaked over his length, and you watched Steve’s expression for a few moments before leaning forward, giving him a sweet kiss on the lips. 

Bucky wasn’t having it. 

“You’re stalling,” he tutted, pulling you and Steve away from the headboard. 

The sound of fabric tearing filled the room, and there was nothing left between you and Steve as he laid beneath you, your hands on his abdomen for stability. 

“Buck—“

“Shut up. She feels so good when she’s overstimulated. I’m doing you a favor, Stevie, and she’s trying to recover,” Bucky grunted. 

Bucky was behind you, kneeling, an arm wrapped around your waist as you straddled Steve’s hips. Between your legs, he’s holding Steve’s cock, lining him up with your entrance, and sinking you down in one fluid motion that makes both you and Steve gasp out in unison.

Steve’s hands reach for both of you— one hand on your thigh and one hand grabbing Bucky’s hand as he shifts to hold onto your waist.

“Bucky— Bucky fuck slow down—“ Steve cuts himself off with a moan.

You can only whimper in agreement, fingernails digging into Steve’s body as Bucky himself sets the pace. He’s controlling this— he’s fucking you directly onto Steve, hands on your waist, lifting you up and down with ease on Steve’s cock. 

“What? You don’t like it?” Bucky chuckled from behind you. “Isn’t she so warm, Stevie? You don’t like how your cock is soaked with both mine and her cum right now?”

You clamp down around Steve in response to Bucky’s words, and a loud curse falls from Steve’s lips as his eyes fall shut. 

“Jesus fucking— Buck— shut the fuck up, you saying all that shit is— just making her—“ 

Steve can’t even finish his own sentence, not when Bucky is grinding your hips against Steve’s, humming in approval at his own handiwork. He’s enjoying this, watching both of you fall to pieces in his hands. 

“You’ve been doing this all night. Since when do you talk back to me?” Bucky asked Steve, lifting you up off of Steve. You see the panic in the soldier’s eyes at the realization, and he pushes himself onto his elbows to meet Bucky’s gaze. 

And you are empty. You’re dripping all over Steve, soaking him beneath you, and a whimper falls from your lips. 

“Wait— wait— why am I being punished?” you forced out, grabbing onto Bucky’s hands quickly, looking over your shoulder to him. You sound damn near pathetic. “I didn’t— I didn’t do anything—“

“Look, Stevie. Look at what happens when you can’t be good,” Bucky shook his head before he leaned in closer to you, pressing a quick kiss to your lips to placate you— but it’s not enough. “Our girl gets punished, too.”

Your head whipped immediately to the other man. “Steve,” you begged softly, helplessly. 

“I’ll be good,” Steve muttered, sinking back down into the pillows. 

And Bucky’s feeling merciful because you don’t even think that’s a good enough apology, but he’s returning you to Steve’s cock within the next few moments— or maybe it’s a punishment with how hard he’s slamming you down onto him. 

Punishment for who? You’re not certain. 

Both you and Steve can’t keep up with the new, sudden pace. Steve’s hands are all over you, hands on your hips and thighs, but also reaching past you to touch Bucky. He never closes his eyes though. He’s watching every single movement, every single motion, and he’s vocal. It sends tingles down your spine that goes straight down to your core, and he feels every single twitch and spasm— and he lets you know he’s felt it. 

“Cum whenever you want, doll,” Bucky whispered into your ear, one of his hands slipping between your legs to rub your clit. “Only Steve can’t cum without my permission right now.”

You let out a shaky moan, nodding deliriously at the added stimulation. It didn’t take long, not with Steve continuously spearing you with Bucky’s help, and the tight circles rubbing into the overly sensitive nerves— you came for the third time that night. 

Bucky didn’t stop fucking you onto Steve’s cock the entire time. 

“You feel good?” Bucky continued. “Stevie making you feel good?”

“Y… Yeah,” you moaned, swallowing thickly. “Feels… Feels really good, Bucky.”

“Hear that, Stevie? You might deserve to cum tonight,” Bucky chuckled. 

“Let him cum in me,” you whined, grabbing onto Bucky’s wrist. “Want it.”

“God,” Steve groaned from under you, his fingers digging into your thighs. “You want my cum, too? Want me to mix with Bucky’s?”

“Please,” you nodded frantically. 

“Bucky,” Steve called out, his voice broken and hoarse— he was asking for permission. Begging for it. 

“You heard our girl,” Bucky hummed, releasing your hips, and relinquishing control to Steve. “Do what she wants.”

Steve’s hands replaced where Bucky’s was, and you were no longer being slid up and down Steve’s cock. He held you right in place above him, his hips pistoning up into yours. You barely caught yourself on his chest, grounding yourself as he uses your body to get exactly what he wants from you— doing exactly what you asked him to do. 

It doesn't take him long, not when he’s been watching Bucky fuck you for the past hour, and being deprived of his own release due to Bucky’s words. Soon enough, you’re not sure who’s release is whose, but you’re filled to the brim, warm, and sticky. 

You’re both panting, and you’ve collapsed onto his chest. His hands are on your back, holding you against him as his cock softens inside you, and slips out. 

You feel Bucky shift beside you, pressing kisses to your spine in appreciation, before he’s muttering your name for some attention. When you lift your head, he catches your lips, kissing you. 

“Be a good girl and clean up Steve’s cock,” he murmured against your lips.

A shiver runs down your body and you nod, lifting yourself up from Steve’s chest. You kneel between his legs again, and lower yourself down to his softened member. It’s kinda cute when you see it like this.

Steve flinches when your tongue meets his head, and you taste it— all three of you on Steve’s skin. He’s kinda squishy in your mouth in a way that makes you want to giggle. It’s slightly endearing, in a strange way. 

Both men are watching from above, eyes glued to every single one of your movements as you lick Steve clean of the remnants of your sin. When all that’s left is nothing but your saliva, you lift back up, and they both give you lazy, satisfied grins. 

Bucky beckons for you to come closer, pulling you to settle in the middle of them before he reaches between your legs. 

“What the fuck—?!” you gasped out, grabbing onto his arm to steady yourself as two fingers dipped inside of you and curled. You watch as he pulls away, taking the mixture of your releases, and brings it to Steve’s lips, just like how he did earlier. 

Except, Steve doesn’t fully swallow. It settles on his tongue, and Bucky meets his mouth, both men groaning at the taste. You can only watch as their tongues mingle, as their bodies press closer together, and a sense of heat begins to bloom in your stomach again.

And they don’t forget about you. Steve’s holding your hand, thumb rubbing along your knuckles while Bucky’s fingers are moving up and down the side of your thigh slowly. 

When they part, Steve’s tilting your head up to kiss you, and Bucky’s peppering kisses all over your neck and shoulder. Then, it switches. Bucky’s mouth is against yours, while Steve marks all over your collarbone and chest. 

“Wanna do this again?” Bucky murmured against your lips. 

Your eyes widen as you pull away from him. 

“Right now?” you demanded, slightly horrified. 

“I mean— I can. I don’t think you can,” he said. Steve chuckled from beside you. 

“We could make this a regular thing, if you’d like,” Steve offered. “I wouldn’t mind.”

“I— Huh? Like regular fuck buddies? A friends with benefits kind of situation?” you asked, frowning. 

Bucky made a face. “I don’t do fuck buddies, sweetheart. I don’t enjoy sharing.”

“You would be sharing me with Steve.”

“That’s different. Exclusive sharing with Steve is acceptable,” he dismissed.

“Again, you don’t have to make the decision right now,” Steve quickly told you, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Take your time. Just rest for right now.”

You settled in bed with both of them, in the middle. Steve fell asleep relatively fast, his chest pressed to your back and his face in your hair. Bucky was to your front, face all up in your breasts. Both men had their arms draped around your waist, murmuring about how nice and how soft you were to hold. 

You couldn’t sleep.

Did they just ask you to join their relationship?

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

[binkybonkybucky]

truly too good.

Your innocent persona is like a hypothetical chastity cage

i fear i was seen through. like high school me would have died if she read this because this fucking play is about her. thank god for the guys who like it when their girl is a freak.

FILTHY .ᐟ ( johnny x reader )

synopsis. in public, you’re an angel. behind closed doors, you’re downright filthy, and it’s a good thing that johnny knows exactly how to handle you.

rating. mature. (minors + ageless blogs dni)

warnings. dirty talk, dry humping, degrading, petnames (princess, sweetheart, baby, pretty girl, slut), slight size kink, dumbification, overstimulation, mentions of marathon sex, creampie, slight breeding kink, teasing, spitting, light choking, light slapping, daddy kink, begging, praise kink

authors note. inspired by this post i made yesterday… i was kinda freaking out over a date and stress wrote smut in response. also suffering with ovulation loadout… i swear i might just be batshit insane. also i see your asks and i hear you! i will be responding to them some time soon but in the meantime take a look at this post and send me any prompt with whoever you want me to write it for! i’m in a good mood and want to up the ante on my writing hehe 🤭

thank you for 400+ followers! i love you all and appreciate your support ❤️

network(s) : @neocity-net

You know what people say about you. You’re the innocent one, the one who should be shielded from substances and sex jokes and anything considered unholy. You’re the one who has never seen or touched a dick in her life, and probably never will until the day you die. 

You’re the virgin, the celibate, the prude. 

At least, that’s what they think. Your not-so-public boyfriend, on the other hand, knows quite the opposite. 

“Is this what you needed, pretty girl?” He pumps himself in and out of you shallowly, biceps caging you underneath him on either side of your head as he pulls whine after whine out of your throat. “C’mon baby, tell me what you need.” 

Unbeknownst to many, you are the complete opposite of what you choose to present to the public. At the hands of your boyfriend, Johnny, all of the innocent pretense melts away, replaced by an untamed desire. The moment you get behind closed doors, your public persona is discarded on the welcome mat, and any lust you kept hidden away comes to light.

Your sex drive is concerning, to say the least. Your innocent persona is like a hypothetical chastity cage, locking away your dirty desires for a place more private, where nobody can see nor shame you for your thoughts. Outside, you avoid sexually charged situations like the plague, but inside, you’re the initiator, and you’re glad you have someone equally as dirty as you who can keep up with it. 

When he met you for the first time, Johnny saw right through your good girl persona. There was no way that someone as beautiful as you had never pursued something like that before, and so he spent his time with you chipping away at the walls you put up, trying to discover whether there was something about you that you were hiding.

And, lo and behold, he found exactly what he was looking for. 

For better lack of a word, you were a complete and total slut. The moment he gave you the go-ahead, you were all over him, kissing him, marking him and palming him through his trousers like your life depended on it. He saw the way lust clouded your pupils so quickly, and instead of being freaked out, he encouraged it, murmuring words of praise into your ear as you humped his erection desperately.

“Poor thing,” he whispered, large hands gripping your hips and pulling you harder against him. “Must be hard hiding all of this from your friends, right?” You nodded into his neck, tongue flicking against his skin as you prepped it for yet another hickey. “You don’t have to do that with me, princess. I can give you everything you need.” 

And so he did. That night, he figured that to keep you from going batshit insane with need, he would have to make you cum until you passed out, stuff you full to the brim until you insisted that you couldn’t take any more. And even when you did tell him that you couldn’t, you would still rub your tired clit against the tip of his cock, shallow breaths coming out stuttered as you would work yourself up to yet another orgasm. 

His girlfriend, his sweet, innocent girlfriend turned out to be a complete nymphomaniac, and he loved it. You took anything and everything he gave you, bathed in the afterglow of multiple orgasms time and time again, dug your nails into his back to the point where small crescents would form. And your need was sexy too; those innocent eyes that drew him in at first would be used against him at his behest, and you would look up at him, pupils dilated and lashes fluttering as he coddled you into your blissful state. 

It’s how you look up at him now, tits bouncing with each thrust and mouth wide open in an ‘o’ shape. You’re quite the sight, but it’s a sight he loves to see nonetheless.

“Tell me what you want,” he whispers, hips flush against yours as his tip prods at your g-spot. “Tell me what you want and I’ll give it to you.” 

“W-want you,” you stutter, eyes focusing and refocusing as you feel the coil begin to wind in your tummy. “Want you to fill me up.” 

Johnny laughs breathily, sweat soaked strands of hair falling into his face. “But I’m already filling you up, sweet girl. Surely you don't need any more than that.” 

He just loves the way your face contorts when he teases you. You get so dumb like this, and when he uses that condescending voice he knows you love, your eyes gloss over as tears begin to form. “Don’t be mean.” 

“You like it when I’m mean.” He leans back, wrapping his hands around your waist and observing the way your tiny pussy swallows him whole. “You like it when I use your cunt like my own personal doll, don’t you sweetheart?” 

You hum in satisfaction, cheek pressing into the pillow, but you’re snapped back into the moment by a hand wrapping around your throat. “C’mon, answer me. You like it, don’t you?” 

“I do,” you moan out, your hoarse voice mingling with the sounds of wet skin slapping. “Love it so much, love you-” 

“I know you do, baby. Now…” He runs his thumb along your bottom lip before dragging it downwards, pulling your mouth open. You instinctively stick your tongue out and he smiles, gathering a glob of spit in his throat before dropping into your open lips. “Be a good girl and tell me what you want. What you need.” 

Your eyes squeeze shut, but the hand around your neck slaps your cheek, forcing them wide open again. He wants you to look at him, to look at how he so mercilessly destroys your poor pussy, all at your request. “Need your cum, Johnny. Need you to stuff me full of your cum.” 

“‘I need your cum’, what, princess? Remember your manners.”

You gulp before blinking up at him, trying so hard to fight off your impending orgasm. “Need your cum, please, daddy. Please.” 

Oh, you’re so pretty when you beg for him. You’re even prettier when you call him ‘daddy’; it’s one of the clear signs that you’re way too far gone, and that if he edges you any further, you might not even be able to speak. So, he grants you some reprieve.

When Johnny cums, he buries himself deep inside, skin pressed against yours as he pumps his load right against your cervix. Of course, you’ll take the morning after pill tomorrow, but the thought of him stuffing you to the point where you could carry his children turns him on immeasurably, and his cock throbs heavily inside you, walls clamping down as it surrounds itself with warmth. 

All the while, you’re a trembling mess beneath him. Sweat drenches your skin and sticks to the bedsheets, and your cunt throbs in the rhythm of your racing heartbeat, thighs shaking as your orgasm tears through your veins. All you can say is ‘thank you’, coupled with broken sobs and shaky moans.

Johnny holds you through all of it, whispering sweet nothings in your ear as he rides out his own climax against your cervix. “Such a pretty girl,” he whispers in your ear, lips pressing against its shell. “Such a pretty doll for me, aren’t you?” 

All the energy has been drained out of you, and you can only nod, humming sadly when you feel him pull out, the feeling of his release coating your thighs sending a shiver down your spine. All the while, he continues to kiss you, continues to call you his good girl as he caresses your shaking thighs. 

Johnny is happy that you can be your real self around him, even if that means milking him dry every other night. He loves being the one who can truly satisfy you, but when he thinks you’re finally done for the night, he flinches at the feeling of you wrapping your hand around his still-erect cock.

“One more,” you whisper, and his eyes shift from where you nudge his tip against your swollen clit to yours, and the blissful glossiness is gone, replaced by a crazed lust. 

He could never decline you – he knows better than not to – and so he just grins at you, pushing his hair back before slipping his tip into your cunt again. 

“Fucking slut,” he grunts as he continues to slide in, pushing out his own release. “Never satisfied, are you?” 

You grin at him wryly before shaking your head. “Nuh-uh. Always want you.” 

And have him, you will. 

© PUPPYSUH 2025 — do not copy, repost or translate my works without permission.

[binkybonkybucky]

when i say i CRIED while reading this i mean i CRIED. i cried thinking of bucky mourning and being so depressed, then i cried when they were reunited, then i cried again when she was finally sent off. this fic kept going on and on (in a good way) and i was wondering where the end would be and i was gonna be so heartbroken if it was where i kept guessing it would be. but thank gOD it ended the way it did and bucky got to live out a full character arc. i think i would’ve actually sobbed if he didn’t—

saturn

summary: you die. bucky tries to bring you back (or) close to a year after you die, bucky's desperation finally finds an answer. but it may not be the one he's hoping for.

warnings: angst. death. being revived from death and the processes that follow. sickness. war or something. swearing. there is also fluf here and there

a/n: im drunk as fuck <3 i haven't really looked at this since December. the title is taken from saturn by sleeping at last because i couldn't think of anything better. enjoy <3333333333333

He occasionally catches a glimpse of his face in the lake.

His skin is worn from months of sun damage, splotchy and incorrectly healed. His beard has grown well past the point of respectability, with strands of grey he didn’t realise could sprout from him. Eyes sunken and half-lidded always.

Bucky waits everyday for the reaper to pull him underwater. Every day is another spent on dry, barren land.

_____________

It was closing in on a year and a half. Time moves like aged honey when you're punished, slow and grasping.

He steps off the bed and into the resolute silence of the cabin. There was a hole by his bedroom door after a regrettable night of alcohol. Mead. Something that had his head spinning and bile stuck to the walls of his throat, and of which he doesn't even remember the name of the next morning.

It's all fleeting, anyway. Names, labels, lives.

He cooks himself breakfast on an old pan.  The room is bone-cold, and the floorboards creak when he drags the decades old chair from the dining room to the porch.

Paint peels under his feet, and his toe curls. A dull, faded orchestra of evergreens as far as he can see. He's had a target on his back since he was a kid, always under the gaze of something beyond his understanding. Always making sure he doesn't take a step out of line, or let too much life into his heart.

It's been a while since he's felt that. Like it had finally decided he learnt his lesson, that he wouldn't dare to take a new breath without considering if he deserved it. And so he doesn't wonder if there are irises staring back at him with the same lifelessness with which he watches them, day after day, hour after hour.

The outside cools his blood to a standstill, and he is almost entirely certain he is alone. The vast expanse of an empty sky, bearing no clouds, no birds. Some days, he almost thinks he can feel you when the winds move.

He thinks he's past the point of insane.

__________

His friends are kinder than he is. To a fault, almost. God knows he hasn't given them a reason to be.

After a couple of months of shifting to the middle of nowhere, there are fifteen fucking knocks to the door.

Bucky flings it open, ready to chew someone’s head off. Raging, still in the ratty old t-shirt and sweatpants and socks with holes in them that you swore you would burn. He is armed with a battalion of curses and threats, only for words to die a quick death at the tip of his tongue.

“Hey.”

Bucky's muscles tense to the point where they might crack, but he forces his arm to lower. 

“Been a while,” Sam says, arms crossed over his chest.

He doesn't know how he's hunted him down, given the nature of his disappearance, but Sam was nothing if not determined in his humanity.

With nowhere else to turn, Bucky silently pushes the door open.

________

“I like what you’ve done with the place.”

Bucky glances around the house. There are cobwebs hanging from each corner he sees. Bulbs coated with dust. Fine china starting to fade with unuse, and utensils slowly beginning to gather rust.

He doesn’t reply. He’s offered him water, but Sam declines.

“You get cell coverage out here?”

“Don’t make a lotta calls,” Bucky’s vocal chords sound like they’re lined with gravel.

“We noticed.” Sam leans forward, elbows on his knees. "Talked to Dr. Canmore?"

"Yep." Not since the psychiatrist was forced to clear him after Bucky showed no signs of violence, or returning back to him. To him, that concluded the purpose of their relationship.

"And?"

"There's nothing to say, Sam," he rebukes, gruff. "'M fine."

Sam looks like wants to raise an eyebrow, but the patience he's grown over the years from dealing with those worse than the mess setting in front of him disallows him. "Get enough food?"

Bucky flashes him a thumbs-up, and feels the onset of a migraine.

"Sunlight? Water?"

"'M not a fuckin' plan--" he begins harshly, but clears his throat. "You?"

"Doin' alright." Sam shrugs. "Been training a buncha new recruits, getting in touch with new ones. Superheroes are poppin' up all over the place. Got a girl saying she can control squirrels."

Bucky nods absent-mindedly, picking at the hem of his shirt. He thinks you would have found that amusing, considering that you thought Scott Lang's schtick was a bit on-the-nose too.

“Do you want to?”

Bucky sharply shifts back into focus. “What?”

“Help out,” Sam clarifies. “Recruit, train.”

Bucky’s jaw inadvertently tightens. “No,” he says sharply.

"Could be good for you."

""M done with that life." 

Sam's eyes reflect a reality that's different, but he still relents, "Okay. Whatever works for you."

Bucky can’t say he retired, exactly. He’d unceremoniously quit and had gone AWOL, but it had never been on paper. SHIELD was gracious enough to accept in whatever form they had, sending him funds every month as an unofficial pension.

“You should drop by sometime. Compound's all re-done."

Bucky shifts in his seat like the chair is too small for him. “‘M not exactly a joy to be around.”

“You’re actin’ like that’s somethin’ new,” he riffs, mouth curling into a smile. “Still.”

Sam's a good man who often lets his instincts lead the way, and if he's insisting on Bucky to return then something must be worth listening to. But his only company's been the thoughts in his head for a while now, and they're no good. What's impure about him surely wraps its tendrils around the world around him, poisoning them.

It's difficult, impossible, even to shake the suspicion growing on him, crawling up his back.

“Alright, well–” Sam pushes himself off the couch “-- just give us a call if there’s anything you need help with.”

Bucky may not have as many words as he used to, but he hasn’t forgotten his manners. He walks Sam to the front, where his truck lay parked, all polished from the last time he saw it.

"You got everything you need?” Sam asks again, and something inside him ignites a spark.

“Yes.”

Sam nods, hand on the hood of the truck, giving him a final look up and down. The few seconds of a leeway fans the spark into a red-hot anger, one that has Bucky's muscles painfully tight.

"Right. See you aro-"

"Why'd you come here?" Bucky interrupts. "To check if I'm losin’ it again? SHIELD couldn't get Dr. Canmore on the line so they send their next bet to tranquilise me?

Sam's eyebrows raise this time, and Bucky thinks he's finally managed to piss off the last person who cares if he's dead or alive, but everything in him is too hot, too scathing to bother.

He wants someone to get it, what it's like to claw at concrete walls with raw fingertips and broken nails. He wants someone to see what it's like, living like they've been injected over and over with needles.

"I know it’s hard, man," Sam replies, gentle like cool water on a burn.

Bucky's hands freeze, because he realises very quickly he wanted someone to hurt.

"Just thought you could use knowin' you had someone there," he continues. "Got flowers too, but I wasn't sure if you'd..."

Something in Bucky deflates, and he wants to cower into a ball. Bury himself so deep underground that he doesn't have to deal with how his ribs feel like they're cracking into splinters all over again.

Sam's already moved towards the passenger side door, and pulled from it a beautiful arrangement of evening primroses and jasmines. Of course Sam remembered.

You would have loved it.

"I don't have anywhere to keep it," Bucky croaks. He's turned the home he bought into a tomb, and he's closed the door to any remainder of life waiting to be lived.

Sam simply hands it to him, and Bucky takes it cautiously like it'll wither in a second. His touch is venomous and his want is a death-sentence, but the flowers stay alive.

"If you ever find a place," Sam says, squeezing his shoulder, "leave something there, too. Might help."

________

He'd add 'liar' to the list of words he's chosen to describe himself, if he said he didn't think about it every second since you died.

The idea initially comes to him like a snake, slithering and winding its way up his shoulder to hiss into his ear. He shudders the first time, jaws clenching, and dismisses it immediately.

But 'sinner' is a word he would use, and so on nights when he's awake too long and when your laugh sounds like a draft in his ear, he entertains the thought.

Indulges in it, grotesquely allows himself to think of an alternate ending, where his presence had not corrupted your fate, and you would have been alive and vibrant and trying out new flavours of gelato from the corner store. Stealing kisses from him, half awake, and dragging him to watch sunrises from the roof.

He thinks of things he'd do differently. Retire a lot faster. Took you to the National Parks like he said he would. Make sure your scent seared itself like a tattoo on all his clothes, because there's nothing on earth that replicated it and he's turned it inside out trying.

When the air is icy and the skin aches where his metal arm meets flesh, he thinks of how you always flicked his shoulder when he passed an off-hand comment under his breath, but muffled a laugh when his insults got more creative.

But soon, it will be closing in on two years since Bucky's last heard you groan at his stupid comments and the lake is just as pristine as the day he bought the cabin. The water glimmers like shards of diamond and there are days he thinks it's too still for even his liking.

"Have you ever been to Asgard?" you ask one night, legs splayed over his thighs.

He looks up from the book he's reading, pencil tucked into his ear. "I have not."

"Not even once?" you ask, distracted from whatever show you had gotten hooked on on TLC. Ever since you'd discovered the channel, you were convinced it was the best way to learn about "his culture". Sometimes he tuned in to learn about updates to "his culture" in the years he was gone.

"Strictly earthbound," he replies.

You nod, eyes drifting back to the TV. He watches you for a few seconds, hand gently squeezing the arm closest to his.

As it always was, your posture was pin-straight. Always ready. Like sitting still wasn't even an option. He used to think it was because you were never truly comfortable around him, until he realises that that was simply a part of you.

Bucky re-adjusts his glasses. He was getting old. His back pained and creaked like an old door hinge more each time.

He didn't think he'd get here. He's growing to love it. Mission reminders and target locations get replaced more and more with reminders that he still has to put the leftovers in the fridge from the date earlier that night, and that your shampoo needed a re-stock.

"Would you want to come with me one day?" you ask suddenly.

He puts the book down, and you turn away from the TV again. 

He can always tell when you're thinking. The world buzzes a bit. When you're older than a few galaxies, the universe and you become not so distinct.

"Might be a bit too grand for a fella like me."

"I think you'd like it," you counter, "and you're in a relationship with me. You'd fit in as well as anyone could."

He's still not sure how he's managed to accomplish the second part but you must have liked something about his ragtag sarcasm and social isolating tendencies.

Bucky's growing older each day. You're the closest thing he's seen to eternity. He doesn't think he would fit in, not with his thrift shop t-shirts and unbridled insecurities.

"Do you want me to?" he asks, hesitant.

He's met Thor, and he's heard mostly about Loki through childhood tales and news reports. Thor didn't seem to mind him, but then again, Thor saw the best in everyone.

"I'd like to show you the place I grew up," you reply, playing with his metal fingers. "You showed me yours."

"That's a couple'a streets from here, sweetheart," he reminds playfully. "Not exactly another realm."

The corners of your mouth lift slightly. "But you feel connected to it, don't you? That it is a part of you?"

Bucky intertwines your grins and keeps it there. He's always felt something towards Brooklyn. Something that kept him going when Siberian frost nipped at his skin. Tethered.

But when he'd shown you the place he grew up in, it wasn't the same. Brickwall had been overlaid with plaster and paint. Doors ripped off their hinges, wallpaper a ghastly white instead of the stained floral print his sister and he drew on. It was unease, trepidation.

It didn't feel like his anymore. Probably because Bucky didn't feel like him anymore.

"Yeah," he replies after some thought, even though it's not entirely right.

"I feel that way about Asgard," you continue the thought. "Being here is lovely, and I love learning of all the things your people do, but--"

"It's not the same," he interjects gently. "I get you."

You look at him and smile, and Bucky feels the same gnawing feeling that this is something that's too good, too pure for him.

God of the Night Sky and the Mortal of Blood Stained Hands.

It shouldn't work, but you've already got a drawer in his shelf for your belongings. You've talked about moving to a cabin by the woods if you ever wanted to settle down. You kissed him that morning, and once more on his shoulder, and the last time he's laughed this much in one dinner was the one he had the night before with you.

"Whichever day you're ready," you promise. "I've got a feeling you'll be convinced."

Bucky presses a kiss to your fingers, and you turn back to the TV with a smile.

He watches you for a while. Your fingers continue to play with his. Bucky thinks getting older may just be worth it.

You made a dozen or so trips back to Asgard since the conversation, and he pushed his involvement on each one with the unfailing and ultimately misplaced  certainty that he'd have time.

__________

You wouldn't approve of the way he'd kept the cabin. You wouldn't approve of the way he lived. He knows that, but he also knows if you were around then he'd have a reason to actually sow more than vegetables in the land he keeps digging up. He'd make sure of the table cloth that he found stashed away, leave the blinds open more to allow light to reach his room.

He looks at the bouquet of flowers by his feet and thinks that laying it by a boulder would be insignificant.

So for the first time in a long while, he prays the act of creation will bring him some respite and builds. 

A little hut, with sticks he finds around the place, and makes it big enough to house Sam's bouquet from the wind and sun. He carves out your name onto the boulder, painstakingly with his pocket knife until each letter was guaranteed to last a century. He adds the year of your birth, and can't find it in himself to add the year you died.

He steps back and exhales. It's a memorial. It's a start.

__________

Bucky spends most of the day digging up dirt, sitting out on the porch and looking for firewood. He’s learnt how to grow his own vegetables, and how to go into town unnoticed for other essentials.

And now he has something to tend to.

It starts with fickle sticks and grows into something sturdier. He brings the memorial stronger wood, and bands to hold it together. He looks for wildflowers and pretty leaves, bunches them together and leaves them under the protection of the small roof.

It's the most he's done in over a year.

Months go from crawling to a standstill when it nears October. Bucky leaves the house less often.Truth is, the sky has never entirely recovered since you were gone. It's never truly dark-- a faint navy blue or even azure in the days leading up to the anniversary.

He's seen people puzzle over it-- call it the newest effects of light pollution or climate change. There is no reasonable answer, but the one that exists is that you left and you took the constellations with you.

Still, evening always comes faster and he can't quite stand being out at that time, when there is a void where he used to feel you the most. Instead he stays asleep for as long as he can. He makes use of the brief time he has to fix himself some food, and bare minimum upkeep.

He gathers the last of the flowers he can see around, some leaves that hadn't entirely been lost and makes his way to the lake.

"Forgive me, sweetheart. Season's changin' and I don't got a lot of options," he says lowly and to the hut that's managed to stay up.

Bucky looks at the sparse flowers in his hands and thinks that he'll make the godforsaken trip into civilisation to get you better ones. Ones you really liked, colourful and dynamic.

For now, he tries tying them together with a blade of grass to make it look less pathetic. It breaks every single time-- he's never been very good at being delicate.

Something around his wrist catches his attention. Some days he forgets it isn't a part of him.

His hair whips rather majestically around his head. He’s used to the sting when it strikes his skin, only reflexively reaching up to tuck it behind his ear.

“Hair tie?”

His eyes snap to yours in surprise. You've never really talked to him before, just brief nods and smiles along the way. Bucky wasn't exactly the patron saint for socialising either. He's always thought something about you was otherworldly. He didn't consider himself significant enough to be going out of your way to talk to either.

“Would you like a hair tie?” you repeat. “It’s rather bad out there.”

“Uh, yeah,” he replies, though he’s never considered that as a solution. “Sure, if you’ve got one.”

“We’ve learnt to carry them around when you fight alongside the likes of Thor and Volstagg.” You smile, reaching into the compartment of your belt. “Long hair looks good. Doesn’t always work that way.”

Bucky gives you a tight smile, feeling slightly embarrassed but a voice in him compels him to accept the kindness you’re offering.

He quickly secures his hair into a lower bun, giving more show to cheeks dusted pink.

“I’ll give it back after the mission,” he promises.

“Don’t.” You pause, giving him a once-over. “It suits you.”

Most days he remembers it's one of the only things he's still got of you. Still, he ties the flowers together with your hair tie-- and they stay this time.

"See you next week," he says, and a wind blows past him. Pathetically, he dares to hope it's a sign from you.

___________

Two sharp knocks on the door, but his eyes are open before the second one. It wasn’t like he was getting much sleep anyway.

When his arm doesn’t keep him up, it’s the ache in the rest of his body to be near you. Trailing kisses up your arm and watching wildfire heat spread through his neck when fingers tip up his chin. Lips trying to catch each other until panting breaths matched.

He flips over to the other side. Both sides of the pillow are drenched with his sweat. Christ, if this was how it was going to be in the days leading up to the anniversary, he can't imagine what would happen the day of. 

Someone rapps intently at the door, only picking up pace when Bucky chooses to ignore it. By all means, he’s retired. That alone should entitle him to some fucking peace, but no. 

He curses as he drags himself out of bed and pulls on a shirt, shuffling to the door. When he pulls it open, his eyes are probably murderous, but there is no one to catch the daggers. There is a simple brown cardboard box, labelled with his name.

Bucky, with a narrowed gaze, takes a step away from the box and instead heads into the open air. But there is not a soul, even as he stalks around the cabin and really stops to listen.

He comes back to the threshold and eyes the box. Using his foot, he swiftly kicks the lid off it and braces for an impact that doesn’t come.

There are shirts. And a mug. He frowns, kneeling down to shuffle through the contents, only to find bits and pieces of things he just…left behind when he left the compound.

Pictures he never really got framed. Socks with torn toes. Sweatpants. Laptop.

And there’s a tiny box. His chest twists the second he lays eyes on it so much that he thinks he’s been injured.

There’s a ring in there. Not really even an engagement ring, since you were gone before he had a chance.

Just a ring. But it’s enough to make him suddenly feel the weight of the air around him and he’s forced to take a seat right there on the steps. There’s nothing else in there of you, just old mission reports that mention your active involvement. Maybe if the smell of cardboard hadn’t permeated through the fabric of his shirts, he’d have traces of your scent.

Fragmented parts of his life, like snapshots of his history, running through his mind like an old film. It makes him question, for a second, if death was finally catching up to him.

Well, it was late. He’d been kept waiting for years.

_____________

The day itself is grey and sullen. In crackles of electricity, he can almost feel Thor’s state of mind. He tries not to think that in a few years, you’d be gone for longer than he knew you.

He rounds up leaves as orange as mandarins and ties them together with the hairtie. He clears up the last bunch he’d left and takes a seat on the shore of the lake. Cloudless and barren. Chill.

He can sense the end of the battle is near– he sees Sam a lot less overhead, even his gun didn’t require as many re-stocks. His pace slows to match the few that are left around him, and he’s already wondering how he can finish this quicker to get to help with search and rescue.

But Bucky didn’t even have to be told. Mid-punch, something in the air shifts and a deep shiver runs up the curve of his spine.

Before he even straightens up the sky explodes from the early azure of dawn to a blinding white to a blood-curdling crimson. His body reacts faster than he does, because the speed at which his stomach drops is only rivalled by how fast he was sprinting to your last known location.

He yells names through open comms-- yours, Thor's, Sam's-- turning the corner and immediately feeling the full force of a blast shove him onto his back.

With a groan and the force of his left hand, he presses into his ears to stop the excruciating ringing. He feels someone pull him up– blue, red and white kevlar against bruised skin and he’s already pushing away.

“Sam, where–” he blinks furiously, trying to read what word’s Sam’s got on his mouth because his head is still spinning. “She–”

He hears something about Thor and building and searching and forces himself to look at the force of a multistory highrise that’s collapsed into rubble on the street.

Something about impaled and sacrificed and he feels like vomiting violently, shoving Sam aside to stumble through the dust and smoke, teeth clamping down on his heart in his mouth.

Thoughts of you waiting under rocks, choking while fly ash turned your lungs to rock, suffocating.  Every second of his incompetence is a second you spend wasting away where he couldn't find you.

It takes hours for Thor to give up searching through the rubble. It takes Bucky days.

It took a few seconds for the sky to turn red. It took weeks to turn from crimson to the ghost of blue it still remains.

God of the Night Sky and A Man Too Slow.

Your body is never found, and Bucky never forgives himself. It takes a whole month to be able to look at the night. Some days he hides his face from the moon, afraid of wrath.

____________

When Bucky gets the call, he isn’t exactly sure how to respond. One, because he didn’t even know you had his number memorised and two, he’s not sure how you’ve allowed yourself to get arrested. But it’s 2am and he’s on his motorcycle, on the way to the police station, still entirely confused about what exactly was going on.

“That’s him.” You point, jumping up from behind the bars.

You look lovely– someone’s gotten you out of the battle armour he usually sees you in, and into something that passes as authentically Earth-like.

He makes a mental comment to tell you, but to still be discreet about it. He's not really sure where the both of you stand these days. You've got him agreeing to braids in his hair like a viking, and sitting next to him during team nights. He's got you reading the entirety of Lord of the Rings and going to museums with him to steal back his belongings. But he's not really sure.

Bucky’s eyebrow twitches at the fact that they’ve got you locked up, but you look entirely unfazed like it’s a new restaurant or escape room you’re checking out. Excited, even.

"Hey,” he says calmly to whoever wants to listen, “what the fuck?”

The grin you give him is sheepish and he already kinda wants to laugh, but he fights back a smile.

“Broke two tables at the bar two blocks down,” the officer replies. “Looks like she was going for a third.”

“I promise, I did not mean to,” you swear to him. “I did not realise your furniture would be so weak.”

Bucky looks at the officer wearily. “Had t’lock her up for that?”

Whatever the officer was expecting, it was not Bucky's lack of respect for the law or private property.

“Well– superpowers– we’re not really sure–” he stammers.

You watch the man curiously, while Bucky's eyes flicker over to you. He knows you could bend the bars of the jail cell and walk right out, so indulging them was clearly a choice.

“I’m an Avenger, I’ll take it from here,” he interrupts, making his way over to you.

“I’m gonna need to see some ID–”

“Google it,” he bites back, before turning to you. “Y’okay?” 

“I’m great,” you reply, full of life as if it wasn’t the middle of the fucking night. “It was a lot of fun.”

“How’d you know my number?” He mentions for the guard to unlock the gate, ignoring the swelling in his stupid chest.

“We are friends, are we not?” you ask, a bit confused.  

Bucky can't figure out if he's surprised or disappointed- a good mix of both, perhaps. He's glad you consider him a friend, but something in him aches dully. He positively despises it and how often it's been creeping up on him whenever he sees you around the compound. He was a 100 years old, not some lovesick fuckin' teenager.

“Yeah. We are,” he agrees, turning to glare at the officer who was holding up his phone, eyes darting between it and Bucky’s face. “Could y’move faster? It’s late.”

The guy hurriedly unlocks it and you step out, stretching your arms over your head before waving goodbye to the guy and sauntering off. He watches you go for a second before pressing back a small smile.

“The bar-”

“Tell them to get stronger tables,” Bucky calls from over his shoulder, not even waiting for a reaction. “Send the paperwork to the Avengers office, and put the bail on the tab.”

He finds you outside, arms crossed over your chest while you wait for him.

“Thank you.” You give him a smile. “I forgot that it would be late for you.”

“Don’t mention it,” he waves off. “Wild night, huh?”

He had heard that some of the agents who had shifted here recently were checking out the hubs around town, but he had no idea that you’d be with them. It made sense in hindsight. More often than not, you were seeking recommendations and guides on how to learn what it was like here.

“I’ve seen worse.” Your eyes shine, and for a second he thinks that they even glimmer like starlight. “I did not realise breaking tables would be such an issue.”

“Yeah, we tend to be possessive over stuff,” he scratches his neck, almost embarrassed for his kind. “Coulda kept the cops out of it, don’t know why they had to go through all this.”

“I will have them replaced. Ours will not break, they’re made for Asgardian parties after victories in battle.”

He nods slowly and wonders if a crane would be enough to lift the table into the joint. It was nearly 3am, and he was out here with you in front of a police station, and he can't stop his stomach from fluttering. He wants to punch himself.

“Are you hungry?” you ask suddenly.

Bucky’s head tilts. He definitely had dinner….maybe. Half a leftover burrito and an apple.

“I’m starving,” you add. “I saw this place along the way here–”

Not to rub it in, but Bucky Barnes, smooth player and charmer extraordinaire, blanks. He's about sixty years off his game, and sure, he thinks you’re real pretty and that maybe he’s always wanted to know what it’d be like to buy you dinner and maybe hold your hand? If you were good with that? Maybe even–

“Like a date?” he blurts out and immediately wrings his fingers.

You falter and he wishes he was never born. “A date?”

“Like– getting dinner together,” he tries to remedy. “Breakfast. What time is it?”

“Yes, that is what I asked.” Your head cocks to the side to match his in confusion.

“No, like– like different. Not just dinner– yeah, dinner, but more–” Christ alive, he wishes he could run into traffic, but the road was deserted.

You wait for him to explain a little better where he was trying to get at. He can feel his ears burning bright.

He just shuts up instead.

“Dinner-breakfast, but more,” you test slowly.

“...more romantic?” he tries finally, defeated. “A date. Romantic date– I’m tryin' to ask you out here.”

"Oh.”

The world is very still. He thinks he will hand in his resignation tomorrow and disappear.

He had done his part, embarrassed his mother and every internet poll that deemed him the most suave and mysterious Avenger, and could now die in peace.

“A date it is, then. Breakfast-dinner, but more,” you reply.

Oh. He thinks he’s probably going to combust but you lean over to press a small kiss to his cheek, and now he’s sure he’s going to combust.

“Humans think too much,” you say simply.

"Think I'm more of an exception than the norm,” he mumbles.

"Aren't I lucky," you tease, and tap on the helmet. “Don’t suppose you’ve got an extra?”

Bucky’s eyes fly open, and the blankets get kicked off in a frenzy. His chest heaves as he sits up, rubbing furiously at his eyes.

He knew it was going to be bad, but he didn’t think it would be this fucking insidious. 

He moves to wipe the sweat from his brow but comes back dry. The air is still cold even though he keeps the window shut, and he turns to it to see a thunderstorm taking place outside.

He watches the drops pelt against the window and trees shake violently for a moment, forcing himself to breathe as he rakes his hand through his hair.

Before it clicks, and his stomach drops.

“Fuck,” he hisses, not even bothering to throw on a jacket before bolting outside.

The path that he’s trodden a thousand times before looks entirely unknown, and had he not been reliant on his muscle memory he would have had no clue where he was heading. Inky blue trees, harsh and sharp, and he's sure he's gotten a few scratches on his face already as he sprints through the forest to the lake.

The boulder is there, the carving of your name remains but the hut of sticks and leaves-- it lays strewn across the land.

And the hair tie. The fucking hair tie.

He crawls miserably on his arms and knees, relying on the light from a clouded moon to guide him through every inch of grass. Eyes burning red, he continues to scour until morning breaks with twilight.

6 years he’s kept it with him. 6 years, and it’s gone with the rain.

He lets out a cry, fist driving into the earth, barely met with any resistance.

God of the Night, and Devil of Misery.

_______

The flowers had dried up and left him to rot with them. The lake was troubled on more days than not. He had a ring that was neither entirely yours, neither entirely his and no more than the traces of your skin in his memory.

So this time when the idea appears to him like a snake, crawling and inching up his back to tell him that he deserves it, you deserve it. It would solve everything.

He is no stronger than Eve. He had fallen from grace a long time ago. He shudders just as he did the first time, but now it felt like more reprieve.

_____________

“James,” it greets, hollow like a windchime.

His voice comes out more gruffer than he expects from months of unuse, “Got a minute?”

The light retreats further into the house, away from him. He watches it fade as it travels, unsure of what to do until it pauses, hovering in one spot.

It waits for him, he realises. He slips the beanie off his head and into his pocket, before hesitantly taking a step into the cabin. The floorboards creak under the weight of him the way his own used to months ago. Now they were well-worn and all the corners that made the most noise were identified and memorised. The house and its resident both stayed silent.

Bucky finds Wanda with her eyes closed, palms pressed into her knees as she sits midair, body levitating like she was held up by a marionette.

The room is lit dimly, the only light enough to see Wanda and he understands that the woman he met years ago and the one in front of him now were not the same. Even without his serum, he has a feeling the hair on his body would be standing up, adrenaline replacing desperation and fingers bound tightly into a fist. But even with his senses on high alert, Bucky finds it hard to find a reason to care.

“You found me.”

They gave him back his laptop. He knew the Avengers had eyes on her– but only because she was allowing them.

“What brings you here?” she asks, eyes still closed.

“I need a favour,” Bucky replies, voice unnaturally strong.

“Most do,” she hums, bones cracking when her head creaks to the side. “What is it that you want, James?”

“Got a feeling you already know,” he replies.

“Humour me.”

Bucky’s eyes burn the more he continues to stare. He feels sweat trickle down his back in a clean line. The room felt like it was closing in on him with every pulse of light, crawling into his skin and scraping up and down his bones until–

“I want to bring her back from the dead.”

Wanda’s eyes stay shut but a sick, twisted sort of smile works at the corner of her mouth. “Who?”

“You know who,” he swallows thickly.

Wanda straightens her head till she is sitting pin straight again, eerily firm as if her spine had been replaced with a rod.

“It has been months. Nature would not have been kind to her.”

“But it’s possible,” he says– asks, really.

“Anything is,” Wanda tuts. “But all that time would have eroded away at her.”

“We never found the body." He hates how his voice quivers for a second. “And she’s not from this Earth. That’s gotta count for something.”

“Depends.”

“Can you do it?”

“I can.”

Bucky feels relief flood into his system, an ecstatic sort of euphoria that has his heart lead–

“But I won't.”

And it goes back to how it was. Cold. Bitter. Was this some sick fucking joke?

��Why?” His voice drops an octave.

“Time will heal you. Getting in the way of that is only harmful to you.”

Real fuckin’ rich coming from you, he wants to scream.

“I tell you this because I know from experience.” It’s almost as if she reads his mind. Probably does. “Bringing someone back from the dead is not what you think it is.”

“I’ll handle it. Whatever it is.”

“Can you?”

Bucky wavers, brows furrowing. “Yes.”

Wanda hums, the same smile from before returning to her face. “Your spirit is admirable. But I’m afraid I can’t grant you this wish.”

Bucky feels white hot inside, and like his world crumbles into a dark heaving mess. “Wanda–”

“It’s for your own good, James.” If he wasn’t so full of rage he’d maybe hear the fondness that hid behind a few of her words.

“How would you know?” he snaps. “Vision wasn’t human–”

Wanda’s eyes snap open. Bucky is forcefully shoved a step back, arm jumping up in front of him in a second. For the first time he notices that the light wasn’t shining on Wanda– it was coming from her. Crimson red and pulsating as fast as the blood raced through her veins.

“You think Vision was the first time I’ve lost someone?” Her voice is cold. “You met him, James. You knew his name.”

Bucky’s grown to carry guilt on his back like Atlas. A little bit more is hardly a burden. “This– it’s going to be different,” he says. “She’s not a mutant, she’s a God, Wanda–”

“So you think you can match up to that by playing one?” Wanda’s voice raises. “You don’t get to pick who stays dead. You don’t get to choose. I didn’t. None of us did.”

“I wasn’t there when she died. If I was, then maybe–”

“That doesn’t mean anything. I cannot give you this favour.”

“Then consider it repayment. Of a debt,” he finally exclaims. “You said it. You owed me one. I’m cashin’ it in.”

Days of starvation just so that the kids could eat. If his handlers knew, they’d make him kill them with his bare hands. He gladly accepts fifteen more broken bones just so that the twins are kept together, and even when he goes back under, the sight of their big eyes, too big for their faces, staring at him haunts him in his nightmare.

“I just want another chance.” Bucky’s stare is strong, voice steady. “I’m tired of praying. I’m sick of it. I’ve been begging my whole life for a second chance at everything. You think I want to be here? That I get to be the one that’s still alive?”

The glow around Wanda looks like it should burn her. All consuming and vicious, like blood splattered on a wall.

“Please,” his voice reduces to the strength of a child. “Just try. That’s all I’m askin’.”

Bucky watches as the light slowly dims to a silhouette, leaving him blinking back the burn on his iris. He loosens his fist, knowing later that his fingernails probably broke through the skin of his palm.

Wanda’s chest rises and falls.

She closes her eyes. “Leave.”

He wordlessly turns on his heel. It was stupid of him to hope, he supposes.

______________

Autumn dies for December to grow, and he starts staying inside more than he already does. Snowfall covers the roof and the treetops. He swaps eggs for soup and makes batches large enough to last the whole day. The ground freezes over, and he looks for ways to keep his self-sustaining system going, but trips to town become more frequent.

Sam visits once more, and brings some more things with him this time. Books, a journal, some old box sets of shows. Bucky nods along to the conversation, asks after his family and when the time comes, rejects another offer to come to spend Christmas at the compound.

He accepts Sam’s flowers with more grace than the last time. The door closes, and he leaves it by the couch.

__________

He attempts to rebuild it. Pulls together some stronger branches and heavier stones. A new memorial lays together half-heartedly. Dejected. A little miserable looking.

He stares at it a little too long before one swoop of his arm cracks it in half and leaves it strewn across the grass.

Bucky doesn't try again.

__________

“Did you come up with the constellations?”

It's a stupid question, but he's always curious about you.  

“Hm,” you reply at first. “Not in the sense that you’d think.”

Bucky turns away from looking into the abyss and towards you. His flesh hand continues to trace shapes into your skin as your neck rests on his bicep.

“I didn’t place them in a way that was meant to be drawn,” you reply. “My mother used to tell me when I was a child that the spirits of those I cherished would live on through parts of our creations. For others, it would be through groves of orchards, or rain that corrode caves into mountains.”

Bucky watches the fingers of your free hand dance nimbly, while the other stays tucked between the both of you.

“I was young when I realised that certain lights were brighter when I felt too much for someone. Pain, joy, rage,” you continue, fingertips pointing upwards, “Those stars, satellites– whatever you wanted to call them– they were the ties I had to those I loved. So sometimes, I would move them with me so that every time I looked up, I would see that I had company.”

He tears his eyes away from you and towards where you were gesturing. It’s subtle at first, but then he sees– stars moving faster than they should, darting all around the canvas of the night like runaway splotches.

“Over time, those on earth noticed patterns and called them constellations. I’ve always seen it as my family,” you say, gently dragging a barely lit star from the corner of his eye towards the centre.

“That’s for Thor. Sif.” You take turns to point. “Loki. Fandrall. Hogun. My parents.”

Each seems to glow a little brighter as you call out their name. “There’s one for you, as well.” Your finger drops, finding its way back to comfort on his chest.

Bucky’s eyebrows raise.  

“You’ll have to see for yourself which one it is.” You leave a kiss on his jawline, and he instinctively tugs you a bit closer. “It won’t be any fun if I tell you.”

He doesn’t need to ask. There’s one slightly to your left, that’s glowing a little brighter tonight than the rest. His chest swells, and there's a profound sort of speechlessness that engulfs him. He never really knows what to say around you anyway.

“Really fuckin’ love you, you know that?” he mumbles into your the skin of your temples.

“I’ve got a clue or two.” You laugh and along with you, so does the sky.

___________

Bucky eyes fly open, fingers digging deep into the pillow. Not because of the way his brain was choosing to torture him again.

But the fact that the fucking person from before was back at his door, even though it was the middle of the fucking night.

He lets the first three knocks go unanswered but by the fifth one, he’s ready to unleash the force of the shitty month he’s had into whoever was here to drop off the next box of fucking whatever.

He doesn’t even bother pulling on shoes or straightening out his clothes. Hair wild and untamed and fury in his eyes, he marches down the steps of the cabin with a select choice of words for SHIELD and their stupid protocols.

With enough force to pull the door from its hinges, he yanks the door open, eyes ablaze and mouth set in a scowl.

And the earth stops spinning. 

The absolute wind gets knocked out of him and he’s scared to even blink because this has happened to him before. It’s happened, and his eyes have closed and it’s left and he can’t afford that again–

He freezes when a hand reaches out to touch his bicep. Because that has never happened before. He’s always woken up before this.

At the threshold of the cabin, he falls to his knees. His joints ache the same way they did in church all that time ago when his fury was masked with tears.

“Oh,” he whispers, kneeling before the essence of a God he thought abandoned him.

“Bucky?” you ask, confused and soft, hand reaching out to cup his cheek before lowering yourself to his height.

Bucky makes somewhere between a strangled noise and a strange laugh, head reeling.

“You’re back.” His hands fall at your waist lightly like he’s afraid to disrupt still water.

“What’s–” your sentence is interrupted when your eyes roll back into your head.

Moments later it goes limp, and his reflexes move faster than he can comprehend as he grabs you, body springing into action when his mind gives up on him.

He lets out a sigh of relief loud enough to be a sob, fervently holding up the dead weight and a rhythm returns to the stillness of the night, one he’d forgotten the sound of. If he was even the slightest bit aware, more than grateful, he would see the signs from then. His vibranium doesn’t warm when it meets the sliver of skin as he bunches up your shirt in his grip. It feels like he’s breathing in Antarctic air, not spring drafts.

“Thank you,” he whispers against your shoulder to whoever is listening. “Fuck– God, thank you.”

_______

"It's been a month."

"A week, and that's pushing it."

"You're pushing it," you mumble, tightening the straps of your armour, "I do not know how you live like this. Do you always just stare at the ceiling when you're bored?"

"Sometimes I like to switch it up. Look at the floor," Bucky adds gruffly, to a roll of your eyes. "Maybe the door on the days I'm feelin' real fancy."

"You will just let your TV lay that way? With half the screen missing?"

He shrugs half-heartedly. "Sports season's done. Got nothin' to watch."

"Hmm," you pause a second. "'No' to your offer then. You may take that as my formal reply."

"'No' to Thai takeout later?" Bucky squints out into the twilight through the window of the ammunition room. "Lebanese then?"

You raise your eyebrows, tightening the leather around your wrists. "Goodbye, Barnes."

"Bye," he replies, checking to see if his knives sat securely in his old tactical pants.

You send him a nod before you start striding towards the door.  The jet had landed a while ago, still onloading agents and recruits from the compound. 

Bucky's arm jets out to grab your elbow, pulling you back into him. He's well aware it's only because you let him.

"I'm kiddin'," Bucky laughs at the matching smile on your face. "I'll get it fixed. I'll fix it myself. Just marry me, please. I'm growin' old here, sweetheart. All this questioning's not good for my heart."

"You're already old. And we will talk about it when we get back," your fingers press gently into his chest, and he can feel your touch even through the bulletproof vest. "Your laws-"

"There's no law out there that says ex-enemies of the state and Gods can't marry. Even if there is, it'll be just another one I have to break."

Your eyes twinkle when you laugh. Bucky sees remnants of old cosmos in there, as he always has.

"We'll talk about it when we get back," you promise. "Be safe."

"Can't guarantee that."

"Try not to die, then."

"Always."

He can't remember a time when he wasn't the last one on the jet, owing to goodbyes like this. You never opted to join them, reaching the same way Thor does.

The night was uncharacteristically calm, especially since he knew that miles away you were about to step into another battle. But it's good. The night means you will be at your strongest, and that is what he hopes for.

Bucky allows a few seconds of silence to take you in, skin glowing even against harsh fluorescent lighting and a cool air of confidence around you. You raise an eyebrow at him, because this is far from the first time he has done this. He would never divulge why.

He takes a chance to press a quick kiss to your lips, humming. "I'll get the TV fixed when we're back."

"Don't make promises you can't keep, Barnes." You smile, thumb swiping across the dent in his nose, an imperfection in a sea of many. "Thai for dinner?"

"Lemme check my calendar." Bucky takes a step back, feeling his heart constrict in a way that he's gotten used to craving. "I may have an opening."

"Please, don't try too hard."

"I'll have my secretary get back to you."

You roll your eyes, fighting a smile. "I love you."

"So, that's a yes then?"

"Get on the plane, Bucky." You sigh. "You already know the answer."

"Love you more." He grins at you, bright and like he's never known sadness. "Catch you later."

____________

In the days that pass, he doesn’t know how to be.

His body leaves him no choice–  staying up all night, waiting for Wanda to show up at the door, fingers burning to take it all back. He keeps the doors locked and windows shut, as if ageing wood would provide any sort of a barrier when it came to her will.

Bucky walks around in a trance, eyes glossy and body stiff like he isn’t sure how much of what he’s seeing is real.

Your body, housed in his old clothes, looks three seconds away from death. He keeps a bucket by the bed from when you cough up dust, the last remainder of old organs. He massages leg spasms, and muscle cramps from your neck.

He keeps a towel close by for the nausea and anything in between as your body fights off the shock of a rebirth. Allopathy is useless when you're a God either way, so he resorts to herbs and roots to alleviate as much as he can.

Your lungs struggle for air at night. He’s already awake, propping you up to make sure you’re breathing better. He rubs at your back in circles the same way he used to do for Steve and finally takes a breath when the wheezing subsidies.

He fervently tells you he loves you every time you slip back under, and wipes at your forehead with a wet cloth to ease the warmth. He’s met with coughing fits and clenched eyes.

Exactly one week from your return, a trip downstairs to gather more firewood for the room and Bucky falters to a stop near the kitchen.

There's a note pinned to the dining table with no indication as to how it got there.

The debt is repaid. This was by your will. Whatever happens next will be by hers.

Every hour, he watches rotting flesh, dissolved muscles and clotted blood crawl out of your mouth. He forces himself to watch. It was his choice after all.

Bringing you back from the dead was never going to be easy.

_________

A week later, the remains of your old body stop exhuming itself. Perspiration beads line your forehead, and he thinks the salt of sweat is your first act of creation. 

Your breath steadies. Nights go smoother. He learns he can live off of two hours of sleep. 

He toys with the idea of telling someone. Sam. Thor, even.  But your lips are bluer than he’s ever seen, even more than when he’d introduced you to blueberry juice pops when the heat beat down on you both in July, and you’d kissed his red-stained ones. 

The longer he stares at you, he dismisses the idea. Something in him says that beyond being something they could accept, they could actively bring a stop to what he was doing right now. 

He couldn’t afford that. Not now, not ever; not when he’s let you down once before already. It’s a secret for now, then. For as long as it needs to be. 

__________

In the days later your nervous system seems to be rewiring itself. The first time he sees you with your eyes open, the plates he’s holding clatter to the floor. 

“Hey,” he whispers, fingers clutching the side of the bed, “Hey, honey. Can you hear me?”

But your eyes never meet his. He slowly follows your gaze to the closed window, eyes glassy and surrounded by strings of red. 

He sees you mouth something, and desperate as he is, he never truly understands what it is before you’re gone again.  

His exhale leaves staggering, head dipping to your arm as he clenches his eyes tight till he sees spots. 

_____________

Bucky starts leaving the windows open. The ones in your room, at least, and only when he's there to keep watch.

It becomes a mission then. The next time you opened your eyes couldn’t be to the desolation he lived in for months. He looks for flowers. Vines. Anything to make the place look less dreary and miserable. He cleans the blinds, and dusts the paintings in the room.

The cells in your body seem to be working overtime– every day there is a little bit less that reminds him of where you came from. Scabs fall away faster than they grow, leaving unbroken skin.

He notices it late. There is only one wound that remains-- a red, jagged scar along your stomach. It looks angry. Heals slower than the rest of them. It is the only place Bucky sees specks of gold instead of bronze when you exert yourself too much.

__________

It takes a good amount of time. He should have anticipated it— the next time you awake, and the next few times after that are only when the sun chases beyond the horizon. 

He drops to your side with questions of “can you hear me?” or “does something hurt?” but each time, something outside the widow holds your attention dear to its chest and unwilling to share.

The moon rays become an elixir more powerful than anything from this Earth. Light almost surrounds you like a cloak, sinking into your skin and drowning in your bones. 

He stays up at night, massaging your arms and your temples, but you are still so cold to the touch he isn’t sure the blood is circulating at all. So he gets more firewood. Makes sure the house is warm all the fucking time.  

Stagnant. Still. Some nights he thinks he can see you looking at him from the corner of your eye.

The second he turns, you lay unmoving as before.

________

He stands labouring over the stove. There's a batch of rich tomato soup, with bread toasting in a skillet nearby. He alternates between wiping down the bowl to serve you in, though you still haven’t eaten, and stirring the soup to stop it from sticking to the bottom of the pan. 

He makes note that he still has to get more gauze from the town, and proper tools to sand down the chairs before he can even think of--

But something interrupts his to-do list. It's so soft, he thinks for a second he's imagining it. But the ladle he's holding clangs against the pot, and he abandons the bowls with such hurry that he wouldn't be surprised if it's in shards.

He races up the stairs, three at a time, his heart is thumping louder than the floorboards creaking.

It’s silent. He can hear his own arm whirring quietly.

He lets out a breath when he sees you haven’t changed positions since he last saw you, and wordlessly turns to head back downstairs to an over-bubbling cauldron of soup. 

"Bucky?"

It’s almost like eternity whooshes past his ears when he realises that he wasn't imagining it.

“Hey.” He drops without a second thought to your bedside, knees scraping against the wood. “Hey. Hi sweetheart. What do you need?”

“Water,” your voice is hoarse and just above a whisper, but you’re looking at him.

You’re fucking looking at him, and your eyes are a share darker than he remembers them being.

He makes a grab for the jug by your bed and holds a full glass to your lips carefully, watching as water treacles in through chapped lips. 

"How are you feelin’?" He hates how shaky his voice sounds, as if he wasn't prepared. As if he hadn’t been waiting.

It takes a second for you to form the word. "Tired."

His fingers brush against your cheek. "What can I do for you?"

You don’t respond, and he watches your chest rise and fall heavily again. You were asleep again.

He bites into his lower lip so hard he can taste the rust of his blood. Moonlight filters in through your curtain and he runs his thumb over the corner of your eye, placing a kiss on your forehead.

It was a start.

___________

Bucky grew up with siblings he outlasted and an absolute wildfire of a friend. It was safe to say the man had more patience than most.

The same conversation repeats three more times over the next few days, and he answers each time with as much tender refrain as the first, begging to know where he can help and what he can do.

“Tired” turns to “I’m tired” turns to “I’m just tired”, and with each he is as proud and hopeful as he was when you talked the first time. 

You begin to eat finally, and he hopes his skills aren’t bad enough to send you to the other side again. Spoonfuls of soup. Bites of bread. A glass of water, and then two. 

“Buck,” you rasp.

And he’s as ready as he was the previous day, with a gentle, “Tell me, sweetheart.”

You’ve already gotten a slice of bread into you today, and you’ve slept through the night. He’s considering this one of the best days you’ve had so far, and that alone is triumph enough to ease the anxiety that pervades him. 

“I was dead.” But this was new. 

Bucky blinks, not sure if he heard you right. Your eyebrows knitted together tells him he did. 

“You were,” he confirms, not daring to breathe. 

“But now…” you trail off, as if you were expecting to wake up that minute. 

His Adam’s apple shifts up and down. “Things changed.”

“How?” you ask, eyebrows pulling together even tighter, and he worries it takes energy that could be used elsewhere.

The muscles in his jaw tighten anxiously. The floorboards press into his knees. 

"You did something?" your voice comes back quietly. 

His silence is enough of an answer.

"How long was I gone?"

"It’s been a while, honey," he replies, eyes never leaving yours. 

Your head turns to face the ceiling, a deep exhale working its way through you. Bucky's eyes drift to the scar on your stomach, hidden under the fabric. Thorny and broken.

"Who knows?"

His gaze shifts back to your face, but you aren't looking at him.

"Only me," he says, voice unwittingly dropping before adding, "and Wanda."

"Wanda," you repeat quietly. "It was magic."

Something familiar sets into Bucky's chest. Heavy, pressing down on his throat and making the bile rise.

"I'll get you more water," he says, pausing briefly to look at you, but you continue to stare at the roof. "I'll be right back."

You don’t have a response for him. As he makes his way to the door, it follows like a shadow. He pauses by the frame to look at you once again, but your eyes have closed.

Bucky watches for a second, swallowing thickly. It feels all too similar to guilt.

__________

Bucky dedicates himself even more vigorously to the house. He finally takes out the cutlery, cleans it up the best he can and wipes down the table every single day.  He spends the day collecting fruits for juices and vegetables for broth. Firewood. Making sure everything is sharp enough to use, and the traps he set up in his initial time here were still functional.

He checks to see if the trees can take the weight of the swing he’s hoping to fashion out of bark. How fast it would take to polish the porch chairs and flooring, and what exactly it would take to do that.

No matter how much he cleans, it isn’t enough to wipe the look on your face from where it was seared into his brain like hot iron.  

A week later he's in the garden, digging up the ground to plant seeds. It's January, and it's still fucking freezing, but he's gonna fucking try anyway.

He's got a hold of seeds of poppy, marigold, daisies and who knows what else, and plenty of fucking time.

"You garden now?"

He looks up in surprise. You lean against the backdoor, no winter coat on even though it's freezing. It flashes in his mind that you look paler than you used to, and he wonders if that will go in time. 

“I’ve always gardened,” Bucky defends weakly, and tries to keep his tone normal. “Just– not well.”

Arms crossed over your chest, you ask, “Has that changed?"

“Can’t say it has, sweetheart." He looks at the mess he's created on the ground. "'M tryin', though.”

The corner of your lip upturns into a faint smile. His stomach twists painfully.

"You're up," he says, a little too late. It came faster than he thought it would. Then again, you weren’t human. You didn’t always listen to the laws of nature. 

"Y'feeling cold?" he adds quickly. 

You shrug, pushing off from the door to slowly take a seat. Your legs dangle off the ledge of the porch, barefoot. Bucky waits for you to swing your legs like you always have but you stay still.

He dusts his hands on his jeans and stands, tugging his jacket off his shoulders and holding it out to you. "Can I?" 

"Go on," you allow, and he drapes it around your shoulders, making sure it isn't likely to slip off before stepping back.

A draft blows past you both without either of you saying a word. Discarding the little shovel on the ground, Bucky chooses to take a seat beside you instead.

"You will feel cold, won't you?" 

"I'll be fine, don't worry 'bout me," he reassures. 

"Seems like you have it covered already," you say, making a motion to imitate the shape of his beard. "Mighty fine mane you've got there, James. You could give Odin a run for his money."

He gives a short chuckle, threading his hands through his hair that reaches down to his shoulders.

He’s finding it hard to formulate words. He couldn’t even tell if his mind was racing or entirely blank.

"You've got grey in your beard now," you observe. It sounds wistful. Sad even, and all of a sudden he’s left realising that he doesn't know how long it has been for you.

"Been a while since I got a haircut." 

Christ, he was drier than a brick. His conversational skills and charm had deserted him along with the rest of his luck. 

You lift your eyes from his beard to his face, scanning from his hairline down to his chin. "You look as handsome as you always have," you say and his heart jumps. "Just a bit..."

Sadder. Tired. Mistrusting.

"Older," you settle on.

He'd grown more wrinkles than he could count, and his skin didn't bounce back as much as it used to.

Beyond that, he smiled a lot less. He spent more time thinking than verbalising.

“You need help?” He hears you ask faintly, head gesturing to the patch of dug-up mud.

“You need to get rest,” Bucky shakes himself out of it. “I’ll get you some–”

“I’ve rested long enough, Buck,” you say assertively. 

He wonders if you did. Bucky remembers what you told him of Asgardian funerals. How your body is set floating along a river, and your soul lifts towards the sky to rest. You never got to have that. He doesn’t even know if they sent an empty log along a cold river.

"Tomorrow?" he delays.  

You look at him briefly before nodding.The ground stays untouched and the sky still greys. Bucky sees you take a few deep breaths, shuddering when a draft of wind blows by. He silently shrugs off his scarf too, and wraps it around your neck loosely.

You simply let him. Minutes pass in silence, and neither of you make any motion to move. 

You bump your shoulder into his. "I see you haven't fixed the TV yet."

A swift exhale leaves him in the form of a laugh. He turns away so that you don't see how his eyes begin to burn.   

"Sorry, honey," he croaks out, "I've been distracted."

The smile you give him is melancholic, and that's enough to dissolve his red eyes from a warning into tears.

_________

Bucky buys every single streaming platform available, and every channel available on cable.

That night he takes apart every single component of the television, wipes it down and puts it back together better than before. He only rests when it's 2am and the sound of late night commercials softly flood the living room.

__________

Bucky takes the guest bedroom, initially, a floor away from you to give you the space you need. 

He then realises it's too far, it's too risky. Sheepishly, he shifts to the same room as you, but makes himself a place to sleep on the floor with blankets and a pillow.

You voice your protest, and even though he’s spent three years curled up beside your sleeping frame, he says his back could use the hard surface now. 

He gets you clothes from town. Sweaters and socks, scarves. Things he knew you used to like and things he always promised he'd get if he had another chance. You take them with a small smile and a thanks. He sees you wear them around the house, and while they're exactly the size they should be, and the colours he knows you love.

There's a nagging feeling in him that they don't sit right. They don't look right. Still, you wear them on the days you can leave the bed. He shows you around the house. The good parts, at least, and pretends like that’s how he’s always lived even though he can tell you see right through his facade. 

He’s there when you thrash around at night. Bucky's up before the minute is even over, at your side and gently calling your name till you jolt awake. He hands you glass after glass of chilled water, rubbing your back in circles till the wave passes. It’s entirely too reminiscent of what you used to do for him, and he hopes the familiarity would do you good. 

Sometimes you tell him what you saw. Darkness enveloping you for hours, holding you close and sliding its vines over you, binding your limbs like rope before you're shoved into blinding light.

“Last I remember was the fight," you say one night, as he wipes the sweat from your forehead. "I cannot tell how much of it was real, it's--"

And you pause and struggle, and he's at a loss for words because you never have been. You've always known what to say. You've always had a thought you wanted to share. 

"Thor told me a little bit," he offers quietly. "If you'd want, I'd tell ya."

You look at him, conflict raging behind drained irises. "I was fighting. I heard them say something about-- there was a building with civilians hiding."

"Yeah, there was," he confirms, voice tight.

"They wanted to-- do something to it." You close your eyes, brows furrowing in concentration. "I told Thor I would get them out before anything happens. We had done it so many times before."

"He said there was an explosion."

The sky explodes from the early azure of dawn to a blinding white to a blood-curdling crimson.

And Bucky was too slow to get you out.

"I don't remember that," you say and his eyebrows furrow. "I remember--"

Bucky watches you hesitate for a second before your hands nimbly move the fabric of your shirt slightly to reveal the outline of the scar, inhaling sharply. 

"I wasn't careful enough. There were civilians I was getting out and someone from behind--"

It dawns in a slow realisation the reason why the scar hadn’t healed yet. Why it stood out from the others that littered your skin. Bucky had thought for this long that you'd died in a blaze, trapped under bricks and mortar. That you had been left suffocating because he hadn't been fast enough, that he wasn't good enough.

"I knew I would not be awake for long. I just wanted to get rid of as many of them as I could."

"The building came down." He swallows the rock in his throat. "We spent days searching through it."

"I think I was gone before the explosion happened."

It makes sense-- the sky shifted all too quickly that day. You were gone before he even had the chance. Your fate had already been sealed. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I should have been there.”

“I’m glad you weren’t. It wasn’t a pretty sight.”

"That's not–" his words come out in a rush, stumbling over each other, insistent. "If I was there--"

"There is no point in punishing yourself," you interrupt his spiral. "It was a choice I made. I would do it again. It was what had to be done."

He swallows thickly when he knows the conversation ends there. 

__________

Some nights Bucky settles on pressing a kiss to your knuckles, and lingers there for a second longer than he should. 

You turn to face him from your place on the bed, looking at him like you've known him for centuries. Some nights it feels like you have.

_________

Bucky builds you a swing. It's a little ridiculous, and it takes a whole week to do it.

But your face breaks into the biggest smile he's seen since you got here, and he can taste the sun on his tongue. The strange feeling in his stomach is alleviated for a moment, and replaced with something closer to pride.

You spend hours on it while he works on parts of the house. He makes sure you've got a blanket with you at all times, even though you’ve never once told him you feel cold.

You ask him questions about everything. Him, the world; like you’re trying to relearn what you’ve lost.

"How long ago did you buy this place?" 

"Nearly two years ago," he replies, paintbrush in hand as he swipes up and down the deck. "Owners hadn't come here in a while and they wanted it off their hands quick, so I made an offer."

You hum, using the balls of your feet to swing yourself higher. "I have always wondered what it would be like to live in a place like this."

Bucky’s painting halts for a second as he fights a smile, but he doesn't respond. The squeaking of the swing stops. He looks over to you, only to find you already looking at him.

"Is this why you bought it?" you accuse.

Bucky returns to painting the wood, face turned away.

"You are far more of a hopeless romantic than I ever remember you being."

He scoffs out a laugh. "You'd'a run away."

"I wouldn’t have." You narrow your eyes. "I have had suitors in the past who've done far worse. You are far from the most embarrassing."

"You laughed when we kissed for the first time," he points out, amused.

Your jaw drops. "That was because I wasn't expecting it. You'd been courting me for months, I thought you were never going to move beyond that."

"I was tryin' t'be a gentleman," he defends. "I didn't know how they do it in Asgard."

"Well, for starters, they don't kiss someone after dropping tiramisu all over them."

He cringes, but it doesn't escape him that memories of the both of you feel like they're accompanied by a light this time, instead of dread. "Could you blame a fella for bein' nervous?"

"I do not know why, you had no reason to be."

He wants to ask if you've seen yourself before. He was damn near pissing himself whenever you got too close to him. The tiramisu was just collateral damage from when you chose to wipe cream smudged at the corner of his lip that night. 

When he lifts his head to look at you, you're back to swinging. Back to your own world. A new one you seem to have constructed for yourself since you came back. Back then he was privy to all your thoughts, no matter how mundane they were.

Right before he goes back to painting the deck, his brain makes a small connection. It's a small detail, but one that holds a lot more weight the more he begins to notice.

Your back curves in on itself ever so slightly. No longer pin-straight. His grip on the brush grows a little tighter.  

__________

February rolls around. Bucky's only managed to work up the courage to hold your hand occasionally when you go for walks.

Fingers laced in yours, he shows you parts of the woods he's discovered that stray from the main path. The shrubs that look like they're alight when the sunset catches them. The trees that have a hole right through the centre, like they've taken a bullet.

You keep him out longer and longer, and by now he’s run out of things to show you. He ends up repeating a lot, but you look glad each time, like you’re learning something new about him each day even though he’s dredged you through the same mud path at least thrice now.

He wants to think that it’s because you like having longer to hold his hand. 

You listen intently, asking questions whenever you could. You let him know what parts you like better, and parts you’re glad he’s left behind, even if it was recent. 

Bucky blushes from head to toe when you pick a flower and tuck it into his hair, and you smile it away with a swing of your hand. 

"You get visitors?" Your mouth moves in tandem with your fingers that weave together a crown from stray leaves and blades of grass. You tell him, even though he remembers, that it was something you learnt from Sif growing up. 

"Sam drops by every now 'n then."

"Do you visit them?" you ask, hands twisting deftly and with skill of someone who’s done this all too many times. "How has everyone been?"

Should he tell you he's been sequestered? That he dropped everything and disappeared overnight because the questions of 'are you fine?' and 'do you want to talk?' became as suffocating as a thick cloud of smoke.

"Last I heard, they were doin' alright." He hopes it's enough.

"I tried talking to Thor," you tell him casually, but it feels like a cold fist clamps down on his chest. 

“And?”

“I couldn’t hear him,” you tell him, just as normally and he’s disgusted that he feels even the tiniest bit of relief. “I couldn’t hear Heimdall either. I know he’d respond if he could hear me, so I can only assume he hasn’t.” 

“You’re sayin’ you’re not able to talk to them?” His voice sounds small.

“I believe I lost the ability to communicate with them,” you tell him, tying the last bit of grass together. “I don’t think there is precedence for when someone comes back from the dead.”

You hand him the crown, and Bucky doesn't dare to meet your eyes. It’s too small for him. It’s closer to the size for a child. 

"'M sorry, honey," he mumbles. It returns to his stomach. The sick, gnawing feeling that he’s tried to obtain salvation for.

"I still have you,” you tell him, “But you were here for this long without anyone. It must have been lonely.”

Truth be told, he never really noticed. It almost seems like he’s forgotten how it felt.

"Hasn't been for a while, now." He squeezes your hand.

"I don't like the idea of you staying here alone.” Your eyes scan his face. "You deserve to be around others."

Bucky doesn't know what it is about the way you say it-- like you're not entirely sure you're here either. Like you aren't real. 

He calls your name, unsure, scared even. You answer with a hum. 

"Are you okay with being here?" It’s too late to be asking this. 

Your face pulls together thoughtfully, but he can't decipher what you're thinking.

"I like spending time with you. Always." 

Your head leans on his shoulder, and you resume the tune you’re humming. Bucky tries not to think about the fact that you haven't quite answered his question.

_________

He wakes up on the ground again, not to your muffled groans or bed sheets being thrown to the ground.

You're not in bed. The window is open. There's scattering downstairs, and it's followed by a strange scent, and for a second he panics.

He scrambles down the stairs, mind already conjuring pictures and images so vile and ghastly--

But all he sees is you in his biggest shirt, one that you yourself once got him as a joke for a punchline he can’t really remember right now.

And you're surrounded by broken pans, bent forks and an entirely indiscernible charred mass on the bottom of a skillet.

"I tried to cook," you admit, "like on TLC."

"And you broke the pan?" he asks, a little stunned, a lot more in love. 

"I did not realise your cookware would be so weak." You try so desperately to hide a smile. "Tried to scrape it off using the fork."

He looks at the misshapen piece of cutlery.

"And what's that?" He slowly makes his way into the kitchen towards you.

"The remnants of a frittata." You hold it out to him.

Bucky takes the handleless skillet from you and looks at the ashes.

"What do you think?" you ask.

Bucky holds it back out to you. "Could use a few more minutes on the stove."

The smile you try to hold back breaks into laughter and his face lights up in surprise. It's the first time since you've gotten here, and the first time in years since he's been graced with the sound.

He bites his lip when you take it back from him, all while still giggling, like he doesn't quite believe his ears.

"I do believe I would fare better at toas-- oof."

Bucky pulls you into his chest, arms wrapping around you like a weighted blanket. The pan drops to the counter as his head falls to your shoulders.

"I missed you so fuckin' much," he utters desperately into your neck, clenching his eyes closed so tight it hurts.  

"I missed you too," you say softly, arms circling his waist, pulling him closer.

___________

The days start to get warmer. Your skin still stays cool to the touch. It's something he's getting used to. For years he was used to waking up at night to turn down the thermostat, just so that he could stay under the covers with you without burning up.

But while good days increase, there are the ones you spend too feverish to get out of bed. You sleep the whole day, only waking when he brings you food.

March fades the dark circles around your eyes as much as it can, but they never truly go. The scar on your stomach doesn't heal beyond a certain point, and is always ready to turn garish and violent on days you can't get your head to lift.

Bucky wonders if you’ll ever get better. 

Fevers break when the mornings do. You tell him you dream of the same thing over and over. Darkness, holding onto you with the same tenacity as a mother stops a child from running into a flame.

You walk with your shoulders drooped, and always some sleep in your smile. Sometimes he hears you call for your parents, who he knows haven't been around for a few hundred years. He hears Thor's name, and Loki's during nights that are more peaceful.

On days that are good, you spend time helping with the garden and for once, the flowers start growing. Tree bark he can't break into two, you manage with one hand. You watch shows together on the couch, and he massages your head when it's in his lap.

And finally, Bucky shows you the lake when it thaws over. Crystal clear waters let you peer at the little plants growing on the bottom, and the sunlight glows in the ripples.

You notice the engraving on the boulder before he has the chance to divert your attention. When you ask, he tells you about the little memorial and the rain and the loss of the hair tie. 

Your hand squeezes his a bit tighter. He thinks no memorial can hold a candle to that.

You look at your reflection in the water a lot. Bucky sits beside you, skipping stones to see how far it can go, like he did in the harbour as a kid. Steve always used to win, no matter how much Bucky tried. 

"There was a lake by my school when I was child," you tell him. "When I was mad, I used to skip class to go sit there for hours."

“What made you mad?” He chuckles.

“A lot of things. I had too much energy to just sit there, and that was ‘unbecoming of a future leader of Asgard’.” Your face pulls into one of distaste. “I always thought there was more to learn about the world than what their books contained.”

Bucky collects a few pebbles from around him. "Did the lake make you feel better?"

"Always." You take a stone from him to skip across the surface. "Sometimes my friends used to join. Our elders said the water had the ability to remember. Loki used to make faces, and it would always linger for a few seconds before it disappeared. Even after we thought he was gone, I'd see his face there."

Bucky stays quiet, nodding at points to let you know he was listening.

"I used to see younger versions of myself sometimes," you continue, voice distant. "It always surprised me. I thought I used to know what I looked like. It was different each time."

You inch towards the shoreline, leaning forward on your knees. The clear water looks like an open sky underneath you. "I look different now, too," you say. "But I can't remember what I used to look like."

Bucky discards his stones to come join you, leaning down to where you were. The face staring back at him pulls a sick, twisted feeling in his gut. Deep in him, he knows what you're talking about extends beyond immediate impressions. Centuries of being intertwined with the universe had always given you lines and traces that transcended your physical appearance. 

You have always felt like the God of the Night.

Now you have been to the other side and returned, seen things others haven't and still kept intact. While he doesn't have the courage to admit it, he knows in his blood what you feel like. 

He's scheduled an appointment with him many times, but always just missed it.

Now, you feel closer to the God of Death.

"You've always been beautiful. Still are." It's a band aid on a gaping, festering wound.

Even still, you look at him with a smile. "So are you."

Bucky makes the mistake of looking at his visage in the water, and immediately recoils.

"Christ," he grunts at the difference between the both of you. "What a fuckin' mess."

"Oh, it isn't that bad," you laugh, watching him contort his face.

"Easy for you to say, you look stunning." He points to your reflection. "I look like I was raised by wolves."

"You just need a shave," you hum.

"I need a new face."

You leave aside his last comment to propose something entirely new instead, "I could do that for you."

"What? Give me a new face?" he asks and you give him a pointed look. "Oh. Shave my beard?"

"Same thing, no?"

He supposes so. "Alright," he agrees, with a certainty reserved for no one else. 

A small smile appears on your face, even though you aren't really looking at him.

Bucky watches you lean forward. Your fingers dip into the water, disturbing the reflection.

_____

Late evening finds you settled on the counter, armed and ready. "Lot of trust you're putting in me."

"I'd trust you with anything," he says, looking in the mirror to check once again that foam covers every inch of hair on his jaw. "You know this."

"Still," you note, watching him tilt his chin up. "I could do this with a dagger, if you'd like."

"This works fine, thanks."

You let out a laugh, and he finally steps in front of you, satisfied with his part. You swish the razor into water once again just in case, before leaning forward.

The first swipe goes agonisingly slow. Bucky watches your face screw up in concentration as you scrape down his left cheek.

You pull back and make a face. He raises his eyebrow in question.

"You are too far away," you declare, wrapping an arm around his bicep and tugging him closer.

Your legs wrap around his waist to keep him in place, locking behind his back. His breath hitches in his throat the proximity but you appear entirely unfazed, washing the razor again.

"Are you okay?" you ask, keeping one hand on his neck for balance as you get a much better go at his face.

"Yep," he thinks he says. It may just have been a sound.

You could have spent hours there for all he cares. He's too focused on the pressure of your legs on the small of his back and the way he's basically melted into your hand.

"Your eyes have always been my favourite feature," you tell him, blade carefully running down the curve of his jaw. "When you smile hard, there are these lines in the corner. It's like you can't handle being that happy."

He can't tear his sight from you, and from the fact that this is the closest you’ve been in years. You may as well have been telling him utter nonsense, and he'd still find it hard to control his breathing.

"But I have a soft spot for this." You lightly tap the bridge of his nose. He knows immediately what you're talking about. "I will never forget how stupid you were. Throwing yourself in front of danger like that."

"Couldn't let that guy touch you," his voice comes out an octave lower than what it was. "I'd gladly take a few more punches."

"That's why they stopped pairing us up on missions." The corner of your lip upturns, and you swish the razor around in water again. "You were being reckless."

"I'd do it again."

"One scar is enough." You tilt his jaw to see if you'd gotten everything. "I don't enjoy you getting hurt on my account."

Bucky exhales deeply when you get started on the other side. His hands itch to hold your waist, pull you closer like it’s been carved into the strands of his being, but they stay by his side. 

"I tried for so long after you were gone," he tells you instead, to gain a sense of control. "I went to the therapist. I tried talkin' about it. No one got it. It was the same thing over, and over."

How do you explain that it wasn't simply a person. He thought that that was where it ended-- everything in his life had finally culminated. And that was taken too.

"Went back to the roof a month after everything happened," he continues, studying your reaction. "It was s'ppsed to be a clear night. There was nothing in the sky. I couldn't see the constellations. I couldn't see your family-- I couldn't see you."

You listen intently, but never stop working at him. The longer you spent there, the more of his old face revealed itself to you. Worn, and aged a thousand years in a few months, but it was still the still face you swore to love and cherish for aeons. 

"They took all your stuff. Said it belonged to Asgard, they couldn't keep it here. Thor went off grid. All I had was pictures of us and the hair tie you gave me."

You clean the razor off in water, eyebrows furrowing at the information.

"It felt like you were never here. Like I'd just made you up all those years." You can hear the faint trembling in his voice. "But I had memories of you in all these places-- and I couldn't stay. It was easier to move here and start again."

Looking back at him, you realise you've already finished. There was nothing left on his face to clear.

"Was it hard?" you ask finally, letting go of the razor in the water. 

He looks at you, and you know he's struggling to form the right words. He looked like he wanted to scream, rip the hair out of his scalp, punch a hole through the mirror. 

"More than anything.” His voice comes out raw and peeling. 

Bucky watches you look at him for a long moment, and he wonders if he’s said too much too soon.

But instead you kiss him.

His arms find its way back home around your waist, and he feels you sigh against his mouth before your body relaxes, tilting your head to deepen it.

"I'm sorry I wasn't there,” you breathe, forehead leaning against his. 

"Don't," he begs.

You search his eyes for any kind of a message.

He kisses you harder, pulling you flush against him.

__________

Bucky moves into your bed after you threaten him well and good, and he knows you intend to keep your promises.

For the first time since he can remember, he keeps the windows open throughout the night and throughout the day.

It’s foolish, to think he was invincible. That what you had had finally cemented itself as final.  

You both stay in as long as you want. There is no hurry, nothing to get to. You talk a lot more. You begin to tell him sometimes at night that you see glimpses of what seemed like beyond the end.

Gold. Blood of ichor. Warriors fallen in battle go to Valhalla. Trees that kissed the skies, and valleys so green it hurt. Sometimes, in the corner of your eyes, you could see those you'd lost over the years waiting for you, hand outstretched.

No matter how hard he tries, Bucky doesn’t seem to get it. Every time he thought he was dead, there was only jet black silence and crushing pain. Then again, he never truly died.

But he isn’t ignorant. Fevers and fatigue that initially lasted a day, now knock you out for a week. There are times you throw up more than you've eaten, and the dark circles look like abysses.

He worries to the point of his stomach churning. You look like you don't have the energy to be here, even though you kiss him like you do. 

Bucky runs his hands over your scalp and tells you stories of his childhood. What he felt when you moved in with him, how anxiety made space for comfort. He reads you tales from other mythologies and marks the similarities in the stories you've told him over the years.

Each time you come around your smile gets more tired. Your shoulders grow heavier and your skin loses colour.

You still cook breakfast together. You still watch TLC together to figure out the culture on earth because even after all this while, you still maintain that's the best way to do it.

Things could still be good. But more often than not, Bucky wonders if he’s unknowingly surrendered you to a life you do not wish to live. 

_______

"Sweetheart?"

You continue to drag your finger through the water, oblivious to what he's saying. 

He calls your name, and there's still no response. April sees this happening more often, and Bucky's learnt that no matter what he does, it only seems to worsen.

He touches your shoulder lightly and you almost jump.

"It's getting late. Wanna head back?" he asks, because you’ve skipped out on lunch to stay by the shore the whole day. It seems like it’s the only place you want to be. 

"Yeah." You give him a small smile, wiping your hands on your pants.

"Want a hand?" he asks, holding out his.

You grab it, and pull yourself up, giving him a small peck on the lips along the way.

It feels comically normal. He wants to pretend that it is.

"Pasta tonight?" you ask breezily, slipping your hand into his.

Your fingers are ice cold to the touch. He forces back a shudder.

"Anything you want," he promises.

__________

He catches you humming as you water the plants, when you walk with him, while you read from the end of the bed. 

It's the song of my people, you tell him. They used to sing it when everyone was together.

He listens to the tune and tries to commit it to memory, but it changes far too often.

May catches you staring a lot more often. At walls. The trees. The lake is the worst.

On what would have been the fifth anniversary of the both of you being together, he brings you a cake. The both of you share it over a glass of wine, even though it clashes terribly and leaves an aftertaste.

You laugh harder than you have in the last few weeks and he gets to feel triumphant for an evening. 

You chase the frosting on his lips with a searing kiss, and that's that.

“What do you suppose it means?” you ask later that night, arm wrapped around his middle.

“What?” he mumbles, drowsy from a full stomach and good time.

“That I got a second chance and others didn’t?” your voice sounds distant.

Bucky is suddenly very awake.

“It couldn’t be that they weren’t as loved," you continue. "So then what made me different?"

He doesn’t have an answer.

He rolls over to look at you. But you are staring at the ceiling once again.

_________

His unwavering faith that he can learn to live with it feels like it’s eroding. 

Death changes everyone. He knows that before Steve left a few years ago, he wasn't the same Brooklyn-born spitfire. Steve's died a dozen or so times. He was reborn into a different soul each time.

Spring bounds towards you with warmth and life. The grass is greener, and Bucky's learnt there's more to life than just casseroles and toast.

You bring him more flowers to tuck into his hair. He wears them dutifully, and then learns to press them in between pages of books you both buy from old bookshops.

You give him wider smiles. You talk a lot less. 

Bucky learns that silence doesn't have to be filled. He's loved you in the winter, and he loves you in spring.

But there is always a tension simmering under the surface, just out of reach, like the sky reflecting in the lake. 

Sometimes you say things that he can't quite make sense of. Sometimes it's a lot more obvious, and the same feeling of guilt returns to his chest and flowers under his ribs.

So he asks you one day. You're on the couch, head in his lap while he reads a book you've annotated the week before. The only disturbances are when he stops occasionally to ask you why you liked a line, or why you drew a heart next to another.

You're humming the tune he can’t catch. 

There's nothing really wrong, but he knows. He can feel it in his marrow.

“Sweetheart," he calls gently. 

You look up at him. 

"Are you– are you happy?” And he leaves his heart, raw and unprotected on the line.  

You don’t look surprised. Not entirely knowing either.

A beat passes before you open your mouth to speak. 

“I like being here with you. I love you, I always have, and I will always love being here with you,” you choose your words carefully. “But I don’t know if I can feel that anymore. Happiness, I mean. Or sadness.”

Bucky keeps the book down. You don't lift your head from his lap.

“I feel like there’s a void where my body should be,” you continue in a chance to explain, “I feel like I'm made of air.”

“Are you feeling under the weather?” Bucky tries to find a rationalisation. Anything, that he can fix. That he can control.

You slight him a smile. “Not since the last bout.”

He doesn't know. He doesn't want to get it. He’s always felt that he was selfish, that that was ultimately what led to his punishments. This was a whole new level.

“I was born on Asgard. I have always felt like I was a part of the mud and the riverbed. They were a part of me as much as I was, them. I don’t know if that’s still…”

You pause, and Bucky feels time come to a standstill around him. 

“I’ve been reborn here,” you continue. “I don’t feel like anything is mine. I don’t feel like… I am a part of something. Even the night.”

He knew. Though he knows in his dreams he can still feel traces of Brooklyn carved into his bones, it had jaded over time, been eroded by years of waking up in places he couldn't place.

You sit up to look at him. Your eyes have an intensity to it that even the universe couldn't mask. 

“Do you really like who I am now?” you ask finally.

“I love all of you. Every one.” Ever changing, transient.

“How?” you ask softly. “I don’t even know who I am anymore.”

He swallows thickly and wills himself to ignore the chill creeping into his body. In truth there is so much he wants to say. He doesn't think that as a war-fractured man from the thirties who grew up in bloodshed will really have the sufficient words.

“I just do. Can’t help it.”

Even if you aren’t satisfied with his answer, he will never know it. He has known for a while now that he's been letting you down since the day he walked into Wanda's cabin.

You give him a slight smile. Lay your head back down on his lap. His book remains unread.

It felt like the beginning of the end.

It's a simple decision then. It would have been, for anyone who wasn’t born with a soul as corrupt as his.

One more week that is hard for you to get up from bed, turns into two. One more week that your face morphs into something he can’t quite recognise. He's never wanted to harm someone he loves, but he seems to do a fine job at it.

It's a simple decision, really. But simple didn't mean easy-- God knows he is anything but a saint.

When you see it finally, the fruits of a labour that took far too less time to manifest than justified the time he spent putting it off, the smile that appears on your face is blinding, he wonders how the sun even has the gall to shine.

“Thor,” you breathe out, only seconds before being engulfed in the most bone-crushing hug you’ve ever received.

Bucky watches from the sidelines, fingers wringing and entirely ready to be smithed to ashes.

“I came as soon as I heard,” he breathes into your shoulder. "I cannot believe this."

You pull back, and standing next to Thor gives Bucky a new frame of reference. One that isn't dependent on how you looked the week prior. He doesn't know how it slipped past him, how he hadn't noticed that you looked so different.

“You look wonderful." You grin at the behemoth of a man. "Your hair has grown out once more."

"They can try cutting it off my dead body," he replies defiantly, arms clasping at your shoulders to keep enough distance to study you from head to toe. "You'll have to give me a second. I didn't think this would be true, when Heimdall gave me James' message."

You look over at Bucky whose lips pull together in a tight line. 

He looks embarrassed. Unsure. Afraid. Guilty, and prepared to be berated for how long it took him. 

"It's true," you reply instead, giving him a smile. "Here, in the flesh."

Thor squeezes your shoulder once more, and laughs the same laugh he's always had around you. Loud, boisterous and entirely free. 

"The others will be thrilled. Sif, Hogun-- you have no idea how the past two years have been. There is so much to catch you up on."

Bucky knows. The fact that you're standing there today is living proof that he knows so well.

“I cannot wait to meet them." The corner of your lips upturn wider at his enthusiasm. "I've missed them terribly."

"We did not get to give you a proper farewell. Your welcome back will be a thousand times better," Thor says brightly. "We can return as soon as you say the word."

You look to Bucky, not for permission, but as a question he's known has been awaiting him a long time.

"Ready?" you ask softly.

He knows you didn't have to ask. That if you'd left him there and never returned, he'd deserve it and worse.

But you're you-- patient and kind. And he thinks that he can try to start redeeming himself.

__________

Turns out he wasn't wrong. Asgard really is too grand for a fella like him.

It is opulence-- gold and towering heights that bleed the love of its citizens and a history richer than words can contain.

Thor is smart. Aside from Heimdall, who greets you with the hug a father gives a child who's been away for too long, no one knows of your appearance until you are ready.

You get a few days in the tower to yourself, to breathe in the air that grew your lungs and touch the marble you've split your head open against in the past. The help are sworn to secrecy, and no one knows who Bucky is anyway except as the man who has been specifically allotted to the same room as you upon your request.

It doesn't take long for your face to pick up. Your skin comes alive with a vibrancy he didn't think he'd see again. You sleep sounder at night, and you eat more than you've had the appetite for in the last few months.

He trails behind you and Thor initially, not wanting to eavesdrop into conversations he has no place being a part of.

But you grab his hand, lace your fingers in his and tug him along as if to say that this is his home too.

He sees what you mean when you say that you are connected to the land. Clothes on Earth have never fit you right. Silks from Asgard decorate you like you are one in the same, like it flows from you.

_________

Reunions are a tearful affair. Lots of hugs are exchanged, punches to the shoulder, and kisses to various parts of your face.

“You have been alive for months, and we are just now learning of it,” Sif holds your hands in hers. 

“It took me a while to recover.” You give her a small smile. 

“We would have come as soon as you called,” she continues. “You did not have to heal alone.”

“I wasn’t alone.”

Eyes turn over to Bucky, and he’s suddenly very aware that the clothes he’s been given are too rich for him, too grand. He feels small, like they drown him out.

Despite what he’s saying, he feels as though he has deprived you. He knows that he has, and he has no one else to blame but himself. 

“Thank you,” Sif says instead, taking him by surprise. “We will remember this.”

“Don’t mention it,” he replies weakly.  

__________

It takes days to meet the closest of your friends, until they decide they had their fill. Bucky is slowly introduced to all of them. Boisterous and loud, most greet him with a wide appreciation. Others are less quick to warm, and he gives himself no room to blame them either. 

Upon insistence, he joins you for your welcome back dinner, and gets a seat right beside you. 

Your hand holds his the entire night, squeezing tighter when something makes you laugh, or when someone is particularly embarrassing.

When there is a lull in the conversation after hours, sly grins are exchanged.

"So, this is the one you raved on and on about." 

His eyebrows quirk in amusement.

"I did not rave," you huff. "I simply informed you--"

"For hours. Days even,” they drag on. “A great warrior from earth with eyes that could rival storms--"

Bucky chokes on his wine. You award your friends with several curses and glares.

"Long hair past his shoulders. Oh, and arms to die for--"

You take in the way his face has gone red, all the way up to his ears. You laugh and grip his hand tightly with an unabashed shrug.

"I am only glad that that's all you remember," you joke.

He thinks he should be buried in the garden for his sanity.

_________

Walks around the castle become increasingly common at night. You are mostly left undisturbed, and you take the opportunity to show him everything you've ached to.

Where you've learnt, where you first scraped your knee. The first arrow you shot. Where your parents met. The first and last time you cried over a friend gone astray.

He can't fathom why he ever thought he wouldn't be ready to know this. As if knowing more about you would cement the fact that he was lesser than.

“You look ethereal,” Bucky tells you one night, honest and true.

You look at him, a bit taken aback. There was nothing particularly different about you this evening. In fact, you’d chosen to stay away from festivities today to lie around the gardens with him, citing a headache.

“I should have said yes earlier,” he continues. “You belong here. It shows.”

A laugh leaves you as an exhale. “It feels different.” You run your fingers through his hair. “I don’t know if it would be the same if I brought you here years ago.”

“Different how?” Bucky closes his eyes and revels in the feeling of your touch.

“I don’t know,” you tell him. “I am not sure it is what I remember it to be.”

You don’t say anymore. Bucky doesn’t ask. 

He lays with you under a clear night sky, and your fingers deftly move the faint lights in the sky to mimic shapes of fishes and hunters. 

He notices the sky here, too, has taken the same fate as it has on earth. Not as full as it could be, always just a little less bright.

He assumed it would change when you came back. He assumed it would change when you came to Asgard.

The sinking feeling in his stomach reminds him of what he already knows is going to come.

_____________

There are nights you are dragged off by your friends for things that don't include him.

You shoot him a sorry smile and he tells you to just go with steady reassurance.

Bucky takes to exploring. He's been given robes to blend in. They always fit in a way that's too soft.

He looks at statues erected, memorials in place for those who've given up their lives for a bigger cause. He spots your name in there as well, as if they've not yet entirely sure that you're back. He spends hours at the library, reading up on things he couldn't find on Earth. Where heroes slain in battle actually go, what it's like over there. Stories of when they are brought back. None of them end well.

Thor finds him, and introduces Bucky to Asgardian mead that he swears got Steve tipsy. Bucky’s had a rough couple of years. He’s in no place to turn down a drink. 

He remembers what it's like to be 21 and drunk again and like nothing bad can ever happen.  When you choose to join in with them, Bucky finds he’s a lot braver and a lot smoother with liquor flowing through his veins. 

Stumbling through tower hallways, giggling and stealing open-mouthed kisses in the shadows like a bunch of teenagers until he has your back pressed up against the bedroom door. 

“Eager?” you breathe out when he nips at your neck, hands scouring every inch of you he can find. 

“What gave it away?” he mutters, pulling away to look you. 

Wild eyes and equally untamed hair, and there is a light in his eyes that outshines supernovae. 

“I love you,” you tell him, and it’s a startling moment of clarity in the middle of a juvenile hour. “I hope that always remains with you.”

Before he can respond, you thread your hands behind his neck and steer him towards the bed, mouth never once leaving his. 

________

Another solitary night, and it's by pure accident that he ends up retracing his steps to the first place he was introduced to in Asgard. He wonders how much of it was intentional, his conscience forcing him to a reckoning long awaiting him. 

Heimdall is there as always, standing tall with a grace that is still threatening. Bucky is not a fool-- he knows he can sense his presence.

Still, he looks only for a moment before making leave. 

"I hear it was magic that brought her back," Heimdall voices.

Bucky pauses in his tracks.

"Yes," he says, like he’s forced to respond.

"Are you aware of what it takes to bring a body back from the dead?" Heimdall asks, tone still. "Cells are broken and reattached if they do not malfunction. The brain is attacked with sensation after being dormant for months. The heart pumps degraded blood through vessels that have collapsed."

Bucky feels bile rise to his mouth at a memory that seems so far away. Enough has happened since.

Heimdall looks at him, steel cut eyes boring into his. “Our ancestors have tried this for centuries,” he says slowly. “It has always ended the same way.”

Bucky keeps silent. Wonders if the God can hear him swallow the lump in his throat– probably can.

“Tempering with fate has never fared well.”

“I’m not trying to play with fate,” Bucky finds himself moving on its own accord. “If this wasn’t supposed to happen, it wouldn’t have. I am not a God.”

Heimdall stares into his soul and Bucky feels suffocatingly exposed. “The separation between divinity and mortals is thinner than you may imagine.”

“I have no interest in crossing it.”

“Haven’t you?” Heimdall’s eyes flicker over to the direction you were last going in. “When your will supersedes reality– what else do you call it?”

“Luck.” His voice comes back stonily.

Heimdall gives him a wry smile. “No such thing.”

Bucky’s palms feel clammy, his stomach twisting into knots.

“Your grief is natural. But do not let it overpower your love,” Heimdall adds. “I am sorry you had to go through this. I'm afraid sooner or later you will have to see that you cannot disrupt the natural order of things.”

"Why?" His voice cracks and he curses himself.

Heimdall's eyes soften. "There comes a point where your love for someone becomes indistinguishable from hurting them. Your intentions are noble, but you already know where you stand."

Bucky quietly turns on his heel and leaves, but the conversation remains heavy on his mind for days to come.

_________

The first time you fall sick, really sick, like you used to be on Earth, Bucky watches from the sidelines as various people tend to you. Those with divinity at their fingertips, those with herbs and concoctions he’d never heard of, others with tools and prayers and everything. 

They try everything. It takes you a full week to recover.

Bucky sits, emotionless by your bedside, and feeds you from a spoon, food that your friends swore you grew up loving. 

Asgard was supposed to work. Being here was supposed to work. No one knows what to do, except to wait it out. As your fever quells and Bucky watches you open your eyes for the first time in a few days, everyone breathes a sigh of relief.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he says quietly from your bedside. “How can I help?”

The smile you give him is tired. He gives you a small one in return, and leaves a kiss on your forehead. 

It feels all too familiar. 

God of the Night and the Devil of Cursed Fates.

_________

Thor teaches him the song, the one he caught you humming for months. It sounds different to what he remembers you singing.

He watches you thumb through titles in the Asgardian library, looking for a book of wildlife to show him. It only takes a few seconds for you to hum under your breath again, but Bucky is quick to ask this time. 

“Oh.” You blink. “I may have remembered it wrong.”

He tilts his head at you, but you go back to browsing through library books.

___________

Nights in bed, he spends tracing up and down your arm. He's full from a feast, and he's watched you dance around a courtyard with spirit and joy, and for the first time in years he feels like he can breathe.

You drag him along with you, and while he may have been quick on his feet in the thirties, Bucky was significantly older. You don't seem to care. You laugh like nothing has ever worried you before, and he finds it infectious.  

"D'you s'ppose we'd have been married by now?" he asks, breaking the quiet.

"I remember turning down your offer," you say, the corners of your mouth pulling upwards. "So, who's to say?"

Bucky's face breaks into a smile, one that looks particularly incredible in the moonlight. "You said I knew what the answer was already. Looks like that leaves the ball in my court."

You look at him, a little endearingly, and as he's come to expect, a little sad.

"I think we would have," you hum. "But you wouldn't have survived wedding festivities here."

He scoffs, rolling onto his back and feels his stomach ache dully. "Barely holdin' on now as it is."

You pull closer to him, fingers dancing across his chest. "Why didn't you try to find someone else?"

He exhales, sharper than he intends. "Didn't wan'to," he mumbles.

"I'd hate to think you didn't try to find others who loved you," you tell him, brows pulled together, "You have so much of it to give. It'd be a shame."

"Didn't see the point." Bucky hopes he doesn't sound as sharp as he does in his head.

"If something were to happen tomorrow, and I am no longer here," you begin and he wants to beg you to stop talking about this, "It would break my heart if you didn't go on with life as you were meant to live it."

"This is how I'm meant to live." He sounds pathetic-- obsessed, and entirely dependent but he isn't sure you know. "This is it. This is the best it's ever gonna get for me."

You look at him, eyebrows knitted. Your thumb caresses his jaw, running across the sharp curve.

"You deserve more," you say gently. "You do. Life has been unkind, but you will always deserve more."

You’re doing it again. Preparing him. For the inevitable he knows is looming on the horizon. The one he saw in Heimdall's eyes.

Still, you notice that it is too much for him, and you break the tension with a smile.

Outside the window, the sounds of a party continue on. You would be out there too, if he hadn't noticed the slow in your movements and the dip in your energy. He instead gave his lack of stamania as a reason and asked if you would join him in the room, for which you shot him a grateful look.

"You never gave me a ring," you remind instead, voice teasing.

Bucky looks at you wearily before silently getting up from the bed. 

You sit up in confusion, watching him trail across to the wardrobe and pull out the clothes he was wearing on his first day here.

He shuffles back into bed and turns to you, holding out his hand in a request.

It takes a second but you give him yours, and he silently slides a ring onto your finger. Even in the darkness it glitters like it’s made of light.

"I've had it for ages," he tells you. "Woulda given it to you quicker if you'd just said yes the first time."

You laugh loudly, and hold his face in yours before kissing him hard to the sounds of a fading party.

__________

The effect wears off gradually. It goes the same as it does in the cabin. 

You begin to space out visits. Stay in for a day or two, which increases as time passes. Though the castle help are ever gracious and at your beck and call, you send them away in exchange for quiet nights in.

Bucky wipes your forehead with cool cloth. Feeds you nectar by hand and tells you of everything he's learnt since the time you've arrived there.

You begin to look sick again, and miserably, he does not know what to do. You've been attended to by the best of medicine that the nine realms have to offer. You've spent nights with your friends, drinking in joy and embodying love.

But you are dying. You have been since you came back, and he can no longer choose to look past it in hopes for a remedy.

He looks at you like you've given the world the light it bathes in, and wipes your perspiration with his thumb.

You smile back at him in your sleep, and he lets that slow the march towards the end.

_________

One of the good days, you lead him to the lake. The one where water remembers. You point out faces. He discerns them to be some of your friends a couple of hundred years ago.

He follows as you walk along the banks, letting you show him yourself through the years. Some streaked with tears, others with joy so infectious it has his stomach doing flips.

"That is the last time I came here," you point at the last one. "Two months before it happened."

He remembers the trip. He thought he remembered how you were back then, that he'd etched into the crevices of your mind.

When he looks down, he sees a different person. Your face is light. The weight of circumstance does not weigh you down.

You were right when you said you did not recognise the person you were.

That night in bed, he holds onto you tighter than he has, no longer afraid of causing more damage. He has already done the worst, and you've taken it without a word.

“Bucky,” you call.

He doesn’t trust his voice to answer, so he just makes a noise.

Your eyes meet his intently and he knows. You do not have to say a single word to him. 

You’ve made a decision. It was your will, as Wanda had told him all those months ago.

“I'm sorry,” his voice cracks. “I'm so sorry. It was so selfish.”

“It's okay,” you press a palm against his cheek and shudders from the cold.

“I love you.” His eyes burn, but he forces himself to take more of you in. “I love you so much, I'm sorry. I just wanted a second chance.”

“I know.” You smile but your voice is sad. “I know. I understand.”

“I don't know how you aren’t angry at me." I don’t know why you stayed.

You look him in his eye, giving him no space to run. "I would have done the same. If I could, I would have done the very same thing."

He chooses to believe that, despite what Heimdall has told him. If he tries, he can find heat in the frigid veins.

"But we are simply delaying the inevitable, my love." You press a kiss to his forehead. "I no longer belong here. I am not who I was. I doubt I will ever be."

He loves every version of you. He already loved, and he will always learn to love whoever you change to be.

"I know it is hard, but I have to go," you tell him softly.

His eyes burn and his head stings.

"I grew up with friends I loved, and a family that loved me. My life was good," you tell him. "I didn't realise how much I wanted to give that forward until you happened. I will always love you for that."

Bucky kisses you till you can't breathe and his tears mix with yours.

Till the morning breaks and you have to tell everyone of your decision, he tells you over and over again a tale you already know. Everything he's ever felt. Everything that’s happened in the last few months– his revolving door of therapists and all the movies he’s watched and all the bakery foods he thought you'd like.

You listen, and you tell him stories he memorises to heart. You are still dying. 

But this time he is there, and in that lies his true second chance. 

________

A month later, and not a day before that.

You pass away quietly, surrounded by people instead of rubble. He holds your hand throughout, and for long after even once your chest stops rising.

The Asgardians let him stay for as long as he wants, still and quiet. No one says a word as he presses a kiss to the crown, leaning his forehead against yours for as long as the universe permits.

The funeral goes by in a haze. Everyone gathers, even after such short notice. No matter how much time he had to prepare, the air was thick, and he swallows down his discomfort.

A gentle breeze whispers through the columns of the great hall, carrying with it the soft, mournful melodies of Asgardian lyres and flutes.

In the center of the pyre, you lay, ethereal even in repose. Around you, night-blooming flowers bloom alongside, as if the sky itself was paying its respects.

Thor recites the ancient eulogies. With reverent hands, they guide the vessel into the river that flows through Asgard.

As the vessel drifts away, a hush falls over the assembly. Just before reaching the edge of the waterfall, arrows shoot fire onto the wood, letting the flames consume the casket. Bucky holds back a cry. 

Thor hits the staff, and the casket continues onward instead of falling off the edge. Within a flash Bucky sees an orb rise above you and shoot off towards the sky.

Thousands of lights are let loose into the sky. He closes his eyes, says a few words no one will know except you, and lets go of the soul orb given to him.

And that was it.

________

Bucky looks at the last of his belongings, tied tightly together. 

There were a few things he was allowed to take with him, things that belonged to you while you lived here. He's grateful more than anything, that he's not relegated to photos.

He was made to stay a few more days in Asgard while everything was completed. Though the people were lovely, and he's more than glad he came, he knows that this was where this ended.

He exhales, looking back at the place where he spent the better part of three months.

"You will be alright?" Thor asks, walking with him to the courtyard.

He shrugs. It was still fresh, but the utter despair he had felt the last time had been replaced with a quietness.

"You?" he asks in return.

Thor smiles, and claps his back and Bucky is forced to take a step forward.

"It will be an honour to remember her," he says, and for a moment, Bucky feels a sense of peace at his words. "You are always welcome here."

A small laugh leaves Bucky in the form of an exhale. "Don't be a stranger, Thor."

The God summons the Bifrost and the force is enough to make Bucky hold his hands up to his face.

"I'll see you around. Thanks for everything." His lips pull together in a tight smile.

Thor takes a second, but then says, “You will be alright, James.”

It’s reassuring, he thinks. Bucky nods and turns, taking a step towards the bridge.

"Wait," Thor calls loudly, "I almost forgot."

He turns to him in confusion, and a list of possibilities running through his head.

"She told me to give you this," he says, "She used to carry them around for us."

From around his wrist, he pulls off a hair tie and holds it out to him.

Bucky takes it, a little stunned.

________

Two months pass.

Bucky stands on the threshold of a door that is foreign to him.

His head falls, but his arms raise either way. Two swift knocks and he takes a step back. He looks around nervously, hands stuffing into his pocket. His car lays at the end of the long driveway, ready to leave at any given moment.

For a second, he thinks about making a run for it. But the door swings open and Bucky's eyes quickly dart up.

"Hey," he says, voice coarse. "You got space for one more?"

Sam looks at him in initial surprise, but it fades to softness when he notices the shape the man is in.

“C’mon, Buck,” Sam says softly. “We’ve got you.”

Bucky lets out a staggered breath, and leans over to pick up his backpack that Sam's already beaten him to.

He takes one good look at the sky. Dark, clear and finally returned to the way it had been for centuries.

But he swears that a single star in the corner of his eye shines a little brighter than the rest.

[binkybonkybucky]

this absolutely bROKE ME 😭 the pain of bucky watching her not end up with him over and over again, then knowing the reader has to do the same in other universes. like man, fuck you dr strange leave them alone 😭😭 they’re already going through it

The Catalyst

Summary : In this universe, you and Bucky are happy. In other universes, it might not be that simple.

Pairing : Bucky Barnes x reader (she/her) 

Warnings/tags : Violence, death, trauma, grief, cursing, non-sexual nudity. Lots of Angst. Fluff in the beginning and end. Multiversal Travel.

Word count : 8.9k

Note : This story is meant to resemble a What If? episode. It is an exploration of what would happen to you and Bucky if the other died. I will refer to the main universe (MCU) as Earth-616 because Marvel is stupid and has decided that it’s not earth-19999 anymore. The fic is inspired by the song of the same title by Linkin Park. Also, I hope this story makes sense? Enjoy!

Earth-616…

The bathroom was quiet, save for the soft gurgle of water and the occasional drip from the faucet. 

Bucky sat on the edge of the tub, bare and bruised, watching you with a tired smile.

The gash on his forehead was deep, an angry red against his skin, and his chest was peppered with smaller cuts and scrapes, remnants of yet another mission gone south. You stood in front of him, tilting his chin to clean the wound.

“You’re lucky this didn’t need stitches,” you murmured, focusing on your work.

“Luck had nothing to do with it,” Bucky said lightly, though you could tell he was exhausted. “I’m practically indestructible.”

You glanced up, narrowing your eyes at him, not finding any solace in his self-deprecating humour today. “No, you’re not, James.”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he gave you that lopsided, charming smile, the one that always made your heart flutter— even when you were mad at him.

“Alright, my love,” you closed the tap. “Bath’s ready.”

Bucky stood slowly, groaning as he stretched. Before you could move away, he pulled you back toward him. 

“Come take a dip with me,” he murmured. 

You looked up at him. “I drew this bath for you—”

“Please,” he interrupted.

You hesitated, only a moment, before nodding. “Alright,” you said. “But don’t think this means I’m letting you off the hook for almost dying.”

He gave you a faint smile as you undressed.

The water enveloped you in warmth as you both sank into the tub. Bucky settled behind you, his legs bracketing yours, arms wrapping around your waist. You leaned back against his chest, your head resting beneath his chin.

For a while, neither of you spoke. Your fingers absentmindedly traced his metal arm, feeling the ridges of the plating.

You closed your eyes, but the memory of his bloodied face lingered in your mind. The fear you felt when he walked through the door earlier that day—bruised and battered but alive—still held onto you.

Bucky’s lips pressed softly to the back of your head, pulling you from your thoughts. “You’re quiet today,” he murmured, his voice soothing your worries

You swallowed hard, finger frozen on his arm. “You just really scared me tonight.”

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, arms wrapping tighter around you.

“Just… be more careful, please?” you said quietly. “There’ve been too many close calls lately. If something happened to you…” Your voice cracked as you drew in a shaky breath. “If I lost you, I don’t think I’d know how to put myself back together.”

“Don’t say that,” he said, grip strengthening on you. “Don’t even think about it.”

You tilted your head back, resting on his collarbone. “I mean it, James,” you whispered. “You’re everything to me.”

“You’ll never lose me,” he said, his conviction absolute. “I’ll always come back to you, no matter what.”

“You’d fucking better,” tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, but you managed a small smile. “Or I’ll find a way to drag you back myself.”

Bucky chuckled softly. “You’re terrifying, you know that?”

“Good,” you said, snuggling closer to him. “Maybe that’ll keep you in line.”

He kissed the back of your head again. The water lapped gently around you, the warmth easing the knots in your muscles, soothing the subtle throb in your heart.

After everything you’ve both been through, you were just happy he was here— alive.

•

Somewhere in a distant reality…

In this universe, Bucky Barnes didn’t cry at your funeral.

The rain came down in unrelenting sheets, soaking through the black suit he wore, but Bucky didn’t shiver. He didn’t flinch when the first heavy shovelful of dirt struck your casket, the dull thud echoing in his ears like a death knell. He stood apart from the others, an immovable statue at the edge of the grave, his hands limp at his sides, trembling ever so slightly— His face might as well have been carved from stone.

The sound of weeping surrounded him—your friends, your teammates, people you had saved. Each sob seemed to pierce his skin, sharp as broken glass, but still, Bucky didn’t move. He didn’t blink. He didn’t cry.

Bucky didn’t cry when the ground swallowed you whole.

He didn’t cry when Pepper, eyes red-rimmed and brimming with tears, rested a firm hand on his shoulder. He didn’t cry when Sam placed a folded flag in his hands, whispering, “She was a hero.” He didn’t cry when Clint, voice hoarse, muttered, “She saved so many lives.”

He didn’t cry when Tony, uncharacteristically subdued, raised a glass to your memory that night, his hand trembling just enough to make the liquid ripple, Bucky stayed silent. He stared at the drink in his hand until it blurred into nothing.

But when he sat in the shadows of his apartment later, something deep inside him twisted.

He couldn’t stop replaying your death in his mind. Your final words, whispered through cracked lips and choked breaths, were for him. “You’re going to be okay, James.”

You had died saving them— saving the world. You had grabbed the infinity stones away from Tony, you had snapped so he didn’t have to. You did it because you couldn’t let anyone else make the sacrifice— you did it because Morgan needed a father.

But Bucky needed you.

And you were gone.

He had no more tears to give. He had shed them in the days leading up to your funeral, in suffocating quiet of the aftermath. He had cried until there was nothing left inside, until grief turned into a cold, sharp knife that carved your initials into his chest and refused to let him rest.

So he didn’t cry anymore.

But when the world fell away—when the comforting murmurs of others faded and he was left alone in the silence of the apartment you had shared—something inside him broke.

Bucky didn’t cry anymore, but that didn’t stop him grieving.

Bucky grieved like a soldier.

It was disciplined, bordering on mechanical. He scrubbed your presence from the apartment with clinical detachment, packing your things with military precision. Your clothes disappeared into boxes he refused to label. Your toiletries vanished from the bathroom like they had never been there.

He didn’t touch the photos, though. He left them right where you’d placed them. He didn’t move the jacket you always left draped over the back of the chair, didn’t even bring himself to wash the cup you’d left on the counter.

At night, when the apartment grew unbearably still, he would sit in the dark and trace his fingers over the curve of your handwriting in the little notes you’d leave him—Don’t forget milk! He would fiddle with the frayed fabric of the worn shirt that still smelled faintly of your vanilla perfume. He held it in his hands for hours, gripping it so tightly his knuckles turned white.

Every mission after that was a blur of adrenaline and violence. As soon as he got pardoned, he threw himself into the fight with reckless abandon, his mind a haze of desperation and anger, his body moving like a machine, like no part of him remained human.

He fought like a man trying to outrun himself.

He didn’t care if he made it back, didn’t care if he took a bullet—or fifty. Every blow he took was nothing compared to his own pain. 

But nothing— none of the wounds, none of the cuts he sustained— brought him closer to you.

And when the fighting was done, in between missions when the world didn’t need him, he disappeared, abandoning your shared apartment because it made him think too much of you. He retreated to a remote cabin deep in the woods, a place so far removed from humanity where no one could find him.

No one, except for Stephen Strange.  

—

It had been nearly six months since your death when Strange appeared on Bucky’s porch, his portal crackling in the fresh mountain air.

“Go away,” Bucky growled, not bothering to glance up from the knife he was sharpening. He had gone hunting again, determined not to rely on anyone else for his survival.

Strange ignored the warning, stepping through the glowing portal and onto the weathered wooden planks. His expression was grim, his tone desperate. “James Buchanan Barnes.”

“What do you want?” Bucky’s voice was rough, his patience worn thin.

“It’s not about what I want,” Strange replied. “It’s what the multiverse needs.”

Bucky finally looked up, his blue eyes still sharp but exhausted. He’d been running on empty for months now. You weren’t there to steady him, to breathe life into the fragile space beneath his ribs when the nightmares were too much to bear. You weren’t there to wake up next to him. You weren’t there to pepper him with kisses when he thought he wasn’t good enough. You were gone.

“The multiverse can save itself,” he muttered, turning back to his blade.

Strange’s expression softened, but only slightly. “If it could, I wouldn’t be here.”

Bucky let out a scoff, his hands gripping the sharpening stone. “You’ve got the wrong person.”

“I wish I had,” Strange said quietly, his words landing like stones thrown into water.

The desperation in his voice made Bucky pause. He set the knife down with care, leaning back in his chair to glare at the sorcerer. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Strange wasn’t the type to hold back words, but even he seemed to hesitate. And then he said it—the name. Your name. The one Bucky hadn’t heard in weeks.

“Don’t,” Bucky snapped, feeling like an arrow had struck his chest.

Strange pressed on, undeterred. “A version of her exists in another universe. But she’s… no longer her.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

With a flick of his hand, Strange conjured an image: glowing strands of the multiverse weaving together, spinning until a vision appeared. 

It was you—but… not you. Not his version of you. 

Your face was twisted, your body cocooned in violent energy. Behind you, planets crumbled, swallowed by the raw power radiating from you.

Bucky reached out, his hand floating near the image that magic had willed into life.

He couldn’t fully grasp it—this alternate reality where you were alive, suffering, destroying. It didn’t make sense, how this could exist. 

You were gone. You died in his arms. 

The heart that beat for him— he felt it stop beneath his fingertips. 

How could he possibly wrap his mind around this? That a fragment of your soul—some version of you—was out there, breathing, enduring. 

Alive. 

His throat tightened as he tried to speak, to force out even a single word, but he choked on his own tongue.

The multiverse. Or whatever Strange had called it. A few years ago, he’d have laughed it off as some nonsense, he wouldn’t’ve believed it. But after being snapped out of existence and then willed back into it by a handful of glowing galactic stones, Bucky Barnes, man out of time, knew better. 

Now, he’d believe in absolutely anything. Especially if it meant he was believing in a world where you still existed.

“She’s become the Catalyst,” Strange said, his voice laced with dread. “A being of grief, capable of destroying entire worlds. If she’s not stopped, she’ll collapse the multiverse.”

Bucky stared at the image, his chest tightening. Was this really you, destroyer of worlds, of universes? 

You couldn’t be capable of this. 

You were kind, you were incapable of harming an innocent soul. He remembered the day a poisonous spider had wandered into the room. You refused to kill it, carefully guiding it out to the garage.

But now, as the memories came flooding back, doubt began to settle. 

He had seen glimpses of another side of you, when you were alive. The fiery rage that consumed you after losing an old friend. The anger you brought into battle, wielded like an iron fist. It had been terrifying—a force of nature that no one could stand against. It was how you wielded the infinity stones long enough to do what needed to be done.

Now, looking at this image Strange had conjured, he wondered if that force had finally consumed you.

“You want me to go after her,” Bucky said flatly. He was certain of it. 

“I want you to stop her.” Strange nodded. “Talk to her. You’re the only one she might listen to.”

“And if she doesn’t?”

Strange’s gaze was unyielding. “Then you’re the only one who stands a chance at killing her.”

The words hit Bucky like a hammer to the chest. He turned away, gripping the porch railing until his knuckles went white. “I can’t lose her again.”

Strange stepped closer, his voice soft but resolute. “She would want you to do it.”

Bucky’s voice rose, his eyes filled with tears he would not let Strange see. “You don’t know her like I do.”

“No,” Strange admitted. “But I’ve seen what happens if no one stops her. Entire universes will fall. Countless souls will die. If you won’t do it for her, then do it for them.”

—

Bucky didn’t sleep that night. He sat on the edge of his bed, the room blanketed in suffocating silence, broken only by the occasional creak of his wooden single bedframe as he shifted nervously. 

In his hands, his gun seemed to glow under the moonlight filtering through the window. 

He turned it over and over, fingers brushing the worn grip, the faint scratch on the barrel— one he remembered you making during a standard recon mission. You had scratched it, accidentally catching it with your knife. 

You apologised profusely, and he said it was no big deal. 

He then teased you for being too attached to your weapons— how your knives had little personal inscriptions, how you had cared for it like it had a soul. He, on the other hand, said that he felt indifferent to his weapons— said he didn’t want to get too sentimental. 

You laughed, saying he was too dramatic. "It's just a tool, James. You’re the one who decides what it’s for."  

Now, he wasn’t so sure what he wanted to use it for. 

Strange’s words looped in his mind like a broken record: You’re the only one who stands a chance at killing her.

The thought of pointing a gun at you made his heart drop. 

He once promised to protect you, to be your safe haven. And now, a sorcerer had tasked him with destroying you in another universe. How could he ever make peace with that? 

How could he pull the trigger on you?

But then another thought struck him: Strange was right. You would want him to. 

You would forgive him if he had to kill you.

You always forgave him, no matter how many times he swore he didn’t deserve it, because you would understand that this needed to be done. If the situation were reversed, you’d do what needed to be done— because that’s who you were.  

You were good— everything he aspired to be. 

If you were alive, if you knew you had turned destructive— you would kill the Catalyst yourself.

As the hours dragged on, Bucky tried to think of another way, to fantasise a different ending for the sick story he existed in. What if there was a chance— however slim—to reach that version of you without violence? To pull you back from the brink and remind you who you were? 

He knew he had to try, but he also knew what failure meant: countless lives lost, entire universes wiped from existence.

If he failed, this universe would be gone, along with all the memories of you. Along with your legacy.

Your sacrifice would be in vain.

He couldn’t let that happen.

The gun in his hands felt heavier now, the future hanging like a noose around his neck. The sun was just beginning to rise when he finally stood.

He had made his decision. 

He didn’t bother to pack much—just his knife, the gun, and the dog tags he always carried, the ones you had once traced with your fingers when you thought he was asleep. 

He knew he needed to do this mission.

Not for the world, not for the universe.

The multiverse could burn, for all he cared. He’s doing this because he knew you would want him to. 

—

When Strange arrived at the cabin, the swirling portal casted an eerie light over his mostly empty living room.

Bucky’s face went grim. He didn’t say goodbye to the cabin, didn’t look back at the life he had built in solitude. 

He never liked this cabin. Never liked this new life— he only went here because it was what you always wanted. You wanted to be away from the city, one with nature. You always wanted to build the rest of your life here. Back then, Bucky had agreed— but now it was just a reminder that he was living a hollow existence without you.

He stepped through the portal. 

The overwhelming surge of energy as he entered the alternate universe was nothing compared to the pain his heart endured.

The world he had stepped into felt like the aftermath of a nightmare.  

The sky was a sickly yellow, streaked with ash and smoke. The sun, barely visible through the haze, poured a dying light over the desolation below. 

Buildings lay in ruins, their remains clawing at the sky. The ground was a wasteland of debris, littered with the wreckage of battles fought long before he arrived.

Ultron's remains were everywhere. His drones twisted, mangled, scattered across the landscape, half-buried in dirt or wedged into crumbling walls, some buried under concrete slab. Their empty eyes stared at nothing— stared at Bucky with emptiness.

Bucky adjusted his grip on his rifle and took a cautious step forward. The air was thick, stinging with the stench of burning metal and organic decay. He moved carefully, scanning his surroundings.

This wasn’t his world, but it was familiar enough for him to navigate through. 

“Strange,” Bucky muttered under his breath, though the sorcerer had closed the portal. He pushed through, putting his Winter Soldier mask on “What the hell did you send me into?”  

—

It didn’t take long for him to piece together what had happened. In this universe, Ultron had won, but not by slamming Sokovia into the Earth like an asteroid. Instead, his drone army had swept across the world, decimating everything in its path. 

He found more evidence in a hollowed-out bunker near the remnants of what would have been Central Park. His name was scrawled across a rusted memorial wall alongside hundreds of others. His dog tags—this world’s version of them—hung from a nail driven into the cracked concrete.  

Bucky stared at the tags for a long time. He could imagine the moment you had hung them there, your fingers shaking, your heart breaking.  

This was the universe’s cruel twist: in this world, he had died in the battle against Ultron. 

He had been the one ripped away from you.  

The rest of the story came from whispers, fragments of information he gathered from the few survivors he encountered. Most were too broken, too terrified, to speak more than a few sentences, but they all spoke of one thing: the Catalyst.  

“She wasn’t always like this,” one man had said, his voice trembling as he huddled in the corner of a makeshift shelter from scrap metal. “She used to be a hero. Fought against Ultron with everything she had. But when he killed Barnes—”  

His breath hitched, knowing the mask obscured him from this civillian’s view.

“—She lost it. Hunted Ultron down, tore him apart with her bare hands. But then she… she took his parts. Built something with it.”  

“Built what?” Bucky pressed, his stomach twisting.  

“Armour. Weapons. Something stronger than anything the Avengers had. But it did something to her—got in her head, twisted her. She’s not human anymore. Not really. Just anger and grief and—and…”  

“And power,” Bucky finished grimly.  

The man nodded. “She destroyed Ultron. Destroyed his whole army. But she didn’t stop. She just kept tearing down everything in her path. Now she’s… she’s…. If you see her, you run. You don’t fight. You don’t talk. You run.”  

—

That night, Bucky sat alone in the ruins of what would’ve been the Avengers tower. He stared at the fire he’d managed to build. 

The image of you—this you, the Catalyst—was burned into his mind. He’d seen a glimpse of it through Strange’s portal, but now the reality of it was just starting to sink in.

You had always been so full of life, so determined to make the world a better place. How could you be the very thing tearing it apart in this universe? How could you let grief do this to you?  

He clenched his fists. He should’ve gotten here earlier. 

This version of him had failed you. He should’ve fought harder, been faster, or something. Maybe if he had been, you wouldn’t have had to face Ultron alone. Maybe you wouldn’t have—  

“Stop it,” he muttered to himself, running a hand through his hair. “It’s not your fault.”  

He knew he could not control what this universe’s version of him did. But the guilt ate him up anyway.

—

The next day, he found the first sign of you.  

In the centre of the ruins stood a towering monument of burned metal, forged from the remains of Ultron’s drones. It was a grotesque structure, its sharp edges gleaming like shark teeth in the dim light.  

He looked around, realising this would’ve been the Rockefeller Center— where he had taken you on a date, ice skating in the cold winter with Christmas lights surrounding you. 

Bucky approached cautiously, his eyes narrowing as he studied the details. The surface of the monument was etched with symbols—some binary, some human words. 

This wasn’t just a monument. It was a warning.  

She’s close, he thought, gripping his rifle tighter.

The ground trembled beneath his feet. Suddenly, a low hum rose in the air. He turned sharply, his heart pounding as the shadows moved around him.  

And then he saw you.  

You descended from the sky like a vengeful god, clad in sleek, silver armour forged from Ultron’s technology. It clung to you like a second skin, pulsing with an unnatural light. Your eyes glowed with the same energy, and the air around you crackled with raw power.  

For a moment, Bucky couldn’t breathe. It was you— but at the same time, it wasn’t. It was the face he loved, the lips that once kissed him goodnight, the eyes that soothed him after he woke up from one of his nightmares. Yet something was wrong. This wasn’t entirely the person that had been his world. This version of you was twisted— destruction incarnate. 

But he could not stop the leap of joy his heart made. At least you were alive.

“You’ve come to stop me,” you said, not even lifting your eyes. Your voice echoed unnaturally. It was layered, as if a hundred versions of you were speaking at once.  

Bucky stood his ground, heart pounding as you, —no, the Catalyst— stood still. The pieces of Ultron’s remnants shimmered with an almost ethereal glow, stitched together into a terrible masterpiece that trapped you like a tomb. Your face—once warm and full of life—burned with an inhuman intensity, flickering like a dying sun.  

“I’ve come to bring you back,” Bucky replied, his voice steady despite the hammering of his heart. Slowly, he took off his mask.

Your expression flickered, just for a moment. As if he was a crack in the armour.  

You recognised the voice. 

“You’re— ,” you whispered, your voice layered and fractured, distorted by grief and the technology that had consumed you. Your eyes snapped up to meet his. “You came back to me.”  

The words hit Bucky like a blow to the chest. I did, doll. He wanted to say. I will always come back. 

But he knew this version of you wasn’t his, so he swallowed hard, keeping his rifle lowered.

You froze, your head tilting slightly as you studied him. You weren’t satisfied without an answer. “James?”

Bucky’s heart twisted. For a moment, he saw a glimmer of the person you had been, the love you had shared. 

Kill me now, he thought, before I have to kill you. 

But he knew the cost of that. He knew failing would mean he had failed you. 

“I’m here to help,” he said softly. 

You stepped closer, unsure whether to reach for him— a fragment of your old soul begging you to stop this madness — or strike him down— an instinct the Catalyst had developed. Your glowing eyes traced every inch of him, lingering on the scars lining his face, the haunted look in his eyes. 

Your fingers twitched, and for a moment, you looked lost.  

“You’re different,” you muttered to yourself. “The scars… the way you stand”  

Realisation dawned, and with it, the fragile hope in your expression shattered. You took a step back, the electric storm around you surging to life again. “You’re not my James,” you hissed, your voice bitter.  

Bucky didn’t flinch. “I’m not,” he admitted. “But I know what he meant to you. What you meant to him.”  

“Why would someone else’s James come to me?” you demanded, your voice rising, the ground beneath you cracking with the force of your grief. 

“Because I couldn’t save you in my world,” he said, his voice breaking. “But maybe I can save you here.”  

For a moment, the storm faltered, the energy around you dimming. But then your eyebrows furrowed, hands curling into fist, your grief boiling over into fury.  

“You think you can save me?” you snarled, your armour shifting as weapons emerged from its surface—cannons, blades, and glowing surges of energy. “You think you can take my pain away, make it disappear? You have no idea what I’ve done. What I’ve become.”  

The first blast came without warning. Bucky barely had time to dive behind the concrete of a collapsed building as a searing beam of energy scorched the ground where he had stood.  

“Don’t make me do this!” he shouted, rising from cover and firing a warning shot. The bullet ricocheted harmlessly off your armour.

“You came here to kill me,” you spat, advancing the attack with terrifying precision. “Just like everyone else!”  

“No!” Bucky’s voice cracked as he dodged another strike, rolling into a crouch and raising his hands. “I came here to stop this. To stop you.”

“And how do you think that ends?” you snapped, the storm of energy around you growing more volatile. “I know what I am. I’ve seen what I’ve done. There’s no stopping it.”  

You lunged at him, your speed too quick for him to process. Bucky barely managed to block your strike, your armoured fist colliding with his vibranium arm in a deafening clash of metal. The force sent him skidding backward, but he held his ground.  

“I know you’re still in there!” he shouted, his voice desperate. “I know you don’t want this!”  

“I didn’t want any of this!” you screamed, unleashing a wave of energy that knocked him off his feet. “But he left me! He—he died, and I—” Your voice cracked, and for a brief moment, the storm flickered, your grief breaking through the madness.  

Bucky scrambled to his feet, his chest heaving. “He wouldn’t want this,” he said, his voice softer now. “I don’t want this.”

Tears streamed down your face, glowing faintly as they fell. “I can’t stop,” you whispered, your voice shaking. “It’s too much. It’s too—”  

The storm surged again, and Bucky knew he was losing you.  

“I’m sorry,” he said, gripping his rifle tightly. “I’m so sorry.”  

You raised your hands, energy crackling between your fingers, but instead of attacking, you froze. A look of clarity crossed your face—a moment of realisation.  

Bucky lowered his rifle once again.

“You can’t let this happen again,” you said quietly.  

Before Bucky could respond, you turned your gaze to the glowing core embedded in your armour—the source of your power.  

“No,” Bucky said, stepping forward. “Don’t—”  

“It has to end,” you interrupted, tears spilling down your cheeks. “Promise me, James. Promise me you won’t let another version of me become this.”  

“I can’t—”  

“Promise me!”  

His throat tightened, and he nodded. “I promise.”  

A faint smile touched your lips, and then you placed your hand over the core. The energy around you flared brightly, pulsing like a heartbeat.

“Thank you,” you whispered.  

And then, a blinding light flashed before his eyes. You cried a violent shriek as you cast yourself into nothingness.

When the light faded, Bucky stood alone in the ruins, the air eerily still. Your body was nothing but ash, armour scattered across the ruins. The glowing core was shattered, its energy dissipating into nothing.  

Bucky dropped to his knees, his hands shaking as he stared at the spot where you had stood. He had lost you all over again. 

He had failed you all over again. 

—

Bucky stumbled through the portal Strange had opened for him, his body worn, his breaths shallow.

“It’s done,” Bucky said, his voice hoarse. He dropped a silver shoulder piece, a part of your armour—a fractured piece of the nightmare you had become—onto the floor of the Sanctum Sanctorum, in the space between them. “She’s gone.”  

Strange nodded, but said nothing.  

Bucky glared at him, his grief rapidly turning into anger. “You knew, didn’t you?” he growled, “You knew she went mad because she lost me. Why didn’t you tell me?” 

Strange met his eyes, “Because it wouldn’t have changed anything.”  

“That’s it?” Bucky demanded, his voice rising. “I’ve lost her twice now, Strange. Twice. And I—” His voice broke, and he turned away, rubbing a hand across his eyes.  

No crying today. He’s grieved over you. He’s done. 

No crying, Barnes, he insisted again.

“I wish it ended here,” Strange said quietly. 

Bucky’s head snapped back sharply, his heart sinking deeper in the abyss it was already stuck in.

Strange hesitated, his hands clasped behind his back. “This wasn’t an anomaly,” he said finally. “In every universe I’ve observed, when you die, she becomes the Catalyst.”  

He stumbled back a step, shaking his head. “That… that can’t be true.”  

Strange’s gaze softened, but there was no comfort in his expression. “It is,” he said. “Her love for you is not only her greatest strength, but also her greatest weakness. Without you, her grief consumes her. It changes her.”

“So what?” Bucky spat bitterly. “You’re saying she’s doomed to destroy the multiverse?”  

“No,” Strange said, his voice firm. “Not if you intervene.”  

“You want me to… to do this again?” Bucky froze, his blood running cold. “To watch her die again?”  

Strange’s silence was answer enough.  

“Fuck,” Bucky muttered, raking his fingers through his hair, wanting to pull them out so badly. “How many times, Strange?”  

“As many as it takes,” Strange replied solemnly. “If we don’t act, the Catalyst will dismantle the multiverse, piece by piece. She doesn’t stop at her own world. Her grief is a hunger—a need to destroy everything, to erase the pain.”  

Bucky sank onto a nearby chair, burying his head in his hands. The thought of facing yet another version of you—of seeing your face twisted by grief again, of failing to save you again—was unbearable. 

But what choice did he have?  

“Are you ready for this, Sergeant Barnes?” Strange asked.  

“No,” Bucky admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. He lifted his head, his eyes red. “But I’ll do it anyway.”  

— 

Every time Bucky stepped through another portal, he braced himself for the inevitable. Some universes were barely recognizable—worlds where humanity had advanced far beyond what he’d known, some were distant worlds ruled by psychopathic overlords.  

But in every one, you were the same. You met him. You fell in love with him— some evil villain decimated Earth, and this world’s version of Bucky perished in the fight.

When he was gone, your grief forged you into the Catalyst— destroyer of whatever force had destroyed earth, salvaging your victims’ weapons to make you more powerful.  

Sometimes your armour was made from Ultron, like before. Other times, it was pieces of Thanos’ gauntlet, or the living metal of Ego the Living Planet. In one universe, you wielded the shattered fragments of Mjölnir. 

You weren’t even close to worthy, but your grief was so powerful that you had bent enchanted Asgardian steel into submission. 

Each encounter started the same way.  

You mistook him for your James. There was always that flicker of hope in your eyes, that fragile moment where you thought he had come back to you.  

But then you noticed the differences—the scars, the way he moved, the subtle sadness in his eyes. 

And the hope turned to rage.  

“Who are you?” you would demand, furious. “Why do you look like him?”  

Bucky tried reasoning with you every time, pleading for you to stop, to let go of the grief that consumed you. But it never worked. The madness always took hold, and the fight always began.  

In the end, you always destroyed yourself. It’s as if he was doomed to watch— doomed to be a captive audience to your death— over and over and over again.

—

The first time Bucky killed the Catalyst, it nearly broke him.

He had spent weeks, maybe months, tracking you in this icy universe. In this universe, Frost Giants took over. Bucky had been killed somewhere along the lines, and you took Loki’s staff and matters into your own hands. 

When he saw you there, standing in a cloak of fur and leather, you radiated power.

And yet, behind the glowing eyes, he could still see you. The way you tilted your head when you studied him, the smallest flicker of hesitation before you struck.

He had prepared for this. Every movement, every breath, every strike was calculated, the result of months of relentless study. He’d learned how to predict the devastating surges of energy you unleashed, how to exploit the brief seconds when your guard faltered. You were stronger, faster, almost unstoppable—but almost wasn’t enough.

When he finally got to you, he only hesitated for a second before stabbing you.

No. What have I done?

A desperate wail tore from his throat as tears burned his eyes, spilling over like a shattered dam. He cried— for the first time in months— as he watched the light in your eyes fade. 

Bucky knelt beside your dying body, whispering useless apologies as he cradled you in his arms. You looked up at him. You didn’t look at him with grief. Not anger. Not hatred. Maybe relief. Maybe love. 

And then, as life drained from your eyes, the multiverse seemed to hold its breath.

You were gone.

Again.

He had finally convinced himself that he had to kill you. He could no longer endure your suffering. Every moment of your self-destruction had been nightmare fuel—your anguished cries, your desperate screams— It was unbearable. He loved you too deeply to continue watching you suffer.

Now, he was certain— ending your life, giving you a swift death,was the only way he could stomach this mission.

—

The Catalyst was powerful in every universe, but Bucky learned how to fight you better. Most times now, he was able to kill you, to put you out of your misery because he outmanoeuvred you, predicting your attacks like a ghost of every battle you’d ever had. Other times, he got there too late, and you destroyed yourself, unleashing a final burst of power so immense it annihilated your very existence. 

Those times were harder. 

Watching you choose to end it. Watching you fall apart in his arms, whispering words he couldn’t always hear.

Still, everytime, he took a piece of you.

He didn’t know why he reached out to gather the shattered remains of your armour. Sometimes it was a gauntlet, still glowing faintly with residual energy. A shard of the crystalline crown that marked your reign as the Catalyst. Sometimes it was Loki’s scepter. 

Maybe it was instinct, or maybe it was guilt. He tucked the fragments into his pack and walked away, feeling like he had salvaged a part of you.

At first, he thought it was a way to remember you. The woman you had been, not the Catalyst you had become. But over time, the collection grew into a monument to his failure. Each weapon, each ruined piece of armour was a reminder of what it cost to keep going. To try and save you. To survive you. To kill you.

And still, he couldn’t stop.

The multiverse demanded it. The Catalyst always returned, more powerful, and Bucky would be there, each time, with the weight of a hundred battles on his shoulders and memories of the woman he loved. He’d fight. He’d win. 

He’d lose you again.

And he’d carry another piece of you, knowing it would never be enough to make him whole.

So, over time, missions chipped away at him, piece by piece.  

He didn’t smile anymore. He barely spoke, even when Strange tried to comfort him. His humanity felt like a distant memory, buried beneath the endless cycle of loss.  

Once, in a rare moment of quiet, Strange tried to reason with him.  

“You don’t have to do this alone, Barnes,” he said. “I’ve talked to Clint, Bruce, and Sam. They said they’d help.”  

Bucky shook his head, his expression hollow. “It has to be me. I’m the only one she listens to. Even if it’s just for a second.”  

Strange didn’t argue.  

—

This time, he was so devastatingly close to saving you— it was the only time you had let him reason with you. The only time you had let him talk longer than a few seconds.

In this universe, you had taken the remains of Ronan the Accuser’s hammer, merging it with Kree technology to create an unstoppable weapon. You were a force of nature, cutting down armies and leaving entire planets in ruin.  

Bucky fought you for hours, trying to get through because he saw a chance. His body was battered and broken by the end. But as he stood over you, your armour cracked and your face visible beneath your helmet, you looked up at him with tears in your eyes.  

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, your voice faint.  

Bucky dropped to his knees beside you, his hands trembling as he reached for you. “Don’t do this,” he pleaded. “There’s still a chance—”  

“You’re still my James, aren’t you?” you interrupted, your hand brushing his cheek. “You love me in every universe, the way I love you.”  

“Don’t leave,” he begged, his voice breaking. “Please, don’t leave me again.”  

Your smile was soft, bittersweet. “I never really left, James. I’m always going to be a part of you.”  

And then you were gone again, an agonising cry as you self-destructed.

He was alone again.

—

As long as there were universes to save, as long as there was a chance to save you, he would keep fighting—no matter the cost.  

Today shouldn’t’ve been any different.

He stepped through the portal with his usual grim frown, expecting to face another version of you consumed by grief, transformed into the Catalyst.  

But what he found instead… was peace.

The world was whole. The sky wasn’t scorched, cities still stood tall and bustling, and the air hummed with life. It felt… normal. 

And then he saw you.  

You were sitting at a small café on a sunlit street, your hair loose, a soft smile playing on your lips. There was no armour, no glowing energy, no storm of grief around you. You looked like the person he remembered—the person he had loved.  

He died in this universe, too— he knew as much. You had his dog tags around your neck, carrying a piece of him everywhere. 

It took time for him to piece together what had happened, but he eventually got it.

In this universe, Bucky had been the one who took the gauntlet from Tony. He had been the one who snapped the stones.

Bucky’s breath caught in his throat. 

For the first time in what felt like an eternity, he felt something other than pain. He watched you laugh, the sound a beautiful melody he thought he’d forgotten. 

In this universe… you were happy.  

For days, Bucky stayed hidden in the shadows, watching you from a distance. It was wrong, he knew, but he couldn’t help himself. He followed you through your routines—your morning coffee, your walks through the park, the way you waved at the children playing by the water fountain. 

You hadn’t become the Catalyst.  

Strange was wrong, Bucky thought, a flicker of hope sparking in his chest. Not every version of you succumbed to grief. In this universe, you had found a way to move forward, to live.  

And maybe… maybe he could, too.  

The thought crept into his mind slowly. What if he stayed? What if he stepped into this world and introduced himself to you? Would you recognize something in him, a fragment of the love you had shared in another life? Could you fall for him again?  

Could he be happy?

Could the two of you put the pieces back together again?

For the first time in years, Bucky allowed himself to dream of a life beyond grief and guilt. A life with you, as he once had.

He imagined walking up to you at that café, asking if he could join you. You’d be confused, maybe a little wary at first, but he’d win you over. He’d tell you about the man he used to be, the battles he’d fought, the people he’d lost. He’d tell you how much he loved you still. And you’d tell him about your James, how similar he was to him. 

Maybe, in time, you’d fall in love with him again.  

But then he saw Steve coming home from a mission.

It was a perfect day— the sun was warm, the breeze gentle, the streets alive with chatter. Bucky stood at a distance, watching you in the park, his heart full of hope, something he thought he’d never feel again.

And then Steve Rogers appeared.  

He walked up to you with that shy confidence Bucky had known since they were kids. You stood when you saw him, your face lit up in a way that made Bucky’s stomach twist.  

Steve pulled you into his arms, and you went willingly, laughing as he spun you around.  

Bucky felt the air leave his lungs.  

He watched as Steve kissed you, his hands cradling your face like you were the most precious thing in the world. And you kissed him back.  

It wasn’t fair.  

Bucky's knees nearly buckled, as he turned away. His chest caved in, feeling like his heart had been ripped out and crushed into a million little pieces. The fragile hope he'd clung to for the last couple of days was torn from him as quickly as it appeared. 

Your laughter echoed faintly in his ears, a cruel reminder that chased him as he stumbled toward the portal Strange had opened. His head hung low, his shoulders slumped. 

He was no soldier, no saviour—just a broken man, haunted by dreams that would never be his.

—

When Bucky returned, Strange's eyes lingered on him for too long.

Bucky wasn’t covered in bruises or cuts like he usually was, but somehow he looked…. worse. The exhaustion ran deeper this time, as if the scars were invisible. “You stayed longer than usual in this one,” Strange observed.

Bucky ignored his statement. “You were wrong,” he muttered instead. His eyes stayed fixed on the ground, unable to meet Strange’s. “She wasn’t The Catalyst in this one.”

Strange froze. “What do you mean?” he asked.

Bucky’s breath hitched, his voice barely above a whisper. “She’s happy here, after my death. W-with Steve.” He finally looked up, the emptiness in his eyes enough to make even Strange flinch. “She moved on, and she’s... she’s still… her.

Strange’s eyebrows softened. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly, his tone measured, regretful. “But this is the exception, the rule. The Catalyst is still out there.”

Bucky let out a bitter laugh, but it held no humour. Only defeat. 

He ran a hand over his face before dragging his fingers through his hair. His shoulders slumped under the weight of this endless mission.“I…” he started, his voice strained. “I’m never... I’m never gonna be happy. Am I?”

Strange had no answer for him. 

—

Bucky sat on the edge of his bed in Kamar Taj, staring at the collection of armour pieces he had gathered from the other universes. Each shard was a reminder of the battles he’d fought, the versions of you he had lost.  

And now, he had been cursed with the knowledge that not every version of you that lost him succumbed to grief.

The knowledge that you were happy in that world. That you had found love again, and it wasn’t with him. That no matter how hard he tried, no matter how many universes he visited, it seemed there was no version of him that could have you.  

It was cruel.  

You had once told him he was the strongest person you knew, but in that moment, he felt like anything but. He had fought armies of aliens, faced death over and over again, but this… this was too much.  

Bucky clenched his fists, his metal hand creaking under the pressure. He wanted to scream, to punch something, to let out the unbearable weight crushing his chest. 

Instead, he picked up one of the shards of your armour—a jagged, glowing piece from an Ultron world. He held it in his hand, his reflection distorted in its surface.  

“I’m happy for you,” he whispered, his voice cracking, insincere. “Even if it’s not with me.”  

Bucky placed the shard on his shoulder, the first piece of the armour. 

It felt right— like the power of a thousand suns starting to surge towards him.

He didn’t cry. 

He never did anymore.  

Because no matter how many universes he visited, how many battles he fought, how many versions of you he saved or lost, he knew one thing would never change:  

You would never be his again. 

Every time he closed his eyes, he saw you kissing Steve, your laughter echoing in his skull.

Why should they have happiness, when he was condemned to grieve for eternity?  

Why should any universe be allowed to thrive, when his own existence was empty, meaningless?  

He began by rearranging the pieces of your armour he had collected from the other universes. Each fragment gleamed with a faint, residual energy— remnants of the immense power you had wielded as the Catalyst. He spent weeks forging his own armour.

What started as just your shoulder pieces extended to more. 

He reforged the chest piece a version of you got from the Kree, then a gauntlet you ripped off of Thanos when the Infinity Stones had been destroyed. It grew and grew until every piece of him was covered in fragments of you.

When the work was done, he stood before a mirror, clad in the armour of his own making. It was a haunting reflection of yours, humming with fragment stolen power. He didn’t recognize the man staring back at him.  

“That’s the point,” he muttered to himself, almost annoyed.  

When the destruction started, the first universe fell quickly.  

Bucky tore through its defences like a force of nature, his new armour amplifying his strength and speed. He dismantled its protectors—heroes and villains alike—efficiently. He left the cities in ruins, their skies dark with smoke, their people screaming in terror.  

No one deserved peace when he couldn’t have it.  

—

Stephen Strange felt the disturbance immediately. The multiverse’s fragile threads started to unravel as Bucky’s rampage spread across realities. 

At first, Strange couldn’t believe it.  

Bucky Barnes, the man who had fought so hard to save the multiverse, was now its greatest threat.  

Strange had hoped that by guiding Bucky, he could break the cycle of grief and destruction. Instead, reversed it. 

James Buchanan Barnes was now The Catalyst.

— 

Strange arrived in a quiet, dimly lit apartment in yet another universe. The air was filled with the scent of coffee and rain, and the sound of your muffled sobs echoed through the space.  

Yet another version of you sat on the floor, clutching a photograph of Bucky—your James—to your chest. In this universe, he was gone, just as Strange had calculated. 

“Get out, Strange.” you demanded, your voice hoarse when Strange stepped through the portal into your living room. Your eyes were red and puffy, so utterly defeated.

Strange ignored the warning, stepping through the portal and onto the ceramic tiles of the apartment. His face was grim, his tone measured. He called your name to draw you out from the grief, even if only momentarily

“What do you want?” Your voice was raw, your patience long gone.  

“It’s not about what I want. It’s what the multiverse needs.”  

You finally looked up, your eyes sharp with exhaustion. You had been running on empty for months. You didn’t have Bucky here to hold you. To kiss you when you needed him to. To ground you in this existence. “The multiverse can save itself.”  

Strange’s expression softened, but only slightly. “If it could, I wouldn’t be here.”  

You scoffed, turning back to the photo of Bucky you cradled in your arms. “You’ve got the wrong person.”  

“I wish I had,” Strange said quietly.

The desperation in his tone made you pause. You set the photo down and leaned back, staring at the sorcerer with narrowed eyes. “What the hell are you talking about?”  

Strange hesitated for a moment before speaking. 

Then he said it: the beautiful name you haven’t heard in weeks— “it’s about Bucky.”

“Don’t,” you snapped, your voice a low growl.  

Strange pressed on, unflinching. “A version of him exists in another universe. But he’s not who you remember.”  

“What does that mean?”  

Strange conjured an image with a flick of his hand, the glowing strands of the multiverse twisting together to form a vision. It was him—but not your James. His face was twisted in anguish, his body surrounded by a swirling storm of energy. Planets crumbled in the distance, consumed by the raw power emanating from him.  

“He’s become the Catalyst,” Strange said, his voice heavy. “A being driven by grief, powerful enough to destroy entire worlds. If he’s not stopped, he’ll collapse the multiverse.”  

You stared at the image, his chest tightening. It wasn’t possible. Bucky was gone. He was dead.  

“You want me to go after him,” you said, your voice flat.  

Strange shook his head. “I want you to stop him. Talk to him. You’re the only one he might listen to.”  

“And if he doesn’t?”  

Strange’s gaze was unrelenting. “Then you’re the only one who stands a chance at killing him.”  

—

In the vast expanse of the multiverse, the roles have reversed but the tragedy remained unchanged. 

Somewhere, in a distant reality, Strange watched the threads of the timelines twist and tangle. He knew the truth, the one neither of you could see:  

That as long as one of you lost the other, the cycle would never break.

•

Back in Earth-616…

After some playful back and forth splashing, you both decided it was time to get out of the bath.

You stepped out first, shivering from the cool tile beneath your feet, grabbing a towel. Bucky followed, water dripping from his hair onto his chest.

He took the towel from your hands and draped it around your shoulders. He wrapped the fabric tightly around you, as if he was protecting you from whatever evil may want to reach you. 

Without warning, he pulled you into a hug. His lips brushed against your damp hair as you closed your eyes, sinking into the safety of his embrace.

After a while, you shifted in his arms, your hands finding another towel that hung from the wall behind him. 

The corners of your lips tugged up in a playful smile as you began patting him dry, earning a soft chuckle from your supersoldier boyfriend. He didn’t stop you— he never could when you insisted on taking care of him. 

So instead, he just watched you with that lovesick expression that made your heart do cartwheels. 

Neither of you spoke; you didn’t need to. His hand stroked lazily up and down your back, and your fingers traced patterns along the scars that marked his skin. 

As much as you hated seeing him hurt, you knew that he was safe. And that’s all that mattered. 

Because, in this universe, you were so blissfully unaware of the fragility of this peace, the fragility of your emotions. You remained unaware that in countless other universes, losing each other had broken you both. Unaware that in most other realities, there was no escape from the sadness that came with the death of one and not the other.

But in this one, none of that mattered. Because here, in this small bubble of love, you would keep each other grounded.

So as long as you both lived, you would stay blissfully unaware of the horrors your variants had to endure.

-end.

[binkybonkybucky]

i love it when the reader is an actual threat to bucky despite being just a human. she hardly did a thing to him other than be powerful and alluring and just from her personality alone, he was falling head over heels. this whole dynamic was so well written, i absolutely loved the way they interacted with each other.

Bloody Mary

Summary : When you inherit a criminal empire from your father, Bucky Barnes decides to investigate you. He hadn’t expected you to be so… charming.

Pairing : Bucky Barnes x mob boss!reader (she/her)

Warnings/tags : Lots and lots of sexual tension, sexual themes, power dynamics, fluff and a bit of angst. Canon-compliant-ish. Jealous!Bucky, Congressman!Bucky. Mentions of trauma, death, slight violence. Daredevil makes a cameo. Your mafia nickname is ‘Bloody Mary’ but isn’t mentioned too much. Obsessive and possessive-ish love. Bucky stalks you at the beginning but it's for work.

Word Count : 7.5k

Notes : Hi all! There are so many great stories out there with mob!bucky, so I played around with the idea and ended up with this! I just really love the idea of Bucky falling in love with powerful women lol. Enjoy!

Your father’s death was not a tragedy.  

It was an inevitability.

The man had too many enemies. He had ruled Manhattan’s underworld with an iron fist. The rich paid for his protection, laundering their wealth through the bullshit fine art sales that acted as a front to his criminal empire. Money flowed in through the gallery, and with it, he had an unspoken rule: if you wanted to do business in Manhattan, you paid your dues to your father.  

For years, you watched him build and maintain that very empire, knowing you would one day inherit it. You grew up surrounded by men who respected your father not because they believed in him, but because they feared him. He was one of those assholes who simply believed in the natural order of things— that power belonged to those strong enough to hold it.  

When he died— poisoned, most likely— you didn’t cry.  

You just sat before your father’s grand mahogany desk. 

For years, your father’s enemies called you Bloody Mary– a reference to the ghost, but more likely, the queen who came before. They thought of you as your father’s most loyal asset. But that couldn’t be further from the truth.

Your family, your father’s men, gathered after the funeral, waiting to see what you would do. Some expected you to crumble under the slightest bit of pressure. Others expected you to follow in your father’s footsteps, continuing the cycle of violence without hesitation.  

But they underestimated you.  

You took your father’s empire and turned it on its head.  

The rich still paid their dues. You still ran the protection racket. The fine art front still laundered money. On the surface, it looked like business as usual.  

But behind the scenes, you didn’t hoard wealth anymore, you gave it off into schools, clinics, food banks— places that actually mattered. You paid your men well so they never felt the need to betray you, and you never kept more than you needed to keep up appearances.

You had done something your father had never thought to do: You built your men’s loyalty based on something stronger than fear.  

You built respect. 

You gave them purpose beyond mindless violence and greed.

Still, you were brutal… sometimes. You made examples out of those who crossed the line, but you never ruled through unnecessary cruelty. 

You spent so many years watching your father’s empire rotting Manhattan to the core. 

But under your rule, you would reshape the city.

—

Bucky had been watching you for weeks.  

Daredevil had passed the tip that the Bloody Mary had taken over her father’s empire, and Bucky, still getting used to his new role as a congressman, had decided to investigate you himself. He expected the usual— a power-hungry heir stepping into their father’s shoes, making sure the cycle of violence and corruption stayed alive. 

Your family’s protection racket, laundered through the illusion of fine art sales, had made your family filthy rich. You could have kept it going, could have doubled your wealth and expanded your influence. But that was not what you did.

The more he watched you from the shadows, the less it made sense to him.  

He observed you handling money, moving millions through shell companies and offshore accounts. 

Dirty money. That much was clear.  

But then he saw you funnel that same money into anonymous donations. He tracked the transactions, saw the new school supplies, the renovations, the overworked but relieved doctors who suddenly had the medicine they needed to save lives. 

At first, Bucky thought it was just an act, a way to buy public goodwill while you conducted business as usual. But he soon realised it could not possibly be the case.

Your donations were always anonymous. 

You were doing this because you wanted to.

And your men— oh did they adore you.

Not out of fear. Out of loyalty. And that, Bucky knew, was more dangerous than any brute force.

Still, he wasn’t convinced. 

But then, he saw you meet with an old woman in a tiny flower shop tucked between two high-rises.  

—

Mrs. Abram had been running the shop for decades, selling fresh-cut flowers in a small stall. She has had this business since you were just a little girl, giving you day-old daisies when you walked home from school. 

She had no idea who you really were—just that you were a loyal customer, always stopping by to buy a bouquet when you had the time.  

Today, she looked worried.  

“Are you okay, Mrs. Abram?” you asked as you paid for the bouquet of white lilies that you wanted to use to decorate your mahogany table.

“Oh, my dear, I hate to burden you,” she said, frowning only a little.

“I’m all ears,” you smiled. 

“My landlord raised the rent again,” she sighed, “I don’t know how much longer I can keep the shop open.”  

You tilted your head, gears clicking together in your head. “Did he now?”  

Mrs. Abram nodded. “You know how it is, flowers aren’t exactly high-profit.” She gave you a sad smile. “Maybe it’s time for me to retire.”  

“Don’t worry about it, Mrs. Abram,” you said, leaving a good tip on the cash register, “Things have a way of working themselves out.”  

That night, Bucky followed as you and your men hunted down her landlord— a corrupt official, one who owned more than a few buildings and had a habit of extorting his tenants.  

Bucky watched from the rooftops as you dragged the man into a dark alleyway, as you told him to lower the rent or never see the light of day again.

He nodded, terrified.

And just to make sure he understood the gravity of the situation, you had your men break two of his fingers before sending him on his way.  

Then, as if that wasn’t enough, you had one of your people anonymously pay for Mrs. Abram’s rent for the next twelve months.  

The next morning, Bucky was watching from across the street as you passed by the flower stall.

Mrs. Abram beamed at you. “Oh, my dear, you will never believe it!” she called out, “My landlord had a change of heart! He lowered my rent back down. Said he had a revelation last night. And that a kind stranger paid for a year of rent upfront!”  

You gasped, faking wide-eyed innocence. “That’s wonderful, Mrs. Abram.”

Bucky exhaled as his super-soldier hearing picked up the entire conversation.

“Oh.”  

This was not what he expected at all.

Now, he wasn’t sure what to do about you.  

So he kept watching.  

Until one night, you forced his hand.  

— 

It was almost midnight when you stepped into your penthouse. Bucky was already there, sneaking in hours earlier to find a document, more evidence, anything– anything at all– to justify him watching you for weeks.

He hid behind a pillar when you walked in, lurking in the shadows.

You took off your coat and dropped your keys onto the marble counter.

Okay, Bucky thought to himself. Once she’s out of the living room, I’ll get out of the house.

"It’s rude to follow a lady into her home, congressman."

Bucky froze. 

Fuck.

Then he stepped out of the shadows.

"You knew?" He asked, but there was an undertone of curiosity in his voice. 

You turned, finally meeting his stare. There was no fear in your expression, only maddening confidence. A sweet smile curled at the edge of your lips.  

"Did you really think you were being subtle?" you confirmed.

Bucky shifted his weight. "Why didn't you say anything?"  

You shrugged and began walking toward the hallway. He hesitated for half a second before following you.

"I want you to figure it out yourself," you said as you pushed open the bathroom door but didn’t bother to close it. “I know the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen thinks I am an extension of my father, but he believes that because I want him to believe it. And now you know I’m not the bad guy.”

Bucky leaned against the doorframe. "So what exactly are you?"  

You didn’t answer. Instead, you reached behind you and pulled the zipper of your dress down, the silky fabric sliding off your shoulders. You let it pool at your feet before stepping out of it.  

Bucky quickly turned his head away, heat rising to his cheeks.

You laughed quietly. "You can look if you want." You stepped into the glass-walled shower, unhooking your bra and slipping out of your remaining underwear. "You’re not getting shy now, are you?"  

Bucky kept his eyes on the ceiling. "Jesus Christ," he muttered.  

"You’ve been watching me for weeks," you teased, turning on the shower and washing dried blood off your hands. “Surely you already know what I look like by now."  

Bucky forced himself to look at you— not fully, but enough. You were standing under the stream of water, eyes half-lidded, as you shampooed your hair. 

You were… completely at ease in your own skin.  

Bucky had been prepared for a cold-blooded crime boss. He had been prepared for easy to hate.  

He hadn’t been prepared for you.  

Charming. Smart. Good, in your own twisted way.  

And he definitely hadn’t been prepared to find you so fucking attractive.  

"Why didn’t you say anything?" he asked again as you cleaned your body with milky soap. 

You wiped water from your face. "Because I need you."  

Bucky frowned. "For what?"  

You stayed quiet for a second, washing the bubbles away. 

Then, you turned off the shower, stepping out.

“Grab me a towel, will you?”

Bucky didn't know why, but he complied.

You took it and resumed the conversation. "Because funding schools and shelters isn’t enough," you said simply. "I am still enabling people to ruin my community."  

You wrapped the towel around yourself, walking past him like he wasn’t even there. He followed you into the bedroom.  

"I can give you the names of the people arming the streets," you said, opening a drawer and pulling out a fresh set of comfy lounging lingerie. "The people pumping drugs into the city. The corrupt cops." You turned to face him. "But they can’t know it’s me."  

Bucky crossed his arms, realising what you truly wanted. "You want me to be your middleman."  

You sat down in your bed after putting at least something on, but still showing too much skin for Bucky to think straight. "I want you to do something about it, congressman. Because I can’t."  

The filthy rich still thought they were untouchable. But now, you wanted to double-cross them. Funding communities wasn’t enough for you anymore. 

Bucky exhaled, dragging a hand down his face. He should walk away. This wasn’t the kind of alliance he was supposed to make.  

But you had information.  

And God help him, you were just so fucking persuasive.  

"Fine," he said finally. "But I’m not covering for you if this goes south."  

—

Over the next few months, your alliance grew stronger.

You and your men fed Bucky intel. He took it to the right people. Major players and corrupt government officials began dropping like flies—arrested, exiled, convicted. No one suspected you.  

Through it all, you and Bucky kept meeting. Sometimes in your penthouse, sometimes in the back room of an upscale restaurant, sometimes in a dimly lit alleyway where no one would hear you whispering names in his ear.  

At first, he called you by the name, too. Bloody Mary—like you were just another villain in the long line of Manhattan’s criminals. You did not like that. It was a name your enemies had given you. You never called yourself that. Neither did your men.

To them, you were just you.

Somewhere along the way, Bloody Mary stopped making sense.

Somewhere along the way, you stopped being just a crime boss to him.

So when he started referring to you by your name—your real name— you just smiled.

Because you knew.

You had him.

—

Bucky didn’t know why he agreed to meet you like this.  

A casual coffee walk, in broad daylight, as if you weren’t a crime boss feeding a congressman classified intel over overpriced lattes. As if you weren’t two people on opposite sides of a game neither of you should be playing together.  

And yet, here he was.  

The late afternoon sun blanketed the city in gold as the two of you strolled down the sidewalk, your coat draped over your shoulders. 

“Four big investigations in a week,” you quipped, sipping your coffee. “Busy week for the feds.”

Bucky laughed in sarcasm. “It’s almost as if someone’s feeding them information.”  

You shot him a knowing smile over the rim of your paper cup, knowing full well what you did. “Weird.”  

Bucky shook his head. He should’ve been used to this by now— the way you played with fire so arrogantly, never once thinking you might get burned.  

You walked another block, your voice just loud enough for him to hear. “The Blackwoods are smuggling firearms in waves. I’ve got two underboss names for you. Lou White and Carter Yeun. They’ll be at the warehouse on 34th Street in six days, moving a shipment.”  

You were close enough that Bucky caught the faintest scent of your amber and spice perfume. It messed with his focus more than he cared to admit.  

He nodded. “I’ll get someone on it.”  

You smiled like you’d already known he would. 

As you neared the familiar little flower stall tucked between two high-rises, you slowed down. “Oh, look," you said, nodding toward the stall. "Mrs. Abram is working today."  

Bucky followed, watching as the old woman meticulously arranged a bundle of fresh daisies, her weathered hands moving with care.  

You slowed your pace, and without thinking, Bucky matched yours.  

Mrs. Abram looked up and smiled. "Oh, my dear! I was just thinking about you. I just got fresh batches today.”

Bucky watched as you ran your fingers over the different kinds of delicate petals. Your eyes seem linger at the colourful tulips. “These are gorgeous.”

Mrs. Abram nodded. “A beautiful girl like you deserves beautiful things."  

Bucky didn’t even think before he spoke. "She does."  

You paused, glancing at him. Bucky could feel the heat rising to his cheeks, but he refused to look away.  

Mrs. Abram, bless her, was oblivious to the tension shifting. "What a gentleman! Would you like to buy her a bouquet, dear?"  

Bucky knew he should say no. He should let you pay for your own damn flowers and keep things professional between you. But instead—  

"I’ll take the tulips," he said.  

He wasn’t sure why he did it—maybe it was the way you looked so… normal with civilians, or maybe it was the way he was starting to want things he shouldn’t.

After he paid for the flowers (and told Mrs. Abram to keep the change), the two of you walked away. 

You arched a brow. "James Barnes, buying me flowers?"  

Bucky exhaled, hastily handing you the bouquet you were going to get anyways. "Don’t make it weird."  

“Are you trying to bribe me?" you considered, accepting them with a wicked sparkle in your eye.

Bucky scoffed, shoving his hands into his pockets. "You already gave me the intel."  

"So it is just a gift, then?"  

Bucky didn’t answer. 

As you twirled one of the blooms between your fingers, Bucky swore he caught the faintest flicker of satisfaction on your face— like you knew exactly what you were doing to him.

Bucky didn’t know what the hell this was, this game you played with him, but he knew one thing for certain: He was losing.

—

One night, after Yeun’s and White’s successful takedown, you stood close to him in your office, swirling a glass of whiskey in one hand.  

"You like this," you observed, looking up at him through your lashes. 

Bucky scoffed, rolling his eyes. "I like locking bad rich people away."  

"You like me, too." you corrected.  

He grinded his teeth. 

"You can admit it, Barnes,” you chuckled, handing him his own glass of whiskey as you sat on your mahogany table. A bouquet of pink daisies that Bucky had picked up for you from Mrs. Abram’s stall yesterday sat pretty next to you. “I won’t bite."  

He smiled, taking a sip. "I think you would."  

You tilted your head. "Would that be such a bad thing?"  

Bucky swallowed hard.  

You set down your glass and gesture at him to come closer. He moved between your legs, almost nervously.

You reached up, fingers grazing his vibranium arm. "You’re wrapped around my little finger," you murmured, tilting your chin up toward him. "Aren’t you?"  

Bucky exhaled through his nose. His hands twitched at his sides.  

Then—finally—he grabbed you by the waist and you smiled.

Bucky’s lips were barely an inch from yours when—  

Knock knock.

“Boss?” A voice muffled by the heavy door said.

You sighed, but there was a hint of amusement in your eyes as you pulled back. Bucky let out a ragged breath, his grip on your waist tightening for just a second before he let go.  

“Not a great time, Ollie,” you called out, smoothing your clothes like you hadn’t just been in very close proximity to the former Winter Soldier.  

Oliver, your underboss, sounded apologetic. “Yeah, sorry, but you said to tell you when the files came in.”  

Your lips twitched. You glanced at Bucky, who looked half-ready to strangle Ollie once you opened the door.

You turned your back toward the door. “Give me five minutes.”  

Bucky ran a hand down his face as soon as Ollie’s footsteps retreated. “Fuck’s sake.”  

You just smirked. “What?”  

Bucky narrowed his eyes. “You planned that.” he said, but the accusation was half-hearted. 

“I didn’t, but it’s not my fault you think too much, Barnes.” You tidied up your desk a little, bending over just enough to drive him utterly insane. “Could’ve had me already.”  

You liked this game. This will-they-won’t-they tension. You liked watching him struggle, watching him want.  

Bucky was a disciplined man, trained to endure pain and resist temptation.  

But you were testing the limits of his restraint.  

And you knew it.  

Bucky stepped closer. “You think this is funny, don’t you?”   

“I think,” you said, grabbing his chin and forcing him to look in your eyes, “that you like this game as much as I do.”  

Bucky’s neck muscles flexed. His eyes flickered to your lips, then back to your eyes. He wanted to wipe that smug look right off your face.  

Maybe with his mouth.  

“Now, come on, Congressman,” You patted his chest lightly as you stepped past him. “We’ve got business to handle.”  

Bucky closed his eyes and clenched his fists.  

You were going to drive him insane.

—

But that was months ago. 

Tonight, the red wine in your glass swirled lazily as you leaned back in your chair. You were sitting on the table on the balcony of your penthouse. Up here, the world felt quiet. 

On the table sat a small vase of peonies— Bucky had bought them for you this week. It had become a tradition. He insisted that it was just a nice thing to do, that he bought you flowers because he wanted to keep a good professional relationship, though you knew it was bullshit. 

But now, the beautiful blooms seemed out of place considering the company you hosted tonight.

Across from you, Eddie Blackwood reclined with the arrogance of a man who had never faced real consequences. The overprivileged, overconfident son of one of New York’s most ruthless crime lords— Liam Blackwood.

The same Blackwood whose weapon shipment had been taking over the city like wildfire. Sure, Bucky had stopped a couple, but more kept coming. 

You needed to know more, so you invited Eddie here under the pretense of diplomacy.

Predictably, he had gotten the wrong idea.

"You know," Eddie murmured, swirling his wine. "I was surprised you invited me over."

You arched a brow, feigning amusement. "Hm?”

He leaned in, the scent of his cologne sickening. It was suffocating. "My father thinks you’d benefit from an alliance marriage, Bloody Mary,” he said even as you winced at the nickname. “I didn’t peg you as the type, but then… I got your call. I’m glad we’re discussing it tonight."

From the earpiece nestled discreetly in your ear, Bucky’s voice came through. He was unimpressed and already done with this conversation.

"You gotta be fucking kidding me."

You hid your smirk behind a sip of wine.

Eddie couldn’t hear him. But Bucky could hear everything. And it was killing him.

You had asked him for a favour tonight. You had stationed him on the rooftop across the street, watching through the scope of a sniper, his finger resting near the trigger. He was there as a precaution, in case things went south.

"You’re mistaken," you said smoothly, setting your glass down.

“No?” Eddie grinned, mistaking your resistance for playing hard-to-get. “Then why did you invite me here?"

For information.

His father was too smart to talk. But Eddie? Eddie was an idiot. And you knew men like him would spill anything, given the right… distraction.

So you played along.

For now.

His fingers traced the rim of his glass before sliding onto your knee.

"He’s getting handsy." Bucky snarled in your earpiece. "I’ll fucking shoot him," 

You shook your head subtly, just enough to get your point across to the super soldier. Not yet.

Eddie, blissfully unaware of the expert marksman lining up a shot on him, let his hand drift higher, resting it on your waist.

"You're tense," he said, kneading your hip. "I can fix that."

Bucky thought, Enough.

Then a single shot rang through the night.

Eddie screamed, his body jerking backward as his wine glass shattered when he dropped it. 

Across the street, Bucky’s voice came through the earpiece, utterly unapologetic.

"Oops."

You exhaled, dabbing at the corner of your lips with your napkin before standing.

"Fuck," Eddie gasped, clutching his shoulder as blood seeped between his fingers and into his very expensive ivory suit. "You— you had a sniper on me the whole time?"

You stepped around the table. He trembled  as he realized just how precarious his situation was.

You crouched beside him, gripping his bloodied shoulder hard enough to make him whimper.

"You’re going to tell me," you demanded, "where your father’s next shipment is coming from."

Eddie’s breath hitched, "I—I can’t—"

Your nails dug in his wound. "I wasn’t asking."

His eyes darted in panic, allowing a beat of silence.

"The docks," he finally choked out, his voice shaking. "Pier 7. Two weeks from now at midnight."

“See?” You smiled, patting his cheek mockingly before standing. "That wasn’t so hard."

Eddie slumped against the chair, panting. Blood dripped onto the tablecloth, staining it red.

You leaned in one last time, "If I hear you running your mouth," you said, "the next bullet will be between your eyes."

Eddie nodded frantically. 

You tilted your head toward the door. "Get out."

The moment the words left your lips, Ollie and the rest of your men moved in, hauling him to his feet. He groaned in pain as they dragged him away.

Only when the door slammed shut behind them did you let out a breath, rolling your shoulders.

"You okay?" Bucky’s voice crackled in your ear, gentler now.

You smiled, knowing he was watching.

"Nice shot, Congressman," you said, turning toward the doors. "Get down here. I have whiskey."

"On my way."

—

Your penthouse was beautiful. 

The city lights glittered beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows. But Bucky wasn’t looking at the view.

He was watching you.

You poured two glasses of whiskey and slid one toward him. You were still in your dinner dress with a slit that rode high up your thigh.

Eddie Blackwood had touched you there.

Bucky hated it.

He took the glass. "You didn’t have to let him touch you," he said.

You leaned on the bar lazily. "Jealous, Barnes?"

Yes.

Yes, he was.

And he fucking hated himself for it.

This—whatever this was between you—wasn’t supposed to be anything more than a business arrangement. But every time another man so much as looked at you, a sense of possession coiled in his chest.

You stepped closer, tilting your head, studying him like you could read his thoughts. 

Bucky knocked back his whiskey in one go. It burned, but not as much as the fire curling in his stomach.

"You had me watching through a damn scope while he put his hands on you," he muttered, setting the empty glass down with a clink. "You think that was fun for me?"

"Relax," you teased, running a slow finger along the rim of your glass as you took another sip. "I knew you’d take the shot when I needed you to."

That only pissed him off more.

Because you had trusted him. Enough to put yourself in harm’s way, to let another man touch you, knowing that Bucky would be jealous enough to end it before things went too far.

Your underbosses still lingered at the entrance of the penthouse, waiting for your next order. 

"Ollie, Jack," you said, turning towards them. "Do you boys want a drink?"

They both shook their heads no, murmuring their refusals.

"You should go home, then,” you continued empathetically. "Be with your families."

They hesitated, their eyes flicking toward Bucky, who stood rigid by the bar. 

You reassured them, "The Congressman will keep me safe. Right, darling?"

Bucky’s grip tightened around the edge of the bar.

Jesus fucking Christ.

Your men exchanged a glance but didn’t argue. With brief goodbyes, they left.

As soon as you were alone, you turned back to Bucky as he considered his next move. 

He should leave.

He should walk out of here before this thing between you got even more complicated than it already was.

But then you took a step closer.

And Bucky didn’t move.

Didn’t want to move.

You set your glass down, and leaned in, your voice dipping into a sultry whisper against the lobe of his ear.

"You know, you have no right to be jealous, James," you mentioned, your lips just barely brushing his jaw. "You don’t even have me."

Bucky gulped.

Fuck.

"But I know you want me," you continued, your voice like velvet. "But you’re just such a gentleman. You haven’t even kissed me yet."

“I know,” he confirmed, almost with regret.

“And why is that?” You asked.

He didn’t answer.

He couldn’t.

His fingers twitched with the urge to take. 

You made him reckless.

You pulled him from the bar and pushed him onto the couch, standing tall and imposing over him, the slit in your dress parting just enough to remind him of where Blackwood had touched.

Bucky’s hands found your hips before he could stop himself, gripping tight— possessive. The same hips Blackwood had squeezed before Bucky had put a bullet in his shoulder.

"Because…" he trailed off, unraveling under you.

His grip tightened.

His chest rose and fell in ragged breaths.

Then, finally, the words slipped out.

"Because I want you to claim me."

That undid you.

You had been toying with him for months, teasing, pushing and pulling until neither of you could not see where the game ended and reality began. But now there was no mistaking it.

Bucky Barnes—Congressman, soldier, sniper—wanted you.

And he wanted you to take him.

So you kissed him.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t soft. It was raw, all heat and desperation. Your hands tangled in his hair, pulling, owning. He groaned into your mouth, his fingers digging into your hips like he was daring you to ruin him.

And you would.

Bucky pulled you down onto his lap, his hands roaming, marking you just as much as you were marking him. Your dress had ridden up high, his calloused fingers skimming your bare skin. You rocked against him, swallowing the way he gasped against your lips.

He was usually so controlled— but now he was unraveling like loose thread and you loved it.

But when you pulled back with your fingers tracing his pulse, you saw something tender in his eyes. It was more than just lust, more than just the frustration of a months-long push-and-pull finally breaking the surface.

Bucky swallowed hard, his chest rising and falling.

“You gonna run your mouth again, Congressman?” you teased, fingers still fisted in his hair.

His hands tightened on your thighs. “Depends,” he whispered, the words coming out rough. “You gonna keep pretending this doesn’t mean something to you?”

Now that was a line you hadn’t expected him to cross.

You could handle flirting. You could handle games. You could handle sexual politics. But this was dangerous.

So you could only lean in, your lips just barely grazing his again, but instead of kissing him, you whispered, “What do you want this to mean?”

Bucky’s metal fingers flexed on your skin. 

Then—

“You already know,” he rasped.

Fuck.

For all your power, for all your control— for weren’t sure if you wanted to admit it. Yet. 

Bucky was still beneath you, breath ragged, pupils blown wide. You hadn’t kissed him again. You liked watching him unravel first.

His human fingers dug into your hips and bunched the fabric of your dress. His restraint was slipping— you could see it in the way his throat worked around a swallow, in the way his hands tightened on you like he was afraid you’d disappear into thin air.

You dragged a hand down his chest. There was no more space left between you. Not physically. Not in any way that mattered.

"You’re tense, Congressman," you teased with amusement. "I can fix that."

A deep growl rumbled from his chest. "Don’t you fucking use his words on me."

He was wild. Dangerous. You liked him like this.

And when you leaned in, dragging your lips over his pulse, you felt the exact moment he shattered.

Then you lead him off of the couch and to the balcony.

—

In the morning, Bucky was still here.

You had expected him to leave. To slip out before dawn, pretending nothing happened. That’s what powerful men often did.

But instead, he was still in your bed, arm slung lazily over his eyes, chest rising and falling beautifully.

You stretched, the ache in your muscles serving as a reminder of exactly how the night had unfolded.

Bucky shifted, humming from low in his throat. Then—

"You fucked me on a balcony table." His voice was still rough with sleep, still in disbelief.

Your brow arched. "I know."

He exhaled, shaking his head as he finally turned to look at you. His hair was a mess, but he was still beautiful.

Bucky huffed, dragging a hand through his hair. "Blackwood’s blood was still on the table."

Your smile was wicked. “I know,” you repeated.

His eyes darkened.

He liked that, didn’t he?

You hummed, propping yourself on one elbow. The sheet slipped slightly, revealing the bare skin of your shoulder, the faintest trace of where Bucky had gripped you too hard and left bruises on accident— or maybe not.

Bucky flopped back against the pillows, shaking his head. “I’m gonna need to go back to therapy,” he joked. You could tell he really didn’t mean it.

You laughed, pressing your lips to his bare shoulder. "Poor thing," you teased, nipping lightly at his skin. "Invoice me. I’ll pay for the sessions.”

—

You hadn’t meant for it to become a pattern, hadn’t planned for Bucky to become a fixture in your bed, but that’s exactly what happened.   

The first night happened almost two weeks ago, now, he was coming over every other day. You’d call him over under the guise of business, giving him another scrap of intel about the Blackwood arms deal, another excuse to keep him coming. Then, when business concluded, you let him stay.   

You liked it that way.   

Your men knew the drill. You’d tell them to leave, to go home, that The Congressman would keep you company tonight. That he would keep you satisfied. 

And god, did he keep you satisfied.  

See, now, when Bucky came over, he left his title at the door. He stopped being Congressman Barnes the moment you had your hands on him. In the privacy of your home, away from the prying eyes of the world, he was your James. Just yours.   

And fuck, he was such a mess for you. 

You had him surrendering completely to your touch in less than a week, and he took to it beautifully. You liked him this way— on his knees as he tried to earn your approval. He never rushed, never took more than you gave him, and fuck if that wasn’t the hottest thing in the world. 

Because Bucky was powerful. He was respected. But here, he surrendered to you so easily, like he had been waiting for you to take the reins. Like he was enjoying being ruined.

But neither of you wanted to define it.  

Out loud, this was just business. It was just intel swapping. If you didn’t put a name to it, then maybe it wouldn’t matter that you supposedly ran a criminal empire and he had a seat in Congress. 

You convinced yourself it was better this way. 

But it was getting harder to ignore how much you wanted him… in ways that was more than just physical. You craved more, and it was starting to eat at you.   

And Bucky… he had his own ways of making things worse, even when his heart was in the right place.

He still bought you flowers every week. Always from Mrs. Abrams’ stall, always something different. This time, it was red roses.

“She’s going to like these,” Mrs. Abrams said as she wrapped them in brown paper. She had known you since you were young, back when you used to visit the stall with your mother. When you grew older, you always left a generous tip, and sometimes, she wondered what exactly you did for work. But you’d never tell her, and she never pried.

Bucky handed her the money and added a hefty tip of his own. 

“She has always been so independent,” she tucked the bills away. “It’s nice to see someone care for her like this.”  

“She doesn’t need taking care of,” Bucky shrugged. “She just likes flowers.”

“Still,” she handed him the bouquet, “it’s nice to see someone finally love her.”

He blinked, caught off guard. “You think I love her?”  

Mrs. Abrams looked at him like he was stupid. “Of course. I’ve seen the way you look at her.”  

That rattled him. He took the roses and left without responding, without letting himself think too hard about it.

But that was easier said than done. The entire walk to your building, he thought about it.  

By the time he reached your office, you weren’t there. Too busy with the Blackwood arms deal that was happening tomorrow.  

So instead, he left the bouquet on your desk, tucking a note into the wrapping.   

For the not-so-bloody Mary.

He didn’t know why he wrote it. Maybe he just wanted to remind you that you weren’t that to him. You weren’t a queen of the criminal underworld to him. 

You were just… you. 

And you were a good person, no matter what your enemies thought of you. 

—

The next night, Bucky stared out to the Hudson.

Daredevil stood beside him, arms crossed, listening intently to the distant sirens as they closed in.  

Thanks to the airtight intel you’ve collected for months, the two of them successfully took down the Blackwood arms deal, and there was a little less filth in the streets of New York.

In the warehouse, they left people tied in thick rope, mouths taped shut, waiting for law enforcement to collect them. 

Thanks to you, it had been a clean operation. No one died.   

“So. Bloody Mary,” Matt Murdock mentioned. “Still can’t believe she’s one of the good ones.”  

Bucky’s jaw clicked as he thought about you.  

The way you had looked at him, head tilted in pleasure.

So Bucky only let out a nervous chuckle, shaking his head as he turned away from the dock.

Because if Matt Murdock ever found out—if anyone did—it would ruin this little arrangement that you had.

—

He found you in your penthouse later that night.

You were perched at your mahogany desk, the red roses in vase next to you.

You barely acknowledged him at first, too focused on the numbers on the screen.  You were moving money around, no doubt— perhaps another private donation to a rehab clinic. 

Then, after you’ve wrapped everything up, you dismissed your men with a flick of your wrist.  

The second the door shut, you smiled at him. 

“Good boy,” you praised him. “Took them down, just like I told you to.”  

Bucky swallowed hard as heat grew in his stomach.

He wasn’t sure if it was the praise or the way you looked at him when you said it.

“What’s your plan now?” he asked, pouring you and himself a glass of whiskey before going out of your study and into the living room, plopping down on the couch. 

You could only follow, sitting next to him and sipping from the glass he poured for you. You considered his question for a while. 

“I’ll do it all over again,” you said. “Until I atone for my father’s sins.” You paused, letting out a short, humourless laugh. “Which is never.”

His chest tightened.  

You rarely talked about your father at all, at least not in any way that mattered. But Bucky had done his research. He knew of the trail of blood your father had carved through this city. And he had known you long enough to know that you were trying to be something different.  

“You’re a good person,” Bucky said, like it was the only truth in the world.  

And yet, you struggled to believe it.

A bitter, unrestrained laugh slipped past your lips. “Think again.”  

Good? What on Earth was he on about?

There was blood on your hands, enough to stain a lifetime. You had taken lives, burned bridges, walked through fire to build something better from the ashes. You were beginning to understand why your enemies called you Bloody Mary.

But Bucky still looked at you like you were sacred. He saw past the destruction, past the sins and the wreckage, straight where your heart was— in the right place.

It drove him mad that you didn’t see yourself the way he did.  

Then, Mrs. Abram’s words echoed in his head. Of course. I’ve seen the way you look at her.

She was right. He had spent months pretending this was just intel, just politics. But he wasn’t a good liar when it came to you. He couldn’t keep it inside any longer.  

“You know,” he carefully considered his words, “maybe the Blackwood kid was onto something. Mafia marriages are supposed to symbolise alliances, right?”  

You groaned, tipping your head back. Where on earth could he possibly be going with this? you thought. “You are joking,” you said, “No family in New York could possibly strengthen me.”  

“But I’m just saying…” he gulped nervously, leaning closer. Close enough for you to smell his expensive cologne. Close enough so that his heartbeat rang in your ears, too.

“Maybe it doesn’t have to be another mob boss,” he murmured. His lips ghosted over your jaw, not quite touching yet just a whisper away. “Maybe… it could be a congressman.”  

Your breath hitched. What?

His next words were a confession. It was a vow.

“If you wanted a king, my queen,” he said, voice soft and steady, “all you had to do was say so.”  

Oh?

You tilted your head. “What are you trying to say, Barnes?” You asked carefully, setting down your drink. “That you love me?”  

His smile faltered. Just for a second.  

Then in a voice that held no hesitation, he said:  

“Yes.”  

Your fingers curled against the armrest so tightly you might have permanently warped the cushion. 

Holy shit.

“Oh.”  

It wasn't a surprise —not really. Deep down, you’d known. You’d known it from the way he looked at you, the way his touch lingered too long, the way the lines on his forehead softened when he was around you. 

But knowing it— hearing it— was different.  

Your heart slammed against your ribs, and you even wondered if it would ever settle down again.

Bucky had never been the kind of man to say things lightly. So when he said it—yes, he meant it.

Your fingers finally reached for him. Cupping his jaw, tilting his face toward yours, forcing him to look at you the way you knew he wanted to.  

“So loyal,” you admired his beautiful features. Your thumb brushed over his stubble, tracing the shape of his lips. “So pretty.”

Bucky swallowed hard, his lips parting, pupils dilated. His breath was rattling in his chest. Little did you know, he was fighting the urge to drop to his knees before you.  

Then, you kissed him.  

For the first time, it was sweet. It was soft.  

His reaction was instant—he’d been waiting for this. His hands found your waist, fingers digging in, dragging you closer with a desperation that made heat pool low in your stomach. 

He was solid, real. You could even feel the way his muscles twitch as if to keep himself from devouring you completely.  

But you didn’t want him restrained.

You rewarded him by sinking your teeth into his bottom lip, as if to say take what you want, James.

And fuck. He did.  

He kissed you harder. His grip on you tightened, fingers splaying over your spine, pressing into your skin as if he could pull you beneath it.  

And when you finally pulled back, Bucky was wrecked.

His chest heaved, lips were red and swollen. His hands were still locked around you, and letting go wasn’t an option.

You studied him, thumb dragging over his bottom lip, feeling the way it parted under your touch.  

God.

He was lovely. He was perfect. 

It was almost laughable— how you had been so caught up in the Blackwood arms deal, that somehow, you had missed the way he completed you.  

“Maybe not a king,” you entertained his thoughts. “Maybe… prince consort.”

Bucky blinked, his brain clearly short-circuiting. 

Before he could process, your lips brushed against his ear, your voice dipping into something sinful.  

“What do you say?” Your fingers tugging his hair slightly, earning a soft pant. “Be my prince?”

And Bucky—  The former Winter Soldier— fucking melted.

“Yes,” he whimpered. He pleaded.

You smiled wickedly, fingers threading through his hair before cradling and squishing his cheeks.

“I’ll buy you the nicest ring, sweetie,” you cooed, your voice dripping with affection as you brushed a stray lock of hair from his face.  

It wasn’t a joke. You weren’t teasing. 

No, you needed him to understand that this was not just a union of alliances.  

That this was you choosing him.

And then, you said, “Because I love you too.”  

Bucky let out a shaky breath, hands tightening around your waist. He needed to anchor himself. He couldn’t even believe this was real.

Because love?

He had forgotten what that felt like.  

Affection, yes. Lust, of course. But love was something he only observed from the outside.

Love was distant. Foreign. Love was something people like him weren’t supposed to have. He had lived more than one lifetimes and never once belonged to anything.  

Until now. Until you. 

His queen.  

And fuck—he was devoted.

To your power. To your ambition. To every wicked and holy piece of you.  

He was so utterly devoted that he would place his knife in your hand and bare his throat and trust that you would not destroy him.  

And you?  

You were going to spoil him rotten.

The finest suits. The best weapons. A fucking allowance because between the mob and a literal superhero, you were the most powerful couple this city had ever seen, and you wanted him to have everything.

You wanted to know that he was yours.  

That he was precious. 

That he was loved.  

Because Bucky Barnes was yours now.

And you had every intention of keeping it that way. 

You dragged your nails down the back of his neck, unravelling his resolve. “Look at you,” you pouted adorably, “all mine.”  

Bucky swallowed hard, but he didn’t argue. 

Your lips brushed against his, teasing, just barely touching.  

“You know what, baby?” your fingers sliding into his hair, “You would look good on your knees right about now.”

He groaned, needy. 

“Say it again,” he rasped, voice wrecked.  

“Say what?”  

His hands tightened on your waist, as he dropped from the couch and sunk on the floor, peppering kisses on your thighs.

“That you love me,” he said. It was nearly a plea, nearly a demand.

“I love you, James.”  

Fuck—

“I love you, too.” 

He kissed you hard, pushing you back against back of the couch, hands grabbing, desperate, needing—

He was going to worship you tonight.  

And by morning, the entire city would know exactly who he belonged to.

-End.

If I make another one shot connected to this one where Congressman!Bucky takes mob boss!reader to a state gala for the first time, would you read it? Also, if you like this one, please send me more Bucky x Mob boss! reader. I loved writing this so much!

General Bucky Taglist :

@hotlinepanda @snflwr-vol6 @ruexj283 @2honeybees @read-just-cant

@winchestert101 @shanksstrawhat @mystictf @globetrotter28 @thebuckybarnesvault

@winchestert101 @mystictf @globetrotter28 @shanksstrawhat @scariusaquarius

@reckless007 @hextech-bros @daydreamgoddess14 @96jnie @pono-pura-vida

@buckyslove1917 @notsostrangerthing @flow33didontsmoke @qvynrand @blackbirdwitch22

@torntaltos @seventeen-x @ren-ni@iilsenewman @slayerofthevampire

@hiphip-horray @jbbucketlist @melotyy @ethereal-witch24 @samfunko

[binkybonkybucky]

gosh i love their dynamic so much. the tension that doesn’t feel like tension but definitely is tension. the boundaries that seemingly don’t exist with their nudity, innuendos, and physical contact. their roommate situation is so TFATWS coded like bucky on a budget because he’s not yet a congressman but still not trusted enough to have a real job. but lord when he slipped in i practically cheered because now he’s finally gonna have to do something with his pent up emotions and boy, did he do just that.

omg congrats on 1k!!! Could you do a smutty bucky barnes + roommate au where they're both SUPER touchy with one another (like seeing each other naked and kissing is completely normal for them) you can go wild with the rest of it

half measures

bucky barnes x reader; roommates au; breeding kink whoops; 18+; mdni

The first time Bucky sees you naked, he barely blinks.

You’re half-wrapped in a towel, skin still dewy from the shower, pacing the hallway outside the bathroom with your phone pressed to your ear. You’re so deep in the call—complaining about someone from work, gesturing with one hand while gripping the towel with the other—that you don’t even notice him at first.

And when the towel does slip, when it puddles around your ankles mid-rant, Bucky just lifts his brow from the other end of the hallway and murmurs, “You dropped somethin’, sweetheart.”

You barely react. Just huff, step back into the bathroom to grab another towel, and keep talking like it’s not the first time your roommate has seen your bare ass.

Because it isn’t.

That’s kind of how it goes between you and Bucky.

It’s been two years since you started living together. Two years of post-mission bruises, ice packs, and sleepless nights. Two years of shared couch naps, drunk hair-braiding, and fighting over the good almond butter. Two years of catching him shirtless in the kitchen and eventually not even flinching when he walked around in nothing but a towel—or less.

Somewhere along the way, the shame just…evaporated.

-

You catch the outline of it again—thick, unmistakable, pressed against soft gray cotton—as he reaches for the coffee tin on the top shelf.

It’s early. The sun’s barely up. Your eyes are still half-closed when you pad into the kitchen in nothing but a t-shirt and underwear, expecting silence. Solitude. Maybe the hiss of the kettle.

Instead: Bucky. Shirtless. Stretching.

The hem of his sweatpants rides low on his hips, waistband dipping just enough to show the sharp cut of muscle along his stomach. He’s barefoot, hair tied back in a low knot, metal arm gleaming faintly in the pale blue light from the window.

And that cock?

Full-on display. Not hard—just heavy. Thick and lazy against his thigh. The kind of casual obscenity that shouldn’t be legal this early in the morning.

You cross your arms and lean against the counter. “You know there are laws about concealed weapons, right?”

He glances over his shoulder, then down. A beat passes. He shrugs. “Ain’t concealed, sweetheart.”

You snort. “Nice one, dick.”

He chuckles and grabs a second mug from the cabinet, still shirtless, still so thoroughly unbothered. “I prefer to call it well-maintained.”

-

You’ve seen him in less.

Last Thursday, he walked into your room mid-change without knocking—again—and stopped dead in the doorway while you stood there in just a bra, one leg halfway into a pair of jeans. You didn’t move. Neither did he.

His eyes dragged over you, slow and deliberate, pausing just long enough to make you feel it.

“You always walk in unannounced?” you asked, adjusting your waistband with a casual flick.

“You always leave your door wide open?” he fired back, smirking.

It was the same look he gave you in the laundry room last month when you slipped in, towel-clad and still damp, only to find him already there—naked except for his own low-slung towel and an open bottle of detergent in hand. The towel slipped just a little when he turned to greet you.

You had looked.

He smirked. “You need somethin’, doll?”

You stared, deadpan. “Yeah. The dryer. And maybe a little less cock in my eye this morning.”

He grinned like it was the best compliment he’d ever received.

-

You should’ve stopped being surprised by now.

Especially after the shower incident.

One steamy Tuesday night, post-mission, you dragged yourself down the hall, sore and sweat-sticky, already halfway undressed. You pushed open the bathroom door with your shoulder, yanked your shirt over your head—and froze.

Because Bucky was already in the shower.

And not just in it. Enjoying it. Eyes closed. Head tipped back. Water pouring down the cut lines of his chest like a damn cologne ad.

You locked eyes through the steam.

He blinked. Lifted a brow. Said nothing for a beat too long.

“You joining me or just here to supervise?”

You rolled your eyes, grabbed your old towel from the hook, grumbled about waiting your turn, and walked out before your knees could give out.

But not before you heard the laugh that followed you down the hallway.

-

It’s not weird.

At least, that’s the lie you keep repeating.

What is weird is how natural it feels when he presses a kiss to your forehead before you head out the door. How he sometimes kisses your cheek when he passes behind you in the kitchen. How he always—always—grabs your hand in safe houses and grounds you with one kiss to your knuckles when he feels you start to spiral.

The weirdest part?

You’ve kissed on the mouth, too.

Not drunk. Not as a joke. Not even during a mission.

-

The first time it happened was after one of Stark's parties. The rooftop glittered with string lights and empty champagne flutes, Tony’s voice booming in the background as you leaned against the railing, heels dangling from one hand, hair stuck to your neck with sweat and summer heat.

You’d been watching Bucky all night.

He looked out of place in his black button-down—rolled to the elbows, top few undone—and you couldn’t stop looking. Neither could anyone else. You’d caught women glancing more than once. Caught him brushing them off with his usual grunt, his polite smile. But his eyes kept landing on you.

By the time the party started to thin out, you were tipsy on exhaustion more than alcohol. Your tight midnight-blue dress clung to your skin. The zipper was digging into your spine. You wanted to go home. He found you near the elevator, cheeks flushed, forehead damp, feet bare now, shoes swinging lazily from two fingers.

“Tired?” he asked, voice low, eyes sweeping over you like it was his first time seeing you in that dress.

You nodded. “And hot.”

His mouth curved. “Yeah, you are.”

You rolled your eyes—but your stomach flipped. You were too tired to pretend it didn’t affect you.

The elevator took its sweet time.

You were alone in the hallway when the doors finally opened. He stepped in first, holding the door with his metal arm. You brushed past him—and stopped short when the doors closed.

He was too close.

He smelled like whiskey and cologne and sun-warmed leather. His jaw was clenched. His hands were at his sides, balled into fists. And he was looking at you like he’d already decided.

The air shifted.

Then his hand was on your cheek—warm, calloused, sure. Your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt before you even realized it.

The kiss was slow.

Too slow.

Mouths brushing first. Breath mingling. One tentative tilt, and then—

Then it deepened.

Hot and hungry and overdue. His nose nudged yours. Your lips parted. He groaned into your mouth, soft and surprised, like he hadn’t expected it to feel this good.

You were still kissing when the elevator stopped.

You didn’t speak the whole way back to the apartment.

And when he pressed a chaste kiss to your temple at the front door—like the previous kiss hadn’t happened—you let him.

-

The second time was after a solo mission. Jakarta had gone wrong.

You were covered in blood that wasn’t yours. You were shaking—bone-deep, teeth-clacking, gut-twisting shaking—and your knees almost gave out when you walked through the front door.

You didn’t speak. Didn’t even try.

Bucky was there in an instant. Shirtless, barefoot, his eyes dark and soft all at once as he crossed the kitchen in three strides and caught your face in his hands.

“C’mere,” he murmured, voice like velvet and gravel.

You didn’t argue.

He lifted you onto the counter like you weighed nothing, settling between your thighs, arms curled around you like a cage. You sagged into him. Pressed your forehead to his shoulder. Clutched the fabric of his tank top like it was the only thing anchoring you to the planet.

No questions. No lecture. No what happened?

Just warmth.

Just him.

You weren’t planning to kiss him.

But then his hand drifted up your spine, fingers spreading between your shoulder blades, grounding you. His mouth brushed your temple again.

And you turned your face.

Your lips met.

It was messy—open-mouthed and desperate, salt and sweat and something wet on your cheek, you didn’t know if it was blood or tears. But you needed it. You needed him. Needed to feel something that wasn’t fear or adrenaline or the low, gnawing ache of guilt.

His tongue slid against yours. His grip tightened.

And the noise he made—that rough, hungry fuck, sweetheart sound—unraveled you.

You stayed there for a long time. Your thighs around his waist. His hand in your hair. Neither of you speaking. Just breathing each other in like oxygen.

Eventually, he pulled away, pressed his forehead to yours, and whispered, “You’re safe now.”

You almost cried all over again.

-

The third time, you remember, it was cold.

You’d both stripped off your combat gear hours ago and crawled under the scratchy safe house blanket in soft cotton and flannel, still riding the high of a mission half-failed. Your side was bruised. His knuckles were bloodied. The only light came from the dull orange glow of the old gas heater buzzing across the room.

He’d pulled you close before you even asked.

Your cheek pressed to his chest. His fingers tracing slow circles on your spine. The kind of quiet you only earned after surviving something hard. You felt it—the way his breathing calmed once you settled against him. The way he always relaxed once he knew you were near.

It started with a hand in your hair. Then his palm on your jaw.

Your eyes met in the dark.

No smile. No joke. Just breathless stillness. Like something fragile was about to break.

His thumb dragged along your bottom lip.

Then he kissed you.

You didn’t remember who moved first. Didn’t care. Your bodies twisted together, mouths slow and aching, lips sliding and parting with barely a sound. It wasn’t fast. It wasn’t urgent. It was needed.

You gripped his T-shirt like it could tether you.

He sighed into your mouth like a man who’d been waiting for permission.

And when you pressed your knee between his thighs, he groaned so softly you thought you’d imagined it.

But he didn’t stop you.

Didn’t pull away.

You stayed there for hours, limbs tangled, hearts pounding, kissing in fits and starts until sleep finally dragged you under.

In the morning, he didn’t bring it up.

And neither did you.

Because if you said it out loud, it would mean something.

And you were both still pretending it didn’t.

-

You always end up on him.

Doesn’t matter how the movie starts—one of you stretched out, the other curled in the opposite corner—it never lasts. By the thirty-minute mark, you’ve migrated. Your legs are slung over his lap. Your head’s dropped onto his shoulder. Or you’ve tucked yourself into the space between his chest and his arm like it was made for you.

And Bucky lets you. Every time.

He plays with your hair absentmindedly, like it calms him more than it does you. His metal fingers trace patterns on your knee, up your thigh, across your bare arm. His touch never leaves your skin for long. Even when the room is quiet. Even when he doesn’t say a word.

Sometimes, if he’s tired, he’ll tilt his head until it rests against yours. And when he thinks you’re asleep, he’ll kiss your hair.

You never tell him you’re still awake when he does it.

-

He always walks out of the bathroom shirtless, towel slung low, steam trailing behind him like fog. And you’re always brushing your teeth, half-naked yourself, leaning on the counter in a tank top and underwear like it’s nothing.

“You leavin’ any hot water for me?” you ask, eyeing the mirror with toothpaste foam in your mouth.

He smirks. “You’re up early.”

You shrug, swish your mouth, spit. “Didn’t sleep.”

Bucky slides behind you, impossibly close. His hand comes up—slow, careful—tucking a stray piece of hair behind your ear, brushing along your jaw with the backs of his fingers. His voice lowers.

“You should’ve come in.”

You blink at his reflection. “Into the shower?”

He shrugs, gaze dark but teasing. “Would’ve shared.”

You roll your eyes—but the throb in your stomach says you thought about it for a beat too long.

-

He always touches you when he passes.

Hand on your hip when he moves around you in the kitchen. A palm on the small of your back when he leans past you for the salt. Fingers brushing your wrist when you hand him a mug. You’ve stopped flinching. Stopped pretending to flinch. It’s normal now. Expected.

But some mornings, it’s more.

You’re frying eggs in one of his T-shirts when he comes up behind you—fresh out of bed, hair wild, groggy as hell—and wraps his arms around your waist like it’s instinct. He presses his face into your neck, breath warm on your skin.

“Smell good,” he mutters, half-asleep. “What is that?”

“Shampoo,” you whisper, biting your lip as his nose drags along your jaw.

He doesn’t move away. Just kisses your shoulder and mumbles something about breakfast before reaching around you to grab a fork from the drawer.

You try not to melt into a puddle.

-

When you’re bruised, he always notices first.

“Sit,” he says, already walking to the freezer. “Left knee again?”

You nod. It’s an unspoken ritual now. You perch on the arm of the couch, stretching your leg out. He kneels between your feet, a wrapped ice pack in one hand, the other on your thigh.

His touch is clinical at first.

But not really.

Not when his palm lingers. Not when his thumb draws slow, soothing lines over your skin. Not when he looks up at you with those steady blue eyes like you are what’s fragile—not the swelling.

“Does it hurt?” he asks softly, pressing the cold pack gently to the bruise.

“A little,” you whisper.

His lips graze your kneecap.

“Brave girl,” he says.

You can’t breathe for the next ten seconds.

-

Tonight it starts like it always does.

One of your legs draped across his thighs. Your wine glass loose in one hand. His hoodie swallowed you earlier in the night—warm and oversized, frayed around the sleeves—and your bare thighs peek out as you shift in his lap.

Bucky’s got a lazy hand on your thigh, thumb moving in slow, idle strokes. The other’s wrapped around your waist, his palm splayed over the curve of your hip like he’s grounding you there.

There’s no movie tonight. No mission aftermath. Just music—low and slow—buzzing from his phone, paired with the faint pop of rain on the window.

You’re not even pretending to care where your body ends and his begins anymore.

Your cheek is against his shoulder. His heartbeat is steady beneath your palm.

It should feel normal.

It usually does.

But tonight?

Tonight it feels different.

You don’t know when it shifts.

Maybe it’s the way his fingertips are tracing higher now—up the hem of your shorts, brushing closer to the crease where thigh meets hip. Maybe it’s the silence stretching between you like a held breath. Maybe it’s how your wine glass stays untouched on the side table while your other hand curls into his shirt.

Or maybe it’s the way you shift in his lap, just enough for your core to drag across the swell of his thigh—and he inhales.

Sharply. Quietly. But you feel it.

So you do it again.

Slower this time.

Your hips roll forward in a soft circle, lazy and experimental, like you’re testing the shape of something you already know fits.

His hand freezes.

“Sweetheart,” he says, voice tight.

You glance up at him, heart hammering. “Yeah?”

His jaw is tense. His eyes are darker now, locked on your mouth like it’s the center of the universe.

“You sure you wanna play like that?”

You pause.

Then, steady as you can, you tilt your head and murmur, “What if I’m not playing?”

Bucky’s hand flexes on your waist.

And then he kisses you.

It’s not soft. Not like the other times. Not a forehead press or a temple graze or a wine-warmed goodnight.

This is full-mouth. Deep. Open.

Need.

His tongue slides against yours and his hand cups the back of your head like he’s starving for it. He groans—deep and guttural—when you rock your hips again, grinding into the hard line of his thigh, needing more friction, more anything.

“You feel that?” he pants against your lips. “That’s what you do to me, baby.”

You moan, pushing closer, moving your hips in slow, aching circles now, your clothed cunt grinding into his thigh like it’s instinct. Like you’ve been doing this. Like you’ve needed to for months.

“Jesus,” he breathes, forehead pressed to yours, “look at you.”

His hands roam—up your back, under the hoodie, over bare skin he’s touched a hundred times before but never like this.

“You always this needy for me?” he whispers, dragging his mouth down your jaw, over the shell of your ear. “You ever rub off like this before? Thinking about me?”

Your breath stutters. “Bucky—”

“I have,” he growls. “Fucked my hand to the thought of you sitting in my lap like this. Those little sleep shorts, that soft fuckin’ voice.”

You whimper.

He grips your ass, pulling you tighter into him.

“Go on, pretty girl,” he says, lips brushing your neck, “get off on me. Take what you need.”

Your forehead drops to his shoulder as you move—slow and aching and just on the edge of frantic now. You chase it in small, desperate circles. Your body is burning. Every swipe of your clit against his thigh feels so good and still not enough.

“I—fuck, I think I’m gonna—”

“You better,” he rasps. “Wanna feel it. Wanna hear you.”

He kisses you again when you come—deep and filthy, swallowing your moans, hand cradling the back of your head like he’s trying to keep you from floating away.

You’re still shaking in his arms when you pull back, panting.

He holds you.

Doesn’t speak at first.

Just breathes with you.

Then, voice low and rough in your ear, “Next time, you’re riding something a hell of a lot harder than my thigh.”

-

You try to ignore it.

Really, you do.

You keep your headphones in when he walks around shirtless. You busy yourself with laundry. You clean things that don’t need cleaning. You scroll aimlessly on your phone until your brain goes numb.

But it doesn’t help.

Your body’s aching.

Your skin’s too warm. Your core feels swollen—tight and full and desperately aware of how empty you are. Your nipples brush your shirt wrong and suddenly your thighs are clenching together because your body remembers.

It remembers the sound he made when you rocked against him. Remembers the grind of your clit on his thigh. Remembers the way his hands grabbed at you like he couldn’t help it.

It remembers how close you were to more.

And now you’re ovulating.

You know it. Feel it. That heavy, throbbing need coiling in your belly. You can practically smell him when he walks by. Your whole body reaches for him like a magnet.

He’s in the living room now.

Reading something. Sprawled on the couch in a black t-shirt and those same gray sweatpants—the ones you know hug his cock when he’s half-hard, the ones you stared at for months before grinding your soaking cunt against his thigh like you were made for it.

You hover in the hallway, heartbeat in your throat.

You tell yourself to walk away.

But your body has other plans.

“Hey,” you say softly.

He looks up. His eyes go from your face to your legs and back again. “Hey, sweetheart.”

Your feet carry you forward. Slow. Controlled. Until you’re standing right in front of him, heart in your throat, trying not to squirm in your thin shorts and oversized t-shirt.

His gaze lingers. His fingers tighten around the spine of the book.

“You good?” he asks.

You nod. You lie.

“Can I sit with you?”

His brows twitch. He nods once. “Course you can.”

You don’t sit beside him.

You climb into his lap like it’s the most natural thing in the world—because it is, isn’t it? You’ve done it a dozen times before. Straddling him. Curling up. Seeking comfort.

But this time you’re not looking for comfort.

You’re looking for relief.

Your thighs settle around his. Your arms loop around his neck. His book is forgotten on the floor.

You can feel him under you. Warm. Solid. The thick weight of his cock softening your spine with anticipation. Your body clenches at the memory of it—what it felt like to grind down until you were shaking, how he held you through it, kissed you like you belonged to him.

“You alright, baby?” he murmurs, hands settling lightly on your waist. “You feel tense.”

“I—I can’t stop thinking about the other night,” you whisper. “On the couch.”

Bucky goes still.

You feel his cock twitch under you.

“I’ve been thinking about it too,” he admits, voice low. “Every damn night since.”

You swallow hard. “I’m ovulating.”

That gets a reaction.

His jaw tightens. His hands slide down your back, splaying low over your hips. “Is that right?”

You nod, cheeks hot. “Feels like my body’s trying to make me crawl into your lap and stay there until I’m pregnant.”

He groans.

Actually groans.

“Jesus fuck, baby.”

He lifts you slightly, adjusting the angle, pulling your hips down flush against the bulge in his sweatpants. His head drops to your shoulder as he breathes deep.

“You’re so wet for me already,” he mutters, voice gone rough. “So needy.”

You whimper when he rocks you forward.

“Don’t tease,” you breathe.

“I’m not,” he growls. “I’m about to let you fuck yourself on me again if that’s what you need.”

It is. It so is.

You start to move—slow, needy circles with your hips, dragging your clothed pussy along the hard shape of him. His hands grip your ass, guiding you. Encouraging it.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Take what you need.”

Your breath hitches. Your clit throbs through the fabric. Every pass feels hotter, wetter. Your pussy is soaked and your shorts are thin and he’s right there.

“I wanna come like this,” you whisper. “Need it.”

“Then ride me, baby. Rub that pretty pussy on my cock. Make yourself feel good.”

You don’t know who reaches for the hem first.

All you know is your shirt is suddenly too hot. Too much. You claw it over your head without grace, leaving your chest bare, your nipples already tight and aching for his touch.

Bucky’s eyes go dark. He exhales like he’s been sucker-punched. And then he’s tugging his own shirt over his head in one smooth motion, tossing it aside without ever looking away from you.

You straddle him again—knees sinking into the couch on either side of his hips—and your palms are on his chest now. Solid heat and muscle. The scars. The softness of his skin. The way his stomach jumps when your fingertips drag low.

You can’t stop. You don’t want to.

His hands move to your waistband, slow and reverent.

“This okay?” he murmurs, already curling the tips of his fingers under the band of your shorts.

You nod. “Off. Please.”

He peels them down with your underwear, knuckles brushing your thighs, your hips, the slick between your legs. His breath hitches when he sees you—soaked—and your skin burns as he drinks it in.

“Jesus,” he mutters, half in awe. “You’re drenched.”

You want to be embarrassed. You would be—if you weren’t already reaching for his waistband.

“Off,” you whisper again, tugging. “Need all of you.”

He lifts his hips and helps you, groaning as his cock springs free—thick, flushed, and aching.

Now there’s nothing between you.

No shirts. No shorts. No excuses.

You both sit still for a moment, bare and breathless, staring at each other like it’s the first time you’ve ever seen.

Then your hands are on his shoulders, your chest pressed flush to his. His cock is hot and heavy between your bodies, sliding through the slick heat between your thighs as you lower yourself onto him—not into, just onto—nestling him against your swollen, aching pussy.

You rock your hips once.

It’s obscene. Wet and thick and so close.

He throws his head back with a strangled groan, fingers biting into your hips. “Fuck—”

You keep grinding. Slow and deep, dragging your soaked folds over his cock, rubbing your clit along the shaft, coating him in slick, chasing every ounce of friction your body craves.

You whisper his name.

Again. And again.

“Bucky, Bucky, fuck, Bucky—”

He’s panting now, mouth open, eyes locked on where you’re working yourself against him.

“I should’ve taken you that night,” he groans. “Should’ve pulled your shorts aside and filled you up.”

You cry out, trembling.

“Yeah?” he pants. “You want that? You want me to fill you while you’re like this—needy and wet and beggin’ for it?”

You nod frantically, grinding harder, chasing it.

“You close?”

“So close,” you gasp. “Please, Bucky—please—”

“Come for me, sweetheart,” he whispers, pulling you tight against him. “Rub that needy little cunt on me and fucking come.”

You do.

Right then—shaking, gasping, pleasure spiking so fast your vision goes white at the edges—your thighs seize around his hips. Your core clenches violently, and your body jerks forward in a sharp, helpless grind.

And that’s when it happens.

Your soaked, swollen cunt catches the thick head of his cock just right—and takes him in.

You both freeze.

For half a second, there’s only sensation—the blunt stretch, the searing, perfect fullness of him sliding all the way in. No hands to guide him. No careful alignment. Just one slick, hungry roll of your hips—and suddenly he’s buried to the base, deep inside you, bare and hot and massive.

You gasp like you’ve been punched. Your mouth falls open in a silent cry.

Bucky barks out a strangled sound—something between a curse and a sob—and grabs your hips with both hands like he needs to anchor himself to reality.

“Fuck—” he chokes, voice breaking, head snapping back as his body bucks under yours. “Baby—baby, holy shit—”

Your whole body trembles.

You hadn’t meant to.

But you don’t stop.

You can’t.

Your pussy flutters around him, muscles clenching again and again, spasming through the tail end of your orgasm with his cock lodged deep in your slick, pulsing heat. Your body goes boneless, but your hips keep moving—small, needy circles, working every inch of him like your body knows what it’s doing.

“Bucky—” you whimper, nails digging into his shoulders, your voice already wrecked.

He’s huge inside you. You’re still throbbing from coming, and he fills you—stretching you wide, twitching against your walls. You feel every ridge, every pulse of him. You feel the drag of his veins, the heaviness of his tip grinding right where your clit swells against his pelvis.

Your walls clench again. And again.

You moan like you’re possessed.

His eyes are wide. Lips parted. His chest rising and falling like he’s sprinted a mile. His hands grip your ass, then your hips, then your waist—frantic and searching—like he doesn’t know where to touch you first.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he groans, burying his face in your neck for a second before dragging his mouth along your collarbone. “You just pulled me in, baby—you were so wet, I couldn’t stop it—fuck—”

You don’t answer.

You just keep moving.

You ride him—slow, tight rolls of your hips, not lifting off, just circling, grinding, dragging your soaked cunt along every inch of him inside you. It’s raw and primal. Your thighs are trembling, slick dripping down to his balls, and you still can’t stop.

“I—I needed it,” you gasp, hips grinding harder now, searching for that sweet pressure again. “Needed you inside. Needed to feel you fill me up—”

Bucky groans—low and filthy—and thrusts up into you, just once. Just enough.

“Yeah?” he pants, eyes blazing. “You want that? Want me to fill you while you’re this wet and needy? While your pussy’s fuckin’ beggin’ for it?”

“Yes—yes, Bucky—please—”

He snaps his hips again, sharp and deep, and that’s all it takes.

You’re already on the edge. Already oversensitive and leaking, body open and desperate and made to take him.

You come again.

Harder this time.

Your whole body arches forward. Your arms wrap around his neck like a lifeline. Your cunt clamps down on him with a fluttering grip that has him shouting.

He fucks up into you again. And again.

His cock throbs deep inside you—his release thick and hot as it pours into you, spreading warmth through your center like fire.

“Fuck—fuck—fuck,” he snarls into your neck. “I’m coming—Jesus, baby, you’re milking my cock—”

You keep grinding.

Keep circling your hips, slow and wet and possessive.

You want all of it.

Want to keep him inside. Want to feel every twitch, every drop, every moment of him falling apart inside you.

“God—” he gasps, hands flying to your back. “You’re still—still working me, sweetheart—fuck—I can’t—”

His head drops to your shoulder as his whole body shudders beneath you.

And still, you don’t stop.

You ride the wave out together—bodies locked, soaked and panting, skin sticking where it touches, heat pressing in from every angle. His cock stays hard inside you for long seconds after, twitching with aftershocks as your walls squeeze him softly.

You kiss his temple.

His cheek.

His mouth.

Soft now. Slower.

You finally stop moving.

You’re full of him. Hot and stretched and overflowing.

Your hips shift just slightly—and he groans again.

“Sweetheart,” he rasps, “you keep moving like that and I swear—”

“I’m not done,” you whisper, lips brushing his ear.

He lets out a wrecked little laugh. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You smile, teeth tugging your bottom lip. Then you clench around him—on purpose.

Hard.

Bucky growls—growls, deep from his chest—and his hands fly to your hips, grip tightening like he’s trying not to lose control again.

“Sweetheart,” he rasps, eyes locked on yours, voice almost hoarse, “don’t you fuckin’ dare—”

You rock once. A slow, teasing roll of your hips.

And that’s it.

That’s all it takes for him to snap.

He shifts fast, strong arms moving like instinct—wrapping around your back, flipping you under him in one fluid motion. You gasp as your spine hits the cushions, as his weight settles between your thighs, as his cock never leaves you. Still inside. Still thick and twitching and hardening again.

“I’m not done,” you repeat, softer this time, grinding down harder, the slick drag of your cunt making him swear.

His mouth crashes down on yours—open and deep, tongue licking into you like he’s tasting you for the first time. One hand cradles the back of your head while the other anchors your hip, keeping you open, in place, his.

He pulls back just enough to see your face.

Then he starts to move.

Not rough. Not fast.

Deep.

He draws his hips back slow, almost painfully slow, until you feel every inch dragging through your sore, swollen walls. Then he presses back in—deliberate, heavy, like he’s trying to mark you with every thrust.

You gasp.

Your legs wrap around his waist.

“Still so tight,” he pants. “Still squeezin’ me like you don’t wanna let go.”

“I don’t,” you whimper, voice cracking. “Don’t want you to ever pull out.”

He moans—filthy, desperate—and thrusts deeper, hips grinding into yours, his pubic bone pressing deliciously against your clit.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he whispers. “Take it, baby. Let me fill you up again. Let me fuck it deeper.”

He watches your face the whole time.

Watches your mouth fall open, your head tilt back, your brows draw tight when he hits that spot again and again, slow and steady and so deep it makes your stomach flutter.

Your fingers claw into his back.

“Feels—ah,—feels so good—”

“I know,” he murmurs, kissing your cheek, your temple, your jaw. “I know, pretty girl. I got you. Gonna take care of you. Gonna make you feel so full you can’t think.”

You moan, louder now, as his pace increases—still controlled, still thick and grinding, but sharper, more urgent.

He plants his forearms on either side of your head, his dog tags swinging gently over your chest as he drives into you again, and again, and again.

The slick sounds between your bodies are obscene.

You’re soaked. Spread. Stuffed full and so sensitive it’s starting to edge into something overwhelming.

And he’s still going.

“Bucky—please—don’t stop—”

“Not gonna stop,” he groans, sweat dripping from his temple. “Not until I feel it leaking around my cock. Not until I know I fucked it so deep you feel me for days.”

You cry out.

You’re close again. So close. Your body’s clenching, pulling him in deeper with every stroke, every filthy praise-soaked thrust.

“Tell me you want it,” he pants. “Tell me you want me to cum inside again.”

“I do,” you gasp. “God, please, I want it—want you—want you to fuck it into me—fuck, Bucky—”

He growls, head dropping to your shoulder.

And then he buries himself.

One final, brutal grind—and you both come.

You come hard, legs locked tight around his waist, mouth open in a strangled cry, pussy milking his cock like you’re trying to keep every drop inside.

He groans deep in his chest—his release hot and overwhelming, pouring into you with each pulse of his cock.

You both shake.

You don’t let go.

He stays inside you.

For a long time, the only sound is your breathing. The soft rain outside. His heartbeat against your chest.

Then Bucky lifts his head. Looks down at you. Kisses you slow.

And murmurs, “You better get used to waking up full, sweetheart. I’m never letting you go now.”

You smile.

Sleepy. Sore. Ruined.

“Good,” you whisper. “’Cause I’m not letting you pull out.”

-

The storm comes in just before dawn.

Rain taps gently at the windows, soft and rhythmic, like the world outside is trying to stay quiet for you.

Bucky’s got one arm under your head, the other sprawled across your lower back. His fingers trace lazy shapes into the curve of your waist, the same way they did while he was still inside you hours ago—slow and steady, as if memorizing the feel of your skin was something sacred.

You’re curled into him, legs tangled beneath the sheets, skin sticky with dried sweat and something far messier.

His cum is still dripping down your thighs.

You should probably get up. Clean yourself off. Say something.

But neither of you moves.

You just breathe.

Bucky’s heart is slow and solid under your cheek, beating like it belongs to you now.

“You awake?” he murmurs, voice gravel-rough.

You nod against his chest. “Yeah.”

Another beat of silence. Another small pattern traced against your hip.

“You pulled me in.”

You smile. “I know.”

“I was trying so hard not to do anything stupid. Not to cross that line.”

Your eyes lift. His are already on you. Clear. Honest.

“I didn’t want to fuck this up,” he says quietly. “I didn’t want to ruin what we have.”

You reach up, cup his jaw, run your thumb along the day-old stubble. “You didn’t ruin it.”

He kisses your forehead. Then your nose. Then your mouth—soft and slow and deep enough to say I’m yours.

When he pulls back, his voice drops, throat thick.

“I’m not pulling out next time either.”

Your breath hitches.

He watches your reaction carefully.

You nod. Just once.

“Okay.”

“Okay?” he echoes.

“Okay, Sergeant,” you whisper, nuzzling closer. “You can fill me every night if you want.”

He groans into your hair, full-body and content.

You both drift off again like that—naked, warm, still slightly open around him, still full of him, still riding the high of finally letting yourselves fall.

No more teasing. No more almosts.

Just you and Bucky, skin to skin, the storm outside, and nothing left in the way.

[binkybonkybucky]

as a fellow 5’0 girlie this was an absolute delight to read. i remember watching thunderbolts and finally clocking how tall john walker is after they push over the concrete slab and we can see all of them in a line with yelena. i still can feel the shock when i compared bucky to yelena like “ohmygosh he’s so big” and then next to bucky was an eVEN BIGGER JOHN and he MADE BUCKY LOOK SMALL 😫 trust i was going crazy in my head like “uh oh don’t ever let me near john walker bc id be eye level with his tits”

short n' sweet

Pairing: John Walker x short!reader

Word count: 850

Description: You leave quite an impression, short and sweet to be exact. John is obsessed. The way he can mandhandle you. Lift you up to reach things. Cage you under his body while his hand covers your entire face.

Tags/Warnings: no specific height mentioned but the whole thing is about being short, smut, size kink, John being down bad, dirty talk, praising.

Note: Someone asked me what I thought about John having a size kink with a short reader, so I just had to write a little something about this bc I'm 5'0 to be exact and I need a piece of that 6'2 man. Just a cute little something while I finish a longer angsty fic, enjoy 🫶🏼

The archive | Masterlist

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John Walker absolutely gets off on being big.

Because he IS big. He's tall, back is broad as hell, he's got that healthy I've-been-an-athlete-my-whole-life body, and don’t even get me started on those large hands.

John knows he's usually taller than most people he meets, with the few exceptions of someone like Alexei for example. He doesn’t really think about it much, because it's been like that his whole life.

Until he meets you.

The first time he really notices just how much he towers over you? How he could lift you up and put you anywhere like it's nothing?

Yeah, you bet he’s done for.

He’s standing behind you during a mission briefing, pretending to listen to Yelena talk tactics, when suddenly his focus shifts. To you in front of him. Or more accurately, below him. The fact that your head barely reaches his shoulders fucks something in his brain chemistry.

After that? he just sees you differently.

He notices everything. How you always have to get on your tiptoes to reach anything. How your legs dangle when you sit on the kitchen stool. How he had to literally lift you over his shoulder to help you climb a wall in a mission. His heart, and something else, didn't leave him alone the rest of the day.

Or that one time you tripped and he caught your hand before you fell, your palm swallowed by his. He looked down at that size difference and again … his body betrayed him.

And once he has you? Once you’re his?

He's down bad.

He’s suddenly placing things on higher shelves in your room, in the kitchen, anywhere. Just so you have to ask for his help. Or so he gets to wrap his arms around you from behind and lift you. Preferably the last one.

One time Yelena caught on and screamed at him because she couldn’t reach the cereal box and “not all of us have a bodyguard to get shit down for us, Walker!”

He doesn't care.

When he sees you siting on a stool, feet not touching the ground. He’ll lean down, tilt his head and go, “You comfy like that, sweetheart?” and then lift you off the stool to plop you on his lap instead. “There. That’s better.”

But he doesn’t mock you for your height. Never. He teases, yeah, smirks when you try to reach something on your own, maybe picks you up when you least expect it just to hear you yelp. But he would never make you feel small in a bad way.

Why would he complain when it makes him feel like he’s got a purpose? Like he’s built just for you?

When he can just manhandle you whenever he wants to?

You could be just minding your business, stretching on a mat at the tower’s gym and John just decided he needed to fuck you in that moment. He just towers over you, sweeps you up, legs dangling in front of his chest as he places you on his shoulder to carry you fireman style.

“John!!”

“Yeah?”

“Put me down.”

“I am, baby. Down on the bed.”

You don’t protest any longer. You know it’s useless. And maybe you just want him to fuck you in that moment too.

And once he’s got you in bed, all laid out in front of him, that’s when it hits him. Really hits him.

How much of a smaller frame you have against his.

Like you’re small not just in the casual sense. In the fuck-it’s-making-me-feral sense.

You blink up at him, dazed. “You okay?”

He just stares. Then swipes his thumb across your cheek, down your throat, resting it right above your collarbone like he’s measuring you.

“Yeah. I just… damn.” His voice drops lower, a little hoarse. “I’ll never get tired of how you look under me.”

He cages you in, braced on his forearms, letting his weight sink just enough to press you into the mattress. He’s not even inside you yet and you already feel like you can’t breathe, wrapped in warmth and muscle and the scent of him. Under that unfairly broad chest, your hands flattening against it to keep you from completely losing it.

He glances down. “Look at that. Can barely see your hand on me.”

Then he grabs your wrist and holds it up to his own. Your palm being ridiculously swallowed by his.

He groans.

“Oh, I like this,” he says, and you feel the moment his restraint cracks, like it always does with you. “Fuck, I like this.”

It doesn’t take long until you’re naked, pleading to be absolutely wrecked by every part of him.

He’s obsessed with how your body looks under him. How your thighs spread wide to take him. How your hands can barely wrap around his arms, around his waist. How your mouth can barely take him.

“God, look at you baby. You sure you can take all of me?”

And sweet hell, you barely can.

He loves the way your body fights to take him. The stretch. The tremble. The way you gasp when he’s only halfway in. And he never rushes, he soaks it in. Watches your face contort with every inch, feels your nails claw at his shoulders, like he’s too much and not enough at the same time.

The way your hips twitch, the way your mouth parts when he bottoms out … it sends him.

“Hurts so good, huh? You always do so good for me, sweetheart.”

You blurt something out, breathless, shaky “so full… John” your head rolls back and he growls.

He lives for you being overwhelmed. He talks you through it in that low, his voice rough in awe. “Yeah that’s it, so full of me … you’re taking me so well, baby.”

His hand covers your entire face. Pressing you down onto the mattress, “So damn little… barely gotta try to hold you down, huh?”

You go dumb on it, completely lost on his giant frame, on the strength he still holds back, until all you can let out are those tiny, wrecked noises he lives for.

“Look at that,” he pants, pushing roughly. “You’re so full. You’re shaking, sweetheart. Think I’m too big?”

He begs to finish inside. Because you’re so small and soft and fucking perfect and he needs to feel it. “Let me, sweetheart. Let me fill you up, come on. Let me see how much your body can take.”

He fills you until it drips. He’s obsessed.

And after? He will straight up collapse on you, all sweaty and satisfied, while you’re still shaking from your high, caged under his entire body.

The cuddles hit different. You sleep on him, under him, around him. He wraps himself around you like a weighted blanket. “You okay under there?” he teases, knowing damn well you can’t move when he has his heavy arms around you.

Not that you complained anyways.

[binkybonkybucky]

i couldn’t stop envisioning bucky from CATFA and somehow that absolutely ruined me. him with the boyish smile and crooked teeth (no hate to sebastian’s invisalign) and dark curls and pretty pink lips. something about this version of bucky, the one without the super soldier serum, makes him so much more endearing. i suppose that without the serum and the arm it makes him feel more human and more attainable. but i think it’s just the rawness of his emotions, still fresh from the barracks, is what truly got to me.

I think my request is SUPER specific, sorry if it's too detailed.

1940s AU where Bucky never fell off the train, and Steve never went in the ice. They both came back home after the war.

Female reader is their childhood best friend and has been in love with Bucky for probably close to a decade. Has never dated due to it. You can choose when Bucky falls for the reader or when he realizes he's in love. He can date and mess around but it would be super cool if he was still a virgin, much to reader's surprise lol

Anyway Steve and Bucky come back home and Bucky stays with reader since Steve and Peggy are about to marry and move in together.

He's still got PTSD from being captured by HYDRA and them attempting to brainwash him, and he got a different version of the serum while he was there. Reader is the only thing that helps ground him, she's trying to make sure she's not being selfish because she's in love with him (she's not). But eventually the feelings that Bucky's been trying to bury (for her protection, because he thinks she deserves better, etc.) spill out.

Spicy: Seeing the bulge of him inside of her doing things to both of them. Bucky finishing inside multiple times, filling reader full, (breeding kink kinda), switch between soft!dom/sub Bucky. Sub is because reader is wanting to take care of him at some point.

If you write this, thank you so much T_T

The Long Way Home

1940s!bucky x reader; childhood friends au; 18+; mdni; 8k words

(doing my best to live up to this beautiful request!!!!) -

You’d been standing at the platform for what felt like hours—clutching the worn strap of your handbag, eyes flicking between the station clock and the tracks like time might move faster if you willed it. Around you, the air hummed with anticipation. Children pressed noses to their mothers’ skirts, women held white flowers or crumpled handkerchiefs, and a group of older men lingered by the bench, smoking and speaking low.

The train whistle pierced the summer haze like a knife. It was real now.

It was really happening.

Your heart surged. You couldn’t stop your fingers from trembling.

The engine hissed and screamed as it pulled in, massive and steel and alive. The brakes whined. Dust swirled. The doors opened. One by one, they stepped off—uniforms faded from dust and wear, eyes tired, hands rough with things you’d never understand.

You searched for him, breath caught somewhere in your ribs.

Steve was the first you recognized. Broader than before. Still so bright in the face despite the way the war had tried to dim him. He turned his head—and then you saw her.

Agent Peggy Carter.

Beautiful, composed, standing with one hand delicately placed on Steve’s arm, like they were a painting come to life. Steve caught your eye, smiled, and nodded once before scanning the crowd again.

But you didn’t move. Not yet. Because he wasn’t there.

Not until the very last second.

Bucky stepped off the train like he wasn’t sure the ground would hold him.

His hair was longer. Jaw sharper. Shoulders squared beneath a too-tight olive coat that strained over muscle he hadn’t had before the war. And there was something else too—something in the way he walked. Like he’d forgotten how. Like the weight he carried wasn’t just his duffle, but something deep inside his chest.

His eyes met yours. And for a second—just a second—you saw him.

The boy who used to kiss your scraped knees and chase you through Brooklyn summers. The boy who used to call you “trouble” with a smirk and sneak you candy under the table at dinner.

But then he blinked, and that softness was gone.

“Hey, doll,” he said, voice low, almost hoarse. A ghost of a smile tugged his lips, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

You stepped forward, arms opening, but his hug was brief. One-armed. Hesitant. You felt his muscles lock when you pressed against him—like even that small contact was too much. His dog tags were cool against your collarbone.

Someone clapped him hard on the back as they passed—one of the other soldiers, laughing—and Bucky flinched so violently you felt it in your teeth. He covered it fast, pulling away from you entirely.

Steve approached before the silence could settle too long.

“Thought maybe you’d changed your address,” he teased gently, giving you a careful hug. “It’s good to see you.”

You smiled back, trying not to look over at Bucky, who stood stiff as stone behind him.

“I’d never miss this,” you said. “You both look… good.”

Peggy extended her hand. “Miss [Last Name], I’ve heard a lot about you. Mostly from Steve, but enough from Bucky to know you’re the one keeping Brooklyn standing.”

You tried to smile, tried not to show how your chest ached at the mention of Bucky speaking of you at all. He didn’t look up.

Once everyone had collected their bags, Steve explained that he and Peggy would be moving in together before the fall. “Which means Buck’s gonna be looking for a place of his own,” he added, nudging his friend lightly.

“Oh,” you said, already stepping forward, the decision made before you could think. “You can stay with me. At least until you get your own place sorted.”

Bucky looked up at that. His gaze was unreadable. “You sure?”

You nodded. “Got the spare room ready already.”

He nodded once. No smile. No teasing. Just, “Thanks.”

-

That night, the apartment was too quiet.

No city noise, no record player humming in the next room, no steady creak of the radiator like usual. Just the sharp, unnatural silence of a man who hadn’t yet figured out how to breathe easy under someone else’s roof.

You’d done your best. Kept the lights low. Gave him fresh sheets and clean towels folded neat on the end of the bed. Told him about the hot water tap—how it sticks if you don’t angle it just right. Set out a glass of water on the nightstand. Made tea for two and left his mug untouched on the kitchen counter when he didn’t come out.

He’d said thank you. Quiet, like the words hurt to form.

He didn’t say goodnight.

You didn’t expect him to.

Your own bed felt too big that night. Too cold. You lay awake staring at the ceiling, listening for any sound from the other room—floorboards, sighs, the creak of the guest bed frame. Nothing came. At some point you drifted, but the sleep was thin, restless.

You weren’t sure what woke you—maybe it was a shift in the air, or maybe it was instinct, that part of you that always knew when something wasn’t right. Either way, your eyes snapped open in the dark, and you immediately knew he was awake too.

The hallway was dim, bathed in the blue wash of a distant streetlamp. You stepped carefully across the floorboards, feet bare, heartbeat loud in your ears. That’s when you saw it: a thin sliver of golden light leaking out from beneath his door.

You paused. Listened.

The sound was faint, but there—metal on metal. A soft, repetitive clink. Rhythmic. Familiar.

Dog tags.

You knocked once, light as rain. Then turned the knob.

“Bucky?”

The door creaked open, and your breath caught.

He was sitting on the edge of the bed, hunched forward, elbows on his knees. Shirtless. His dog tags spun between his fingers like worry beads. His eyes stared through the floor. His chest rose and fell in uneven patterns, like he was breathing only because his body hadn’t figured out how to stop.

His skin glistened under the lamp light. Sweat. Not from heat—you knew that look. You’d seen it on your father’s face after too many nights walking home from the bar, jaw tight with things he wouldn’t say.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” Bucky said, voice raw.

“You didn’t,” you murmured, stepping into the room. The door clicked softly shut behind you.

He didn’t look at you. Didn’t flinch. Just kept spinning the tags.

You hesitated a moment, then crossed the floor, slow and careful, like approaching a skittish animal. You sat beside him, leaving a few inches between. Close enough to share breath. Close enough to smell the salt of his sweat and something else—metal, maybe. Smoke. His nightmares clinging to him like a second skin.

“Nightmare?” you asked gently.

He nodded once. No words.

Still, he didn’t look at you.

His shoulders were pulled tight like a wound drawn with thread. Tension built into his spine, his neck, even the way his fingers moved around the chain. Everything about him screamed not okay, even though he made no sound at all.

You wanted to do something—anything—to reach him.

So you reached out, hand slow and deliberate, and rested your palm against his back. His skin was warm, damp. The muscles beneath your fingers flinched once, hard. But he didn’t pull away.

You rubbed slow circles between his shoulder blades. “You’re safe now,” you whispered, voice barely audible. “You’re home.”

For a long time, he didn’t move. Didn’t speak. But you could feel his breath shift—deeper now, less sharp. Like your voice had cut through something heavy.

His dog tags stopped moving.

Then, carefully, almost imperceptibly, he leaned toward you.

Not all the way. Not into your arms. But just enough for his thigh to touch yours. Just enough to remind you he was still made of flesh and blood beneath all that silence.

You stayed like that for minutes. Maybe hours. Maybe the rest of your life, if he needed.

Eventually, you began to rise, slow and gentle, letting your hand fall from his back.

But before you could step away, his fingers reached out and brushed your wrist. Barely there. A whisper of a touch.

“Thanks,” he rasped. Just one word. Broken. Honest.

Your throat tightened.

You wanted to tell him he didn’t have to thank you. That you’d sit with him like this every night if he needed. That you’d always leave the door cracked. That there was nowhere in the world you’d rather be than right here, next to him, waiting for him to come back to himself.

But you didn’t say any of it.

You just nodded. Whispered, “Anytime, Buck,” and squeezed his hand before slipping out the door.

When you lay back down in bed, the tears finally came. Silent and hot.

Not for yourself.

For him.

Because for the first time, you realized— he hadn’t come home whole. But he’d come home. And you would love him through the rest of it.

-

The morning came too early.

You rose with a dry mouth and stiff neck, the aftershock of sleep clinging to your bones like fog. The apartment was still quiet, heavy with the weight of things unsaid. You padded into the kitchen in your robe, hair hastily knotted, and clicked on the stove without even thinking. The motion was muscle memory by now. Coffee, toast, two eggs—scrambled.

The sound of the stovetop crackling helped distract you from the ache in your chest.

He hadn’t slept. You were sure of it. You could still feel the heat of his skin on your palm, the slight tremble in his fingers when he’d brushed your wrist. It hadn’t left you.

You tried not to read into it.

The eggs were halfway done when you heard the door creak open down the hall.

You didn’t turn right away, letting the sound of bare feet on hardwood fill the silence. A cabinet opened behind you. Closed again. You didn’t say anything. Neither did he.

Only when you turned to set the plates down on the table did you look at him.

He stood in the kitchen doorway, looking a little like a stranger in familiar skin.

His hair was still damp, swept back with careless fingers. He’d found one of the old gray Henleys you kept in the bottom drawer—the ones he used to borrow when you were teenagers, back before the war had touched him. He didn’t fill it out the same way now. Broader. Thicker through the shoulders. The shirt clung to him, collar a little stretched.

He looked down at the plate you offered like he didn’t quite remember how to eat.

“I made coffee,” you said gently, pushing the mug toward him. “Cream’s in the fridge.”

He nodded and moved stiffly toward the table. Sat down. Picked up his fork like it weighed a thousand pounds.

You sat across from him and took a bite, keeping your eyes low.

For a while, the only sound was the clink of silverware.

He barely ate. Just poked at his eggs. Took two sips of coffee. You didn’t comment, didn’t push.

Instead, you asked, “Water okay last night?”

He blinked at you like you’d pulled him from somewhere far away. “Yeah. Thanks. Shower was hot. Just like you said.”

You smiled a little. “Tap still stick?”

He gave a ghost of a grin. “Didn’t wrestle it too hard. Didn’t wanna lose the fight.”

That almost made you laugh.

Progress.

-

You settled into something like a rhythm in the days that followed. It wasn’t perfect—nothing about it was—but it was steady.

You noticed the little things first.

He never shut his bedroom door all the way. He’d sit at the kitchen table in the evenings, posture too straight, hands curled around a mug he rarely drank from. He’d flinch at car backfires, and the first time you dropped a heavy book in the living room, he froze so fast you thought he might bolt.

But he was trying. You could tell.

He took out the trash without asking. Helped fold laundry. One night you caught him sweeping the front steps, sleeves pushed up, forehead damp with sweat despite the chill.

Sometimes, late at night, you’d pass each other in the hallway. He’d be coming back from the kitchen or the window, or just pacing. You never asked why.

He never asked if you were checking on him. You both pretended you were just… up.

-

One morning, about a week in, you found him sitting at the kitchen table, staring out the window. You were still in your nightdress, hair mussed, your robe tied loose around your waist. You hesitated in the doorway, suddenly aware of the soft fabric clinging to your thighs, the bare skin of your calves. But he didn’t seem to notice.

You moved quietly, preparing the coffee pot.

“Didn’t sleep again?” you asked softly.

“No,” he said. “Didn’t want to.”

You turned to him then. “Bad one?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just looked down at his hands, palms braced on the table. You noticed the slight tremor in them.

“They put things in my head,” he said, voice flat. “While I was under. Words. Commands. I can’t remember most of them, but sometimes… when I sleep…” He shook his head. “I wake up and I’m not me.”

Your heart cracked.

You didn’t go to him. Not yet. Just leaned back against the counter and said, “You’re you now. And you’re not alone.”

That got him to look at you.

He stared for a long time, eyes scanning your face like he was trying to decide whether he believed you. And maybe—maybe he did. Just a little. Just enough.

“You always know what to say,” he murmured, almost in awe.

“No,” you said, a smile tugging weakly at your lips. “I just know you.”

-

That evening, you caught him humming while he dried the dishes. Barely audible. A tune from childhood. A melody your mother used to sing when the three of you would lie on the roof and count stars.

He stopped the second he realized it.

But you didn’t say anything. You just smiled to yourself.

Because that was progress too.

-

It was small things at first.

A brush of fingers when you passed him a coffee mug. The way he lingered in the doorway after saying goodnight. The look in his eyes—deep and unreadable—when you laughed too hard at something dumb on the radio. The way his voice softened when he said your name, like it hurt to speak it too loud.

He never said anything. You never asked.

But the space between you started to hum with something—a low, aching kind of charge. Like the quiet before a summer storm. All heat and tension and too much air in your lungs.

You caught him watching you one morning as you folded laundry on the couch, your knees tucked up, hem of your skirt inching higher with every movement. His eyes followed your fingers as you smoothed a worn shirt across your lap—one of his, soft from years of wear. He didn’t look away when you glanced up. Just blinked once. Swallowed hard.

You pretended not to notice the way his throat moved.

Later that day, he fixed the crooked kitchen drawer without being asked.

-

Some nights, when he couldn’t sleep, he’d pace the apartment barefoot, slow and steady like a soldier on night watch. You started leaving your door cracked again. Just a sliver of light. A silent invitation.

Sometimes he’d stop in the doorway and say nothing. You could feel him standing there, watching. Breathing. Keeping you company from just far enough away.

One night, you heard him whisper your name.

Not a question. Not a plea. Just a word. Like a memory he was afraid to lose.

-

It happened the night you came home late from the corner store.

The skies had opened up while you were still three blocks away, and by the time you reached the front steps, the rain was coming down in sheets. Your dress clung to your skin, soaked straight through. Your shoes squelched with every movement, little puddles forming inside them. You were half-laughing, half-cursing as you fought to close the umbrella, hands cold and shaking.

You didn’t hear him approach—just felt the shift in the air.

And then he was there.

Silent. Steady.

His presence was grounding, like the weight of a familiar coat thrown over your shoulders. He said nothing as he took the dripping umbrella from your hands and set it carefully aside. Then he reached for the towel hanging on the back of the kitchen chair, unfolded it, and stepped toward you.

You stilled.

The first touch was gentle. He pressed the towel to your shoulders like he wasn’t sure you’d let him. Like he was waiting for you to flinch.

You didn’t.

He moved slowly, drying the fabric clinging to your arms, careful not to press too hard. His hands hovered at first, like he was afraid to touch too much. But the longer he stood there—watching the droplets run down your collarbone, watching the damp fabric pull tighter over your chest—the more that hesitation started to fray.

Your breath caught when his fingers brushed the hollow beneath your throat.

His eyes lingered. Dark. Hungry. Wounded.

The rain dripped down the curve of your shoulder, caught on the edge of your dress, disappeared into the valley between your breasts. You felt his breath hitch.

And suddenly you were hyper-aware of every inch of yourself—of the way your dress clung like a second skin, of the way your thighs were pressed together under the wet fabric, of the way your nipples had hardened beneath the cold.

You felt naked under his gaze.

“Bucky…” you started, voice thinner than you meant it to be, but the words collapsed on your tongue.

He stepped back like you’d slapped him.

“Sorry,” he muttered. “I didn’t mean— I wasn’t trying to—” He shook his head, hands flexing at his sides. “Shit. I shouldn’t’ve—”

“Don’t go.”

You didn’t think—just reached out and caught his wrist.

He froze.

Not like a soldier waiting for orders. Like a man who wanted to run and couldn’t.

His jaw clenched. His eyes stayed fixed on the floor.

“You’ve been pushing me away since the moment you got back,” you said softly. “Why?”

For a moment, it was just the sound of the rain against the window.

Then he swallowed. A hard, painful sound.

“Because I can’t let myself want you.”

The words hit with the force of a strike—quiet, but lethal.

He looked up at you then. Really looked at you. And what you saw in his eyes shattered something inside you.

He looked like he’d been bleeding for months.

“Because I do,” he went on, voice cracking. “I want you so bad it hurts. Every goddamn day. But I can’t—I won’t—drag you into whatever the hell’s left of me. You don’t deserve that. You never did. You always deserved more.”

Your heart thundered in your chest. You stepped closer.

“What if I don’t want more?” you whispered.

His gaze faltered.

“I know who you were before,” you said, voice trembling. “I know who you are now. And I still want you. Every part. Even the parts that scare you.”

He looked at you like he was drowning and you were the only shore in sight.

“I’m not him anymore,” he rasped. “Not the boy who used to walk you home. Not the kid who snuck licorice into movie theaters and kissed you on the cheek at Coney Island. I’m not—” His voice cracked again. “I’m not clean. Not whole. I’m not… safe.”

You stepped in, chest to chest now, hands lifting to frame his face.

“You’re Bucky,” you said firmly. “And you’re mine.”

The moment held.

One breath. Two.

Then it snapped.

The kiss wasn’t delicate. It wasn’t even patient.

It was desperate. Years of aching need erupting all at once. He surged forward and caught your mouth with his, hands burying themselves in your hair, lips crashing into yours like a man afraid he’d never get the chance again. You kissed him back just as hard, pulling him down, pressing your soaked body into him like it was the only way you’d survive.

He groaned into your mouth—a low, guttural sound—and your knees nearly gave out.

His hands slid down to your waist, then your hips, gripping like he couldn’t bear to let go. The wet fabric between you made everything more intense—more real. You could feel his chest rising hard and fast against yours, the way his body shook. You could feel the tremble in his arms as he tried to hold back.

He kissed you like he was starved. Like he’d been on the edge of this for years. Like the moment he had you, he knew he wouldn’t be able to stop.

You moaned into him. He broke.

His knees buckled, and he fell back a step, dragging you with him, mouth never leaving yours. Your hands gripped his shoulders, then his jaw, thumbs brushing his cheekbones like you were trying to memorize the shape of his pain.

When the kiss finally broke, he pressed his forehead to yours, gasping.

“I tried not to,” he whispered. “I swear I tried.”

You kept your eyes closed. Held his face like something sacred.

“You’re allowed to want things again,” you said. “You’re allowed to have this.”

His shoulders shook beneath your hands. He was so close, so warm, and still trembling like the thought of being loved might undo him completely.

His voice came out ragged.

“Then let me have it.”

Your heart was still pounding when you led him down the hall.

Neither of you spoke. There was too much in the air—tension, relief, years of longing finally breaching the surface like a wave. He followed close behind, one hand in yours, the other pressed flat between your shoulder blades as if grounding himself with the contact.

In the warm light of your bedroom, everything slowed.

No storm. No war. No ghosts.

Just him. Just you.

He stood just inside the doorway, chest rising and falling in quiet heaves, his damp shirt still clinging to him. His fingers flexed at his sides. You could tell he was trying not to look nervous, but the tremor in his jaw betrayed him.

So you crossed to him gently. Reached up. Brushed the rain-damp hair off his forehead. Let your thumb rest there, right in the center, like a blessing.

“You okay?” you asked softly.

His breath stuttered. “Yeah. Just… can’t believe this is real.”

You smiled, lips brushing his jaw. “It’s real.”

You kissed him again—slower this time. You took your time tasting him, coaxing him open. His lips parted like a prayer. His hands came to your waist, tentative at first, then more sure, pulling you in until your soaked dress stuck to the front of his shirt, nothing but damp cotton separating your skin.

You pressed your palms flat against his chest and felt the thrum of his heartbeat under your hands. His body was so solid—broad, warm, vibrating with something like awe.

When you reached for the hem of your dress, he stilled you.

“Wait,” he said quietly.

Your hands paused.

He swallowed, eyes locked to yours. “I’ve… never done this before.”

You blinked. “You mean…”

He nodded, shame threatening at the edges of his expression. “I’ve dated. Kissed. But I never—I didn’t trust anyone enough to…” He trailed off. Looked away. “I know it’s probably pathetic—”

“Bucky.” You stepped close, cupped his jaw. “That’s not pathetic. That’s you.”

He stared at you, vulnerable and shaken. “I wanted it to mean something. Always. I just… never expected it to be with you. Not really. Not after everything.”

You kissed him—deep and slow.

“Then let’s make it mean something,” you whispered.

He exhaled like it hurt, but his hands found your hips again, gripping tighter this time. You guided them lower, pressing his palms along the curve of your backside, letting him feel the weight of you, the softness.

You stepped back and slowly pulled your soaked dress over your head.

His breath hitched audibly. His eyes dragged down your body like he’d been starved for the sight and didn’t want to miss a single inch. You stood before him in nothing but wet cotton panties, your skin goosebumped and flushed.

“Jesus,” he whispered, almost reverent. “You’re so… fuckin’ beautiful.”

You laughed softly, biting your lip.

“You can touch me, Buck.”

The moment the words left your mouth, something cracked open in him.

His hands moved slowly—tentative at first, like he thought you might change your mind. But when your body leaned into his touch, when you arched toward him like you wanted it, he groaned low in his throat and let go.

His palms slid up your sides, large and warm, calloused in places but reverent in how they held you. He traced the curve of your waist, then dragged his thumbs up to just under your breasts. He didn’t touch yet. Just stared—his gaze so intense it made your skin burn.

“God, look at you,” he rasped. “You’re like a dream I used to have when I couldn’t sleep.”

You leaned forward and kissed him again—slow, teasing. Your hands found the hem of his shirt, and when you lifted it over his head, your breath caught.

You’d seen him shirtless before. Plenty of times growing up. But this was different.

This was Bucky, fully grown, broad-chested and strong, muscles defined and glistening faintly under the bedroom light. He had a few new scars—some faded, some angry—but they did nothing to detract from the way he made your mouth go dry.

You ran your fingers over his chest, then lower, flattening your palm against the ridges of his stomach. He shivered.

“You’re gorgeous,” you whispered.

He shook his head, breath catching as your fingers skimmed down to the waistband of his slacks.

“You’re the gorgeous one,” he said thickly. “Every time you walk into a room, it wrecks me. Been tryin’ not to look at you for years.”

You pushed his trousers down slowly, inch by inch, watching the outline of his cock spring tighter and harder against the fabric of his briefs. The head was visibly straining the cotton, already soaked with precum.

You exhaled. “Jesus.”

His voice was tight. “Is it too much?”

You looked up at him, eyes wide. “Bucky. It’s perfect.”

Your fingers brushed over the bulge, and his whole body jolted. You watched the muscles in his stomach twitch. He looked like he was about to fall apart just from that.

So you did it again.

You cupped him through the fabric and gave a little squeeze. His hips bucked, eyes darkening to something feral.

“Fuck—baby, you gotta stop or I’m gonna come just from that.”

You smirked. “Maybe I want you to.”

His brows pulled together in a desperate, stunned sort of awe.

You kissed down his stomach slowly, licking along the trail of hair that disappeared under the waistband. He hissed through his teeth as you tugged the briefs down.

His cock sprang free—long, thick, flushed dark at the tip and already leaking. It slapped lightly against his belly, heavy with need, so hard it looked almost painful. You paused for a breathless second, just to take him in.

God, he really was gorgeous.

You’d dreamed of this. Fantasized about it in the quiet of your bed, late at night with your fingers between your thighs for years. But none of those hazy imaginings could have prepared you for the sheer size of him, or the way he looked at you now—blown pupils, flushed cheeks, jaw slack and trembling.

You wrapped your hand around the base.

He whimpered. Actually whimpered—a sweet, broken sound punched from his throat like he didn’t know how to hold it back.

“Oh my god,” you murmured, squeezing him gently. “You’re so hard, Buck.”

“Sweetheart…” he gasped, eyes wide and glassy. His thighs flexed beneath your other hand as you gave him a few slow, deliberate strokes.

You watched his body react—his abs fluttering, hips twitching, chest heaving like he was running uphill. His cock jerked in your hand with every pass, leaking steadily now, slicking your palm.

“You been like this for me?” you asked softly, tilting your head as you leaned closer, your breath ghosting over the tip. “So worked up you’re leaking already?”

He nodded, but it was barely coherent. “Y-Yeah. I… I can’t stop thinkin’ about it. Thinkin’ about you.”

You kissed the head of his cock, then dragged your tongue gently along the underside. His entire body jerked like you’d shocked him.

“Fuck,” he groaned, one hand fisting the sheets. “Please.”

His voice cracked on the word—high, desperate.

You looked up at him, lips curling slightly. “You want me to take care of you, baby?”

He nodded again, breath ragged. “Please. I— I don’t know how long I can…”

“I don’t want you to hold back,” you said softly, before licking him again—slower this time. “I want to see what I do to you.”

Then you sank your mouth around the tip, just enough to feel the weight of him on your tongue. You moaned low and deliberate, letting the sound vibrate against him. He cried out, hips bucking, and you had to brace one hand against his stomach to keep him from thrusting deeper.

“Sorry, I— I didn’t mean to—” he gasped.

You popped off with a wet sound, eyes narrowing slightly in mock warning.

“Easy,” you said, voice low. “Let me go slow.”

He whimpered again. “Okay.”

You wrapped your fingers tight around the base and started stroking him in time with your mouth—taking him halfway in, sucking gently as your tongue flattened against the sensitive underside.

His thighs were shaking. One of his hands hovered in the air like he didn’t know where to put it—until you reached up, took his wrist, and guided it to your breast.

“Touch me,” you whispered. “I want you to.”

He groaned deep in his chest and squeezed gently, thumbing your nipple through the thin fabric. When you moaned around him, he twitched hard in your mouth.

“Jesus Christ, doll—don’t stop, that feels so good—”

You bobbed your head a little deeper, swirling your tongue, letting your throat open just enough to tease him. He choked on a breath, muttering your name like a prayer.

“Fuck—fuck, baby—I’m close—I’m so close,” he gasped.

You pulled back just far enough to speak, stroking him harder now.

“Come for me, Bucky. Show me how much you need it.”

He exploded with a strangled cry, hips jerking up into your fist as hot cum spilled across your fingers, thick and endless. His chest heaved as he came, his whole body trembling, mouth slack in shock.

You kept stroking him through it, slow and steady, coaxing every last drop.

When he finally collapsed back into the pillows, he looked wrecked—eyes half-lidded, skin flushed, chest rising and falling in deep, uneven waves.

You leaned forward and kissed his jaw.

“You did so good for me,” you whispered. “So swee.”

His hand reached for your waist, still shaking.

“You’re not done with me, are you?” he asked, voice quiet and pleading.

You smiled.

“Not even close.”

He was still hard.

Even after the first time, even with his chest heaving and skin flushed and slick with sweat, his cock remained thick and upright, twitching softly against his belly. You could see the cum still glistening at the tip, feel the heat of it even from where you sat, straddling his thighs.

“You’re still hard,” you murmured, brushing your fingers along the length of him. He hissed, hips twitching.

“Can’t help it,” he groaned, hand resting over his eyes, almost like he was embarrassed. “You got me so worked up, baby. You’re just—fuck—you’re too much.”

You leaned down and kissed his stomach, his ribs, up to the center of his chest.

“I’m not stopping, Buck,” you whispered against his skin. 

He choked on a moan as you reached between you and guided him back to your entrance—hot and slick and already aching to be filled again.

“You sure?” he rasped, voice cracking. “I don’t know if I can hold back this time.”

You lined him up and started to sink down slowly.

“I don’t want you to hold back.”

His whole body arched as you took him in again—inch by thick inch. The stretch was even more intense this time, your walls already sore, already so wet from everything you’d shared. He was still sensitive, still pulsing. You could feel how much.

Bucky cried out beneath you, hands flying to your hips, gripping tight.

“Jesus—fuck—it’s too much—feels so good, baby, I don’t know how I’m gonna—”

“Shhh,” you whispered, rolling your hips. “You’re doing perfect. Look at how deep you are…”

You reached down, pressing a palm just below your belly button. He followed your hand with his eyes—dazed, stunned—and whimpered when he saw it. The bulge. Obvious. So deep inside you, so big it left a visible outline in your skin.

“That’s you, Bucky,” you whispered. “Right there.”

His breath caught. “Oh my god.”

You started moving in earnest—rocking your hips in long, slow grinds. Not bouncing, not fast. Just deep. Intentional. Letting him feel every inch of you as you squeezed him tight. The sound of wet skin filled the room, slick and obscene and perfect.

“You fill me so good,” you breathed, hands braced on his chest. “So thick. So warm. I can feel you everywhere.”

“Sweetheart—fuck—fuck,” he gasped, head tossing back against the pillow. “You’re gonna kill me like this. You’re gonna milk me dry.”

You leaned forward, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “Good. I want you empty. Want you to give me everything.”

He moaned—loud and aching—and grabbed the back of your neck, pulling your mouth down to his. The kiss was sloppy, desperate. All tongue and teeth and ragged breathing. He tried to thrust up into you, but he was too far gone, too overwhelmed, too sensitive.

So you took control.

You gripped his jaw and looked down into his eyes.

“Bucky. Look at me.”

He did. Pupils blown, lips swollen, cheeks flushed.

“You’re gonna finish inside me,” you said. “You’re gonna give it to me, and you’re not gonna stop. Got it?”

He nodded frantically, hands trembling on your thighs. “Yes. Yes, baby. Anything you want.”

You started to bounce now—slow at first, then faster, the slap of your bodies echoing off the walls.

Then he started to talk. Just softly. Like a confession unraveling between moans.

“I should’ve done this before I left,” he rasped, breathless. “Should’ve told you I loved you then. Should’ve fucked you full before I left, before the war—before I ever got on that goddamn transport.”

You slowed, startled by the edge in his voice, the heat of the words.

His hands moved to your belly, splayed wide.

“If I hadn’t come back,” he whispered, “I wouldn’t’ve gotten to leave you with anything. No part of me. I used to lie awake in those barracks and imagine it. Imagine fillin’ you so deep it stuck. Leaving you with a baby. With something mine.”

Your breath hitched. You clenched around him hard, and he shouted.

“I’d fuck my fist thinking about it,” he moaned. “Thinking about you, crying while I finished in you. Watching it drip out and pushing it back in. Wishing it could stay. Wishing you could keep it. That you’d have me even if I died over there.”

Tears pricked your eyes.

“You’re home now,” you gasped. “You’re home, Buck. And I’m here. You can have me.”

“I do,” he groaned. “I do, baby. And I’m gonna give it to you.”

You rode him harder—chasing the edge. His hands flew to your hips again, guiding you down with wild desperation.

“I’m gonna come again,” he gasped. “I can’t—fuck, I can’t hold it—”

“Do it,” you begged. “I want it. I want every drop.”

He threw his head back and roared your name as he came—hard—his cock pulsing deep inside you, flooding you all over again. You felt it fill you, thick and hot and endless, so much it spilled out between your thighs and coated his skin.

Your orgasm followed instantly—clenching tight around him, eyes fluttering shut, stars exploding behind your eyelids.

You collapsed onto his chest, both of you panting, shaking, slick with sweat and heat and love.

But he was still inside you. Still full. Still hardening again.

And you weren’t done.

Not even close.

-

The air between your bodies was thick with heat.

You were still lying tangled together, skin slick and trembling, his cock still buried deep inside you—throbbing faintly, not quite soft, not quite spent. Your thighs twitched now and then from the aftershocks, and you could feel him leaking inside you, the steady, warm drip of it seeping out in thick, wet trickles.

Bucky’s arms were wrapped tightly around your back, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other low on your waist, holding you there like he was terrified you’d vanish. You could hear his heartbeat under your ear—ragged and unsteady, echoing the fluttering rhythm of your own.

Neither of you spoke at first.

Your breath caught when he shifted slightly beneath you, his hips rolling up an inch—just enough to nudge that sweet, swollen spot inside you. The gasp that left your throat was soft and startled, but the sound made Bucky groan.

“Still so sensitive,” he murmured, voice hoarse. “But fuck—baby, I can’t stop.”

You lifted your head to look at him. His hair was a mess across the pillow, cheeks flushed a deep pink, lips kiss-bruised and parted like he was still struggling to breathe. His blue eyes—usually so clear—were dark and clouded with need again.

“You’re still hard,” you whispered, astonished by it. “You’re still inside me…”

His lips quirked up slightly. “Can’t help it,” he said, breathless. “You’re too warm. Too tight. Still so fuckin’ wet for me.” He shifted again, a slow grind up into your core, and you felt him twitch. “You feel perfect around me.”

Your breath shuddered out of you as your fingers curled against his chest. “Bucky—”

Before you could say another word, he moved—gently, slowly—guiding you onto your back, never pulling out. The stretch and drag of him as he adjusted above you made your back arch, and Bucky hissed, gripping your thigh as he slotted his hips between your legs.

His cock was thick and still flushed dark, slick with both your release and his. When he pushed in deeper, it was like he was already inside your soul.

“I wanna do it slow this time,” he whispered, pressing his forehead to yours. “I wanna feel every second of you.”

He kissed you then—long and sweet, his tongue lazy in your mouth, his hands cradling your face like you were the most fragile, precious thing in the world.

He started moving.

Not with force, not with urgency—just deep, gliding strokes that filled you entirely. He stayed pressed to you chest to chest, skin against skin, his pelvis flush with yours on every roll of his hips. You gasped into his mouth at the sensation—so full again, and so tender it nearly made you cry.

Bucky’s hands found your waist and then slid upward, palms dragging over your stomach. He looked down at where your bodies met, then back up at you, dazed and reverent.

“Still so full of me,” he whispered, pressing a warm hand to your lower belly. “You feel that? Right there?” He rubbed gentle, wide circles into the skin just above your pubic bone. “That’s me. All the way in.”

You moaned, your legs wrapping tighter around him, ankles locking behind his back.

“I can feel every inch of you,” you breathed, voice shaky. “You’re so deep, Buck. You’re still leaking inside me…”

His eyes fluttered shut like he was overwhelmed by the image.

“You’re takin’ me so well,” he said, voice wrecked with emotion. “Still squeezin’ me like you want to keep me in there forever.”

“I do,” you whispered, holding his face in both hands. “Don’t stop.”

He kissed you again, slower this time. Then again. And again. He kissed you like he was worshiping you—like he needed your mouth just as much as your body.

And all the while, he kept moving.

His strokes were slow but deep, each one dragging the thick head of his cock across your tender walls, forcing soft, wet sounds out of your soaked pussy. It was a kind of torture—too good, too intimate. You were still fluttering from the last orgasm, and he was already building you up again.

Bucky bent his head and mouthed along your throat, then your collarbone. He paused over your chest, kissing between your breasts before dragging his tongue across your nipple and sucking it into his mouth. You gasped, back arching, thighs tightening.

“You’re so good for me,” he murmured against your skin. “You’re everything. My whole fuckin’ world.”

“Bucky…”

His hand returned to your stomach. He pressed a little harder this time.

“I see myself here, y’know?” he whispered. “See you gettin’ round. Seein’ me walk through that front door and put my hand right here—watchin’ you waddle over, and I just know it took.”

You whimpered at the image.

His hand was still resting over your stomach, broad and possessive, palm splayed like he wanted to imprint himself there. His thrusts had slowed again, grinding deep, unhurried. He kissed your cheek, your jaw, then nuzzled against your ear.

“I really did… used to lie awake in those frozen tents,” he murmured, voice low and rough. “Not thinkin’ about medals. Not about glory. Just… about this. About you.”

Your breath caught.

His hand moved slightly, dragging over the soft curve of your belly, almost like he was already picturing you round and glowing with it.

“I’d imagine your legs wrapped around me like this. Imagine this pussy swallowing me whole. Imagine pumping you so full you’d still feel me in the morning.”

You whimpered, clenching around him as his hips rolled slow and full.

“I’d think about your belly growing while I was gone,” he whispered. “Think about what it would’ve meant—leaving something behind that belonged to both of us. Something soft. Something real.”

He paused, lifting his head to look at you.

“I never said it before. Was too scared I’d lose you. But I’m not scared now.” He leaned in, kissed you slow. “You let me give this to you, baby… I’ll spend the rest of my life giving you everything.”

Then your orgasm crept up on you—slow and molten and deep. You felt the heat coil low in your belly, felt your thighs tense, your back arch.

“I’m close,” you gasped.

“Good,” Bucky whispered. “Let me feel it. Let me feel you come around me again, pretty girl.”

You clenched, moaning into his mouth, and your body broke. The orgasm hit you in waves—gentle but unstoppable. Your walls fluttered and tightened, and you felt Bucky’s cock throb inside you in response.

“Fuck—fuck, I’m gonna come again,” he moaned, thrusts growing erratic. “Gonna fill you up, sweetheart, I can’t—I can’t stop—”

“Do it,” you cried. “Give it to me.”

He buried himself to the hilt with a broken, shattered sound and came inside you again—warm and slow, his whole body trembling with it. You felt it flood you again, thick and deep and messy. You were already dripping, but this… this was even more. It felt endless.

Bucky collapsed on top of you, face buried in your neck, cock still twitching inside you.

“I love you,” he whispered, barely audible. “I love you so much.”

“I love you too,” you breathed, arms wrapped around his back, holding him close. “So much.”

You stayed like that for a long time—still joined, still full, still wrapped around each other like you’d both just been sewn back together.

Eventually, Bucky pulled back just enough to press a kiss to your cheek, your mouth, your eyelids.

“You think it’ll stick?” he murmured, brushing his hand over your belly.

“I hope so,” you whispered. “God, I hope so.”

He smiled, eyes glassy with emotion.

“Then I guess I better keep you this full every night.”

-

The scent of fresh coffee and something buttery on the stove curled into the bedroom like a promise. It pulled you from the edge of sleep, warm and slow and lingering, like his hands had the night before.

Sunlight hadn’t fully touched the curtains yet. Just a soft blush of morning painted the edges of the windows, and the room was still quiet, blanketed in the hush that came after storms—both outside and between bodies. You blinked up at the ceiling, slow to stir.

Your body ached.

Thighs weak. Hips sore. The deep center of you still swollen and slick with the memory of him, tender from how many times he’d spilled inside you. Every shift made you wince just enough to remember why—and smile through it, shameless and dazed.

You reached out instinctively, expecting warmth beside you. But the bed was empty.

And that was the second thing you noticed.

He was gone.

But the smell meant he hadn’t left.

Still here. Still in your home. In your kitchen.

You tugged the blanket around your shoulders and stood carefully, legs protesting just enough to make you blush. Padding through the apartment barefoot, you followed the smell and the sound—the soft clatter of a fork in a pan, the scrape of a chair leg on the floor.

And then you saw him.

Back to you. Shirtless.

The muscles of his back flexed with every motion, broad shoulders shifting as he stirred something in a pan. A faint red line still creased his cheek from where your pillow had pressed into his skin. His hair was a mess—wild and soft and sleep-tossed. He was wearing nothing but his slacks, hung low on his hips, the drawstring untied and loose.

And he was humming. Not a tune you knew. Just something aimless, content.

Like he’d done this a thousand times before.

Like this was his kitchen, too.

He turned when he heard your footsteps and grinned at the sight of you—bare-legged, wrapped in your blanket, hair a mess from the pillow and from him. Your face warm, your lips kiss-bruised. Wrecked and radiant.

“Morning, pretty girl,” he drawled, voice still thick and rasped from sleep—and from sex. “You look like you got hit by a truck.”

You blinked. “You’re cooking?”

He gave a little one-shouldered shrug and gestured to the pan. “Figured I’d earn my keep.” His grin turned wolfish, blue eyes roaming over you. “Or maybe earn the right to ruin your legs again.”

You flushed, lips twitching into a smile as you crossed to him, your movements slow, careful, wobbly.

He immediately noticed.

“Oh,” he breathed. His grin widened wickedly. “There it is.”

“There what is?” you asked, squinting up at him.

He abandoned the spatula on the counter and reached for you, hands catching your waist with ease. He tugged you in close, his bare chest warm against the blanket as he caged you gently between his arms.

“That sweet little limp you’re trying to hide,” he murmured, mouth brushing your ear. “You were walkin’ just fine yesterday.”

Your breath hitched. “Maybe because someone tried to rearrange my insides.”

He laughed, nose nudging your temple. “Did I?” His voice dropped. “Then I didn’t do it good enough. ’Cause I plan on makin’ damn sure you can’t stand by the time I’m through with you tonight.”

You buried your face in his chest, giggling as he rocked you gently in his arms. His hands stroked up and down your spine, fingers splayed over the blanket like he could still feel you beneath it, bare and pliant.

“I’m serious,” he said, kissing the crown of your head. “You oughta always wake up sore like this. Warm and messy and full of me.”

You flushed, heart fluttering. He pulled back slightly, just enough to kiss you—forehead, cheek, the corner of your mouth. Soft, slow, reverent. Then lower: your throat, the top of your breast, the edge of your sternum where the blanket dipped low.

And then he dropped to his knees.

Your breath caught.

“Bucky—”

He was already kissing the underside of your ribs, both hands sliding around your hips, thumbs stroking just above the crease of your thighs. He pressed his lips to the soft skin just below your belly button. Right over where he’d left himself inside you last night.

And maybe still. Some part of him. So much of him.

He lingered there, breath warm.

“You think you’ll be late this month?” he asked quietly, voice husky and careful, like the question itself was holy.

You looked down at him, fingers sliding into his hair. “I don’t know,” you whispered. “Maybe.”

His mouth stayed there, resting against your skin, reverent. “I hope so,” he said softly. “God, I hope so.”

You could feel his breath pick up against your belly. Like he was imagining it already—your body growing, changing. His.

He kissed your belly slowly, reverently—again and again—like your skin held every answer he’d ever needed. You felt his breath against you, warm and steady. He was quiet at first. Thoughtful.

“I know I said I didn’t think my first would be with you. But I lied… always thought it’d be you.”

Your fingers stilled in his hair. “What?”

He looked up, eyes clear, gaze steady.

“Even when we were kids. I didn’t know what it meant yet, but… I always figured if I ever got to have a family—have a home—it’d be with you.” He smiled, a little crooked. “Even told Stevie once when we were fifteen that I was gonna marry you one day. He laughed so hard he snorted soda out his nose.”

You let out a breath of surprise, heart stuttering.

“You never said anything.”

He rested his cheek on your belly now, arms wrapped around your waist, like holding onto the idea of you wasn’t enough anymore. Like he needed all of you pressed to him just to believe it.

“Because I was scared. Because I was stupid. Because we were young, and I didn’t want to ruin what we had.”

He kissed your skin again.

“Then the war happened, and I thought… maybe I missed my shot. Maybe I’d die out there and never get the chance to tell you that when I pictured growing old—front porch, kids runnin’ through the yard, gray hair and all—it was always you beside me. You, barefoot in the kitchen. You, holding our baby. You, with my name and my heart.”

You swallowed thickly. “Bucky…”

“I don’t want a second chance at life if I don’t get to spend it with you,” he said simply.

And then, with a softness that undid you:

“Let me put a future in you, sweetheart. Let me wake up every day knowin’ I finally gave you everything I’ve been carryin’ around in my chest since we were kids.”

He stood slowly, hands warm on your hips, body pressing close again. His eyes searched yours, quiet and open and full of awe.

“You’ve always been mine,” he murmured. “I just want the world to know it now.”

He stood. Lifted you into his arms with ease, blanket and all, like you weighed nothing to him.

“Bucky—what are you—”

“I’m gonna fuck you full again,” he murmured, carrying you back to the bedroom without breaking stride. “Just to be sure.”

He kissed your temple. “And after that?” He nipped your earlobe. “I’ll feed you eggs. Run you a bath. And then I’ll fill you again. Until you’re aching with it.”

You melted against him, arms looped around his neck, dizzy with love and heat and the promise of everything that was to come.

Because he was home.

And you were his.

[binkybonkybucky]

i’m currently on my period so the timing of this was perfect. thank goodness for void being so shameless because i definitely would not have asked first. i think the only thing that i could possibly want on top of this would be period sex with sentry because i know how warm and nice he’d feel, especially inside uGH

Oxygen

Pairing: The Void/Bob/Robert Reynolds/The Sentry x Fem!Reader!

Summary: Your period has come, and you’re feeling extremely moody and down, mix that in with intense cramping and you’re absolutely miserable. But when Bob lets out The Void for the night, he has a solution for all your troubles.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Smut, Fluff, Angsty (kind of), Would I say this is Hurt/Comfort? I mean…Kind of? In the literal sense lol. Reader is in pain and The Void is comforting her…So yeah. Reader has an established relationship with Bob. Void is a bit soft here

Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex (wrap it up), Period Sex (it’s going to get messy), Descriptions/Mentions of Period Blood (it kind of gets everywhere…Do with that information what you will), Oral Sex (Void being a certified munch…Wheew), Fingering, Void gets a little rough, Scratches, Love Bites (that borders on painful while receiving them, but like…A good kind of pain?), Little bit of hair pulling, Nipple/Breast Play, Reader is Hypersensitive so Overstimulation is a thing, Praise Kink, Body Worship, Dirty Talk, A Bloody Good Time (the request asked for filth…I shall deliver as much as I possibly can.), Aftercare (because hell yeah!)

Author’s Note: Wheeeewww….Wowie. This request was a mood and I thought I would oblige. I love writing Soft Void so much that it’s taken over my life, Jesus Christ! Anyways, I know this may not be everyone’s cup of tea, so hopefully I can make it up to y’all tomorrow with some cavity inducing Fluff? RAF is tomorrow too. However! I hope you guys enjoy <3

Word Count: 11,756

When Bob arrived at your apartment, the front door was already unlocked–just like you’d told him in the text you sent thirty minutes ago, when the cramps had gotten so bad that even reaching for your heating pad felt like too much. It wasn’t that you were being reckless or forgetful. It was just that you had finally managed to contort your body into the one exact position on your couch where the stabbing pain in your lower abdomen dulled to a tolerable throb, and there was no force on Earth–nor in your aching uterus–that could convince you to ruin that hard-earned victory just to answer the door.

You were curled into the deepest corner of your couch, half-wrapped in a fuzzy navy throw blanket that clung to your overheated skin with static. One leg was tucked beneath you while the other dangled over the side like a limp vine, toes grazing the edge of the coffee table. A heating pad was crammed against your lower stomach tucked under the waistband of your oldest pair of sweatpants–gray, baggy, and speckled with faded bleach stains from an old laundry mishap. Your hoodie was black, and your socks were mismatched. You were also surrounded by tear stained tissues, half-finished tea, and two little individual Tylenol blister packs you couldn’t summon the strength to throw away.

You had messaged Bob earlier, before the cramps got really bad—“Door is open”—and he’d replied quickly, sweetly, with “Okay :)” like the smiley face might soften the guilt you were already wallowing in.

Because truthfully, you had tried to cancel the whole night.

Your period had come four days early, and you were completely caught off guard by the sudden flush of hormones and ferality, the fatigue that hit like a train, and the emotional fog that crept in as if someone had quietly dimmed all the lights inside you. Within the span of a few hours you had gone from feeling excited for your night with Bob–featuring blanket, popcorn, movies, him sleeping over, and of course the subsequent sex that came from it–to being curled up on your couch in a haze of discomfort and self-loathing, texting him “actually I think I have to cancel, I feel really gross, and disgusting” with trembling fingers and wet lashes.

But Bob didn’t hesitate at all in his response.

”I still want to come over. Period or not. You know how much I want to be around you, and I’ll be happy to take care of you.” You stared at that message for a full minute before replying, chest aching. You’d always made it a point to schedule your hangouts around your cycle. You didn’t want him to see you like this–emotional, bloated, sensitive to the point of irrationality. It wasn’t just about the pain. It was the unpredictability of your own mood. The way everything felt heavier. The way you got clingy and quiet and sometimes cried over the dumbest things, and how much you hated being perceived when you weren’t at your best.

This would be the first time seeing you like this and nervous didn’t even begin to cover how you were feeling about that situation.

You flinched at the sound of the front door opening with a soft click. You didn’t move. Just held your breath and stared at the ceiling, heart thudding as you heard the unmistakable rustle of a grocery bag, followed by the quiet shuffle of Bob’s sneakers on the entryway mat. His presence was always warm, always calm. Even now, as he shut the door behind him and moved towards your kitchen counter, you could feel the atmosphere of the apartment shift–like someone had finally cracked a window in a too-stuffy room.

”Y/N? You here?” He called out. Not loud or overly careful. Just softness…As if he already knew you didn’t have the energy for more than that. You groaned and closed your eyes.

”Couch,” You croaked, raising your hand up like a flag, your voice dry and almost pitiful. You could hear him let out a little laugh as the rustling of bags followed his movements. He took your outstretched hand gently,–warm, careful fingers curling around yours as he brought it to his lips and pressed a few soft kisses to your knuckles. Each one was slow and featherlight, like he was afraid of overwhelming you with too much affection all at once.

”Hey, hun,” He murmured, his voice low and sweet, vibrating through your fingertips, “How’re you feeling?” You let out a breath that was almost a laugh, but it died halfway in your throat and turned into more of a wheeze. Your eyes stayed closed.

”Like garbage,” You croaked, “And…Gross.” Bob let go of your hand with a soft squeeze and circled around the couch until he was crouched in front of you. He set down the grocery bags on the coffee table, the softest rustling of plastic being heard. You could see that there were an array of chips; plain, sour cream, salt and vinegar, all dressed, and if you looked even closer you noticed there were a few bags of candy and chocolate. The other bag seemed a little less full, but you couldn't tell what was in it from the angle you were lying in.

He shrugged off his jacket, and draped it over the back of the couch, before turning his attention back to you with that familiar crease of concern between his brows and his blue irises studying you, scanning over the expression that was plastered on your face–one that he would probably describe as anguish more than anything. You watched him through heavy lashes as he reached out, fingertips brushing against the apple of your cheek.

The touch sent a fresh wave of heat blooming beneath your skin, and you hissed involuntarily, recoiling slightly from the contact. He jerked his hand back immediately in surprise.

”Crap…Sorry. I didn’t mean to–“ You shook your head faintly.

”It’s okay…It wasn’t you. I run super hot when I’m on my person and I literally feel like a raw nerve. You had no idea.” Bob gave a small, guilty sigh and rubbed the back of his neck with one hand, his light brown hair a little mussed from where the wind had caught it outside. He looked sheepish, lips parted like he might say something else–like another apology–but instead his gaze flicked toward the grocery bags.

”Well,” He started, clearing his throat, “I-I got you some of your favourite snacks. And some painkillers. And another heating pad in case this one gives out.” His voice wobbled on the last bit like he wasn’t sure it was the right thing to say. Your eyes fluttered open just enough to squint at him.

”You did?” He gave a small, proud nod.

”Of course I did.” You stared at him and felt your throat tighten, something warm and tight rising in your chest like a balloon that was being blown too fast. He leaned forward, took your hand again, and brought it back to his mouth. Another soft kiss, right at the center of your palm this time, “That’s what I would want someone to do for me if I was in pa-pain.” He added softly. You squeezed his hand gently, a tired little grin tugging at the corner of your mouth despite how miserable you felt.

”You’re too sweet, Bob.” His pale cheeks flushed immediately–the tell-tale pink blooming across his face and up the tips of his ears–and he ducked his head just a little, shying away from the compliment slightly.

”It’s the least I can do…” He stated, brushing his thumb along your knuckles, adding in a quieter voice, “I can also help with the heat issue too…If you’d li-like of course.” You raised a brow.

”Oh yeah? And how do you plan on doing that?” He looked up, shrugging slightly, though his fingers twitched slightly in your grip.

”I can call in the re-reinforcements…” You squinted at him, wary.

”Please don’t tell me you’re gonna let Sentry come out…He almost burned a hole through my sheets the last time you let him take over.” Bob let out a short laugh, rubbing his free hand on the top of his thigh, getting rid of the sweat that was building up along his palm.

”No., no. Definitely not him. He’ll make your situation way worse than it already is. You don’t need a sentient sun snuggling you right now.” You snorted softly, even though the vibration slightly disturbed the position you were in, a slight cramp tingling in your abdomen.

”I was actually thinking…” He hesitated, eyes flicking to yours, watching for your expression, “Y’know…The ot-other guy.” Your brows knit for a second before the connection clicked–and your expression shifted, eyes widening just slightly.

”Oh…” Bob gave a faint, awkward little smile like he wasn’t sure how you’d take the offer, but your response was quiet and calm.

“Well…I mean…I’d be okay with that,” You replied, your voice laced with surprising honesty, “He’s an ice cube so that’ll definitely help…And he’s pretty easy to be around.” Bob huffed a soft, disbelieving laugh, squeezing your hand a little tighter

“You know…You still haven’t told me how you made him get all mushy fo-for you,” He muttered, “He gets so angry at the compound when people talk to him, but for some reason he’s a bumbling mess with you, it’s ridiculous.” You shrugged, letting your head tip lazily to the side.

”He’s tethered to you, so technically…He’s just emulating your feelings. Just in a different form. You’re always soft with me and you’re also just…Madly in love with me. So he is too.” You teased, Bob raised a brow, the corner of his mouth twitching upward, but you weren’t done. “And it’s also probably because I constantly feed him. He practically eats me out of house and home when he’s around.” That made Bob smirk.

”I guess food really is the fastest way to a…Dark entity’s heart.” You both let out tired little laughs, quiet and breathy, the kind that fizzled out gently into a soft silence. There was something tender about it–how even in the middle of your worst pain, you could still laugh with Bob. Still feel the warmth in his presence, the subtle rhythm of comfort his voice offered, like your own nervous system was finally allowed to let go.

Your thumb traced absentminded circles into his palm as the moment stretched, quiet and calm. His fingers were still wrapped around yours, warm despite the cool edge now lingering faintly in the air–residue, no doubt, from the Void’s hovering nearness. Your gaze lingered on him for a beat longer than intended–soft, fond, aching just a little.

Then, leaning forward slowly, careful not to upset the careful position of your heating pad or spark another cramp, you brushed your lips to his.

Just once. A soft, grateful kiss. Chaste, almost–more a gesture of affection than desire. Still, it lingered.

When you pulled back, Bob’s eyes blinked open slowly. The familiar, oceanic blue of his irises struck you all over again, even in the dim light. They were that rare kind of blue–pure and soft, but startling in their deepness and intensity. Almost unreal in a sense, like you’d expect to find this kind of blue painted across the sky on the clearest day of the year. Right now, though, they were a little darker, a little stormier, pupils dilating then constricting ever so slightly as he tried to refocus.

And in the very center of each pupil, you saw it–a pinprick of shifting white. That tiny speck of starlight you’d come to recognize as The Void’s slow, and creeping awareness. You brushed your thumb lightly over the back of Bob’s hand.

“I do want you to stay for a bit though,” You whispered, voice quieter now. “Before you let the ice cube out.” He nodded once, his eyes fluttering shut–hard, purposeful. You could see the tension in his jaw as he exhaled slowly through his nose, steadying his breath, pushing the shadow back down beneath the surface. For now.

“That I can do…” He murmured, his voice a little raspier than before. Then, softer still, “Wa-Want me to hold you? I promise I won’t touch your face again.”

You smiled, heart tugging at the awkward little stammer and the genuine warmth behind his offer. “I’d really like that.”

He didn’t waste time. Just moved slowly, carefully, like you were made of glass. He stood just long enough to toe off his sneakers and ease himself onto the couch beside you. Then, without asking again, he opened his arms.

You curled into his side, rearranging yourself gingerly to avoid jostling your heating pad. Your head settled against his shoulder, your cheek pressing into the soft, worn cotton of his shirt. His arm wrapped around you securely, palm splayed warm and steady across your upper back.

The relief that came from being held like that was immediate. Like a switch being flipped. Not because the pain vanished, but because the isolation of it lifted. You weren’t suffering alone anymore. You were here, in the arms of someone who didn’t flinch from your discomfort or try to fix it with empty words. Someone who wanted to be here, in this quiet, messy moment with you.

You leaned forward again just a little, brushing your lips to his cheek. A brief kiss. Gentle. Grateful.

If it were any other night–if your body wasn’t at war with itself–you knew you’d be all over him by now. He smelled good, like wind and clean cotton and whatever fabric softener he always used that clung to your sheets for days after he left. And he was so close, warm and pliant beneath your hands. There was always something about Bob that pulled at your skin like gravity.

But tonight…Tonight was different.

You felt a familiar ache of desire tug somewhere deep in your core, curling low and hot beneath the cramping you were experiencing still. You knew sex could help–that it might actually alleviate some of the pain. But still, the words stuck in your throat. This was the first time he was seeing you like this, and you didn’t want to risk turning tenderness into tension. Didn’t want him to think you were asking for more than he was ready to give under these conditions.

So instead, you let yourself rest. Let your fingers trace lightly over the stitching on his shirt, your breathing slowly syncing with his. You wondered, idly, if he knew–if he had any idea about the things that could help you feel better. If he’d ever read that article or heard someone say it out loud in passing. But if he did, he wasn’t mentioning it. And you weren’t brave enough to ask.

Not now at least.

You shifted even closer to him with a soft, involuntary hum, the smallest sound of contentment escaping your lips as your body registered the warmth of his side and clung to it. Bob didn’t move, didn’t speak–just tightened his arm around you ever so slightly, his hand resting securely on your back like he was anchoring you to the present, to safety.

You closed your eyes, and breathed him in again. The cramping hadn’t gone away, not completely. But it no longer ruled you. It lingered like a distant storm, rumbling at the edges, while the quiet beat of Bob’s heart offered something steadier to focus on.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

You let the sound cradle you, like a drumbeat in your chest that wasn’t yours but still somehow belonged to you, bringing your leg over his slowly, your hips shifting with the movement. Bob responded immediately to the new position, his own leg adjusting instinctively beneath yours to make a little space for you to settle into.

Your face pressed deeper into the hollow of his shoulder, the heat in your cheeks now less about fever and more about quiet intimacy. You stayed there like that, enveloped in the low murmur of his breath and the steady pulse beneath your ear.

Every now and then, he’d shift slightly to get more comfortable, and the subtle motion–his chest rising, his ribs flexing, his fingertips dragging lightly through the fabric at your back–would draw you back from the edge of sleep, until it finally overtook you.

—————————

The first thing you noticed when you stirred awake was the absence of warmth, and the pressure of arms and hands touching you.

Instinctively you reached for Bob, thinking that maybe in the midst of your nap you had untangled yourself from him, only to find the indentation he’d left in the couch and a faint lingering trace of his fabric softener. The fuzzy navy blanket had slipped down your hip, and the heating pad, long since gone cold, pressed heavy and useless against your lower stomach. You sighed, rubbing the sleep from your eyes as your ears registered the low, distant whir of the bathroom fan humming from down the hall.

Slowly, your eyes trailed over toward the clock on the wall.

9:25 p.m.

Somehow it felt later and earlier than that all at once, like time had folded in on itself and it was just an odd loop. You sat up with a soft groan, hands bracing against the couch cushions as you shifted. The cramps had dulled–less a serrated edge now, more a muted throb radiating into your lower back like a tired engine. Still there. Still annoying. But tolerable.

You peeled the cooled heating pad from your skin and dropped it beside the grocery bags on the coffee table, your eyes skimming over them with a faint smile, though you had noticed they weren’t as full anymore.

The all-dressed chips were gone, so were the sour cream ones, meaning Bob must’ve eaten them all on his own. You let out a quiet, amused hum and pushed yourself to your feet, stretching just enough to feel the pull in your shoulders, your hoodie exposing your midriff with the movement.

As you padded across the room, you grabbed the unopened bottle of Advil from the second grocery bag, cracked the seal, and shook out two liquid capsules into your palm, tossing them back and swallowing them dry, wincing slightly at the way they briefly got stuck in your throat.

Then you stood there for a beat, letting everything settle around you.

The apartment was quiet, but not silent. Dim, but warm.

A few lamps cast soft pools of light across the space–one near the couch still glowing amber, another by the kitchen left on at half brightness. The curtains over the windows were drawn tight, muting the outside world to a soft shadowplay of headlights passing every so often. On the kitchen counter, Bob’s keys were resting beside a crumpled receipt and the half-empty bag of gummy worms he had clearly dipped into while you were asleep.

You shuffled down the hallway, arms folded loosely across your chest, each step deliberate and soft. A few hours ago you probably wouldn’t have been able to move like this, so evidently whatever you did had helped.

The further down the hall you went, the cooler the air became–less from the apartment’s thermostat and more from him. That telltale prickle at the base of your neck. Not sinister. Not unwelcome. Just a quiet alertness in the atmosphere. The kind of cold that carried intention.

The bathroom door was mostly shut, but the light bled out beneath it in a thin golden strip across the floorboards. The fan buzzed faintly above it, soothing and constant, and you could hear the quiet sound of water–either running or having just stopped.

You lifted your hand, hesitating only for a moment before gently knocking on the door with the soft part of your knuckles.

“Bob?” You called out, your voice scratchy with sleep. There was a brief pause, and then the fan cut off with a quiet click, and for a moment, all you could hear was the dripping of water and your own breath echoing through your nose.

Then the door opened, and standing in the center of the soft bathroom lighting was The Void. He was unmistakable–tall and defined in that way Bob always was, but rendered in silhouette so precise it looked carved from shadow itself. Smooth and obsidian from head to toe, his features unreadable save for the faint glint of white where his eyes should be–those signature star-pupils glowing dimly in the low light–and the suggestion of a mouth that moved only when he chose it to.

He wore nothing but a towel, slung low around his hips, and the fact that he’d just gotten out of the shower was made abundantly clear by the way water still clung to him in languid droplets, trailing down the lines of his chest and abdomen in slow, shimmering arcs. Each drop disappeared into the dark surface of his skin like ink being swallowed by midnight.

His silky black hair was damp and heavy, hanging over his forehead and temples in wet, tousled clumps. It framed the curve of his jaw, you could see it from the way it flowed out a bit and hung slightly. Somehow, even in his wordless presence, he radiated a kind of calm–but it pulsed with tension just beneath the surface. As if the moment could shift at any second, if he let it.

You blinked, eyebrows lifting, “Oh. I didn’t know you were here.”

He nodded, voice lower and smoother than Bob’s but carrying the same gentle breathiness. “Yeah. Bob fell asleep, so I just…Decided to take over during that.” He paused, tilting his head faintly, water dripping onto the tile from his hair. “Was feeling a bit sweaty though, so I wanted to freshen up a bit. Hope that’s okay.” You leaned against the doorframe, arms crossing lightly over your hoodie, a smirk pulling at your lips.

”Well, what’s mine is yours,” You stated casually, “So…Have at it.” You caught a flash of his teeth–just the slightest curve of a grin in that shadowy mouth.

“You have quite the array of soaps,” He replied, tilting his head with mock gravity, “So I certainly had at it.” You let out a little laugh, stepping into the bathroom a bit further, heat curling low in your stomach just from the sheer sight of him in basically nothing but the towel itself.

”I’m sure you did.” You commented, before raising onto your toes and giving him a soft, lingering peck at the corner of his cold mouth.”Hello, by the way,” You added, with a little smirk on your face. He hummed, low and pleased, the sound vibrating in his chest. Then he wrapped his arms around your waist in a slow, measured motion–cool to the touch, but not unwelcoming. In fact, he felt like relief. Like stepping into shade after being in the sun for too long. His hands slid along your back, fingers dipping under the hem of your hoodie where your warm skin met his coolness.

“Hello to you too,” He murmured–and before you could answer, he leaned forward and kissed you properly this time, and it certainly wasn’t the same type of greeting you had given him. It was slower. Deeper. His mouth was cool but somehow still pliant against yours, parting just enough for his tongue to tease the seam of your lips before he gently sucked on your bottom lip, drawing it between his own like he had all the time in the world. You let out a faint, breathy sound against him, your hands gripping the towel at his hips for balance. You could feel the heat in your stomach ignite almost instantly, curling low and sharp, like a spark catching dry kindling. Every glide of his mouth against yours pulled you closer to the edge of forgetting–forgetting your cramps, your exhaustion, your discomfort. Forgetting yourself entirely.

Which was exactly why you had to stop.

With reluctant fingers still curled around the soft edge of the towel at his waist, you pulled away from his lips, your breath catching as your forehead gently rested against his.

“Void…” You whispered, voice barely above a murmur, “I’m on my period.”Your hands lifted, sliding up to press gently against the cool, velvet-smooth skin of his chest–broad and unyielding beneath your palms. His body stilled for a breath, but not with hesitation. He let out a soft, breathy laugh, his white pupils glinting like distant stars as he gazed at you.

“I know,” He murmured, without shame or judgment. “I’m able to smell the blood.” You opened your mouth to respond, but he leaned in before you could, placing a kiss to your cheek, then another just below your jaw. His lips were cool and reverent, trailing slowly down to your neck. One kiss. Another. Then another.

Each one was featherlight and deliberate, lips barely brushing against your overheated skin–and yet your pulse fluttered, your breath hitched, and your head tilted almost instinctively to the side to give him more room. The contrast between your warm skin and his chilled mouth made your toes curl, a tingling shiver running down your spine like lightning.

Your eyes fluttered closed as he pressed a kiss just beneath your ear, and you exhaled softly.

“You sound like a vampire…” You mumbled, trying to keep your voice steady. Void let out a low, indulgent laugh, the sound vibrating against the hollow of your throat like the roll of distant thunder. Then–without warning–he nipped at your pulse point, sharp enough to make you jump slightly, but not enough to hurt.

“I could be one,” He said slyly, voice curling like smoke. “If you’d allow me to. I already have super senses, so…I’m halfway there…Only thing that’s missing is drinking blood.” The suggestiveness in his tone made your stomach twist into tight, unbearable knots. You were just about to say something back–some equally flirtatious quip to match his vampire fantasy–when he added, entirely too casually:

“Also, with those super senses, I can literally hear your uterus contracting right now. Did I mention that?” You froze. Your head pulling back immediately, brows knitting together in horror as your face twisted into the most incredulous expression humanly possible.

“Jesus,” You groaned, pushing against his chest–not hard, just enough to make him take a step back. “You really know how to ruin a sexy moment.” Void’s mouth curled into a smug smile, the white glow of his pupils sharpening with delight as a low laugh rumbled from his chest.

“Don’t worry,” He murmured, unbothered. “It doesn’t sound weird.”

You stared at him.

“I thought it would be like…Leather gloves squishing together or something–”

“Oh my God–”

“–But it actually registers more like a second pulse of sorts. Slow. Steady. Very, very calming to listen to.” You covered your face with both hands, letting out a muffled sound of despair.

“You have to learn how to keep things to yourself, Void.” You groaned through your palms. He tilted his head, completely unashamed, the way only an immortal void-being could be.

“I find it to be beautiful,” He said earnestly. “It seems like you’re the one who’s embarrassed by a normal bodily function.” You lowered your hands slowly, one brow arched so high it might’ve shot off your forehead.

“Me?” You asked, pointing to yourself.

”Yes. You,” He replied, pressing a cold fingertip to your nose without missing a beat, “I can practically hear the hum of your sexual frustration in your bones–“

”Void–“ You tried to cut in, though he trampled your attempt.

”–But you’re too reluctant to ask me to take care of you because you’re embarrassed about it.” Your mouth dropped open slightly, almost shocked by the forwardness of his statement. He was staring at you, completely composed and unbothered. You gulped loudly, feeling your heart rate pick up under his steady, unblinking gaze. It felt like he was staring through you–like he could peel back each layer of your composure with just a tilt of his head. Void watched the fluttering of your pulse with mild fascination, his eyes gleaming.

”Am I right or am I wrong?” He murmured. You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. Your lips just parted on a soft exhale, throat working as if your body had forgotten how to form a sentence. Your mouth had gone dry–parched like desert heat–and so you broke eye contact, glanced away from him, ashamed at the burn of arousal coiling through your body in tight, low spirals.

“Void…Listen, I–” He reached up, cold fingers brushing along your jaw until his hand cradled the side of your face. He tilted your chin gently, guiding your gaze back up to his. His touch was soft but steady, almost bordering on firm.

“I asked if I was right or if I was wrong,” He repeated, his voice laced with that subtle, grounding dominance. Calm and unshakeable. “Can you answer me, please?” You stared at him, throat bobbing with another nervous swallow. Your pulse thrummed in your ears. His thumb brushed over your cheek, like he was soothing something only he could sense.

“…Of course I’m reluctant to ask,” You whispered, your voice almost hoarse. “Who wouldn’t be?” He exhaled slowly, a little sigh escaping him–less disappointment, more knowing. He shook his head faintly, and the shadowed strands of his wet hair shifted with the movement.

“Someone who isn’t embarrassed of what they want,” He replied simply, and the smirk that followed was sharp–knowing, dark, fond. You could feel your palms getting sweaty. There was a heat building inside you that had nothing to do with your cramps. It was a different kind of ache now–deep and thick and pressing down on every nerve in your body like it had weight.

“I’m not embarrassed,” You muttered, eyes darting to the floor between you like you were hoping for an escape hatch to open beneath your feet. “I’m just…”

The Void didn’t move nor did he blink. He just waited, and watched you closely.

You glanced up to meet his gaze again, but before the rest of the sentence could fully form, he cut you off–quietly, confidently, like he’d been waiting for the moment to fall apart in your throat.

“Reluctant to indulge in something you want?” He finished your sentence for you, letting the words drop like stones between you.

He leaned forward just slightly, not enough to touch–but enough for the chill of his breath to ghost over your cheeks like frost crawling up a windowpane. You felt it like a current–sharp and soothing at the same time–cutting clean through the haze of your heat-flushed skin. It pulled a shiver from you, involuntary, delicate as a blade of grass bending in the wind. The stars in his pupils shimmered faintly, twin glints of something eternal, patient, and entirely undisturbed.

“…Reluctant to put you in an uncomfortable position,” You corrected quietly, the words trembling slightly as they left your lips. They felt too honest, too exposed–but true all the same. “It’s not that I don’t want to–I do. God, I do. But I’m not gonna beg for something if there’s even a chance it’s gonna make you uncomfortable or…Cross a boundary for you. That’s not who I am. And it’s not fair to you.���

There was a pause–soft and heavy.

Then, he let out a quiet, amused sound. A low, warm chuckle that rumbled deep in his chest and unfurled like black velvet across your skin.

“Y/N,” He started gently, shaking his head. The stars in his eyes brightened slightly. “A little bit of blood would never make me feel uncomfortable.” He dipped closer, the line of his shoulder brushing yours, his mouth nearly at your ear now as he murmured, “You should know that by now.”

Your breath hitched.

His words weren’t mocking or pitying–they were gentle. Certain. Like the idea of your bleeding body repulsing him was so laughably impossible that it didn’t even deserve serious consideration.

He drew back just enough to meet your gaze again, but he didn’t move away entirely. One of his hands trailed down slowly to rest just above the waistband of your sweatpants. The tips of his cool fingers brushed your warm skin where your hoodie had ridden up. The contrast made your stomach twitch.

“All I want is to take care of you…And it would be great if you’d let me.” His voice was low and soft, coiling through air like smoke–cool and deliberate. His fingertips slipped under the waistband of your sweatpants and just rested there, grounding you. You bit the inside of your cheek, pulse quickening. His hand wasn’t moving, wasn’t pushing. He wasn’t trying to talk you out of your nerves, wasn’t seducing you in the typical way–but it still felt seductive, still soothing, the way only Void could be. Your throat worked around the ache in your chest, and your voice came out quieter than you meant it to.

“…You really want to do this?”

He didn’t hesitate.

“Of course I do.”

No sarcasm. No smirk. Just certainty.

You brought your hands up slowly to press against his chest–cool, slick, still faintly damp from the shower. The sensation sent a little jolt through your fingers. You closed your eyes for a moment and took a deep breath.

“…Okay,” You whispered. “Just give me a few minutes to get ready at least.” His mouth quirked–barely a smile, but filled with something like affection.

“No problem,” He said, brushing a kiss against your cheek with a softness that made your knees weaken. “I’ll meet you in your bedroom.” And just like that, he slipped past you.

The cool absence he left in his wake was almost startling–the door clicking softly shut behind him as he went. You stood there in the bathroom for a beat, heart hammering, your reflection catching your eye in the mirror.

You looked like a storm had passed through you. Hoodie riding up, eyes sleepy and a bit glossy. Lips kiss-bitten and puffy. You could even feel the shape of his mouth on your neck still. You stared at yourself for a long second, then exhaled hard through your nose and mumbled–

“…What the hell do I do?” Panic flickered just beneath the surface, stuttering hot against your nerves. It wasn’t that you didn’t want this. You did. Badly. Desperately. But then the logistics came crashing in—blood. mess. cleanup. embarrassment. the way your stomach might cramp mid-orgasm. the way you might sob afterward because your hormones were deranged.

You could already feel your anxiety building.

Your gaze darted toward the bottom cabinet beneath the sink, and your body moved before your brain could catch up.

You crouched down and yanked it open, fingers wrapping around a half-used pack of wipes from the last time you’d needed a quick clean-up post-sex. You tossed them onto the counter, then paused.

Okay. Okay. Quick solutions. You’re okay.

You pulled down your sweatpants and underwear, removed your tampon with swift, practiced ease–wrapping it tightly in toilet paper before tucking it deep beneath the mountain of used tissues in the bin. You washed your hands quickly, your fingers trembling slightly beneath the rush of warm water. The stream was too hot on your already overheated skin, but you didn’t care. You needed the sting. Needed the reset.

You paused in front of the mirror again and pushed your hair out of your face, taking a deep breath. You decided to keep your sweatpants off just so they didn’t stain, but your underwear remained on, just for insurance. You tucked the pack of wipes under your arm, before padding back into the hallway, making your way across the hall to your bedroom.

You opened the door to your bedroom slowly, the hinges barely creaking as the light from the hallway spilled across the floorboards in a soft ribbon of gold. But inside–it was all dark.

The only illumination came from the moonlight, cool and silvery, filtering through the slats in your curtains and painting faint stripes across the walls. It caught on the curve of his shoulders first. He was seated at the foot of the bed like a statue carved from night itself, all sharp lines and slick, smooth skin that shimmered faintly under the light.

The towel was still slung low around his hips, just barely clinging to his frame. His posture was relaxed, almost regal, arms resting on his thighs. But the moment he saw you–standing in the doorway, hoodie hanging loose over your body, your legs bare beneath the hem–his head lifted.

Those star-pupiled eyes dragged slowly up your body, deliberate and unhurried. From the tips of your toes, up the line of your calves, your thighs–he lingered there, lips parting ever so slightly–then continued, drinking in every inch of you until his gaze reached your face. The faintest smile curved across his mouth.

“Come here.” His voice was soft, velvety, but there was weight behind it. Command hidden inside kindness. He extended a hand to you, fingers curling ever so slightly, beckoning. You swallowed. Then stepped forward. Your heart beated faster with each movement across the floor, the cool air curling around your exposed legs, your fingertips gripping the edge of the wipe pack a little too tightly. You stopped just in front of him and dropped the pack beside his thigh. He didn’t even glance at it.

He only looked at you.

Your fingers met, and the moment your hand slid into his, his other arm was already reaching to wrap around the backs of your thighs. He pulled you into the cradle of his body gently, slowly, until you stood fully between his knees, the heat of your skin brushing against the coolness of his chest. His hands moved to your ass, slow and possessive–broad palms splaying there with intent. Not squeezing yet. Just holding.

Then he leaned forward.

And kissed you.

Hard.

His mouth was cooler than yours, but it only made the friction sweeter–the contrast sharper. It started with pressure, then parted into hunger. His lips moved with an urgency that surprised you, tongue flicking against yours with teasing precision before deepening the kiss into something that made your knees tremble. He sucked on your bottom lip just enough to draw a gasp from you, one hand slipping higher to squeeze your hip.

You whimpered faintly into his mouth, your fingers finding the slick skin of his shoulders, clinging.

“Void—” You breathed between kisses.

But he just hummed, a low sound of satisfaction, and pulled you forward with firm hands until you had no choice but to straddle his lap. You climbed up instinctively, knees bracketing his thighs, arms looping around his neck. The towel bunched between you, but barely registered. He groaned softly when your weight settled into him, his hands roaming again–palming your ass, your hips, dragging you flush against the line of his abdomen.

“You’re so hot,” He murmured against your mouth, voice dark with awe. “I think I’m going to have to cool you down.” He stood in one fluid, seamless motion–not a jerk or a lift, just a smooth ascension, as if gravity bowed to him. You barely had time to gasp before your legs wrapped instinctively around his waist, arms tightening around his shoulders, breath catching in your throat. His hands supported you easily, one cradling beneath your thighs, the other anchoring your lower back.

And then, without warning, he turned.

Your back hit the mattress with a soft thump, the air catching in your chest in surprise before it dissolved into a giggle. A real one. Light and unguarded. The kind that cracked through the last of your tension and made your head tip back for a second, even as he hovered above you.

He loomed, dark and cold and beautiful in a way that never stopped stealing your breath. Still damp, water beading faintly across his shadow-black skin, the remnants of his shower gleaming like stardust scattered across him. His hair clung to his temples, longer pieces curling at his jaw, giving him an almost feral softness. His glowing white eyes skimmed over your face, then down your body, before flicking back up, his mouth quirking into a sly, knowing smile as he straightened up above you, his fingers ghosting over the towel on his hips. He held your gaze with that impossible, infinite stillness–like the stars themselves had gone quiet to witness this moment–before slowly tugging the towel free.

“Y’know,” He said, the corner of his mouth lifting, “You really should’ve gotten those black sheets you mentioned seeing at the store the other day…” You raised a brow at him from beneath your lashes, still breathless from the kiss, heart drumming against your ribs, “Because now we’re going to ruin this towel.” He added, lifting it in his hand and motioning to it. You let out a soft, startled laugh despite yourself, rolling your eyes as you lifted your hips ever so slightly.

“Then I wouldn’t be able to find you,” You teased, adjusting just enough for him to slip the towel beneath you, “You’d camouflage into the sheets.” That earned a genuine laugh–a low, smoky exhale that brushed against your throat as he lowered himself over you, his shadowed skin cool against the fire of your thighs.

“Mmm,” He mused, his mouth hovering just above yours, “I’m sure you would manage it.” And then he kissed you again.

Slower this time. Deeper. His weight settled between your thighs with deliberate care, the blanket of cold that clung to him seeping into your overheated skin like an offering. It made you shudder, your fingers curling in reflex around his arms as your thighs instinctively tightened around his waist. The contrast was maddening–your warmth against his chill, his steady hands anchoring you while your body throbbed with need and ache beneath him.

His lips moved with worship, with reverence. Not frantic. Not rushed. Just sure–like every press of his mouth had a purpose. You whimpered softly into him, and the sound made him groan low in his throat, his hands sliding up your sides with slow, dragging strokes.

And then one hand rose to the zipper of your hoodie.

You gasped faintly as he tugged it down, tooth by tooth, the faint sound of the zipper somehow deafening in the quiet. His lips never left your skin as he worked, kissing the underside of your jaw, then lower, nipping gently at the curve of your neck until you squirmed beneath him. The zipper reached the bottom. He opened your hoodie slowly, like parting the petals of a flower. You were in your old, soft sleep bra–barely supportive, thin and stretched from too many wash cycles–but he didn’t seem to care. If anything, the sight of you–barely dressed, and so open to him–made his pupils pulse brighter with starlight.

He leaned back for just a second, letting his eyes devour the view of you laid out for him. You saw the moment it hit him–his breath caught. His gaze dragged across your chest, where your breasts rose and fell with each shallow inhale, visibly heavy with heat and swelling from your cycle, from the hormones that rushed throughout your bloodstream.

“Oh, Jesus…” His voice broke over the words, a rasp of awe and hunger curling low in his throat. His cold palms slid up from your ribs, “You’re burning up so much,” He whispered, his hands cupping the underside of your breasts through the thin fabric. The contact made you gasp, hips twitching beneath him. His thumbs brushed softly over your nipples and you arched faintly into the touch, breath hitching as the friction sent sparks skittering down your spine. He hummed low in his throat, the sound curling like smoke between your ribs.

“Sensitive little thing,” He murmured, his voice velvety and warm despite the chill of his body. “I haven’t even touched you properly yet, and already you’re squirming.”

You let out a soft whimper, and he took that as permission–slipping the straps of your bra off your shoulders, letting the cups fall away slowly, exposing the full swell of your breasts to the coolness of his body and the room. The moan that slid out of him was low and long, almost involuntary.

“Look at you,” He breathed, “You look so fucking soft.” He ducked his head without hesitation, brushing his mouth over the top of one breast–just a featherlight kiss at first, then another, then another. His lips were cold but plush, the contrast against your overheated skin making your back arch reflexively off the bed.

Then he sucked.

Not gentle.

Not harsh.

Just deep and slow and possessive, like he was savoring the taste of you, mapping you with his mouth. His tongue flicked at your nipple, then flattened and dragged across it, teasing it into a peak before he latched on and sucked again–deeper this time.

“F-fuck–” You gasped, writhing slightly beneath him. Your thighs twitched, heat pooling low in your stomach like a slow, molten tide. He groaned against your skin, the sound reverberating through your chest.

“You like that?” He asked, pulling back just enough to blow cool air over the wet peak, making you cry out softly. “You’re so fucking sensitive. It’s gorgeous.” His mouth returned to your other breast, lavishing it with the same treatment–licking and sucking, nipping lightly, dragging the flat of his tongue over your nipples until they ached in the most delicious way. He marked you there–soft bruises blooming under the suction of his mouth, kisses that would fade slowly over the next few days. Proof that you were his. That you had been worshipped like something holy.

“You taste like a fucking fever,” He muttered between kisses, “And you make the prettiest little sounds when I suck on your nipples, do you know that?” Your fingers tangled in his damp hair, tugging gently, breathless and whining as your hips rocked against his abs. You could feel the damp patch at the crotch of your underwear growing wetter by the second–not just from your menstrual blood, but from arousal now as well.

“You’re driving me fucking crazy,” You whispered. “Please…Please–”

“Shh,” He soothed, dragging his mouth down your sternum, licking a path down your belly, “I know. I know, little flame.”

He kissed your stomach next, slow and warmly. You felt the points of his teeth graze your skin as he bit lightly–just enough to make you twitch. Each kiss was possessive and deliberate. Your flesh tingled under every scrape his mouth provided, the tension in your core building to an unbearable level.

“You’re beautiful,” He said between kisses. “All of you. Especially like this.” He nuzzled into your navel, then kissed just below it. “Soft. Swollen. Needy.” Your thighs trembled beneath him as he reached the waistband of your underwear. He paused, lifting his head to meet your eyes.

“Lift your hips for me.”

You obeyed without question, breath catching as your muscles clenched and your hips tilted up. His hands gripped the sides of your underwear, and he peeled them down slowly–dragging the fabric over your thighs, your knees, and finally your ankles before tossing them somewhere behind him without ceremony.

Then he stilled, crouched between your legs, and inhaled deeply.

His eyes flickered open–bright white star-pupils pulsing softly with what could only be described as hunger.

“You smell delicious,” He praised, voice dark and rich with awe. His nostrils flared faintly as he leaned closer, dipping his face down toward the apex of your thighs. “I’m going to get so fucking drunk off you.” You whimpered, thighs pressing together slightly at the praise–but he immediately placed his hands on your knees and coaxed them open again, eyes glowing brighter as he gazed down at your slick, glistening core. You knew there was definitely more blood there, mixing with your arousal, but Void didn’t flinch, nor did he hesitate. If anything it seemed like he locked in even more, and his hunger only grew.

His fingers dug gently into your thighs as he leaned closer, his breath skating over your swollen folds.

”Mmm fuck.” He moaned, before leaning in and licking.

A long, deliberate drag of his tongue–flat and firm–starting at your entrance and pulling all the way up through your folds to your clit, where he flicked the tip against the sensitive nub with precise, teasing pressure. The moment his tongue touched you, your entire body jolted, a breathless gasp tearing from your throat as your hips bucked off the bed.

“F-Fuck…Void…”

“Oh, I know,” He purred, already moving back in, his breath cold and steady against your dripping heat. “You’re so fucking sensitive. I can feel it…The way your thighs twitch…The way your heartbeat stutters under your skin…” He buried his mouth back between your legs, licking again–this time slower, messier, his tongue circling your clit before sucking it into his mouth gently. Your hands flew to his hair, gripping tightly as you cried out. The sound that left him in response was somewhere between a growl and a moan, vibrating against you like thunder under your skin.

He didn’t stop.

He licked through the blood and slick like it was nectar–like it was the sweetest thing he’d ever tasted. He groaned again, louder this time, tongue plunging deeper, swirling around your entrance before dragging back up to flick over your clit with maddening precision.

”Tastes so fucking good, I wish I could have you this way all the time.” He rasped, pulling back only to speak for those brief seconds. In the moonlight you could see the way his chin was slick. You whimpered, thighs trembling around his head, the pleasure already cresting far too fast. Your body was so sensitive it felt like every flick of his tongue set fire to your nerves. You could feel every nuance of it–every swipe, every suck, every teasing swirl of his tongue through the slick mess between your thighs.

Then he moaned into you again and shoved his face deeper–pressing his mouth hard against your aching core, his tongue working fast and filthy as he wrapped his arms under your thighs and held you still, forcing you to ride his face. You cried out, hips trying to squirm, but he growled–deep and warning–and tightened his grip.

“Don’t run from it,” He grunted against your clit, the vibration making your whole body twitch. “I want you to fall apart on my tongue. Let it happen. Don’t fight it.” One hand pulled free from your thigh and slid beneath him. Two fingers pressed to your dripping entrance, circling once–slick with blood and arousal–before slowly sinking inside you.

You sobbed. The stretch was gentle, but intense–your body already sheened with sweat and tight and overwhelmed. His fingers curled deep, slow at first, dragging against that aching spot inside you with precision only something inhuman could have. Your walls clenched around him instantly.

”Fuck, Y/N,” He muttered, voice dark and rumbling, “You’re so hot inside…Clutching my fingers like you don’t wanna let go.” Then his free hand rose and pressed flat against your lower stomach, right over the ache. Right over the source of your cramps. And it grounded you instantly.

“You feel that?” He whispered, licking your clit with long, slow strokes while his fingers began to pump inside you. “That pressure? That’s me. Right there, where it hurts. Let me fix it, let me fuck it out of you with my mouth.” You choked on a sob, gasping as your hips arched off the bed, the hand on your belly the only thing anchoring you.

His mouth moved faster. His fingers did too–curling, pumping, coaxing the tension in your core into something unbearable. The obscene, wet sound of it all–his tongue working your clit, his fingers squelching inside your soaked cunt, the wet slap of his chin against your blood-slick thighs–it should’ve embarrassed you.

But it didn’t.

It made you dizzy.

It made you cry out his name again, loud and needy and utterly desperate.

“Void…Void, I…Oh my god—”

“That’s it, little flame,” He growled, lips dragging across your clit again, “Give it to me. Let me taste it. All of it. Don’t hold back.” You couldn’t. You were shaking. Gasping. Your thighs clenched around his head as your back arched sharply off the bed, your body locking up like a livewire.

You came.

Hard.

A sob tore from your throat as your body seized with pleasure, tears springing to your eyes unbidden as the orgasm ripped through you. The combination of his fingers pressing deep, the steady weight of his hand against your stomach, and his mouth–cold, slick, merciless–on your clit was too much. You didn’t even realize you were crying until his tongue slowed, and his fingers gentled inside you. He licked you through the aftershocks, slow and soft now, lapping up the mess he’d made of you like it was holy.

And when he finally looked up, his mouth slick, chin gleaming, star-pupils glowing brighter than ever, he whispered–

“Jesus Christ…That was fucking amazing.” He slipped his fingers out of you, before crawling up your body slowly–like a shadow, like a storm, like something that could devour you whole and still beg for more. His mouth brushed your hipbone first, then your stomach, pausing to press a soft, open-mouthed kiss just above your navel, right where your muscles still fluttered from the orgasm he’d wrung out of you. His breath was cool and steady, his lips slick with blood and arousal. He didn’t bother to wipe them.

He didn’t need to.

He wanted you to taste it.

You could see it in the way his glowing eyes dragged up your body, lingering at every mark, every quiver, every trembling inch of your skin as if committing it to memory. As if this was a prayer, and your ruined body beneath him was a sacred altar.

He reached your chest again, kissing a slow trail up your sternum. You could still feel the faint ache in your nipples from earlier, already hypersensitive again as his mouth brushed them, one after the other. His tongue flicked lazily over one, and he smiled when your breath caught.

“Still so reactive,” He murmured, his voice thick with affection and heat. “You always are. Especially when you’re messy like this.”

He finally reached your throat and hovered there for a moment–just close enough that you could feel the wetness of his mouth against your skin, the blood and spit and come-slick humidity of him.

You were still panting, your cheeks flushed, your limbs limp and boneless beneath him.

“You okay?” He murmured, his voice like velvet smoke. “Still with me?”

You nodded faintly, whispering, “Yeah.”

He smiled against your throat and then dragged his lips up your jawline, slow and savoring, until he reached your mouth.

His tongue was cool. His kiss was filthy.

The moment your lips parted for him, he pushed inside–slow and deliberate–letting you taste the blood and slick and heat still coating his tongue. You whimpered at the taste, hips twitching faintly beneath him, even though your body was wrung out and raw.

“There it is,” He breathed, voice breaking as he kissed you deeper. “Taste that? That’s you. All of you. Sweet and bitter and so fucking perfect.”

You groaned into his mouth, hands sliding into his hair, and he moaned like he could live in this–like your kiss, your taste, your breath were oxygen.

His mouth was greedy, slick and open and unrelenting as he pressed closer, slotting his body against yours like he could mold himself into your skin. You could feel the length of him pressing hard between your thighs, his cock thick and pulsing. You grounded up against him lazily, still slick and hot and sore, but wanting.

He pulled back a little bit and looked down at you, letting out a husky laugh against your mouth.

”You’ve got some blood on your face.” He commented. You blinked, dazed and panting, and he grinned—sharp, glowing, haloed in moonlight. He reached behind him with one hand, retrieving the pack of wipes you’d tossed earlier. With a practiced flick, he tore one free and dragged it slowly across his own chin first, wiping away the glistening blood and slick that still coated his mouth. The red stain smeared faintly along the wipe like paint across linen. Then, with the same slow reverence, he leaned in and gently swiped it along your cheek, cleaning where your own blood had transferred to his mouth, then your skin.

He dropped the used wipe off the side of the bed without a glance, not caring where it landed.

Then his hand was back at your cheek, cupping it as he leaned in to kiss you again.

It was softer this time—but no less intense. If anything, the tenderness of it made the heat in your stomach roar back to life. Because there was nothing gentle about the way his cock throbbed between your thighs, brushing hot and heavy against your slit. You felt it, solid and insistent, grinding lazily along your folds as he kissed you deep enough to make your eyes roll back.

Then his hand moved between you.

You gasped as you felt his fingers curl around the base of his cock, the head nudging against your clit in a slick, teasing drag. His mouth pulled away from yours with a quiet, wet sound.

“You okay for us to have sex still?” he asked, his voice low and steady, but his pupils flaring bright with hunger. You didn’t hesitate. Your whole body arched into him, your nails curling into the damp skin of his shoulders.

“Fuck, please,” you breathed, desperate and hoarse.

That got a smile out of him. A real one. Dangerous and soft, his teeth faintly visible in the moonlight, a haze of red still staining the tips. His cock dragged through your folds again, and he let out a slow, pleased groan, hips twitching at the feel of your slick, swollen cunt parting for him.

“You’re soaked,” He murmured, dragging the blunt head of his cock over your clit once before sliding it down to your entrance, “Bleeding, dripping, fucking throbbing for me. You need to be filled, don’t you?” His voice was velvet filth, low and coaxing, and you nodded frantically.

“Yes…Yes, fuck, I need you, Void…”

“Then take me…” He whispered, and with one slow, brutal push, he sank inside you. Your mouth dropped open on a silent scream.

The stretch burned–hot and overwhelming–your walls clenching around him so tight he groaned deep in his chest, closing his eyes tightly as he continued. He didn’t stop until he was all the way in–buried to the hilt, his cock pulsing inside you, dragging against the sensitive, swollen walls of your still-sensitive body.

“F-fuck, baby…” Ge rasped, voice fraying. “You’re squeezing me so tight–I can feel every flutter, every pulse.” His hips jerked slightly, an involuntary grind, just enough to drag the thick head of his cock against your most sensitive spot. You gasped, back arching.

“God, Void–” You choked out, your hands clutching his shoulders like you needed him to hold you down before you came apart again.

He dipped his head to your neck, tongue dragging slowly along the column of your throat before he sank his teeth into the skin–not enough to break it, but enough to make your entire body jerk. He sucked there, slow and hard, until the blood surged beneath your skin, and your breath hitched in a broken moan.

“I love how fucking warm you are inside,” He growled against your neck, licking over the bite to soothe it, “You’re so soft, so slick…I could stay buried inside you forever.” You whimpered under him, grinding your hips upward as best you could, desperate for more friction.

“Please,” You begged, breathless and raw. “Move. Fuck me, please–” That shattered his restraint.

He pulled back slowly, just a few inches, letting you feel the full drag of his cock against your swollen, aching walls–and then he drove back in with a filthy, wet sound, his hips smacking against your thighs. You gasped–loud and helpless–and he did it again. And again.

And again.

Each thrust was a perfectly measured, brutal stroke. Deep. Sure. Possessive. Like he was carving himself into your body with every push of his hips.

“That’s it,” He grunted, fucking you harder now. “Let me hear those little noises–God, you make the sweetest sounds when you’re getting fucked…” You were incoherent beneath him, crying out with every stroke, nails digging into his back, legs trembling.

“Y-you’re so deep,” You sobbed, voice breaking, “I can feel you everywhere…Oh my fucking god.” His mouth found yours again, kissing you like he was starving for you—like your breath was his only tether to reality. He moaned into you as he fucked you, his pace relentless now,.

“I want it messy,” He hissed against your lips. “I want to ruin this bed with you–ruin this whole fucking night with how good I fuck you through the pain.” You sobbed again, overwhelmed by the pressure, the stretch, the heat–and the devotion in his voice that made it all unbearable in the best way.

“You want that?” He demanded, snapping his hips into you, making your breath hitch. “Want me to fuck you through the cramps? Want me to use this cock to fix what your body’s doing to you?”

“Yes…Yes, please, Void…”

“Say it,” He growled. “Say you need it.”

“I need it,” You gasped. “I need your cock, I need you to fuck it out of me–fuck the pain out, please, I’m yours, I’m fucking yours…” A sound ripped from his throat. Feral. Wrecked.

His thrusts got messier, harder. The bed creaked beneath you. His hand slid between your bodies, fingers finding your clit and rubbing tight, fast circles, your thighs twitching against him instantly.

“Then cum for me again,” He ordered, voice dark silk. “Cum around my cock while I fill this pretty little pussy…Let me feel you tighten around me.” And just like that–you shattered.

You screamed. Loud. Broken. Beautiful.

Your walls clamped down on him so violently it dragged a curse from his lips, and he snapped his hips into you once, twice, three more times–before groaning like a dying man and spilling into you with a stuttered cry. You felt the warmth of his release, thick and hot, flooding your already filled core, dripping out around his cock.

He didn’t pull out.

Didn’t even move.

Just stayed there, trembling above you, forehead pressed to yours, breath shaking between parted lips.

“Holy fuck…” He whispered. “You…You’re fucking perfect as usual.”

Your body was trembling, your thighs were sticky and our mouth was kissed raw.

But when you opened your eyes, all you saw was him looking at you like you were the center of the goddamn universe.

And in his orbit–you believed it.

The only sound was the slow, ragged rhythm of your breathing–and the way his heart thundered against your chest. Your arms stayed around his neck, fingers tangled in the sweat-damp curls at his nape. His weight settled over you like a blanket, anchoring you, keeping the ache of emptiness at bay while your body slowly came down.

He nuzzled into your jaw with something almost shy in the way he breathed you in–soft, slow, like he was memorizing the smell of your sweat and your blood and your orgasm. You felt the chill of his skin even through your shared heat, the contrast making you shiver just a little beneath him.

“You okay?” he murmured.

You nodded, slowly, with a dazed little smile curling on your lips. “You definitely fucked the pain away… because all I feel is absolute… euphoria.”

His mouth quirked into a knowing smirk, not cocky—just deeply pleased. His voice dropped low and smooth as he leaned down and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your lips. “I’m gonna pull out,” he murmured against your mouth, his voice quiet, reverent.

You nodded again, whispering, “Okay.”

He moved slowly, carefully, the way you might handle something precious and fragile. And when he finally slid out of you, the heat of his length dragging against your walls one last time, all you felt was a thick, wet rush between your thighs. A flood of warmth and slick, dripping out in slow, messy streams.

You gasped softly at the sensation, and he let out a quiet, breathy laugh as he looked down between your bodies.

“My god,” He muttered, raking a hand through his damp hair. “We really did make a mess…”

You turned your head slightly and followed his gaze. The towel beneath you was utterly ruined–soaked through in deep streaks of red, streaks of slick and cum painting every fold of the fabric. You groaned, embarrassed but not really.

“I don’t think you’ll be able to use this towel ever again,” He added with a smirk, sitting back on his heels.

You opened your mouth to reply, but before you could, he reached over to the side of the bed, grabbed the pack of wipes, and got to work–without a word, without hesitation. His touch was clinical, but gentle, as if he were caring for a wound he revered more than feared. He wiped between your thighs first, slow and careful, murmuring a quiet “Sorry” whenever you twitched from overstimulation. It took five wipes to get most of it–blood and slick and his cum smeared everywhere.

Then he shifted lower, taking his time with the mess on your stomach, dragging a clean wipe across the smeared trails of red that had bloomed beneath your breasts and along your hipbones. His thumb brushed over one of the kiss-marks he’d left–dark, blooming like a rosebud beneath your skin–and sighed.

“These ones might take some elbow grease,” He teased softly.

You let out a little wheeze of a laugh, your voice still hazy with afterglow.

Once you were clean, he finally turned to himself, wiping himself off gently. He bundled all the used wipes in one hand and walked across the room to toss them into the little trash bin near your dresser.

Then he opened your top drawer, rifled carefully through your neatly folded underwear, and selected a soft cotton pair with tiny stars on them–one of your comfiest ones. He smiled faintly at the print, then turned and opened the second drawer–his drawer. The one you had made for him months ago. He pulled out a pair of his black boxer shorts, slid them on, and returned to your side.

“Alright, little flame,” He murmured, scooping you up again with ease, one hand beneath your thighs, the other steady against your back. “Bathroom time.”

You didn’t protest. You let yourself be carried, sleepy and raw and warm in the cradle of his arms. He padded down the hall with you, silent and sure. When you reached the bathroom, he set you gently down on the toilet seat, then opened up the cabinet under the sink and handed you a pad. You blinked at him, slow and grateful, while adjusting it onto the underwear he’d brought.

He leaned against the counter, arms folded, watching you with the satisfied look of a man who just cured a century-long affliction with his tongue. The white in his pupils pulsed softly, his expression pure mischief.

“I guess now,” He began, tilting his head, “you won’t be so embarrassed to ask to have period sex, hmm?”

You snorted, letting your head fall forward briefly before looking back up at him with a tired grin.

“I think I’m going to want it until it’s done.”

He pushed off the counter with a pleased little hum, leaned down, and kissed your forehead–soft and cold and grounding.

“Now that’s what I like to hear.”

He lingered there for a second, his lips pressed against your skin like a promise, his hand bracing gently on your knee. Then he straightened up again, reaching for the plush hand towel on the rack beside you.

“Let’s brush your teeth next,” He said softly, that calm authority slipping back into his tone. “Then I’m putting you to bed.” You laughed, wobbly and fond.

“And after that?” You murmured, blinking up at him.

He grinned.

“Then I’ll hold you all night,” He said, matter-of-fact. “And if your cramps come back…” He leaned down again, voice low and filthy, “…I’ll go down on you until you forget how to spell the word pain.”

Your legs trembled just hearing it.

“Deal,” you whispered.

And he smiled–glowing, content, and entirely yours.

[binkybonkybucky]

god i just love it when bucky is all filthy like this. and as someone on the shorter side this was feeling so very real and had me imagining something i may be wanting a little too much 😵‍💫

Omg hiii! i love your works so much! Can i request for a bucky x reader? Specifically size kink…I’m almost 5’2 girlie and bucky is like 6’0 right? Imagine how can he just throw the reader gently on the bed and flips her anytime he wants and can’t stop filling her up and pressing her stomach so the bulge is more visible😩🥵

can’t stop thinking bout him. I fear this may be all over the place bc I wrote it in chunks over the past few days and didn’t proofread lmao

-

It always starts the same.

One second, you’re standing in the hallway—barefoot, wearing one of his shirts that hangs halfway to your knees, minding your own business—and the next?

You’re airborne.

“Bucky—!”

You squeal as his arms wrap under your thighs and back, scooping you up like you weigh nothing. He grins, that cocky little smirk that makes your stomach flip.

“You were lookin’ too damn cute just standin’ there,” he says, as if that justifies kidnapping you into the bedroom.

You swat at his shoulder. “Put me down—!”

He kicks the door open and tosses you onto the mattress—gently, but still enough to make you bounce with a little gasp. The bed creaks beneath you as he drops to his knees at the edge, crawling over your smaller frame with something hungry in his eyes.

“You always say that,” he mutters, brushing his nose against yours. “But I don’t think you mean it.”

His hand slides up your thigh, pushing the shirt up, exposing your panties.

“Bucky…”

“You know what you do to me, baby?” he whispers, mouth grazing your cheek as his fingers hook under the waistband. “You make me wanna ruin you.”

His hand cups your whole thigh like it’s nothing. Like you’re fragile. You feel the heat of his breath on your neck as he tugs your panties down and presses your knees open with his broad palms.

“You’re so small,” he says, more to himself than to you. “Fuck—look at you. Legs all spread for me already.”

His fingers trace along your folds, slow and teasing, before he lines himself up—thick, hard, huge.

“You sure you can take it?”

You nod, breath shaky. “Y-Yeah. Want it. Please—”

He exhales a groan and slides the head of his cock in—barely—and your body arches.

Even after all this time, the stretch always gets you. He’s too big. Thick and heavy and impossible—and he loves watching you try.

“Jesus, sweetheart,” he grits, grabbing your hips. “You’re already tight as hell.”

“Bucky—please, deeper—”

“Yeah? You want more?”

You nod, whining.

He leans down, wraps one arm under your back, and flips you like a doll—face down, hips up, thighs trembling.

“Hold still,” he growls.

And then he sinks into you from behind—deep—until his hips press flush to your ass and your eyes roll back.

You scream into the mattress, your fingers gripping the sheets.

“That’s it,” he grunts, his hand sliding under you again—pressing to your belly, feeling the bulge where he’s already stretching you. “That’s where I am, baby. You feel that?”

You sob, nodding.

“Fuck—you’re so small. So fuckin’ tight around me. Like you were made for this.”

He rocks into you, slow at first, but deep. Devastating. The slap of skin fills the room. His hand stays pressed to your lower belly, thumb stroking that spot where his cock is stretching you from the inside.

“I love this part,” he murmurs, nearly reverent. “Love feelin’ myself inside you. Love watching your belly bulge when I’m all the way in.”

“Bucky—!”

“I got you, baby,” he pants, pounding into you harder. “Gonna fill you up. Fuck—you want that, right? You want it deep?”

“Yes—yesyesyes—fill me—please—”

“Goddamn, sweetheart,” he groans. “You take it so good. My perfect little girl. You want me to stuff you full? Wanna keep me?”

You cry out, words dissolving into sobs as he fucks you harder, hand still splayed on your stomach.

“I’ll give it to you,” he growls, voice cracking. “Gonna fill that pretty little tank. Wanna see it drip outta you when I’m done.”

Your body shakes as you come—hard, violent—your walls clenching around him, dragging his orgasm out of him with a desperate, broken groan.

“Fuck—tthere it is. Take it, baby. Take all of it—mine.”

He stays inside you, still moving, still gasping, pressing down on your belly with both hands now like he’s trying to keep it all in.

You collapse into the sheets, boneless, barely breathing.

And behind you, Bucky kisses your spine and murmurs softly, “You’re so fuckin’ small. And I still fit every inch of me inside you.”

You don’t know how long you lay there—face down, cheek to the sheets, still twitching from the aftershocks—but eventually, you feel his lips on your shoulder.

Then your spine.

Then your lower back.

“Still with me, sweetheart?” he murmurs.

You hum something incoherent and wet against the sheets.

He chuckles. You feel it rumble through his chest as he moves over you, wrapping a strong arm around your waist and guiding you gently onto your back.

Your legs fall open instantly.

You’re still so full, his cum already beginning to leak from where he’d been buried deep moments ago—but he doesn’t seem interested in letting that go to waste.

Bucky sits back on his heels between your thighs, eyes hooded, sweat-slicked chest rising and falling as he looks you over.

More specifically?

He’s looking at your belly.

At the soft little swell under your navel—still lingering, still stretched.

He drags two fingers gently down your stomach. Presses. Watches you gasp.

“There it is,” he murmurs. “Still feel me inside?”

You nod, whimpering.

His hands slide to your waist, and he smiles like he’s about to ask something innocent—but it’s anything but.

“Get on top, baby.”

You blink. “W-What?”

“C’mon,” he coaxes, guiding your legs around him. “Wanna see you ride me.”

“Bucky, I can’t—”

“Yes, you can. I’ll help you. Just wanna see. Wanna see how tiny you look on my cock.”

Your heart stutters. He’s already gripping your hips, already adjusting your body like a doll, already hard again.

“You’re insatiable,” you whisper.

“Only for you,” he murmurs, eyes locked to yours. “Now sit on it. Nice and slow.”

You brace yourself, straddling his lap—and when you sink down on him, inch by inch, the stretch makes your breath catch.

“Fuck—Bucky—”

He exhales like a man being blessed.

“Look at you,” he groans. “So small. Barely fit over my fuckin’ lap, and here you are takin’ me all the way in again.”

You bottom out with a whimper, thighs trembling. He’s too deep in this position—too much.

But he just grips your hips tighter, guiding you in a slow, shallow grind.

“There we go,” he pants. “That’s it. Ride it, baby. Let me see it.”

You move—slower than before, your body aching and sensitive—but the way he watches you makes your blood boil.

His eyes are glued to your lower belly again.

He palms it—presses his hand flat.

The bulge reappears, and he loses his mind.

“Fuck—fuck, there it is. Look how deep I am. Can you feel it, baby?”

“Yes—Bucky—please—”

“You’re so fuckin’ little. Can’t believe I fit in you like this. Can’t believe you’re takin’ me so well.”

You shudder above him. He slides a hand up your back, cradling your head, pulling you forward until your chest presses to his.

“Wanna keep you like this,” he whispers. “Warm and full. Stuffed. You want that too, don’t you?”

You nod helplessly. “I want it—I want all of it—”

“Yeah?” His voice is wrecked, rasping. “You want me to fuck a baby into this pretty little body? Fill you ‘til it sticks?”

“Yes—”

“I’ll give it to you, sweetheart. I’ll keep fillin’ you every night ‘til you’re swollen and mine.”

His hands grip your hips tighter, guiding your rhythm now—bouncing you gently, deep and messy, the sound of your slick echoing between your thighs.

You’re shaking. Wrecked. And he’s still whispering—

“You think anyone else could do this to you? Fill you up like this? Stretch you out and still have more left to give?”

“N-No—just you—”

“That’s right. Just me.”

His mouth finds yours—hungry, deep, full of teeth and tongue—and he presses his hand to your belly again as you cry out, clenching tight.

“Fuck—you gonna come like this?” he growls. “Gonna come with my cock stuffed in that tiny pussy, baby?”

You nod frantically.

“Then do it. Let me feel you. Come for me, baby girl—ride it.”

You break.

You collapse against his chest, grinding through the aftershocks as he holds you close—pressing in, rocking gently, murmuring praise as he follows you over the edge with a rough groan, hips bucking as he finishes deep again.

Your body quivers as he stays inside you, hands cradling your back, thumb still stroking your belly.

“Still so full,” he whispers, brushing his lips to your ear. “Still fuckin’ tight.”

You breathe, shaky and spent, tucked against his throat.

“Still want more?” you murmur.

He chuckles.

“Oh, baby.”

His mouth curls against your skin.

“I haven’t even started.”

You didn’t think you could handle another round. But then he pulled you close.

��You’d be so fuckin’ needy,” he murmurs, breath ragged against your neck. “Body made to carry me. You know that?”

You nod frantically, body trembling.

“Say it.”

“Made for you,” you sob. “I’m made for you—for this.”

He groans—low and wrecked—like the words physically break something in him.

“Yeah, you are. My good little girl. My fuckin’ perfect little thing.”

His arm tightens around your middle, hand still cradling your belly, palm pressed to that little bulge where his cock’s been sitting deep for too long now.

“You’re so small,” he whispers like it’s killing him. “So goddamn tiny. And look at you—still takin’ every inch of me like you need it.”

His cock grinds deeper again, and your body jerks against him, another broken moan spilling from your throat.

You can’t even move—can’t do anything but feel.

“Feels good, doesn’t it?” he says, voice dark and sweet. “Even when it’s too much. You like it when I make you feel full.”

You sob. “Yes—yes, I love it—”

His fingers never leave your clit. Just slow, steady circles while he rocks his hips like it’s all he knows how to do.

“Gonna keep you like this,” he pants. “Keep you right here in bed until you’re so full you can’t take anymore. You’ll beg me to stop and still pull me deeper.”

“Please, Bucky—”

“Shhh. I got you,” he murmurs, kissing your cheek. “You’re doin’ so good for me. So fuckin’ good.”

You feel another orgasm building—tight, desperate, and he feels it too.

“Gonna give me one more, baby?”

“I-I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he coos. “Just let go. Let me feel it. Want you to come on my cock while I fill you up again.”

Your eyes roll back.

You’re already soaked, leaking, pulsing from the inside out—and with one more grind, one more dirty promise whispered into your skin—

“Wanna knock you up right here. Wanna fuck it in so deep it sticks. Wanna see your belly swell from me—”

You break.

You come hard, shaking in his arms, body convulsing as you cry out against his forearm, your fingers gripping him like a lifeline.

“That’s it,” he groans, thrusting once—twice—and then he’s spilling inside you again, deep and endless, his voice guttural and reverent as he presses his forehead to your shoulder.

He holds you like that.

Still inside. Still deep.

Breathing like you’re both coming down from orbit.

“…Bucky,” you whisper, dazed.

“Hm?”

“You just came inside me three times.”

You feel him smirk against your back.

“Yeah,” he pants. “And you’re still fuckin’ warm.”

You make a weak noise of protest.

He kisses your neck and murmurs, “Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’ll hold it in for you.”

[binkybonkybucky]

i loved the whole setup of this AU! the scene when the reader went in to retrieve bucky with steve and nat had my heart breaking, especially when bucky refused to let go. and then when he called and steve was just there like he wanted to help but knew he couldn’t. i almost cried when bucky was asking if his touches ever feel like too much. up until there, i had only been thinking about how nice his large hands would feel splayed out on my skin and how i’d rub on him like a cat marking their territory if he’d let me. i’m so glad tony asked that question but i hope he also soundproofed bucky’s room.

touch and go | b.b.

✮ synopsis: he's the Winter Soldier, and you're just you. but when your skin touches his, he becomes become bucky barnes again.

(or: the soulmate fic where touch is everything and bucky barnes will fight his way back to you, one broken memory at a time.)

✮ pairing: ca:tws!bucky x soulmate!reader

✮ disclaimers: fem!reader, soulmates, violence/action sequences, graphic descriptions of torture/memory wiping, PTSD, panic attacks, dissociation, past torture, brainwashing, heavy angst, touch deprivation, references to past violence/assassinations, hurt/comfort, fluff, eventual happy ending, bucky is down horrendously bad

✮ warnings: (18+) MDNI, explicit sexual content, unprotected sex, p in v, oral (f receiving), overstimulation, multiple orgasms, soul bond sex (enhanced sensations), touch-starved bucky, possessive behavior, marking/bruising, praise kink, body worship, emotional sex, crying during sex (in a good way), size kink if you squint, bucky has a dirty filthy mouth

✮ word count: 14.3k

✮ a/n: re-uploading all my fics to this blog so i'm posting a ca:tws-era oldie but goodie (the last 4k of this is straight smut, so if that's not your cup of tea feel free to stop at the **)

The library basement feels like a crypt tonight—all dead air and fluorescent buzz that makes your molars ache.

You've been down here so long your bones have started to match the temperature of the concrete, cold seeping through your jeans where you've been sitting cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by a semi-circle of photocopied articles that all essentially say the same nothing in different ways.

3:17 AM according to your phone, which you check compulsively every twenty minutes like maybe time will take pity and skip forward to your deadline. The security guard made his last round two hours ago—Gerald? Gary? Something with a G—his whistling fading up the stairwell along with any pretense that you're not completely alone down here.

Your neck cracks when you roll it, vertebrae protesting the last six hours of hunching over sources that shouldn't be this hard to parse. But your advisor had smiled that sharp little smile when assigning this topic, the one that says let's see if you're really cut out for this, and spite is a hell of a motivator.

Even if your eyes are burning. Even if the coffee tastes like battery acid. Even if your soul bond has been aching since midnight with that peculiar emptiness you've learned to ignore.

The lights flicker—building's older than sin, held together by asbestos and prayer—but the air changes with it. Shifts. Like all the oxygen just remembered it had somewhere else to be.

Your fingers still on the keyboard mid-sentence.

Don't be stupid. It's a basement. In a library. The scariest thing down here is your browser history.

But your body knows things your mind pretends it doesn't. Every hair follicle suddenly awake, skin prickling with the kind of ancient warning that kept humans from being eaten in the dark. Your heartbeat kicks up, stuttering from normal to concerned between one breath and the next.

You turn.

He stands at the edge of the stacks like violence in human form.

Black tactical gear eats the light, makes him look like someone cut a hole in reality and taught it how to hunt. The mask covering the lower half of his face should make him less human, but somehow it's worse—forces you to focus on the eyes that track your movement with the kind of empty precision that makes your hindbrain scream predator predator predator.

"Oh." The sound punches out of you, high and strangled.

He doesn't speak. Doesn't need to. Just moves toward you with the kind of lethal economy that makes you understand, suddenly and completely, why rabbits freeze when hawks circle overhead. No wasted motion. No hesitation. Just purpose distilled into muscle and intent.

Your body tries—God, it tries. Scrambling backward, papers scattering, laptop sliding off your thighs to crack against the floor in what feels like slow motion. Three months of work fracturing into digital garbage as you crab-walk backward, palms slipping on photocopies, knee catching on your backpack hard enough to send you sprawling.

He crosses the space between you like it's nothing.

Like you're nothing.

His hand finds your throat before you've even processed standing, leather and pressure sending you backward into the wall hard enough to knock the air from your lungs. Old brick catches your hair, pulls it, but that barely registers against the feeling of being pinned like an insect, specimen for examination before disposal.

Both your hands fly to his wrist, fingernails catching on tactical fabric that won't give, won't move, won't budge. He's not crushing your windpipe—not yet—but the promise is there in the careful placement of his thumb, the calculated pressure that says I could, if I wanted to.

"Please—" It comes out thin, reedy. Your right hand abandons his wrist to push against his chest, trying to create distance that doesn't exist, will never exist. "I don't know what you—I'm nobody, I'm just—"

His head tilts. Minute. Considering. The eyes stay empty, stay cold, but something flickers there—assessment, maybe. Calculation. How long it will take. How quiet you'll be.

Your left hand keeps clawing at his grip while your right slides up his chest, finds the edge of his tactical vest, pushes uselessly at a shoulder that might as well be carved from stone. But the movement makes you stretch, makes your hand slip higher, past the collar of his gear, past the edge of the mask, until—

Your fingertips brush his jaw.

Skin against skin.

The world breaks apart.

Heat races from that point of contact like lightning seeking ground, if lightning could rewrite your DNA as it traveled. Every nerve ending lights up at once, not with pain but with recognition so profound it feels like drowning in reverse. Like every cell in your body suddenly remembers how to breathe.

His entire body locks. The hand at your throat spasms, loosens, and you hear him make a sound—sharp, bitten off, like someone just slid a knife between his ribs. Those empty eyes blow wide, pupils expanding until there's barely any gray left, and his chest heaves against your palm like he's just broken the surface after being underwater too long.

He rips the mask off with his free hand. Tears it away like it's burning him, revealing a face that makes your chest cavity feel too small. Sharp jaw, soft mouth, stubble that catches the shit fluorescent lighting and turns it into shadow. Beautiful in the way broken things can be beautiful, in the way that makes you want to cut yourself on the edges.

The leather glove at your throat disappears—he tears it off with his teeth, movements gone jerky and desperate where they were smooth before. Then his bare hand is cupping your face, thumb brushing your cheekbone with the kind of reverence reserved for holy things, impossible things, things that might disappear if you breathe wrong.

He pulls you forward, or maybe he falls into you—either way, your foreheads meet in the space between one heartbeat and the next. His breath fans across your face, ragged and hot, and you can feel him shaking. This man who moved like death incarnate thirty seconds ago is shaking.

"Oh," he breathes, and his voice—Christ, his voice is nothing like you imagined during those empty nights when the bond ached worst. Rough like he hasn't used it in years. Soft like he's afraid it'll break something. Accent pulling at the vowels in ways that make your chest hurt. "Oh, no. No, not—not like this."

You can't move. Can't think. Can't process anything beyond the electricity still racing through your veins, the place where his thumb traces your cheekbone like he's trying to memorize the architecture of your face through touch alone. Your hands are caught between you, one still fisted in his tactical vest, the other pressed flat against his chest where you can feel his heart hammering out a rhythm that matches yours.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, and the devastation in his eyes makes your throat close for reasons that have nothing to do with violence. Gray like winter mornings, like grief, like the moment before the sky breaks open.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, wrecked. His thumb catches the tear you didn't realize was sliding down your cheek, and the tenderness of it makes you want to scream. "I'm so fucking sorry, I didn't—I couldn't—"

"Who are you?" Your voice comes out destroyed, barely recognizable. The soul bond hums between you like a live wire, like coming home to a place that's on fire, and you don't know whether to run toward it or away.

His jaw works, muscles tightening and releasing like he's fighting something immense. When he speaks again, it's careful. Measured. Like each word costs him something irreplaceable.

"Someone who's going to disappear." His forehead presses against yours again, harder this time, desperate. Both hands frame your face now, holding you like something precious, something he's about to lose. "Someone who needs you to run. Now. Before—"

A sound echoes down the stairwell. Footsteps. Multiple sets.

The change in him is instant and terrible. The softness vanishes like it was never there, replaced by the same lethal efficiency that brought him here, but now there's something else in his eyes. Something that looks like anguish.

"Forgive me," he says, and before you can ask for what, his thumb finds a spot behind your jaw.

The world tilts. Your legs go liquid. But he catches you—of course he catches you—lowers you to the ground like you're made of spun glass while your vision tunnels to nothing.

The last thing you feel is his mouth pressed to your forehead, words whispered against your skin in a language you don't recognize but somehow understand.

I'll find you again.

I promise.

I'm sorry.

When security finds you four hours later, you have bruises on your throat that look like purple-black fingerprints, a concussion that makes the world swim, and no memory the EMTs will accept of how you ended up unconscious in a locked basement.

But you remember.

You remember the way his hands shook when he held your face. You remember the devastation in winter-gray eyes. You remember the electricity of recognition, the soul bond snapping into place only to be severed, leaving you with a phantom ache that feels like dying in slow motion.

There's a leather glove clutched in your fist that no one can pry from your fingers.

You tell them you don't remember where it came from.

You lie.

The world had always been divided into two types of people: those who'd found their match and those still waiting.

You'd grown up watching the found ones move through life with that particular brand of settled confidence, like they'd discovered some fundamental truth the rest of you were still stumbling toward.

Your mother used to tell the story at dinner parties, after her second glass of wine made her sentimental. How she'd been twenty-three, working at a bank in downtown Brooklyn, when a man came in to dispute an overdraft fee. Their hands touched when she passed back his paperwork. The bond snapped into place like a rubber band that had been stretched across decades, just waiting to contract.

She'd knocked over her coffee. He'd forgotten his own name for thirty seconds. They'd been married six months later.

"You just know," she'd say, fingers intertwined with your father's across the table. "It's like every cell in your body suddenly remembers what it was made for."

You'd wanted to believe her. Spent your eighteenth birthday waiting for that recognition to hit, for your body to suddenly make sense in a way it never had before.

But days turned to weeks turned to months, and all you felt was the same low-grade emptiness everyone without a bond carried—that constant, quiet ache of incompleteness.

By twenty-one, you'd stopped looking for it in every accidental touch.

By twenty-three, you'd convinced yourself you were one of the statistical anomalies. No bond. No match. Just you and your dissertation and a future that looked exactly like your present, only with better coffee and maybe tenure if you played your cards right.

The bruises have faded to sick yellow-green by the time you make it back to campus. Two weeks of medical leave that you spent staring at your apartment ceiling, trying to make sense of something that refuses to be made sensible. The official report sits in your email, cc'd to your advisor and the department head and probably half the university's legal team: Student found unconscious in library basement. Possible assault. No cameras functioning. Investigation ongoing.

You don't correct them. Don't mention the glove hidden in your nightstand drawer. Don't explain that the bruises on your throat match the exact span of fingers that had held your face like you were something holy, something worth breaking for.

Your body remembers even when your mind tries to forget. The soul bond, severed as quickly as it formed, has left you feeling like someone hollowed out your chest cavity with a melon baller. It's worse than before—before was just absence. This is active loss. This is knowing exactly what you're missing.

The dreams start the first night home from the hospital.

Not nightmares—that would be easier. These are soft things that leave you gasping awake at 3 AM with tears on your face and your hand pressed to your cheek where he'd touched you. Dreams where those gray eyes find yours across impossible distances. Where his hands shake as they frame your face. Where he whispers apologies in languages you don't speak but somehow understand.

Sometimes you dream of snow. Of cold so profound it burns. Of a voice saying his name—names?—until there's nothing left but the mission.

Sometimes you dream of falling. Of a train that screams through mountain passes. Of reaching for something—someone—who's always just beyond your fingertips.

But mostly you dream of that moment. The mask coming off. The devastating gentleness of his forehead against yours. The way he breathed you in like his lungs hadn't recognized oxygen until then, like you were the first real thing he'd touched in decades.

You become an expert in lying about the nightmares. "Trauma response," you tell the university-mandated therapist. "Yes, I'm processing. No, I don't remember details. Yes, I feel safe on campus."

Lies. All lies.

You remember everything. The weight of him. The contrast between violence and tenderness that shouldn't have existed in the same person. The way the soul bond had sung between you for those impossible seconds—not the gentle hum your mother described, but something desperate and raw, like two halves of something broken trying to fuse back together.

The research starts three weeks after the incident. You tell yourself it's academic curiosity. Tell yourself you're not the first person to lose a soulmate before really finding them. There are support groups. Statistics. An entire subset of psychology dedicated to severed bonds and what they do to the human psyche.

Increased rates of depression. Anxiety. Insomnia. Some subjects report physical pain at the site of initial contact. Others experience what researchers call "phantom bond syndrome"—the persistent sensation of a connection that no longer exists.

You check every box. Feel him in every room you enter, just a second too late. Wake up with your hand pressed to your face, trying to hold onto the ghost of leather and gunpowder and something metallic you couldn't place then but can't stop tasting now.

The databases give you nothing. Facial recognition software turns up empty. You sketch what you remember of his face—strong jaw, soft mouth, eyes like winter—but it feels like trying to draw music, like something essential gets lost in translation.

"Maybe he was military," Katrina suggests over coffee that tastes like disappointment. She's trying to help, your best friend since undergrad, but she looks at you with the kind of careful concern reserved for people about to break. "Special ops or something. That would explain the tactical gear."

You don't tell her about the way he moved. Don't mention that special ops soldiers don't usually have metal arms—you'd felt it when he caught you, the strange whir of plates adjusting beneath the fabric. Don't explain that whatever he was, military doesn't quite cover it.

December bleeds into January. You submit your dissertation proposal late, blame the incident, receive an extension wrapped in sympathetic looks. The bruises are long gone but you wear scarves anyway, can't stand the feeling of air against your throat where his thumb had pressed.

Your google search history becomes a testament to obsession:

“severed soul bonds recovery time?” “can soul bonds reconnect?” “military tactical gear supplier identification” “metal prosthetic arm advanced” “soul bond physical pain management”

Nothing. Always nothing.

But late at night, when the world sleeps and you're alone with the ache that lives between your ribs, you pull out the glove. Run your fingers over worn leather that's been softened by use and something else—care, maybe. The kind of attention that comes from having nothing else to focus on.

It smells like winter. Like violence. Like the ghost of cologne that might have been nice once, before it mixed with gunpowder and fear and whatever else clings to people who move through the world like weapons.

You press it to your face and breathe deep, eyes closed, trying to summon those impossible seconds when he'd looked at you like you were salvation and damnation all at once. When his voice had broken on an apology for something you didn't understand. When he'd promised to find you again in words you shouldn't have been able to translate but did.

The bond throbs. Phantom pain for a phantom connection.

You fold the glove carefully. Place it back in the drawer. Go to bed knowing you'll dream of gray eyes and the kind of gentleness that only comes from people who've forgotten they deserve it.

Tomorrow you'll get up. Go to class. Pretend your chest doesn't feel like someone excavated it with rusty tools. Pretend you don't scan every face on campus, looking for winter eyes and a jaw that could cut glass.

But tonight, you let yourself remember. Let yourself feel the echo of his forehead against yours, the desperate press of his mouth to your skin, the way he'd held you like you were worth breaking the world for.

I'll find you again.

You touch your throat, the memory of leather and promise.

I'm waiting.

The asset doesn't fight anymore.

Hasn't for years. Learned the hard way that resistance only makes it worse—more voltage, longer sessions, deeper cuts into whatever remains of the person he might have been.

Better to go limp. Better to let them position him like a doll, open his mouth for the rubber guard, wait for the electricity to wash it all away.

The asset craves it sometimes. The blankness. The nothing. Easier than carrying the weight of what his hands have done.

But Bucky Barnes fights.

Screams himself raw before they get the guard between his teeth. Thrashes against the restraints hard enough to bend the metal table, to make the technicians step back with wide eyes because the asset never does this, hasn't done this in fifteen years, not since they perfected the chair's calibration.

"Hold him!" Pierce's voice cuts through the chaos, sharp with irritation. "Get those restraints tightened before—"

Bucky's metal arm tears through the leather strap like tissue paper. Swings wild, catches a handler across the jaw with a crack that sends him spinning into medical equipment. Two more rush forward and he fights them with everything he has, everything he'd forgotten he could be.

Soft hands on his face. Bright eyes wide with recognition. The soul bond singing between them like coming home—

"No!" The word tears out of him, accent thick with desperation. Russian, English, something older—he doesn't know anymore, doesn't care. "Please—please, I can't—"

A needle finds his neck. Sedative, fast-acting, enough to drop an elephant. His knees buckle but he keeps fighting, keeps reaching for—what? The memory's already going slippery, falling through his fingers like water.

Someone. There was someone. Wasn't there?

"Interesting." Pierce circles him as four handlers wrestle him into the chair, voice clinical. "What happened on the mission? You terminated the target, but something affected you. The timeline's off by forty-three minutes."

Bucky's jaw works around the guard they're shoving between his teeth. Can't tell them. Won't tell them. But what is he protecting? The feeling's there—urgent, desperate, worth dying for—but the shape of it keeps shifting.

A face. Soft mouth parted in shock. The way she'd—

The electricity hits before he can finish the thought.

White-hot agony races through every nerve ending, bows his back against the restraints they've doubled, tripled. The scream locks in his throat, comes out as a sound that doesn't belong to anything human. But underneath the pain, worse than the pain, is the feeling of something essential being carved out of him.

Don't take her, some part of him begs. Take everything else, but not her, not this—

But the machine doesn't care about please. Doesn't care that he's crying—when did he start crying? The asset doesn't cry. The asset doesn't feel. But Bucky Barnes is sobbing, choking on the rubber guard as memories start to fracture and fade.

Her hand against his jaw. The world breaking open. Recognition so profound it rewrote thirty years of programming in seconds—

Another pulse. Stronger. Pierce has turned the dial past safety parameters, past sanity, past anything they've done before.

"Sir," one of the technicians ventures, nervous. "The readings—"

"Continue."

Forehead to forehead. Breathing her in. The apology scraping his throat raw because he'd never wanted to meet her like this, never wanted her to know him as a weapon first and a man second—

Gone. It's gone. He reaches for it, desperate, but there's only white noise where her face should be. Only the echo of something precious he'd held for minutes—hours?—seconds?—he doesn't know anymore.

The machine winds down. Silence except for his ragged breathing, the drip of something (blood? tears?) hitting the concrete floor.

"Asset."

He doesn't respond. Can't. There's something wrong with his chest, like someone reached in and scooped out everything that mattered.

"Asset."

Training kicks in where consciousness fails. His head lifts, eyes focusing with effort on the man in the suit. Pierce. Handler. The one who holds the leash.

"Ready to comply." The words come out broken. Mechanical. But correct.

"Mission report."

"Target eliminated. No witnesses." A pause. Something scratches at the back of his mind, urgent, important. But when he reaches for it there's nothing but static. "Extraction successful."

Pierce studies him, pale eyes narrowed. "And the deviation? You were off-schedule."

The asset blinks. Searches the white noise of his mind for an answer that makes sense. "Unexpected resistance. Handled."

"I see." Pierce doesn't look convinced, but he waves to the technicians. "Run a full cognitive recalibration. I want him stable before the next deployment."

They unstrap him eventually. He doesn't fight. Doesn't do anything but stare at his metal hand, trying to understand why it feels wrong. Why everything feels wrong. There's an ache in his chest that wasn't there before—or was it always there? He can't remember. Can't remember anything but the mission, the chair, the readiness to comply.

But that night, locked in cryo-prep, he dreams.

Fragments. Glimpses. A basement that smells like old paper and fear. Someone pressed against a wall, hands pushing at his chest. The feeling of skin against skin and the world exploding into color he didn't know existed.

He wakes with her ghost on his lips—no name, no face, just the shape of an apology in a language he's not supposed to know.

The asset reports for cryo on schedule. Lies still as they prep the chamber, ice already forming in the tubes that will freeze him until the next time he's needed. But as consciousness fades, as the cold takes him under, one thought persists:

Someone. There was someone. And I've lost them.

The machine hisses. Frost spreads across the glass.

The asset sleeps.

Bucky Barnes screams.

The Starbucks on 42nd doesn't have soul bonds on the menu, but they do have overpriced lattes and witnesses, which is why you're here instead of home, staring at your bedroom ceiling and trying to parse nightmares from memories.

Six months.

Six months of the glove under your pillow losing his scent. Six months of your advisor asking pointed questions about your "lack of focus" and your therapist prescribing sleeping pills that don't work because how do you medicate a severed soul bond?

How do you explain that you're mourning someone you knew for less than five minutes?

You're arguing with yourself about the merits of a fourth shot of espresso when the world explodes.

Glass shatters inward, the windows becoming a thousand diamonds catching afternoon light. Your coffee hits the floor—there goes eight dollars you don't have—as your body moves on instinct, dropping behind the counter with five other people who smell like fear and pumpkin spice.

Screaming. So much screaming. Cars screeching outside, the percussion of something that might be gunfire but sounds too wrong, too close, too real for a Tuesday afternoon in Manhattan.

You peek around the espresso machine and your heart forgets how to beat.

He's standing in the middle of the street like death dressed for winter. Same tactical gear, same casual violence, same way of moving that makes everyone else look like they're traveling through molasses. The mask covers the lower half of his face again, but you'd know those eyes anywhere. Have been seeing them every night for six months, after all.

A cop raises his weapon. The soldier—your soulmate, your ghost, your nightly torment—disarms him with an economy of motion that's almost beautiful. The crack of breaking fingers carries even through the shattered windows.

Get up, your brain screams. Run. Move. Do something that isn't standing here like a deer watching headlights come to claim it.

But your body has other plans. Your treacherous, soul-bonded body that recognizes his even across thirty feet of chaos and broken glass. You're moving before conscious thought catches up, stumbling through the destroyed storefront on legs that feel like they belong to someone else.

This is stupid. Monumentally stupid. The kind of stupid that gets psychology PhD candidates killed in broad daylight. But your hand is already reaching, already grasping, because maybe—

Your fingers close around his wrist.

The barest slip of skin where his sleeve has ridden up, your thumb finding his pulse like it was made for nothing else. The connection slams through you—heat and recognition and yes, finally, yes—

The gun clatters to the asphalt.

His whole body goes rigid, that same terrible stillness from before. You watch his pupils dilate, watch six months of careful nothing shatter in his eyes as Bucky Barnes crashes back into existence.

He moves so fast you don't process it. One second you're standing there, thumb on his pulse, the next you're spinning, back slamming into his chest as his metal arm locks across your body. The gun—when did he pick it up?—presses cold against your temple.

You stop breathing.

Around you, cops and civilians alike freeze. Weapons lower incrementally because now there's a hostage situation, now there's a girl who was stupid enough to touch the Winter Soldier and—

"Name." His voice in your ear, so quiet you almost miss it under the sirens. That sound that had haunted your dreams, rougher now, desperate. "Your name. Please."

Your lips barely move, sound threading between heartbeats. You tell him, soft as a whisper.

The gun doesn't waver. To everyone watching, he's perfectly still, a predator considering prey. But his metal thumb moves against your bare arm where your shirt has ridden up. Gentle. Deliberate. Tracing letters maybe, or just feeling, and you wonder if he can—if there are sensors in the metal that let him—

"My name is James Buchanan Barnes." Each word careful, precious, pressed into the space below your ear like a secret. Like a gift. "Bucky. My name is Bucky. I won't remember, so I need you to—you have to remember for me."

James Buchanan Barnes.

It tickles something in your memory. A history class, maybe. Something about World War II, about Captain America, about—

"What have they done to you?" The words slip out, horrified, because the pieces are trying to fit together but the picture they're making can't be right, can't be possible—

"Find me." Urgent now. His realness, his hereness makes your chest ache with completion even as your mind screams danger. "When I—after they—find me. Please. I can't—"

His voice cracks.

The gun leaves your temple.

The crack of the shot makes you flinch, but it's the cop to your left who goes down, clutching his knee, screaming. Bucky shoves you—not hard, but enough to send you stumbling into the crowd as he moves the opposite direction, using the chaos as cover.

You hit the ground hard, knees cracking against asphalt, palms scraped raw. Around you, people scatter like startled birds. Someone's hands on your shoulders, pulling you back, asking if you're hurt, if you need medical attention.

You can't answer. Can't do anything but stare at the place where he'd stood, where he'd held you, where he'd given you his name like it was the only thing he had left to give.

Your arm throbs where his metal thumb had traced patterns. When you look down, you can see the faint red marks—not bruises, just pressure. Just proof.

"Miss? Miss, we need to get you checked out—"

"I'm fine." You're not. You're the opposite of fine. You're shattering in slow motion, held together by adrenaline and the phantom feeling of his chest against your back. "I'm—he didn't hurt me."

The EMT looks skeptical. "He held a gun to your head."

"He didn't hurt me," you repeat, and you're not sure who you're trying to convince.

They take you anyway. St. Luke's emergency room, where you spend four hours being poked and prodded and questioned by people who look at you like you might break or explode. The FBI shows up eventually, two agents in bad suits who ask the same questions fifteen different ways.

"Did he say anything to you?"

My name is James Buchanan Barnes.

"No."

"Are you sure? Even something small could help."

Find me.

"He didn't say anything."

They don't believe you. You can see it in the way they exchange glances, the way their pens hover over notepads. But what are you supposed to tell them? That the most wanted man in America is your soulmate? That he gave you his name like a prayer? That even now, hours later, you can still feel the phantom press of metal against your skin?

They release you near midnight with a card and instructions to call if you remember anything. You take a cab home because the subway feels too exposed, too dangerous, like maybe he'll be there in the shadows between stops.

Your apartment is exactly as you left it. Laptop open on the counter, half a cup of cold coffee growing something ambitious by the sink. Normal. Safe.

Empty.

You sink onto your bed, still fully dressed, and pull out your phone. Your search history is already damning, but what's one more nail in the coffin?

James Buchanan Barnes

The results make your stomach drop.

Born 1917. Best friend of Steve Rogers, Captain America. Sergeant in the 107th Infantry Regiment. Fell from a train in the Alps in 1945. Presumed dead.

Except he's not dead. He's not dead because you touched him today, felt his pulse under your thumb, heard him breathing in your ear as he held you like something breakable and precious all at once.

You dig deeper. Past the official records, past the Wikipedia entries, into the conspiracy forums and leaked documents that only half-load on your shitty wifi.

The Winter Soldier.

HYDRA.

Seventy years of ghost stories.

An assassin who appears and disappears like smoke, leaving bodies in his wake.

Your soulmate is a century-old brainwashed assassin. Your soulmate is Bucky Barnes, who died in 1945. Who didn't die. Who was turned into something else, something violent and beautiful and dangerous.

Who fights back to consciousness every time you touch him only to be dragged under again.

What have they done to you?

You close your laptop. Lie back on your bed, fully clothed, and stare at the water stain on your ceiling that looks like a rabbit if you squint. Your arm still throbs where he touched you. Traced letters, maybe, or just—

You bolt upright.

Grab a pen, try to recreate the pattern from memory on your other arm. It takes three tries before the movements feel right, before the shapes resolve into something recognizable.

Numbers.

He'd traced numbers on your skin. Coordinates.

Find me, he'd said.

Your hands shake as you type them into your phone. A location upstate, middle of nowhere, the kind of place where no one would look twice at an abandoned building or hear the screams from underground.

You should leave it alone. Should forget his name, forget the numbers, forget the feeling of being whole for thirty seconds in the middle of chaos. Should be smart and safe and boring and alive.

Instead, you screenshot the location. Book a rental car for tomorrow. Pack a bag with things that might matter—the glove, pepper spray that won't do shit against a super soldier but makes you feel better, a first aid kit you probably won't get the chance to use.

Find me.

You're going to. God help you, you're going to find James Buchanan Barnes.

Even if it kills you.

(It probably will.)

(You're going anyway.)

The HYDRA facility squats in the pre-dawn darkness like something that crawled out of the Cold War and forgot to die. You're crammed in the back of a tactical van between enough weaponry to level a city block and Captain America's guilt, which somehow takes up more space.

Forty-eight hours. That's all it took from wine-drunk-email-to-vague-Avengers-PR-listing this—body armor that doesn't fit right, your heart hammering against ceramic plates, and the ghost of coordinates still throbbing on your arm where he'd traced them.

"Two minutes to insertion." Natasha's voice crackles through comms you're not supposed to have. But Steve had insisted, jaw set in that way that apparently nobody argues with. Not even Fury.

Steve Rogers had shown up at your door with Natasha Romanoff and Nick Fury, your roommate had screamed in her towel, and you'd told them everything. About the library. About the way Bucky's entire being had shifted when you touched him, like watching someone break the surface after drowning.

About how he'd held you in that Starbucks, whispered his name against your ear like a secret, like salvation, like the only thing he had left that was his.

Steve had gone very, very still. Then: "We're finding him. We're bringing him home."

Now he's sitting across from you, shield balanced against his knee, and you can see why people follow him into impossible situations. It's not the shoulders or the jaw or the way he fills out tactical gear like he was born to it. It's the way he looks at you—not through you, not around you, but at you. Like you matter. Like your connection to his best friend makes you worth protecting.

"Remember," he says quietly, pitched below the engine noise. "The moment we find him, the moment you make contact—"

"I know." Your fingers won't stop moving, tracing and retracing the numbers Bucky left on your skin. "Skin contact. Bring him back." Don't let go."

What you don't say: What if it doesn't work this time? What if they've wiped him too many times? What if whatever's left isn't enough to—

The van stops.

Everything happens too fast after that. Doors flying open, bodies moving with practiced precision, you stumbling to keep up as Steve's hand on your elbow guides you through pre-dawn shadows toward a concrete mouth that looks like it's waiting to swallow you whole.

The facility is worse inside. All industrial fluorescents and that particular kind of silence that sounds like screaming if you listen too hard. Your soul bond, quiet for months, starts to ache with proximity—a deep, bone-level recognition that makes your teeth chatter.

"Northeast corridor clear." Natasha's voice, clinical.

"Southwest clear." Someone else, call sign you didn't catch.

"Movement in the lower levels." Another voice. "Looks like they're mobilizing—"

A sound cuts through the chatter. Not quite human. Not quite animal. Something between a scream and static that makes your hindbrain light up with warnings to run.

Steve's already moving. "That's him."

You follow because what else can you do? Down stairs that smell like rust and terror, through corridors that branch like diseased arteries. The ache in your chest intensifies with each level down, soul bond pulling taut as piano wire.

Then—

The room opens before you like a wound. Medical equipment that belongs in museums next to things that belong in nightmares. And in the center, strapped to a chair that looks more like an electric chair than anything medical—

"Bucky." Steve's voice breaks on it.

He's shirtless, sweat-slick and shaking, with enough electricity running through him to light up half of Brooklyn. His hair hangs limp around his face, and even from here you can see the way his muscles lock and release in waves as current pulses through the chair. Fresh burn marks lattice across his chest where the nodes attach, and there's blood—so much blood—dripping from where he's fought against the restraints.

There are bodies on the floor. Technicians, by their white coats. The blood is fresh enough to still be spreading.

"Stay back." Natasha has her weapon trained on him, all business. "He's still the Winter—"

Bucky's head snaps up.

His eyes find yours across twenty feet of blood and machinery.

Time stops.

Those aren't the empty eyes from the library. Aren't the desperate clarity from the coffee shop. These are something else entirely—feral and frightened and so fucking broken under all that damage. He looks like something that's been torn apart and reassembled wrong, like an animal that's been in a cage so long it's forgotten what sky looks like.

You're moving before conscious thought catches up. Dodging Steve's reaching hand, slipping past Natasha's outstretched arm. Your feet slip in blood—whose blood? His? Theirs?—but you don't stop. Can't stop. The soul bond is screaming, every cell in your body reaching for its other half.

"Don't—" Someone shouts. Might be Steve. Might be God himself. Doesn't matter.

Because Bucky's watching you approach with the kind of stillness that precedes violence. His metal arm—and this close you can see how it's grafted to flesh, red and raw and infected at the edges—flexes against the restraints. The leather creaks. His chest heaves with each breath, and there's a wild look in his eyes like he can't decide if you're real or another torture.

You collapse on the arm of the chair. His breathing is ragged, chest heaving, and this close you can see old scars layered on new ones, a roadmap of decades of damage. Seventy years of this. Seventy years of being unmade and remade into something sharp and wrong.

Your hand reaches up, slow as you'd approach a wounded animal.

He flinches.

Actually flinches, this assassin who's probably felt every kind of pain there is. A sound escapes him—small, wounded, barely human. But when your fingertips brush his cheek—skin to skin, that electric recognition—his whole body convulses.

"Oh," you breathe, and it's inadequate, it's nothing, it's everything. Because the bond slots into place like coming home if home was a person who'd been carved hollow and filled with ghosts.

His eyes clear incrementally. Pupil contraction, focus sharpening, and then—

The noise that tears out of him is inhuman. Seventy years of grief and rage and desperate loneliness condensed into a single sound that makes your bones ache. His metal hand shatters the restraint like tissue paper, then the flesh one, and before you can process the movement he's dragging you up, up, into his lap, crushing you against his chest with desperate strength.

"You," he's saying, over and over, voice wrecked beyond recognition. "You, you, you—real, you're real, you're—"

His hands are everywhere at once. Metal fingers tangling in your hair, flesh hand splayed across your back hard enough to bruise, holding you like you might dissolve if he loosens his grip for even a second. He buries his face in the curve of your neck and the sob that escapes him is pure agony, seventy years of touch starvation hitting him all at once.

You can feel him shaking—no, not shaking, convulsing, like his body doesn't know how to process gentle touch anymore. Doesn't know what to do with softness after decades of nothing but pain.

"I'm here," you whisper against his temple, your own tears falling freely. "I'm real. I found you. I've got you."

His response is to hold you tighter, tight enough that breathing becomes difficult, but you don't care. Can't care when he's falling apart in your arms like this. The metal hand fists in your tactical vest and you hear fabric tear, but he doesn't seem to notice. He's pressing his face harder into your throat, breathing you in like you're air and he's been suffocating for seventy years.

"Thought I dreamed you." The words come out destroyed, muffled against your skin. "They said—they said I made you up. That the pain was making me see things. But you smell real. You feel—" His flesh hand slides up to cup the back of your head, holding you in place. "Please be real. Please, please be real."

"I'm real." You press your lips to his temple, just a brief touch of comfort. "James Buchanan Barnes, you're real and I'm real and I found you."

His breath hitches at his full name, and suddenly he's pulling back just enough to look at you. This close, you can see everything—the burst blood vessels in his eyes, the way his pupils can't quite focus, the decades of accumulated scars. He looks ancient. He looks young. He looks absolutely shattered.

"Don't know who that is anymore." Raw honesty, delivered while his thumbs trace your cheekbones with desperate reverence. "Don't know who I am when I'm not killing. When they're not—" He breaks off, jaw working. "I've been empty for so long. So fucking long. And then you touched me and I remembered what it felt like to be human and they took it away—"

"They can't take it away again." You frame his face with your hands, forcing him to meet your eyes. "We're leaving. Right now. Together."

"You don't understand." He's crying openly now, no shame in it, just pure emotional overflow. "Seventy years. Seventy fucking years of this chair, this room, these walls. They put me in the dark and take me out to kill and put me back and I can't—when they say the words, I disappear. Everything disappears."

"Then we don't let them say the words."

"I've killed so many people." He presses his forehead to yours hard enough to hurt, but the contact seems to calm something in him. "Children. Civilians. Good people. Bad people. So many I lost count. The things they made me do—the things I did—"

"I don't care."

"You should." His metal hand comes up to wrap around your throat, gentle but present. "This hand has strangled innocent people. These fingers have pulled triggers that ended lives. I'm not—I'm not good. I'm not worth—"

"Stop." You turn your head to press your lips to his metal palm, and the sound he makes is pure agony. "You're worth everything. You're my soulmate. You're—"

He makes a broken noise and crushes you against him again, like he's trying to crawl inside your skin. His whole body trembles with the effort of holding you close enough, like no amount of contact will ever be sufficient after seventy years of nothing.

"They're gonna wipe me again." Matter-of-fact. Resigned. "Soon as they realize what happened here. They always do. And I'll forget you again. Forget this. And next time—" His voice breaks. "Next time they'll make sure I can't touch you. They'll find ways to hurt you through me. They'll make me—"

"No." Your hands tighten on his face. "No, they won't. We're leaving. Steve's here. Natasha. We're getting you out."

"Stevie?" For the first time, his eyes flicker past you, landing on his best friend. The confusion there is heartbreaking. "But you're—you're supposed to be—"

"Hey, Buck." Steve's voice is thick with emotion. "It's me. It's really me. We're taking you home."

But Bucky's already looking back at you, like he can't bear to look away for more than seconds. His flesh hand hasn't stopped moving—tracing your face, your neck, tangling in your hair like he's trying to memorize you through touch alone.

"I don't want to forget again." It comes out small, broken. "Please. I can't do it again. Can't lose you again. It'll kill me. It'll—"

"You won't forget." You shift in his lap, wrap your arms around his neck, and he makes a sound like you've given him salvation. "I won't let them take you. I won't let them hurt you anymore. I promise."

"We need to move." Natasha's voice, soft but urgent. "Security response in two minutes."

Steve's at your side instantly, but when he reaches for Bucky, the soldier flinches back violently, metal arm coming up in defense. The only thing that keeps him from lashing out is your hand on his chest, your voice in his ear.

"It's okay. It's Steve. He's safe. He's here to help."

"Can you walk?" Steve asks, careful to keep his distance.

Bucky nods against your shoulder, but when you try to move off his lap, his arms lock around you with desperate strength.

"No." Panicked. "No, please. Need to—need to touch—"

"I'm not going anywhere." You run your fingers through his hair, and he leans into it like a cat. "We're walking out of here together. But you have to let me stand up."

It takes visible effort for him to loosen his grip. When you stand, he follows immediately, swaying slightly. He towers over you even hunched with exhaustion, and when his hand finds yours, it's with the grip of a drowning man finding driftwood.

You start moving as a unit, but Bucky can't stop touching you. His free hand keeps finding your face, your hair, your shoulder, like he needs constant confirmation you're real. At one point he stops entirely, pulls you back against his chest, and just breathes you in for several seconds while Steve and Natasha stand guard.

"Left," he says suddenly as you reach a junction, pulling you down a side corridor. "Service tunnel. I've—I've tried before. Three times. No. Four? They always—" His free hand comes up to his head, pressing against his temple.

"Hey." You squeeze his hand. "Doesn't matter. Which way?"

The service tunnel is narrow and dark. Bucky pulls you through it like muscle memory, but halfway through he stops, pressing you against the wall. His hands frame your face in the darkness.

"What if this isn't real?" Desperate. "What if I'm still in the chair? What if this is just another way they're breaking me?"

You reach up to cradle his face in return, thumbs brushing over his cheekbones. "Does this feel like a dream?"

"No." He breathes the word against your mouth. "No, it feels—it feels like waking up."

The exit spills you out into pre-dawn forest. The quinjet looms out of the darkness, and for the first time in seventy years, Bucky Barnes runs toward freedom instead of away from it.

But even on the jet, even safe, he can't stop holding you. He pulls you into his lap on the bench seats, ignoring the medical team, ignoring everyone, and just holds on. His face stays buried in your neck during takeoff, his arms locked around you like prison bars in reverse—keeping the world out instead of keeping him in.

"You're free," you whisper, over and over, like a prayer. "You're free. You're safe. You're mine."

"Yours," he agrees, and finally, finally, his death grip loosens just enough for you to breathe. "Yours. Always yours. Even when I couldn't remember. Even in the dark. Somehow I was always yours."

The sun breaks the horizon as you fly toward home, and for the first time in seventy years, Bucky Barnes believes he might actually make it there.

The first time Bucky Barnes calls you at 3 AM, your body knows it's him before your mind catches up.

The phone vibrates against your nightstand, and your hand's already reaching, heart already racing—not with fear but with recognition. That soul-deep pull that's been your compass for three months now.

"Bucky?" Your voice comes out sleep-rough, concerned.

Just breathing on the other end. Ragged, like he's been running. Or fighting. The sound makes your chest tight.

"Can't—" His voice cracks like splintered wood. "Can't remember if the blood on my hands is from yesterday or a decade ago."

You're already moving, sheets tangling around your legs as you hunt for clothes in the dark. "Where are you?"

"Steve's. The Tower. I'm—" A shaky exhale that you feel in your own lungs. "I'm safe. Everyone's safe. Just needed—"

"Me." Not a question. The bond thrums with his distress, a phantom ache under your ribs. "I'm coming."

"You don't have to—"

"I'm coming."

Twenty minutes later, Happy's pulling up to the Tower's private entrance. You're wearing the first things your hands found—pajama shorts with snowflakes on them that you stole from your roommate, one of Bucky's hoodies that still smells like him (cedar and gunpowder and something indefinably him).

The elevator ride feels eternal. Your skin prickles with proximity, the bond pulling taut as you rise through the floors. By the time JARVIS deposits you on the residential level, your hands are shaking with the need to touch him, to soothe whatever's tearing him apart.

You find him on the couch, knees drawn up to his chest like he's trying to make himself smaller. His metal hand is clenched so tight you can hear the recalibration whirs, flesh hand buried in his hair. Steve hovers nearby, hands opening and closing like he wants to help but doesn't know how.

"Buck," you breathe.

His head snaps up, and oh—his eyes are winter-wild, pupils blown with panic, caught in some liminal space between then and now. You watch him catalog you in pieces: face, voice, the way you're already moving toward him like gravity's reversed its pull.

You don't speak. Don't need to. Just fold yourself onto the couch beside him, close enough that the line of your body presses against his from shoulder to hip. His flesh hand finds yours immediately, desperate, fingers lacing between yours like maybe if he holds tight enough he won't drift away.

The effect is immediate—a full-body shudder, his breathing starting to sync with yours. The bond hums, warm honey spreading through your veins. Steve makes a sound—relief wrapped in something more complicated—and quietly retreats.

"Sorry," Bucky murmurs after a moment. His thumb finds your pulse point, traces it like he's counting heartbeats. "Shouldn't have woken you."

"Yes, you should have." No reproach, just fact. "That's what this is."

He turns to look at you then, really look, and you watch him surface by degrees. His metal hand comes up without conscious thought, fingertips ghosting along your jaw with impossible gentleness. The cool metal makes you shiver, but you lean into it, letting him map the reality of you.

"There you are," he whispers.

Something fractures inside you. He pulls you in—careful, always so careful with you—until your foreheads touch. His breathing ghosts across your lips, and you stay suspended in that space, sharing air and warmth and the indescribable thing that ties soul to soul.

It becomes your new normal.

The calls come at all hours. Sometimes Steve's the one calling, voice carefully controlled: "Can you come? He's asking for you." Sometimes it's Natasha, brusque but not unkind: "Barnes needs you." Once, memorably, it's Tony: "Your touch-starved assassin is having a moment. Also, he may have broken my espresso machine."

You always go.

The team adapts to your presence like you're a new piece of furniture—necessary, functional, occasionally in the way. You learn to read Bucky's tells from across a room: the way his eyes go distant when memory bleeds through, the micro-flinches when sound becomes too much, the careful way he holds himself when he's fragmenting.

But more than that, you learn the language his body speaks when it's seeking yours.

He's always careful at first, tentative as a feral cat learning to accept kindness. A brush of fingers, testing. The barest press of his palm to yours. But once that first contact is made, something in him unravels.

He touches you like he's mapping a new world.

It starts innocuous enough—fingers tangled together during movie nights, his thumb painting absent patterns on your wrist. His hand finds the small of your back when you walk, not possessive but anchoring, like he needs proof you're real. He pulls you between his knees when he's sitting, arms banding around your waist, chin notching over your shoulder while you chat with Sam about nothing important.

But as weeks become months, the touches grow bolder. Hungrier.

"Does it bother you?" he asks one afternoon.

He's had a brutal therapy session—three hours of guided recall that left him shaking and grey-faced. You'd spent the past hour with his head in your lap, your fingers carding through his hair while he pieced himself back together. His flesh hand has found its way under your shirt, palm spread wide over your ribs, and his metal fingers trace delicate patterns on the inside of your wrist.

"Does what bother me?"

"This." He gestures vaguely at the negative space between you that stopped existing weeks ago. "How much I need—" He stops. Swallows. Tries again. "How I can't stop touching you."

The question deserves honesty, so you give it consideration. Think about how your life has restructured itself around these points of contact. How you've started wearing layers just so there's always fabric to push aside, skin to find. How your body anticipates his touch now, turns toward him without conscious thought.

"No," you say finally. "It doesn't bother me."

He studies your face with those searching eyes, looking for the polite lie. You let him look, keeping your expression open.

"I've been thinking," you continue, adjusting so you can see him better. His hand immediately shifts, fingers splaying wider across your ribs like he needs more contact to make up for the movement. "About touch. About deprivation."

A muscle in his jaw ticks.

"Seventy years," you say softly. "Seventy years where touch meant pain. Programming. Violence. Where hands on you meant—"

"Stop." Rough. His hand presses harder against your ribs, feeling your heartbeat.

"—so is it any wonder you're hungry for something else? Something good?"

His exhale shudders out of him. "The doctors say it's codependence."

"The doctors haven't had their souls systematically unmade and remade." You cover his flesh hand with yours, pressing it more firmly against your skin. "You're not codependent, Bucky. You're human. You're healing. And if touch helps—"

"It's not just that it helps." The words come out jagged, confessional. "I want—" His metal hand comes up, traces the line of your throat with one careful finger. "I want to touch you all the time. Want to know the texture of every inch of your skin. Want to map you like territory, like—" He cuts himself off, jaw clenching.

Heat pools low in your stomach, but you keep your voice steady. "Like what?"

"Like you're mine." Barely audible. His eyes won't meet yours. "Like I have any right to—"

"You do." You turn into him more fully, catch his face between your palms. His eyes flutter closed, and he leans into the touch like a man starved. "You have every right. We're soulmates, Bucky. That means something."

"What if I never get better?" Raw, honest. "What if I always need this? Need you?"

"Then you'll always have me."

His eyes snap open, winter-blue and desperate. "You can't promise that."

"Watch me."

The trial is excruciating. You watch from designated seating as Bucky sits statue-still, hair pulled back severe, wearing a suit that makes him look like someone else entirely. They read names, show photographs, detail missions that exist in his memory like shattered glass—some pieces clear, others reflecting nothing but blood.

The days he testifies, he comes to you after.

Never speaks about it. Just shows up at your door looking hollowed out, and you let him in without questions. He wraps himself around you like you're the only solid thing in a tilting world, face buried in the curve of your neck, breathing you in like oxygen.

These are the times his hands grow bold.

Not inappropriate—never that. But searching. He maps you like a cartographer charting new territory. Palms skimming your sides, memorizing the curve of waist to hip. Fingers tracing the ladder of your ribs through thin fabric. Metal thumb finding the hollow of your throat where your pulse flutters hummingbird-quick.

"I need—" he'll say against your skin, words muffled and desperate.

"I know," you always answer. "Take what you need."

So he does. His flesh hand slips under your shirt, finds the warm plane of your stomach, spreads wide like he's trying to absorb your steadiness through osmosis. His metal fingers trace patterns on whatever skin he can find—the inside of your wrist, the nape of your neck, the sensitive spot behind your ear that makes you shiver.

Sometimes you'll find his hand at your sternum, metal fingers splayed over your heartbeat like he's using it to calibrate his own. Sometimes he'll trace the boundary where clothing meets skin, fingertips ghosting under hems and necklines but never pushing further, just needing to know there's softness underneath, that not everything in the world has sharp edges.

"Is this okay?" he asks every time, even as his touch grows more familiar, more certain.

"Yes," you answer every time, even as your skin heats and your breath catches and you want—

You want.

"So are you two fucking yet?"

You choke on your coffee, hot liquid searing your throat. Across the kitchen, Bucky's shoulders go rigid where he's making eggs with the kind of focus usually reserved for defusing explosives.

"Tony," Steve says, warning clear in his voice.

"What? It's a legitimate question. All that touching, the eye-fucking across every room, the way Barnes goes feral if anyone else so much as—"

"We're not." Your face burns. "That's not—we haven't—"

Tony's eyebrows achieve escape velocity. "You're telling me you've been playing the world's most intense game of grabass for three months and haven't—"

"Stark." Bucky's voice is winter-quiet, dangerous in the way that makes smart people reevaluate their life choices.

But Tony's never been accused of survival instincts. "I'm just saying, that level of sexual tension could power—"

The plate in Bucky's metal hand shatters.

Silence rings out, broken only by the drip of egg yolk hitting tile.

"I'll just." Tony backs toward the door, hands raised. "Workshop. Important things. Very important things."

He's gone before anyone can blink, leaving you, Bucky, and Steve in a kitchen that suddenly feels airless. Bucky stares at the ceramic shards in his hand like they've personally betrayed him.

"Buck—" Steve starts.

"I need air."

He's out the door before you can process the movement, leaving you with cooling eggs and Tony's words hanging in the air like smoke.

Steve sighs, the sound of a man who's aged a century in the last minute. "He's an idiot. Tony, I mean. Though Buck's also—" He stops. Runs a hand through his hair. "This is none of my business."

"But?"

"But." Steve fixes you with those earnest eyes that probably ended wars. "He thinks he's protecting you. From himself. From what he's done. He doesn't think he deserves—" A gesture encompasses you, the kitchen, the entire situation.

"That's not his decision to make."

"No," Steve agrees. "But when has that ever stopped him?"

You find Bucky on the roof because of course that's where he goes. He's sitting on the edge, legs dangling over nothing, and your heart does something complicated in your chest.

"Most people have their existential crises at ground level," you say, settling beside him carefully.

His mouth twitches—not quite a smile, but close. "Most people haven't fallen off a train."

"Fair point."

The city spreads below like a circuit board, all light and movement and life. Without looking, his hand finds yours, fingers interlacing with the ease of long practice. The bond settles, that constant thrum of rightness that comes with skin meeting skin.

"Tony's not wrong," he says eventually.

You wait, let him find the words in his own time.

"I think about it." His voice is carefully controlled, but you can feel the tremor in his hand. "Touching you. Not just—not just to ground myself. Not for the bond. I think about touching you because I want to. Because you're—"

He stops. His throat works, and when he speaks again, his voice is rougher. "Because you're beautiful. And kind. And you laugh at my terrible jokes even when they're not funny. You come when I call at 3 AM. You let me put my hands on you even though these same hands have—"

"Bucky—"

"I dream about it." The confession comes out raw. "Dream about kissing you. About how you'd taste. How you'd feel. Wake up with your name in my mouth and my hands reaching for you, and it's not about the bond, it's about—" He turns to look at you then, eyes dark with something that makes your breath catch. "It's about how much I want you. How much I want things I have no right to want."

"What if," you say, voice steadier than your pulse, "I want those same things?"

His breathing stutters. "You don't. You can't."

"Don't tell me what I want." You turn toward him fully, free hand coming up to his jaw. He leans into it helplessly, eyes falling closed. "I know exactly what I want. Who I want."

"I'm held together with duct tape and trauma," he says, but his resolve is crumbling. You can see it in the way he presses harder into your palm. "I can't take you on normal dates. Can't promise I won't have panic attacks. Can't even sleep through the night without—"

"I don't want normal." Your thumb traces his cheekbone, feels him shudder. "I want you. Every piece, every edge, every nightmare and bad day. I want the man who hums old songs when he thinks no one's listening. Who makes terrible eggs but keeps trying. Who touches me like I'm something precious and looks at me like I'm a miracle."

"You are," he breathes. "You're—"

You kiss him.

Or maybe he kisses you.

Maybe you meet in the middle, drawn together by forces older than choice.

The first press of lips is tentative, a question asked and answered in the same breath. His flesh hand comes up to cradle your face, and the tenderness of it makes your chest ache. But then you make a sound—small, needy—and something in him breaks.

Or maybe something in him finally fixes itself.

His metal arm bands around your waist, pulls you against him with desperate strength. The kiss deepens, and oh, you understand now why people write symphonies and wage wars. Because Bucky Barnes kisses like he's drowning and you're air, like he's been starving for seventy years and you're sustenance, like maybe the universe knew exactly what it was doing when it tied your souls together.

He kisses you like he's trying to crawl inside your skin.

His tongue traces the seam of your lips and you open for him without thought, and the sound he makes—broken, grateful—sends heat racing down your spine. He tastes like coffee and something indefinably him, and you chase that taste deeper, hands fisting in his shirt.

He doesn't surface for air. Doesn't pause. Just tilts his head to find a better angle and kisses you deeper, harder, like he's trying to memorize the shape of your mouth, the texture of your sighs. His metal hand spans your lower back, pulling you impossibly closer, while his flesh hand maps your face, thumb stroking your cheek even as his mouth devastates you.

You're half in his lap now, twisted awkwardly on the ledge, and you don't care. Can't care about anything beyond the heat of his mouth, the way he groans when you nip at his lower lip, the way his hands shake where they hold you.

"Wanted this," he gasps against your mouth, not pulling back enough to actually stop kissing you. "Wanted you. Before I even knew you. So long, so fucking long—"

You answer by sliding your hands into his hair, nails scraping his scalp, and he shudders against you, kiss going a little sloppy and desperate. He's not cold, not controlled, not careful. He's burning, pressing against you like he wants to fuse at the molecular level, like the soul bond isn't enough and never could be.

When you finally break apart—only because oxygen is apparently necessary—you're both wrecked. His lips are swollen, eyes dark and dazed. You probably look the same. His forehead drops to yours, and you can feel him trembling against you, all that careful control finally, beautifully shattered.

"Okay?" His voice is destroyed, rough like he's been screaming.

"So far past okay," you manage. "Though your timing—we're on a roof, Barnes."

He laughs, the sound surprised out of him, and presses kisses to your cheeks, your jaw, the corner of your mouth like he can't quite stop now that he's started. "Sorry. I'll plan better next time."

"Next time?" You're going for teasing but it comes out breathless, hopeful.

His eyes find yours, and the intensity there steals any words you might have had. "Every time. Any time. All the time, if you'll—if you want—"

You press your mouth to his again, swallowing whatever self-deprecating thing he was about to say. He makes a noise of pure relief and hauls you closer, and you think maybe Tony Stark has exactly one good point in his entire existence.

Not that you'll ever tell him.

** The science had been clinical, sterile words on a page that you'd skimmed in college while nursing a hangover and trying to make sense of your Behavioral Psych reading.

Enhanced neural connectivity. Synchronized endorphin response. Heightened sensory feedback between bonded pairs.

Academic language that utterly failed to capture this—Bucky's mouth hot and slick and desperate against your throat while his hands relearn territory they've been mapping under cotton and denim for months, each touch sending electricity racing down your spine like lightning seeking ground.

"Fucking finally," he growls against your pulse point, and you feel the words more than hear them, vibrating through skin into bone, into the very marrow of you. His metal hand spans your ribs, each individual plate recalibrating against your skin with tiny whirs and clicks, like even the machinery of him is trying to get closer.

"You know what it's been like? Having you close enough to smell, to taste in the air, but not—Christ, the way you tremble each time I touch you, like you're starving for it—"

You try to form words but he's already peeling your shirt away with hands that shake despite their practiced efficiency, and the first full press of his bare chest to yours—scarred skin against soft, furnace heat against cool air—whites out anything resembling higher thought.

The soul bond doesn't just sing—it screams, every nerve ending recognizing its other half and lighting up like a constellation, like a neural map catching fire.

"Oh," you gasp, and it's inadequate, it's nothing, but Bucky goes rigid above you like you've shot electricity straight through his spine.

"Yeah," he agrees, voice absolutely wrecked. His forehead drops to your shoulder, dog tags dragging cold metal across your overheated chest as he pants against your skin, each exhale making you shiver. "Yeah, that's—fuck, is it always gonna feel like this? Like touching a live wire, just—"

"More," you manage, arching into him until there's no space left between your bodies, and you feel his control splinter like ice under pressure.

His mouth finds yours again, hungry and graceless, all that careful restraint from months of chaste touches finally, blessedly gone. His tongue slides against yours and you taste coffee and something metallic—blood maybe, from where he's been biting his lip. When you nip at his bottom lip he makes a sound like something wounded, something primal, hips rolling into yours with zero finesse, just pure need, his cock hard and insistent through too many layers of fabric.

"Sensitive," he warns against your mouth, but it comes out more like a plea, like he's begging you to understand. "Everything's dialed up to eleven, I can—I can hear your blood moving in your veins. Can feel every place you're warm and wet and—fuck—" His whole body shudders when you rake your nails down his back.

Your fingers find the scarred terrain of his back and he actually whimpers, muscles rolling under your touch like water, like something liquid and desperate. That's when the second revelation hits: whatever you're feeling, he's feeling it magnified. Seventy years of sensory deprivation plus enhanced everything plus a soul bond that's been stretched taut for months—

"Gonna lose my mind," he mutters, mouthing at your jaw, your throat, anywhere he can reach, leaving wet trails that cool in the air and make you shiver. His stubble scrapes against sensitive skin and you gasp, hips bucking up involuntarily. "Already lost it. Lost it the second you touched me in that library. Do you know? Do you have any fucking idea what it's like, having someone reach inside your skull and turn all the lights on? Like going from black and white to color, like—Jesus—"

His flesh hand fumbles with your pants, clumsy with urgency, while his metal hand grips your hip hard enough to leave marks—and god, you hope it does, hope you wear his fingerprints for days. The button pops free and he makes a victorious sound that might be funny if you weren't so desperate, if you weren't already so wet you can feel it soaking through your underwear.

His hand slides lower, fingers slipping beneath elastic, and when he finds you soaked and swollen, the noise that punches out of him is pure animal—a growl that starts in his chest and rumbles through both your bodies where they're pressed together.

"Christ." His fingers slip through wetness, exploratory and reverent, and you can feel the tremor in his hand. "This is—this is for me? You get like this just from—" He circles your clit with his thumb and you cry out, hips jerking. "Fuck, you're dripping. Can feel your pulse in your cunt, baby. So swollen, so ready—"

"From you," you gasp, grinding down against his hand as he slides two fingers inside without warning. The stretch makes you moan, makes your walls clench around him immediately. "Always from you. Only from you."

Something fractures in his expression—something raw and possessive and desperately vulnerable all at once. He hooks his fingers, finding that spot that makes your vision white out, and watches your face like he's cataloging miracles, like he's mapping the geography of your pleasure. "Say that again."

"Only you." It comes out breathless, edged with desperation as he finds a rhythm that has your thighs shaking, has wet sounds filling the air between you. "Only ever you, Bucky, please—"

"No." His thumb finds your clit and circles with devastating precision, pressure just the right side of too much. "Not yet. Not when I've been imagining this for—do you know how many times I've jerked off in the shower thinking about this? About how you'd sound when you're desperate? How you'd taste?" He adds a third finger, stretching you wider, and grins dark and feral when you sob. "Bet you thought about it too. Bet you touched yourself thinking about me, didn't you? Tell me."

"Yes," you admit, face burning, and his pupils blow even wider.

He drops to his knees between your thighs suddenly, metal hand holding you open like something precious, like an offering. The first swipe of his tongue has you jackknifing off the bed, but he just pins you down with his metal arm across your hips and does it again, slower, a long drag from entrance to clit that has you seeing stars.

"Fuckin' knew it," he groans against you, and the vibration of his voice makes you clench around nothing. "Knew you'd taste like heaven. Like mine. Knew you'd shake for me just like this." He spreads you wider with his fingers, looking at you with dark eyes. "So pretty. So perfect." He spits on your cunt, watching it mix with your wetness, and the filthy intimacy of it makes you moan. "Gonna ruin you for anyone else. Gonna make it so you can't come without thinking of my mouth, my fingers, my cock."

His words dissolve into action, mouth working you over with single-minded focus. He eats you out like he's starving, like he's dying, all lips and tongue and just the edge of teeth. The soul bond makes it devastating—you don't just feel the physical sensation, you feel his hunger, his satisfaction at finally being allowed to give pleasure instead of pain. His metal fingers dig into your thigh hard enough to bruise and you hope they do, hope you wear his marks for days, hope everyone who sees them knows exactly who put them there.

"Close," you warn, though he probably knows—can probably taste it in the way your cunt's clenching, feel it in the bond that's gone molten between you. Your thighs are shaking, muscles pulled so tight they hurt, and there's a sound filling the room that you distantly realize is you, making noises you've never made before.

He pulls back just enough to speak, lips glossy with your wetness, chin soaked, eyes wild. "Yeah? You gonna come on my tongue? Gonna let me taste it?" He slides three fingers in, curling with devastating intent, and your back arches off the bed. "Come on, sweetheart. Give it up. Let me have it, don't be greedy."

You shatter with a sound that might be his name, might be pure noise. The orgasm rolls through you in waves, each crest higher than the last, and he works you through it mercilessly, not letting up even when you try to squirm away from oversensitivity. Through the bond you feel his echoing pleasure—not physical, not yet, but something bone-deep and satisfied and proud.

"Atta girl," he murmurs against your inner thigh, pressing kisses to sweat-slick skin while his fingers still move lazily inside you, drawing out aftershocks. "So fucking beautiful. Look at you, all fucked out and soft and mine. Could do this for hours. Will do this for hours. Keep you here, coming apart on my hands, my mouth, until you're so sensitive you cry, until you forget there was ever a time we weren't—"

"Bucky." You tug at his hair, need making your voice rough despite the orgasm still sparking through your nerves. "Get up here. Need you inside me. Need—"

He's moving before you finish, shucking his pants with graceless efficiency. The first glimpse of his cock—thick and long and leaking steadily—makes your mouth water and your cunt clench with fresh want. When you reach for him he catches your wrist, gentle but firm.

"Next time," he promises, reading your intent with unnerving accuracy. His voice is strained, like he's hanging on by a thread. "Let you taste me next time. Let you choke on it, fuck that pretty mouth until you're drooling, until—" He cuts himself off with visible effort, chest heaving. "But right now I need—if I don't get inside you in the next ten seconds I'm gonna fucking die—"

"So do it." You spread your legs wider, shameless, showing him how wet and open you are, how ready. "Come on, sergeant. Follow through."

His control snaps audibly. He's on you between one breath and the next, pinning you down with his weight, cock nudging at your entrance. The head catches on your rim and you both groan, but he stops there, trembling with effort, forehead pressed to yours.

"Look at me." It's not a request—it's a command, rough and desperate. You force your eyes open, meet his gaze—winter blue swallowed by black, raw and vulnerable and fierce. "Need to see you when I—need to know you're here, that you're real, that this is—"

"Real," you confirm, wrapping your legs around his waist, heels digging into his ass to urge him forward. "I'm real. You're real. This is—oh fuck—"

He pushes inside in one long, devastating slide, and the world reconstitutes itself around this moment. Around the stretch and burn and perfect fullness of him, around the broken sound he makes against your throat—half sob, half growl—around the soul bond lighting up like a supernova, like every nerve ending suddenly discovering what it was made for.

"Fuck." His metal hand grips the headboard hard enough to crack wood, splinters raining down. "Fuck, you're—tight. So fucking tight. Hot. Perfect. Can feel—God fucking damn, I can feel everything. Can feel how good it is for you, can feel how your cunt's trying to pull me deeper—" He shifts his hips and hits something devastating inside you, makes you clench around him involuntarily. He laughs, breathless. "Yeah, right there. That's it, isn't it, baby? Right fucking there."

He moves experimentally, just a slow roll of hips, and you both moan at the drag of him inside you, at how your bodies fit together like they were made for this, only this. The angle is perfect—he's reading your body's responses in real-time, adjusting until every thrust has you climbing higher, until you're making noises that would embarrass you if you could think.

"Not gonna last," he warns, rhythm already getting ragged, desperate. Sweat drips from his forehead onto your chest, mixing with the sheen already there. "Not this time. Too much, too long waiting, too—the way you feel—" His flesh hand finds your throat, rests there warm and possessive, thumb pressing just enough to make your pulse flutter. "Like velvet. Like coming home. Like I could fuck you forever and it would never be enough—"

"Don't care." You pull his head down, bite at his jaw hard enough to leave marks just to feel him shudder, to watch his control fracture further. "Just want you. Just need—"

"Tell me." His grip on your throat tightens fractionally, not enough to restrict breathing but enough to make you aware, to make you feel it. "Tell me what you need. Want to give you everything. Want to be so good for you, sweetheart. Want to make up for every night you went to bed empty when you should've been—"

"Full of you," you finish, and his hips stutter, lose rhythm entirely for a moment.

"Yeah?" His thumb presses against your pulse, feeling how fast your heart's racing. "That what you need? Need me to fill you up? Keep you full and fucked out and dripping with my come? Make sure everyone knows you're mine, that I'm the only one who gets to—"

"Yes." You're beyond shame, beyond anything but the building pressure where he's driving into you harder now, each thrust shoving you up the bed. The wet sounds of your bodies meeting fill the room, obscene and perfect. "Yes, Bucky, please—"

"Say my name again." He's fucking you harder now, chasing his release with single-minded intensity. The bed frame creaks ominously with each thrust. "Want to hear it when you come. Want to feel it when you—fuck, you're clenching around me, baby. You close? You gonna come on my cock? Gonna be good for me?"

You nod frantically, words lost to the slide of him inside you, the relentless pressure against that perfect spot, the way his pubic bone grinds against your clit with each thrust. His metal fingers find your clit, cold against overheated flesh, and the contrast makes you scream.

"That's it," he growls, working your clit in tight circles while maintaining that punishing rhythm. "Come for me. Come on my cock like a good girl. Let me feel it, let me—fuck, there it is, I can feel it starting, you're getting so tight—"

You come with his name on your lips, back arching off the bed so hard you think you might snap in half. The orgasm slams through you like a freight train, like dying and being reborn, every muscle locking up as pleasure whites out your vision. The bond makes it circular—your pleasure slamming into him and reflecting back, amplified, until you're both shaking with it, until you can't tell where you end and he begins.

"Oh fuck—" His rhythm breaks entirely, becomes something desperate and animal. "Fuck, I'm gonna—gonna fill you up, gonna—"

"Inside." You dig your nails into his shoulders hard enough to draw blood, hold him deep even as oversensitivity makes you want to squirm away. "Want to feel it. Want all of it."

He comes with a sound that's half your name, half prayer, half roar, hips grinding deep as he spills inside you. You feel it all—not just the physical sensation of his cock pulsing, filling you with warmth, but the emotional avalanche through the bond. Relief and want and mine mine mine and something that feels dangerously close to devotion, to worship, to complete and utter belonging.

He fucks you through it, shallow little thrusts like he can't help himself, like his body won't stop even though he's already given you everything. Each movement makes more come leak out around his cock, makes wet sounds that have you hiding your face in his shoulder, embarrassed and aroused in equal measure.

The aftershocks last forever, little sparks of shared pleasure that have you both gasping, twitching, clutching at each other like lifelines. When he finally stills, he doesn't pull out, just shifts enough that his weight isn't crushing you, keeping you plugged full of him.

"Stay," he mumbles into your neck, words slurred like he's drunk. "Just—stay exactly like this. Please. Need to—need to keep you full. Need to know you're here, that this is real, that I get to—"

"Not going anywhere." You card your fingers through his sweat-damp hair, feel him shiver at the gentle touch after all that intensity. "Never going anywhere. You're stuck with me, Barnes."

His arms tighten around you, and you can feel his smile against your skin, feel the way his cock twitches inside you with renewed interest. "Good. Because now that I know what this feels like, what you feel like—" He rocks his hips experimentally, and you both groan as you feel his come shift inside you, feel how wet and open you are. "We're not leaving this bed for a week. Gonna fuck you in every position I've imagined. Gonna map every inch of your body with my mouth. Gonna find out exactly how many times I can make you come before you beg me to stop—"

"What about—"

He kisses you quiet, slow and thorough and filthy, tongue fucking into your mouth in a pale imitation of what his cock just did. When he pulls back, his eyes are dark with promise and his cock is fully hard inside you again, enhanced recovery time making itself known.

"Nothing else matters," he says simply, starting to move again, slow and deep and devastating. You're so sensitive it borders on too much, but the soul bond floods you with his pleasure, his desperate need, and suddenly you're right there with him again. "Just this. Just us. Just how many times I can make you come before sunrise. How full I can keep you. How loud I can make you scream."

You clench around him involuntarily and his eyes flutter closed, hips stuttering.

"Gonna kill me," he mutters, picking up speed, the wet sounds even more obscene now with his come easing the way. "Seventy years of nothing and now—" A particularly deep thrust has you seeing stars. "Now I've got a soulmate who looks at me like I'm worth something, who touches me like I'm not a weapon, who lets me use her however I need—"

"Who loves you," you interrupt, watching his face crumble and rebuild itself, watching him fight back what looks suspiciously like tears.

"Yeah?" Barely a whisper, so vulnerable it makes your chest ache.

"Yeah." You pull him down for another kiss, pouring everything you can't say into the contact, letting him feel it through the bond. "So much. So long. Even before I knew you, I think I loved you. Think I was waiting for you."

He makes a broken sound and starts fucking you in earnest, like a man possessed, like he's trying to climb inside you and never leave. "Say it again."

"I love you."

"Again." Harder now, each thrust shoving you up the bed.

"I love you, Bucky Barnes."

He fucks you like a promise, like a prayer, like maybe if he does it right the universe will let him keep this. You come apart under him again and again, until time becomes meaningless, until the only reality is where you're joined, where the soul bond burns brightest, where his come leaks out of you with each thrust only to be fucked back in, marking you inside and out as his.

When exhaustion finally claims you both, he's still inside you, still hard, wrapped around you like armor and apology all at once. You're going to be sore tomorrow—hell, you're sore now—but you wouldn't move for anything.

The last thing you feel before sleep takes you is his lips against your temple, his voice rough with wonder and satisfaction:

"Love you too, sweetheart. More than I've got words for. More than I probably should. Gonna spend the rest of my life showing you, if you'll let me. Gonna take such good care of you. My girl. My soulmate. Mine."

"Yours," you mumble, already drifting, clenching around him one last time just to feel him shudder.

His arms tighten, and you feel his smile against your skin, feel the way his cock twitches inside you with interest despite everything.

"Forever," he promises.

"Forever."

Outside, Brooklyn wakes to another morning, unaware that two souls have finally, fully, found their way home.

feedback is always appreciated! ♡

[binkybonkybucky]

i’m going so feral for this i would actually bark rn if bucky told me to. this was actually crazy, the whole switch up between giving too little then too much. and the way bucky threatened to pull out…yeah, i’d do whatever he says. i just know this bucky would be mad touchy in public because he’s so damn possessive and controlling.

Teasing

possessive!bucky barnes x reader

summary: there’s non. this fic is pure, filthy porn. look at the warnings!!

word count: 3,7k

WARNINGS: 18+ explicit content, MDNI. curse words, desperation, dirty talk, degrading kink, praising kink (just a very tiny bit), teasing, dacryphilia, PiV, unprotected sex, dom!bucky, overstimulation, breeding, cockwarming, fully consensual by both parties although not explicitly stated.

Your problem was that Bucky knew how much you wanted him. How much you craved him. And he loved to take advantage of that.

He always waited for the quietest moments—when your guard was down, when your body was warm and soft in his arms, and your mind had just started to slip toward sleep.

Like now.

Spooning you in bed, his arm curled around your waist, his breath slow and steady against the back of your neck. His hand, resting innocently on your thigh, begins to move. Slow at first—just the lazy drag of his fingertips along your skin, barely noticeable, like he’s tracing the shape of your body from memory.

But then it shifts. Higher. Bolder.

Over the swell of your hip, the curve of your ass—his touch deliberate now, possessive. You bite your lip, heat already pooling low in your stomach.

And then he does it. Rolls his hips against you just enough for you to feel him—hard and heavy through the thin fabric of his boxers, pressing perfectly into the curve of your ass.

It’s too perfect. The kind of pressure that makes your breath catch, your thighs clench involuntarily.

You whimper. Quiet. Needy.

That’s when he moves his hand again. Slipping beneath the waistband of your panties, slow and teasing, fingers grazing over your slick heat like he’s testing you—barely touching, just enough to make you ache.

“You’re already wet,” he murmurs against your neck, voice thick and low. “Were you hoping I’d do this?”

You don’t answer—not with words.

Just a soft, pathetic little whimper, your body already arching back into him, desperate for more of his touch.

But instead of giving it to you, Bucky pulls his hand away.

You whine at the loss, but then you feel the subtle shift behind you—his hips rocking back, the rustle of fabric as he pushes his boxers down and strokes himself, slow and lazy, like he has all the time in the world.

“Shhh,” he murmurs against your shoulder, voice thick with heat. “I’ve got you.”

Then you feel it. The warm, heavy weight of him pressed right against your soaked folds. Not inside. Not even close. Just resting there—teasing—and then he starts to drag it down. Up. Down again.

Barely any pressure.

Just enough to spread your slick. Just enough to make your breath hitch and your thighs twitch with need.

“Fuck,” he groans softly, voice strained. “You feel that, baby? How wet you are for me?”

He keeps doing it. Slow, maddening glides of his cock through your folds, the tip catching on your clit every time in a way that makes you whimper again—quieter this time, almost like you’re embarrassed by how badly you want him.

And that just makes him grin.

“You were gonna fall asleep like this?” he breathes, voice dark and amused. “So needy and wet, and you weren’t even gonna tell me?”

The way he moves—slow and lazy—leaves you trembling and aching. It’s unbearable. It feels like nothing and so much at the same time.

A gasp stutters out of you when the head of his cock brushes your clit a little harder than before, hips twitching. Your fingers clutch the sheets, desperate for something to ground you.

“Bucky…” you breathe, a plea more than a protest.

He hums low behind you, nuzzling into the crook of your neck. His free hand—strong, steady—slides up to hold your thigh, keeping you spread just how he wants.

“Shh…” he whispers. “I wanna take my time.”

His cock slides down again, hot and soaked in your slick, nudging at your entrance—but he doesn’t push in. Not yet.

Just rocks his hips again, back and forth, dragging himself through your folds with that same agonizing pressure, like he loves how desperate you’re getting.

And god, he does.

“You feel that?” he murmurs, lips brushing your ear. “Feel how your pussy’s just soaking for me? So fucking soft… all this mess for nothing, baby.”

He smiles when you let out another whimper, your hips bucking back against him instinctively, chasing more friction. But he tightens his grip on your thigh, holding you right where he wants you.

“Easy,” he says, voice low and almost cruel in its calmness. “You’ll take it when I give it to you. Not a second sooner.”

His tip nudged your entrance again, teasingly slow, just enough for your breath to catch and your hips to twitch back against him.

A soft, tiny whimper escaped your lips before you could stop it.

“You like that, baby?” he murmured, smug and low, cock dragging slowly through your slick again—coated, hot, deliberate.

You nodded frantically, desperation clawing at your throat.

“Please, Buck…”

Your voice was barely more than a breath, shaky and wrecked with need.

But he didn’t give in. Didn’t push in.

Instead, he just chuckled darkly and kept doing exactly what he was doing—grinding himself between your folds, up and down, the tip of his cock gliding over your clit in featherlight passes. He was soaked in your arousal now, the sound of it obscene in the quiet of the room.

“You’re fuckin’ dripping,” he whispered, voice thick with lust, his mouth close to your ear. “And all I’m doin’ is rubbing it on you.”

You let out another whimper, pressing your thighs together—but his hand was still gripping one, keeping you spread for him, helpless.

“Mm-mm,” he smirked, thrusting a little harder through your folds now, enough to make you feel it.

“Please, Bucky, I can’t—”

“You can,” he growled, nipping at your shoulder. “You’ll take it when I say. I wanna feel you sob for it first.”

To say you were underwhelmed would be an understatement.

It was maddening. Infuriating.

You thought you’d come the moment he pushed inside you—but he hadn’t. He hadn’t even tried. Just kept rubbing his cock through your clit, again and again, slow and teasing, like it was a game to him. And you were losing.

You were trembling. Wrecked. Your body burning with a need so sharp it felt cruel.

You looked back at him over your shoulder, eyes glassy, lips parted. Your gaze already dazed—tears stinging at the corners, threatening to spill.

And Bucky saw it.

Saw the pure begging in your eyes.

And finally—finally—he gave you what you wanted.

He pushed in. Just the tip.

Fuck, it felt so good—hot and thick and perfect, stretching you open with that first inch. Your mouth dropped open in a broken gasp, a choked sound of relief.

But he didn’t go any deeper.

Just held you there, filled barely enough to satisfy anything, and began to thrust—slow and shallow. Just the tip, dragging back and forth with a torturous rhythm that had your walls fluttering, clenching desperately around him every time he moved.

Your hands fisted the sheets. Your legs shook.

It was almost cruel. Almost.

“Bucky—” you sobbed, the sound choked and desperate. “Please—just—”

“Shhh,” he cooed, pressing a soft kiss to your shoulder as his tip nudged deep again, then pulled out—slow and slick. “You feel that, baby? Feel how tight you are around just this?”

You nodded, broken and breathless.

“I could keep you like this all night,” he whispered, voice dark and aching. “Just my tip. Just enough to make you cry for it.”

And god—he was.

You couldn’t take it anymore.

Your body was shaking, walls fluttering around the teasing stretch of him—just the tip—and it wasn’t enough. It would never be enough.

So you tried. Just a tiny shift of your hips, angling back to take him deeper, even just a little. To feel more of him. Anything.

But he felt it instantly.

His hand snapped up and caught your chin, firm and unforgiving, forcing you to turn your head and look at him. His eyes were dark, wild with control and desire, but there was no softness in his grip.

“Try that again,” he said, voice low and sharp, “and I’ll pull out.”

The words hit like a slap—sharp, cruel, threatening in the way only he could make sound loving.

Your breath hitched, tears threatening again, but you didn’t move.

You wouldn’t.

“Good girl,” he muttered, releasing your chin slowly, dragging his thumb along your jaw as if to soothe what he just said—but his hips stayed steady, cock still buried in that shallow depth, moving in and out with that same teasing rhythm that had you falling apart.

“That’s better,” he whispered. “You’ll take what I give you. Nothing more.”

He pressed in again, slow and deep this time—but still not all the way, just a little more than before, enough to feel every inch like a gift. Your mouth dropped open, eyes fluttering shut.

“Look at you,” he murmured, voice thick with smug affection. “Already fucked dumb and I haven’t even given you half of it.”

You tried to stay still. You really did.

But your body was trembling, thighs shaking, your core clenching so hard around nothing it almost hurt. His tip kept stroking inside you, slow and shallow, perfect—and still so fucking insufficient.

It was too much.

Your breath hitched. Your face crumpled. And then the tears spilled—hot, helpless streaks running down your cheeks as a sob tore from your throat.

“Bucky—” you choked, voice wrecked, broken, desperate. “I can’t… I need it, please…”

He stilled for a moment.

Then you felt him lean in closer, his hand coming up to brush your hair off your face—and then down again, fingers curling around your jaw to tilt your face toward him.

And he saw it.

The tears.

Your flushed cheeks, your trembling lips, your eyes blown wide with need and soaked with helpless want.

“Look at you,” he murmured, a slow smirk curving at the edge of his mouth. “So pathetic.”

His voice was low. Cruel. But there was affection under it—desire.

He loved seeing you like this. Ruined. Falling apart. All for him.

“Crying ‘cause you’re not getting cock,” he whispered, dragging his thumb across your wet cheek. “That’s what you wanted, huh? Thought if you sobbed pretty enough, I’d give it to you? Just because you know how fucking much I love seeing you cry for it?”

“Yes, Bucky—yes, please,” you gasped, your voice cracked and wrecked, thick with tears and need.

You didn’t even know what you were begging for anymore—more, everything, anything—as long as it was him.

Bucky groaned low in his throat, still cradling your cheek, his cock barely buried in you, just the tip stroking maddeningly slow. He leaned in, mouth brushing your ear as he rolled his hips once—deep enough to make your breath catch, not deep enough to give you what you needed.

“Maybe I should just hold my cock inside you like this all night, huh?” he whispered darkly. “Keep you stuffed, all warm and desperate, just like this.”

Your whole body tensed, a shiver running down your spine as your walls fluttered around him.

“You’d take it,” he murmured, grinding shallowly into you, teasing. “Wouldn’t even fight it. Just lay here, crying, dripping all over me while I keep you filled—so full, so fucking needy.”

He smiled against your skin, nipping lightly at your shoulder.

“Maybe that’s what you really want. Not to be fucked—just to be used.”

Your breath hitched. Your hips twitched back, chasing him—again.

He stilled.

“Ah ah,” he warned, tightening his grip on your thigh. “You move again and I’ll pull out for real. And you won’t get it back tonight. Understand me?”

“Please, Bucky,” you sobbed, your voice cracking under the weight of it. “Please, I can’t take it anymore.”

He didn’t move. Just kept you there—cock teasing the edge of where you needed him, thick and hot and cruelly still.

“Promise me, baby. Promise you’ll be good for me,” he murmured, voice dark and firm against your ear. “Say it.”

“Fuck—yes!” you cried, nodding frantically. “I’ll be good! I’ll be fucking good, I promise, I swear—just—please, Bucky—please—”

God, it was pathetic. The way you begged. The way you’d say anything just to get filled.

“Good girl,” he said low, almost a growl—and then he did it.

He sank into you, slow but deep, burying every inch until his hips were flush with yours and you couldn’t even breathe.

Your mouth fell open in a silent gasp, eyes wide and wet as the stretch stole every thought from your head. He didn’t wait. Didn’t let you adjust. He pulled back and slammed in again—once, twice—hard, deep, perfect—

And you came.

Just like that.

Your whole body seized, a strangled sob ripping from your throat as your pussy clenched down around him, fluttering wildly, soaking his cock as your orgasm tore through you like a fucking earthquake.

Bucky let out a dark, amused laugh.

“Look at you now…” he groaned, grabbing your chin and turning your face toward him again, forcing you to meet his gaze. “You’re such a pathetic fucking whore—coming so fast, just ‘cause I finally gave it to you.”

Your face burned, breath hiccuping in your chest as he kept moving—deep and slow now, like he had all the time in the world to drag it out of you again.

“Gonna give me more, you hear me?” he rasped, voice thick and relentless as his cock worked into your trembling cunt. “You’re gonna be a good girl and take it. Gonna let me fuck more out of you.”

His grip on your chin tightened. “Ain’t done with you yet, sweetheart.”

Your orgasm was still rippling through you—sharp, overwhelming, your body twitching and trembling as he kept thrusting into your overstimulated cunt.

You whimpered, trying to shift away from him, instinctively pulling your hips forward to escape the relentless drag of his cock.

But Bucky didn’t let you. He grabbed both your wrists in one fluid movement and slammed them down into the mattress above your head—his metal arm locking them there effortlessly, unmovable, unbreakable.

You gasped, back arching as he pressed his weight into you from behind, his chest flush against your spine.

“You tryin’ to run, sweetheart?” he growled into your ear, cock still moving inside you, deep and steady. “After all that fucking begging? After you promised me you’d be good?”

You cried out—high and wrecked—your body flinching with every stroke, too sensitive, too full, but god, you let him.

Because it was Bucky. Because it was his cock splitting you open, keeping you full, keeping you grounded.

“That’s what I thought,” he rasped, snapping his hips forward hard enough to make your breath punch out of you.

He fucked into you freely now—his other hand gripping your waist tight, holding you in place as your arms stayed pinned helplessly above your head, your wrists burning under the cool pressure of vibranium.

Every thrust was overwhelming. Too much.

But you loved it.

Tears streaked down your face again, your thighs shaking with the force of it.

“You’re takin’ it,” he muttered, breath heavy. “Fuck, baby—you’re still clenching so tight for me.”

Your voice cracked on another sob, but you didn’t beg him to stop.

You didn’t want him to. Even when it was too much—you still wanted more.

You were falling apart. Absolutely wrecked.

Bucky’s cock dragged through your soaked, overstimulated cunt with punishing rhythm—deep and relentless, every thrust sending sparks through your spine, making your legs quake and your voice catch on raw sobs.

Tears streamed down your cheeks. You could barely breathe.

Your wrists were still pinned above your head, trapped beneath the cold grip of his metal arm. You had nowhere to go. No way to escape the brutal pace of him driving into you like he owned you.

Because he did.

“Fuck—Bucky—please—” you choked out, voice trembling. “I—I can’t—”

“Oh, but you can,” he growled against your ear, his voice low and thick with satisfaction. “You’re gonna come again for me. You want to, don’t you?”

Your walls fluttered, a helpless answer.

“I feel it,” he snarled. “You’re squeezing my cock like a fucking vice. This messy little pussy’s begging to come again.”

You sobbed again, your whole body twitching as you felt it building—again. Too much. Too soon.

But just as you were about to tip over the edge—

He stopped.

Just kept himself buried deep, holding you tight and not moving.

You let out a broken, desperate cry, struggling against his grip.

“You want it?” he rasped. “You wanna come again, baby?”

“Y-Yes! Please, Bucky, please—I need it, I need it—”

“Then thank me,” he growled, thrusting once—hard and deep enough to make your back arch.

“What—?”

“You fucking thank me,” he hissed. “Thank me for ruining you. Say it. Or I’ll pull out and leave you dripping and empty.”

And god—you were so far gone, so desperate, so needy, you didn’t even hesitate.

“Thank you—fuck—thank you, Bucky!” you sobbed, tears spilling freely now. “Thank you for ruining me—thank you, please—I wanna come—I wanna come so bad—”

“That’s my good girl,” he growled—and slammed into you again.

Once. Twice. Again.

And that was it.

You shattered around him, a broken scream tearing from your throat as your cunt clamped down hard, milking his cock in wave after wave of pulsing, messy bliss. Your body convulsed under him, completely overwhelmed, mind blank with nothing but pleasure and his name.

“Fucking ruined,” Bucky groaned, fucking you through it with brutal, merciless strokes. “That’s it, baby. Give it to me. Let me feel that pussy break for me.”

Your orgasm still had you trembling—your cunt clenching and fluttering around him, overstimulated and dripping, your cries raw and broken.

Bucky growled low behind you, his thrusts getting rougher, more erratic, his breath hot and heavy on your neck.

And then he snapped. He slammed in deep and stayed there, his body tensing against yours as a low, guttural moan tore from his throat.

“Fuck—fuck, baby—”

You felt it. The sudden, hot flood of him spilling inside you—thick ropes of cum pumping into your already ruined cunt, and there was so much, you could feel it start to leak around his cock almost instantly.

You whimpered, twitching beneath him, too sensitive, too full, too much.

But he didn’t pull out. He stayed buried in you, balls pressed flush against your swollen, aching pussy, his metal arm still pinning your wrists above your head.

And you cried. Silent, overwhelmed tears streaking your face as your body convulsed from the aftershocks—still trembling, still spread open, still his.

Bucky leaned in close, breath brushing your ear, voice low and wicked.

“Mmm… you feel that?” he whispered, rocking his hips once, slow and deep, just to press it in further. “Feel my cum inside you? Leaking out already… but you’re gonna hold it, sweetheart. You hear me?”

You whimpered, nodding weakly, and he chuckled darkly.

“That’s right. Keep me warm, baby. Keep it all right there—fuckin’ stuffed full like you were made for this.”

His free hand trailed down your side, fingers splaying over your lower belly, pressing just enough to make you feel it even more.

“You feel so tight around me still,” he murmured. “Still fucking pulsing. Like your pussy’s thanking me for ruining it.”

You let out a shaky sob, and he kissed your shoulder softly—sweet, almost gentle, a cruel contrast to the mess he left you in.

“My perfect little cum-drunk whore,” he breathed. “So good for me. So full. So fucking mine.”

You were shaking—mind blank, tears streaking down your cheeks, his cum still hot and thick inside you.

And Bucky… god, he still didn’t stop. He stayed deep, cock twitching inside you, and then he started moving again. Slow now. Deep. Unhurried.

Fucking his release into you like he was claiming you with every inch.

You sobbed softly, overstimulated and overwhelmed, your arms finally dropping when he let go of your wrists—but only for a moment.

His hand moved immediately to your jaw, firm and guiding, turning your tear-streaked face toward him.

“Look at me,” he whispered, and you did—barely. Dazed. Broken.

His mouth caught yours in a kiss—hot, slow, lingering. His tongue slid gently against yours as his cock kept moving inside you, dragging through your soaked walls with a rhythm that felt soothing, almost comforting.

And then he didn’t stop there. He kissed you again—just as slow—but this time it wasn’t just your mouth.

He pressed his lips to your cheeks, damp with tears. Gentle kisses, one after another, as if he could wipe them away with his mouth. As if he wasn’t the reason you were crying in the first place.

Your jaw. Your temple. The corner of your eye.

Each kiss was soft. Deliberate. Soothing.

His mouth found your ear, and he whispered, voice rough but steady:

“So good,” he placed a kiss to your neck. “Such a good fuckin’ girl,” then another to your jaw.

But you were still crying. Still wrecked. Still whimpering into his mouth.

“You took it so good for me, baby,” he murmured against your lips, fingers cradling your face now, gentler than before. “So fuckin’ messy, so desperate—my perfect little thing.”

You whimpered, clenching around him again.

“Such a good girl,” he rasped, voice thick with lust and something dangerously close to affection. “You made such a mess for me.”

His thrusts stayed deep, slow, dragging every last bit of overstimulation out of you, cock still thick and heavy inside your slick, swollen cunt.

And even through your tears, even through the way your body shook, you still pressed your cheek into his hand. Still gave him everything.

“That’s it,” he breathed. “Just let me fuck it into you. Nice and slow. You earned that, didn’t you?”

You could only nod—pathetic and ruined.

He kept fucking you—slow and deep, every thrust thick with his cum, every drag of his cock pulling a soft whimper from your swollen throat.

His hand cradled your jaw, lips brushing against your cheek where the tears still lingered, and his voice dropped low—raspy and certain.

“I’m not fucking pulling out of you tonight. I can assure you that.”

tag list: @iamthatonefangirl @buckytakethewheel @thatsbucknasty @buckybarneswife125

[binkybonkybucky]

i’ve never wanted to give someone road head as much as i want to do to bucky. like gOD the thought of him being so thick and warm has me actually salivating. i loved the way it was described when they “lunged” at each other because i could see it playing out in true sebastian fashion. i also loved that bucky chose to fuck up against a wall not once but twice, as if he needed the solidness of a wall to keep both of them steady because the bed is simply too soft. honestly, i admired how feral this all was.

kinky side quest

Pairing: Avenger!Bucky Barnes x Avenger!Fem!Reader

Summary: Valentina warned you both: no kinky side quests. You hadn’t planned on it—until her words lit the fuse. The mission went perfectly. The real side quest? Very much in progress.

Disclaimer: 18+ (mdni!), explicit smut content, blowjob in car, clothed grinding, denied fingering, face riding, cunnilingus (f receiving), fingering (f receiving), metal fingers use, vaginal sex, rough sex, bathroom sex, shower sex, wall sex, riding, multiple orgasms, creampie, breeding kink talk, dirty talk, begging, praise kink, soft dominance, aftercare, established relationship, post Thunderbolts settings

Word Count: 9k~ish

Note: This was something I've written in parts before I took the time for myself and vanished. Any mistakes would all be mine. Hope you'll enjoy whatever this was 💜

You were deployed to clear a simple task with Bucky, your boyfriend—though sometimes it still felt unbelievable that you’d scored him at all. Valentina had given you both that flat stare before you left the Watchtower briefing room, like she could see straight through you.

“No kinky side quests,” she’d said, pinning you both with her glare.

You and Bucky had both nodded like good little agents. Really, you hadn’t planned anything. It hadn’t even been on your mind… until she reminded you. Until she said it out loud, and your entire body remembered you were ovulating. Remembered you hadn’t fucked him in days. Remembered how hungry you’d been for him last night when you’d come to bed late and he’d just curled around you to sleep, murmuring he was too tired to start anything.

You’d promised yourself you’d wait. Get through the mission. Earn your prize. You’d ask for him to rail you stupid after you both got home safe. That had been the plan.

But Val’s warning had lodged itself in your skull like a dare.

You’d kept your head in the game right up until you were actually in the car. Just a normal sedan—sleek and fast but nondescript enough for local traffic. Bucky had insisted on driving, fingers loose on the wheel, eyes sweeping the road in practiced arcs. He was so good at this part, so focused it made you ache.

It should only be forty-five minutes to the drop point. Easy. But you were in the passenger seat fidgeting your fingers in your lap like a kid. Trying not to look at him too much. Trying not to think about his thighs in those dark tac pants.

Because while your mind was set on the assignment, your traitor of a heart had latched onto Val’s rule like it was a forbidden fruit. It wouldn’t stop playing the what-if game.

What if he let you?

What if he wanted it too?

Bucky cleared his throat at the wheel. His gaze didn’t even flick to you, but you knew him—he’d been watching you out of the corner of his eye for the last ten minutes.

“Baby,” he drawled, voice low and gentle. “What’s on your mind?”

You swallowed, eyes snapping to the side mirror instead of him.

“Mm. Nothing.” You shifted your hips in the seat, realizing too late you’d been leaning toward him like gravity had given up on pretending.

He huffed a faint, knowing sound, thumb tapping the wheel.

“Something wrong?” he pressed, voice rich with genuine concern. Not annoyed. Not suspicious. Just… worried about you.

You hesitated.

Your brain screamed don’t say it. Don’t ruin the mission. You’d promised yourself. You were going to wait until the op was over.

But you’d been so wound up. So deprived. So embarrassingly wet for him for days now that your mouth betrayed you.

You twisted in your seat to face him fully, fingers clenching in your lap. Your voice cracked with nerves.

“Can I… suck your cock before we get there?”

It dropped into the quiet like a grenade.

Bucky actually flinched. You saw it—a tiny twitch of his jaw tightening, a hard swallow.

For one harrowing second you thought you’d fucked everything up.

But then he let out a short laugh—just air, really, a puff of relief, as his shoulders eased.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmured, and this time he finally glanced at you properly, eyes soft, mouth curved in that tired but patient little grin he reserved for you alone. “That was what was bothering you?”

You squirmed in your seat, cheeks on fire. Couldn’t look at him for a second.

You nodded anyway. Shame was there, hot in your belly, but so was something else—so was the defiance of I want you.

Technically, you hadn’t arrived at the drop yet. This was just transit. Not the mission. Not really.

Bucky’s brow furrowed for a split second like he was actually considering the ethics of it. But then he huffed again, softer this time. Like he’d decided.

“C’mere,” he said.

He took his right hand off the wheel—his warm flesh hand—and reached across to your restless fingers, prying them gently apart. He squeezed your hand once, firmly. Grounding.

Then, without breaking eye contact, he guided your palm down.

Down to his lap.

Pressed it flush over the front of his pants.

You felt the heat there immediately. Even soft, he was thick. Heavy. But under your hand he shifted and you felt it twitch—just a little at first, then again, firmer. Filling.

You bit back a whimper, heat roaring through you.

He didn’t say anything for a moment. Just let you feel it. Let you watch the way his eyelids went half-mast as his cock stirred and hardened under your palm.

It was wordless permission.

But he still gave you the grace of saying it.

“My cock’s all yours, baby,” he said quietly. His voice was impossibly tender. “If that’s what you need, take it.”

That undid you.

Your hesitation shattered, replaced by raw, urgent want.

You fumbled at his fly, unzipping him with shaking fingers. He lifted his hips just enough—obedient, helpful, letting you work without rush—to free him from the confines of his tactical pants.

And there he was.

Big. Thick. Gloriously hardening in the dark of the night.

Ready for you.

—

You didn’t rush.

You made yourself pause. Forced yourself to just look at him.

Your breath caught when you took in the sight of his cock, freed from his tactical pants—thick, veined, standing proud and heavy. Even in the near-dark of the car, you could see it: the occasional slash of passing streetlights cast pale ribbons across his lap, glinting off the slick wetness gathered at the tip. It curved ever so slightly toward you, shameless in its want.

Your mouth actually watered.

God. It was big. So fucking big. It always struck you just how massive he was, the kind of size you could never forget once you’d taken him. Exposed like this, twitching for you, he looked almost vulnerable. Needy.

You wondered—not for the first time—if the serum had anything to do with it. If it had made every part of him harder, stronger, bigger. Or if he’d always been this blessed.

Either way, you were the luckiest woman on Earth.

You owned this cock. Like a queen. Like it was a gift he’d given you to worship and keep.

You flicked your eyes up.

Bucky kept his gaze on the road, hyper-aware of their route even now. But you saw the tension in his jaw, the way the streetlights striped over the hard line of his throat when he swallowed.

His shifted his flesh hand on your back.

He was holding you there, palm warm and firm between your shoulder blades, thumb stroking slow, calming circles over your spine like you were the one who needed reassuring. It made you shiver.

The car’s interior was shadowed and private except for those brief sweeps of city glow through the windshield. You felt hidden and exposed all at once.

“Easy, doll,” he rumbled, voice low and husky but so soft. “Take your time.”

You let out a breathless, shaky laugh, your lips hovering inches from his cock.

“Don’t tell me that unless you mean it,” you warned, your voice cracking with how badly you wanted him.

His hand squeezed your back, fingers flexing a little like he was fighting to stay gentle.

“I mean it,” he promised, voice firm but warm. “I want you to enjoy it.”

That ruined you.

You bent closer, deliberately slow, letting your lips ghost over the tip in the barest, most teasing kiss. The salty smear of his pre-cum met your tongue when you finally flicked it out to taste him.

Bucky sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth, grip tightening reflexively on your back.

“Fuck,” he whimpered.

That sound went straight to your core. You fucking lived for those rare cracks in his control.

You licked him again, circling the head, savoring the heat and weight of him, feeling the slight tremor that ran through his thighs. He pulsed in your hold, swelling even harder.

His hand pressed you just a little closer, not forcing but anchoring you to him. His thumb traced slow circles over your spine, soothing in direct contrast to the filthy act you were committing in the front seat of a moving car.

“Good girl,” he murmured so low you barely heard it over the hum of the tires on asphalt.

It burned through you like fire.

You moaned softly against the head of his cock, the vibration making him twitch, before finally opening your mouth wide and taking him in.

He was so fucking thick your lips stretched around him, your jaw ached immediately in that delicious, obscene way you craved.

Bucky let out a strangled groan above you, deep and broken, his fingers digging lightly into your back.

You bobbed your head slowly at first, letting him feel the searing heat of your mouth, your tongue pressing flat along the underside of his shaft as you sucked him in. The wet, sloppy sounds filled the darkened car, mixing with the low, even roar of the engine.

His hips shifted once, restrained—like every part of him screamed to fuck up into your mouth but he wouldn’t let himself.

“Jesus, baby,” he rasped, voice rough as gravel. “Just like that. So fucking perfect.”

You moaned around him, eyes fluttering shut at the praise, your own hips squirming in the seat as slick gathered hot and heavy in your panties.

You let your right hand slide down, wrapping tight around the thick base of his cock, your fingers barely meeting. You stroked him in perfect rhythm with your mouth while your left hand pressed hard into the muscle of his thigh, feeling it tense under your touch.

He was so hot. So alive. So yours.

You needed air. You pulled back with a wet pop, strings of spit stretching between your swollen lips and his glistening cock.

You let your tongue swirl around the tip, gathering more of his salty pre-cum and spreading it with relish.

“God,” you groaned, voice breaking on a whimper. You leaned in to press wet, open-mouthed kisses along his shaft between words. “I missed your thick, fat cock… too fucking much.”

Bucky’s chest rose in a ragged inhale. You saw the way his nostrils flared, eyes tight as he forced himself to keep them on the road.

“Fuck,” he muttered, voice cracking. “You’re gonna kill me, doll.”

You moaned at that, licking deliberately slow down his length, tracing every pulsing vein, every ridge, until your mouth reached the base. Your breath was hot and greedy, your mouth glistening as you finally pulled back just enough to see his ruined expression reflected in the side mirror.

“My cock,” you sighed, nearly sobbing with want, before swallowing him whole again in one greedy slide.

Bucky groaned. A low, wrecked sound.

You worked him harder now, your head bobbing faster and wetter, your tongue pressing and flicking under the crown with every stroke. Your hand twisted at the base in perfect rhythm, squeezing tight, milking him.

You felt it when he lost the battle for control. The way his hand on your back shook before squeezing you tighter, pressing you close in silent desperation.

“Baby, fuck,” he gasped, voice going hoarse with strain. “That feels so good. So fucking good.”

You popped off just long enough to pant out a feral little laugh, lips slick and spit-drenched.

“I know,” you breathed, eyes glittering as you licked him from base to tip again, before plunging your mouth back down.

Your pace turned relentless.

Wet, obscene slurps filled the car, the only soundtrack to your sin. His ragged breathing cracked and broke, mixing with the constant rumble of the road beneath you. Your own cunt clenched around nothing, neglected, soaked through, but you didn’t care. You’d make him fall apart for you.

You felt him start to pulse, harder, thicker on your tongue.

His voice hitched, went ragged.

“I’m gonna fuck you so hard once we’re back,” he groaned, the threat edged with promise, with desperate need.

You moaned around him, the vibration making him jerk in your mouth.

Your hand at the base squeezed tighter, stroking faster, matching your mouth’s relentless pace.

“Let go for me, baby,” you slurred around his cock, words muffled but clear. You pulled back just enough to meet his blown pupils in the mirror, your lips swollen and wet, your breath coming hard.

“Come for me, Bucky.”

And then you swallowed him whole again, eager and hungry, determined to take everything he gave you.

—

You felt it the moment he lost the last scrap of control.

Bucky shuddered hard, the tremor rolling through his thighs, his hand clenching against your back in a bruising grip as he choked out a guttural moan.

You didn’t slow. Didn’t stop.

His cock twitched once—twice—and then he was coming in your mouth, thick and hot, salty and utterly his.

You swallowed automatically, greedy, taking as much as you could. But there was so much of him, and you’d pushed yourself so deep that some of it leaked from the corners of your mouth, sliding down to your hand still pumping him at the base.

He cursed—low, strangled, wrecked.

“Fuuuck—baby—”

You finally let yourself pull back, gasping a breath as you tried to swallow the last of it, licking your lips shamelessly. You felt it smear on your chin and thumbed at it, giggling a little breathlessly despite how hard your own cunt clenched at the taste.

God. He always tasted good to you. Like an appetizer crafted just for you.

Your eyes flicked up to his face, taking in the sight of your normally stoic, disciplined supersoldier boyfriend looking… ruined.

His cheeks were flushed, eyes half-lidded and glassy from release. A faint sheen of sweat caught the occasional streetlight slashing through the windshield. But to your infinite jealousy, he wasn’t panting or out of breath. His chest rose and fell evenly. Enhanced stamina, you thought with a petty, hungry little growl in your head.

He was already recovering.

You wiped at your mouth with the back of your hand, only smearing a little more of his cum over your thumb before popping it into your mouth, sucking it clean deliberately, knowing he was watching.

Bucky’s jaw flexed hard.

“Fuck, baby,” he finally managed, voice raw and ragged. “That was so good. But…”

He swallowed, voice going lower, darker, more dangerous.

“I need more.”

Your heart skittered at that tone.

You let out a breathless laugh, reaching over him for the small pack of tissues you kept in the door pocket. You flicked one free and carefully wiped the remaining mess off his flushed cock, cleaning him up with an absurdly tender touch. He lifted his hips obediently, giving you access, hissing as the tissue dragged over oversensitized skin.

“Easy,” he breathed.

“Don’t ‘easy’ me,” you teased, voice husky. “You came so much I almost choked.”

That earned a strained chuckle from him, one that ended in a low groan as you tucked him back into his tac pants, carefully zipping him up.

You tossed the used tissue aside and smirked, settling back into your seat, your eyes bright and wicked in the glow of the passing streetlights.

“I know you need more,” you purred. “So let’s get this shit done ASAP.”

You leaned in closer, until your mouth brushed the shell of his ear. Your voice dropped to a filthy whisper, warm and mean and so needy you almost trembled saying it.

“Then you can fuck my wet cunt so hard you break me apart.”

He let out a noise halfway between a laugh and a growl, teeth bared in a grin that was feral and fond all at once.

“Oh, sweetheart.”

He didn’t even hesitate.

His right hand—his warm, calloused flesh hand—slid right back to you. You grabbed it, guiding it ruthlessly between your legs, pressing it tight over the seam of your tactical suit.

He could feel the heat. The damp. Even through the heavy-duty fabric, there was no hiding it.

Bucky sucked in a breath, thumb twitching experimentally over you.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, voice cracking with lust. His eyes flicked to you briefly before darting back to the road, like he couldn’t afford the distraction.

But you didn’t miss the way his pupils blew wide.

“See what you do to me?” you teased, grinding just once against his palm before pulling back, breath shaking.

His fingers curled reflexively, wanting to follow, to press harder.

“Oh, I feel it,” he rasped. His tone was low, dark, but the smile tugging at his lips was all Bucky. Soft. Devoted. “I’m going to fuck you relentlessly.”

You shivered at the promise.

He punctuated it with a single, deliberate kiss to your left cheek—a press of warm, slightly chapped lips that felt less like affection and more like sealing a contract.

You felt your heart kick against your ribs, your whole body thrumming with anticipation.

Sex for hours. That was the deal now.

And you’d be damned if you didn’t earn it.

You settled back in your seat, trying to calm your breathing, a determined glint in your eyes.

Your brain was already plotting the mission, calculating shortcuts, prioritizing targets.

For the good of the assignment.

And for the goddamn sex, you thought, biting back a delirious grin.

—

You and Bucky handled the assignment a little too quickly, if you were being honest.

Like the perfect, ruthless duo Valentina trained you to be.

Intels extracted. Servers wiped. Physical evidence torched. The drop point reduced to smoking debris in the darkness after Bucky triggered the silent detonator, both of you already on the move before the muted whump even finished echoing.

No one saw a thing. No cameras left to prove you’d even been there.

You tapped the comm in your ear, eyes scanning the dark street as you headed back to the car.

“Mission complete. Back to HQ,” you reported, voice low and steady.

Valentina’s cool voice crackled back a moment later.

“Copy. Don’t make me regret pairing you two alone.”

You smirked as you shut the comm off with another tap, cutting the line.

Beside you, Bucky did the same, pulling out his own in-ear and tucking it in his pocket. You saw the way his mouth quirked despite himself, even as he scanned the perimeter one last time.

Professional to the end.

But when you finally got back in the car, the doors shutting with dull thuds in the night, it was like all that icy discipline melted in an instant.

You tugged your tactical gloves off and dropped them on the dash with a clatter. The car reeked faintly of gun oil, burnt electronics… and sex.

You didn’t even try to be subtle about inhaling.

You glanced at Bucky as he started the engine, headlights cutting through the dark. Streetlights flicked past in rhythmic sweeps, carving his face into alternating slices of shadow and gold.

His lips were still a little swollen. You felt your own throb in sympathy.

He caught you staring. Didn’t say a word. Just smirked—slow, knowing.

That smirk widened when he reached across the center console and took your left hand in his, squeezing your fingers.

But he didn’t keep it there.

Instead, he let go and dragged his big, calloused palm right to your lap, pressing between your thighs.

You whimpered.

His fingers grazed the seam of your tac pants, right over your cunt, even through the thick material sending a sharp jolt of heat straight up your spine.

You gasped, pressing back against the seat, hand grabbing his wrist to either stop him or guide him—you couldn’t tell which.

“Still damp,” he said, voice low, cracked with hunger.

You swallowed hard.

“From sweat,” you tried to lie, your tone cracking in embarrassment, knowing full well he could practically smell you.

He huffed out a disbelieving laugh, deep and rough.

“Nah,” he said, voice going even lower, his grin turning feral as streetlights washed his face in amber. “Smelled too fucking sweet for sweat.”

You shuddered at that, your thighs instinctively pressing together around his hand.

Bucky’s fingers moved. He pressed more firmly, dragging slow, heavy lines along the seam of your tac pants, forcing a muffled moan from you.

You squirmed in your seat. The thick, tight fabric was torture. Too much and not enough.

You let out a frustrated sound and reached for the fly of your pants with shaking fingers, unzipping them with a harsh zzzzp.

Bucky’s eyes cut to you once, quickly, heat banked in his stare, before flicking back to the road.

“Good girl,” he murmured, voice almost lost under the hum of tires on asphalt.

You wiggled your hips in the seat, shoving the tac pants down just enough to free your cunt—still covered by the thinnest pair of dark stretch shorts you wore underneath.

They were drenched.

The proof was in the way the fabric clung wetly to you, your slick staining it in a dark patch that even the dim streetlights couldn’t hide.

Bucky let out a harsh breath at the sight, his hand immediately dropping to press right against it.

He grunted, fingers flexing hard.

“Jesus,” he rasped. “So fucking wet for me?”

Your moan was half-words, half-desperation.

“Always,” you managed, your voice wrecked.

You didn’t even try to be coy. Your own fingers closed around his wrist, dragging his hand tighter to you. You ground shamelessly against his palm, feeling the heat of him even through the thin damp shorts.

You hissed at the friction, head falling back against the seat, eyes fluttering closed.

He didn’t move away. Didn’t tease. He let you use him, fingers pressing in harder, tracing the soaked line of your folds through the fabric with slow, deliberate pressure.

“Look at you,” he murmured, voice going even rougher, ruined with affection and lust all at once. “So needy you’re fucking yourself on my hand in the front seat.”

You let out a strangled sound that might have been his name.

His thumb found your clit through the damp cloth and pressed just firmly enough to make your hips jerk.

You bit your lip to stifle the whine that threatened to escape.

He chuckled darkly, that sound so deep it rattled you.

“Better hope no one’s watching,” he teased, glancing at you sidelong, eyes glittering with heat and mischief as the streetlights cut over his features.

Your breath hitched, heart hammering.

You smirked through the haze of lust, voice shaking but defiant.

“Drive faster, Sarge,” you managed. “Or I’ll make myself come before you even get me home.”

Bucky’s grin turned savage at that.

“Oh sweetheart,” he crooned, voice so low it felt like velvet dragging over your skin. He pressed even harder, thumb circling your clit, slow and merciless. “You’re not coming without me. That’s a promise.”

Your answering moan was wanton and helpless, your fingers still gripping his wrist as you rutted against his hand.

And Bucky just smiled, turning back to the road, driving into the night with one hand on the wheel—while the other stayed buried between your legs, making sure you remembered exactly who you belonged to.

—

Bucky didn’t finger you.

No matter how badly you whined. No matter how your voice cracked, wrecked and breathless, your hips rolling up shamelessly into his touch.

He just kept his fingers right there over your soaked shorts, teasing the seam of your folds through the wet fabric but never pushing inside.

“Please, baby,” you panted, your voice a broken plea. You grabbed his wrist tighter, forcing his fingers to press harder until you felt them sink into the dip of your folds—even through the thin, soaked barrier of your shorts. Your clit throbbed at the friction. “Fuck—please, finger me.”

He huffed out a breath that was half a laugh, half a strained groan.

“No,” he said, voice so low it felt like it vibrated straight through you.

You let out a desperate little whine.

He glanced at you sidelong, jaw tight, eyes flashing as another passing streetlight cut across his face.

“Not here,” he growled. The words were soft, but they snapped like a command. “I’m not giving you that in the damn car.”

Your nails bit into his wrist.

“Bucky—”

He exhaled sharply, his hand flexing against you just once before he dragged his palm away.

“I said no,” he repeated, this time softer, more patient, the dominant control edged with fondness. “I’m gonna fuck you so hard once we’re home. That’s it. That’s the deal.”

You grunted in frustration, biting back a curse as your hips bucked one last time. You could feel the slick mess you’d made in your shorts, heat and wetness smearing against his palm before he pulled away completely.

You shivered, angry at the loss.

But you didn’t want to risk making him change his mind.

With a ragged groan, you finally reached down, yanking your tactical pants back up. You wriggled your hips in the seat to get them over your ass, cursing quietly as the wet fabric clung to your folds in the worst way. You fumbled with the zipper, finally sealing yourself back up—like it made any difference now.

Your pussy ached.

Bucky didn’t help, either. He just gave you this smug little sideways look, his lips curling at the edges in a knowing grin.

But his eyes were dark.

Hungry.

You swallowed and shifted again in your seat, trying to get comfortable even as you stayed pressed close enough to grip his hand. You clung to it, even after zipping up. Even after you’d shoved down the raw want just enough to stop begging.

He squeezed your fingers.

Hard.

Reassuring. Possessive.

The rest of the drive back to the Watchtower was torture.

Because you didn’t stop.

Neither of you did.

You whispered every filthy promise you could think of, voice ragged with need. You told him exactly what you wanted—what you needed from him the moment you got through that door.

How you wanted him to shove you against the wall.

How you wanted his cock so deep you could barely breathe.

How you needed to taste yourself on him as he fucked your mouth raw.

How you’d been thinking about him all week, even on missions, touching yourself in the shower and whining his name.

Bucky listened. He didn’t shut you up.

He just smiled.

That little wolfish grin breaking out whenever your words got especially dirty. His jaw flexed tight when you moaned out your filthiest demands.

And all he did was grunt, voice rough, promising you over and over:

“Yeah?”

“You want all that?”

“You’re gonna get everything, sweetheart.”

He leaned heavy on everything, each time making your stomach swoop, your pussy clench.

“Everything you want. Once we’re home.”

You could barely sit still. The seatbelt felt like a restraint you wanted to tear off.

Your fingers stayed knotted together, his thumb dragging slow circles over your knuckles, deceptively gentle.

—

By the time you pulled into the Watchtower’s garage, you were shaking.

Bucky parked in the same precise, methodical way he did everything, even though you could see the tension in his arms, the white-knuckled grip on the wheel.

When you finally stepped out, your legs felt like jelly.

But you forced yourself to walk normally beside him through the darkened hallways, past the security doors.

The elevator ride up was somehow worse.

Your body screamed to press against him. To climb into his lap and grind down until you soaked his pants.

You wanted to maul him. Bite his bottom lip. Kiss him sloppy and breathless.

But you didn’t.

You couldn’t.

Valentina had cameras in all the common areas.

You felt her ghost in the walls even now. Watching. Judging.

So you stood there beside Bucky, trying to look normal. Professional.

Except your thighs kept pressing together in helpless, instinctive pulses. Your breath was too fast. Your face too hot.

Bucky noticed. Of course he did.

He let out a single, low chuckle that rumbled in his chest.

He gripped your hand tighter, fingers interlacing with yours so firmly you couldn’t pull away.

“Behave,” he murmured, voice so soft no one else could hear.

You shivered.

But you didn’t dare meet his eyes.

If you did, you’d lose it.

You didn’t know he was struggling too.

That behind that cool, battle-hardened expression, he was undone.

That all he wanted was to drag you back into that car, crawl over the center console, and fuck you right there until you couldn’t walk.

But he didn’t.

Because you both knew the rules.

For now.

But the moment that elevator door opened?

All bets were off.

—

As soon as the door banged shut behind you, Bucky didn’t waste a second.

He spun you around and pinned you hard against the door, his metal arm braced beside your head to cage you in. His right hand flicked the light switch on in one smooth motion, flooding the room with warm brightness before it immediately dropped to curl tight around your waist, holding you in place.

You didn’t even have a second to register the room before his mouth crashed into yours.

It was sloppy, messy, starved—all teeth and tongue and wet, hungry sounds. Your lips smashed together so hard it hurt, but you moaned anyway, clawing at the thick fabric of his jacket to pull him even closer.

He sucked your bottom lip into his mouth and bit it, just hard enough to make you gasp.

But then—just when you thought you’d drown in the filth of it—he gentled.

His lips softened against yours, his tongue slowing, licking lazily into your mouth like he was savoring you. Like he couldn’t get enough.

Your whole body trembled.

You felt his crotch grow against you—no other word for it. His cock hardened rapidly in his pants, thick and pressing into your stomach through both your suits. You couldn’t help it—you rolled your hips against him, needing anything, groaning at the friction even though the layers between you made it frustratingly dull.

“Fuck,” you panted, breaking the kiss for air, your head thudding back against the door.

Bucky pulled back just enough to look at you.

His pupils were blown wide, nearly eclipsing those blue eyes. His mouth was wet and red from your kisses, stubble scratching deliciously along your jaw.

He licked his lips once.

“You asked for this, baby,” he growled, voice low, gravelly, dangerous but so fucking tender underneath. His lips curled into a knowing, vicious little smile. “No backing out. I’m gonna fuck you so hard you forget your own name.”

Your breath hitched.

“Please,” you whispered, completely wrecked already.

That did it.

He grabbed you under your thighs and lifted you like you weighed nothing.

You immediately hooked your legs around his waist, ankles locking behind him, grinding your soaked pussy shamelessly against the hard ridge in his pants. He groaned, fingers digging into the meat of your ass to hold you up as he turned and carried you toward the bathroom.

You didn’t stop kissing.

You attacked his mouth over and over, teeth clacking, tongues tangling, panting breath filling the narrow hallway. Every time you rolled your hips into him, you felt him jerk slightly, his cock pressing harder into you.

“Fuck—so needy,” he growled, breathless this time.

“Yours,” you gasped. “I’m yours, Bucky. Always.”

That made him snarl low in his throat, and he crushed you harder to his chest as he kicked open the bathroom door.

He set you down only long enough to rip at your clothes.

Your fingers were shaking so hard you fumbled the zipper on your tactical suit. Bucky didn’t wait. He grabbed it, yanking it down so fast the teeth nearly split.

“Off,” he ordered, voice so low you felt it in your cunt.

You obeyed, peeling it away, your soaked shorts practically peeling off your sticky folds with a wet noise that made you whimper in embarrassment. The cold bathroom air hit your soaked pussy and you hissed, thighs instinctively pressing together.

But Bucky was already shrugging out of his jacket, tossing it aside. You helped him with the rest, fingers frantic as you unbuckled his belt, shoved his pants down.

His cock sprang free, fat and flushed and so fucking hard it slapped against his lower belly. You both paused for half a heartbeat just to look.

It twitched.

You moaned, biting your lip, fingers already reaching for it before he caught your wrists.

“Shower,” he ordered.

You whimpered.

He didn’t let you protest.

He hoisted you up again, your legs wrapping automatically around him, and reached behind you to flick the shower on.

Warm water blasted from above immediately, steaming the room. It hit your back first, making you gasp, then sluiced over Bucky’s broad shoulders and the hard planes of his chest. His hair slicked back against his head, water streaming down his stubbled jaw.

He pressed you against the tile, shifting you slightly higher on the wall, your slick folds lining up perfectly with his length.

You couldn’t help it—you shifted your hips, dragging your soaked, desperate pussy along his thick shaft, smearing your slick all over him even as the shower rained down.

You both moaned, loud, unfiltered.

“Fuck—baby—” he panted, voice going wrecked.

You felt him adjust, one hand bracing you under your ass, the other reaching between you to grip his cock, lining it up.

You barely had time to suck in a breath.

He shoved in.

You screamed.

Your head thunked back against the tile, eyes rolling as his fat cock split you open, inch after inch pressing impossibly deep until he bottomed out.

“Fuuuuck,” you sobbed, nails raking his shoulders.

“Yeah?” he growled, breath ragged against your ear. “That what you wanted?”

“Y-Yes—fuck—Bucky—”

He pulled back and slammed in again, the wet, filthy slap of your bodies colliding echoing off the tile walls.

He fucked you relentlessly.

He set a brutal pace, hips snapping forward with hard, wet slaps, your breasts bouncing wildly between you. Water splashed off both your bodies, steam billowing around you.

Your nipples grazed his chest, slick and swollen. Once, they smacked against his face as you jolted in his hold, and he groaned—open-mouthed and hungry—before burying his face between them.

He sucked a nipple into his mouth hard enough to make you wail, his teeth scraping, his tongue swirling messily.

Your moans turned into raw, broken sobs of his name.

“Bucky—Bucky please—fuck—so deep—”

He snarled, mouth muffled against your tits.

“Mine,” he growled, words wet, hot breath burning your skin. “All fucking mine.”

Your cunt spasmed around him, milking him as you clenched so hard you almost forced him out.

He held you pinned to the wall with sheer strength, thrusting deeper, harder, until your vision went white.

You screamed for him, voice cracking, nails digging so hard you drew blood from his shoulders.

He let out a strangled groan against your chest, his thrusts turning erratic.

Then he froze.

Burying himself as deep as he could, cock pulsing hard as he came inside you, heat flooding your core.

You felt every twitch, every thick spurt filling you, even as the shower water washed over you both.

You moaned for it. Wanted it. Loved it.

You clung to him, legs still locked tight, until you both finally sagged.

He held you there, breathing hard against your collarbone, his cock still buried inside you, softening slowly as your walls milked out every last drop.

When your legs finally gave out completely, he eased you down gently, arms wrapped around you to keep you steady.

You both wobbled under the spray.

He tucked a wet strand of hair behind your ear with shaking fingers, pressing his forehead to yours.

“You okay?” he rasped.

You nodded weakly, still shivering with aftershocks.

“Fuck—yeah,” you whispered. “More than okay.”

He smiled. Soft. Gentle.

“Good.”

He helped you finish showering after that, washing you carefully, checking you for any bruises he’d left. You washed him too, fingers tender as they traced over the strong lines of his chest, the scars you both knew by heart.

Finally you both stepped out, skin pink and steaming, drying off just enough to wrap yourselves in thick, fluffy bathrobes.

You were both still flushed, still breathing too hard, still so far from finished.

But that was for the bedroom.

And as he toweled off his hair, watching you with those blown, heated eyes, you both knew you were about to ruin the bed next.

—

You didn’t bother pretending anymore.

He dropped the towel, letting it fall to the floor in a heavy, wet heap. Bucky’s gaze tracked every inch of you, unapologetic, hungry.

Your bathrobe followed with a flick of your wrist, sliding off your shoulders like it offended you. His fell away too, careless, pooling at his feet.

And you both lunged at each other.

Mouths smashed together in another sloppy, wet kiss—needy, uncoordinated, breathless. His hands roamed your body without hesitation, palms hot, fingers digging in to leave bruises.

Your own hands scraped through his damp hair, tugging him closer until your teeth clicked.

He growled low against your mouth, nipping at your lip before sucking it into his own, tongue tracing the sting he left behind.

Your bare, slick bodies pressed together, chest to chest, skin sliding wetly. His cock, still soft from the aftershower, twitched between you, thickening almost instantly from the friction of your bellies rubbing together.

You moaned at the sensation of it hardening right there, growing against your stomach, the heat of him unmistakable.

You fumbled backwards, lips parting just enough to pant for breath before you fell back onto the bed with a bounce.

You lay there, hair splayed on the sheets, chest heaving, legs instinctively parting wide in invitation.

Your eyes locked on him.

He stopped, looming at the foot of the bed, gaze dropping to your glistening cunt.

His pupils were blown wide, nostrils flaring as he sucked in a deep breath.

“Fuck, doll…” he rasped.

His right hand, flesh and warm, wrapped around his own cock. He stroked it slowly, deliberately. The head already leaking, pre-cum beading before smearing over his thumb.

You watched, moaning at the sight, your own walls clenching in empty need.

“Bucky,” you whimpered.

That got his attention.

He climbed onto the bed, bracing himself over you, his cock dragging against your belly as he lowered his mouth to yours again.

You kissed hungrily, teeth clacking, breath mingling.

Your hand snaked between you, fingers wrapping around his slick length, feeling the heat, the pulse. You stroked him slowly, thumb smearing the wetness over the head.

He groaned into your mouth, hips twitching.

“Fuck—baby—”

You broke the kiss with a gasp.

“Please… finger me,” you begged, voice cracking with desperation. “I need it so bad.”

He stilled for just a second, eyes searching yours, face tightening with lust and affection all at once.

“Yeah,” he breathed. “I got you.”

He shifted, bracing himself better. He knelt between your parted thighs, feet anchored into the mattress for leverage. His flesh hand cupped your breast, thumb brushing over the taut peak while he supported himself on his elbow.

The metal hand slid down your belly, cool and hard and precise, making your muscles twitch.

You whimpered, hips rolling up to meet him.

He paused, watching you squirm.

“Spread,” he ordered softly.

You obeyed instantly, thighs falling wider apart.

He hummed his approval and pressed one cold vibranium finger to your slick folds, sliding it through the mess you’d already made.

You moaned, head falling back, eyes rolling.

He traced your entrance before pressing in slowly, one thick finger stretching you open, the temperature contrast making you gasp.

You clenched around it reflexively.

“That’s it,” he crooned. “Open up for me.”

You keened as he started pumping slowly, his metal thumb rubbing teasing circles around your clit.

“More,” you whimpered. “Please, more.”

He rewarded you immediately, sliding in another finger.

You cried out, walls fluttering around the intrusion, slick dripping onto his hand.

Bucky bit his lip watching you, the cords of his neck standing out with restraint.

“You look so fucking good like this,” he muttered.

You could barely answer, only managing a desperate moan.

He kept going, pumping those two thick metal fingers in and out, dragging them along your walls, feeling you squeeze down on him. His flesh hand squeezed your breast firmly, thumb and forefinger pinching your nipple hard enough to make you jerk.

“Bucky—fuck!”

“Such a good girl,” he praised, voice cracked with hunger. “Taking my fingers so well.”

You could hear the wet, obscene sounds of your cunt being fucked on his fingers.

You grabbed at his ass, nails digging in, pulling him closer.

He chuckled, low and mean.

“You want more?”

“Please,” you sobbed.

He rewarded you with a third finger.

You wailed, back arching off the bed as he stretched you wide.

“Fuck, fuck—baby—it’s so full—”

He curled his fingers deliberately, finding that spot inside you that made your vision shatter.

Your body locked up, breath stuttering.

He didn’t let up.

He kept thrusting, harder, faster, the cold metal unrelenting.

Your moans turned to screams, nails dragging red lines down his ass.

He dropped his head and took your other nipple into his mouth, sucking hard, teeth grazing before soothing it with his tongue.

Your entire body convulsed, muscles seizing as pleasure detonated.

He felt it, the way you clenched and spasmed around his fingers, and curled them even harder.

“Come on, baby,” he growled against your breast. “Come for me.”

You did.

You came so hard you saw stars, your pussy squirting wetly around his fingers, slick splashing onto the sheets in messy, humiliating waves.

He kept working you through it, thumb circling your clit, mouth latched onto your breast like he couldn’t get enough.

Your cries broke into choked sobs of his name.

“Bucky—baby—please—”

He finally slowed his thrusts, your cunt still spasming weakly around his fingers, making obscene wet sounds that filled the room.

You felt your walls clench one last time before going slack.

He drew his metal fingers out of you deliberately, slowly, letting you feel every ridge and bump as they dragged from your soaked, oversensitive entrance.

They left with a wet, filthy squelch that made your face burn with embarrassment. Strings of slick clung between his fingers and your pussy, stretching and breaking, leaving messy strands smeared across your inner thighs.

You shuddered helplessly.

Bucky's eyes never left yours.

He lifted his metal hand, studying the mess you’d made of him with hungry, approving eyes. Then he brought those slick-coated fingers to his mouth.

He licked them clean slowly, tongue dragging over the metal with practiced precision, making sure you saw every movement.

You whimpered at the sight, body twitching weakly on the sheets.

He smiled around his fingers, pulling them free with a soft pop.

“Still with me, sweetheart?” he rasped, voice thick and ruined with pride and lust.

You swallowed hard, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes from how overwhelming it all felt.

You nodded shakily.

“Yeah,” you breathed out, voice cracking.

That earned you a low, satisfied rumble from his chest.

He shifted his weight on the bed, knees sinking deeper into the mattress between your spread thighs as he leaned over you. His warm, flesh hand braced beside your head, metal arm planting firmly next to your hip to cage you in.

Then he bent down and kissed you.

It was slow. Tender. A total contrast to how he’d just wrecked you.

His lips moved gently over yours, patient and grounding, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.

You whimpered again, your hands fluttering up weakly to clutch at his damp hair, nails scraping lightly along his scalp.

He hummed against your mouth, nuzzling you with the tip of his nose, pressing sweet little kisses to your lips, your cheeks, your jaw.

But even as he comforted you, you felt it.

His cock.

Hard as granite. Pressed hot and heavy against your thigh. Twitching every time you squirmed, smearing his pre-cum onto your skin.

He wasn’t even pretending to hide it.

And you both knew—

He wasn’t even close to done with you yet.

—

You were still shaking.

Your whole body felt boneless, oversensitive. But the ache between your thighs wouldn’t quit. Even as the aftershocks made your cunt twitch and flutter, you felt yourself need again.

Bucky noticed immediately.

His thumb brushed your lip, swollen from his kisses, and you sucked it automatically.

Your hips squirmed, legs twitching open.

He watched your expression melt into need.

“Oh, you’re not done,” he rumbled softly, smiling darkly.

Your answer was a half-sobbed whine.

“I need more.”

He chuckled, deep and knowing.

“I’ll wreck you, baby.”

You let out a broken laugh, grabbing at his shoulders for leverage.

With all the strength you had left, you shifted, shoving him back against the bed. He let you, grinning, his big frame relaxing against the pillows with his arms spread wide in invitation.

You climbed over him on trembling thighs, straddling his chest for a moment. He grabbed your hips immediately, fingers digging in to hold you steady.

You kept going, shifting your weight until your dripping pussy hovered directly over his face.

He groaned the second you lined yourself up.

“Fuck,” he whispered, eyes blown wide as he stared up at your glistening folds. “Look at you.”

You didn’t wait. You sank down onto his mouth.

Bucky growled so deeply it vibrated right through your cunt.

You gasped, hands flying to the headboard for support as he immediately got to work.

His tongue was expert, sliding through your folds, flicking your swollen clit with practiced precision. The hot, wet strokes made your thighs clamp around his head.

He loved that, humming deep in his chest so the vibration traveled straight into you.

He slurped noisily, unbothered by the mess, his mouth smearing your slick everywhere. He devoured you like a man starved, dragging his tongue through the spill from your last orgasm, licking you clean only to make you messier.

You moaned, half-choked, rolling your hips desperately over his face.

“Baby—fuck—Bucky—”

He pulled you down harder, metal hand bracing one thigh while his flesh hand gripped the other, keeping you wide open for him.

Then he changed tactics—his tongue pushed inside you.

You nearly screamed.

He tongue-fucked you hard, messy, deep, alternating with dragging licks up to your clit before plunging back inside. Your hands scrabbled at the headboard, trying to get away and get closer all at once.

He didn’t let you move.

He moaned into your pussy, filthy and approving, eyes fluttering shut as if savoring you.

“Fuck—please—I’m gonna—Bucky—”

You couldn’t finish.

You broke apart on his tongue, cumming with a raw wail, grinding desperately against his mouth as your juices spilled.

He didn’t stop.

He licked you through it, swallowing everything you gave him, the obscene wet sounds echoing in the room until you were practically sobbing above him.

When you finally slumped forward, twitching and wrecked, he only gave you a second.

His arms tightened, lifting you like you weighed nothing.

You whimpered as he dragged you lower, lining you up with his cock, so hard it slapped wetly against your thigh.

He didn’t tease.

He shoved in.

You both moaned—his a guttural, broken sound, yours a strangled cry.

You barely had time to adjust before he was fucking up into you from below.

Your body jolted with every savage thrust. You tried to ride, but your thighs trembled uselessly.

Bucky noticed, smiling through gritted teeth.

“Too fucked out to move, baby?”

You mewled, half-sobbing.

He slowed, stopped.

But only to shift.

He sat up, his hands bracing under your ass, lifting you until only the tip remained inside.

“Hold on,” he ordered.

You barely had time to obey before he slammed you back down onto his cock.

You screamed, walls clenching violently around him.

He lifted you again, set the pace himself. Up. Down. Faster. Harder. Using his strength to fuck you on his cock.

Your breasts bounced, slapping his chest and face. He buried his face between them, biting and sucking, leaving raw marks that made you keen.

“Mine,” he growled, voice muffled. “All fucking mine.”

You nodded frantically, tears leaking from the corners of your eyes.

“Yes—Bucky—yours—fuck—”

He panted, hips slamming up to meet you, cock driving so deep you swore you could feel it in your throat.

Your own movements grew sloppy. You tried to ride him back, changing the rhythm—slamming down, grinding in circles that made you both curse, then bouncing again.

Your cunt squelched wetly, obscene, soaking his cock and thighs.

You felt him twitch inside you, cock pulsing.

He stopped again only to reposition.

He lifted you, arms flexing hard, standing up from the bed in one smooth motion.

You clung to him, arms around his neck, legs around his waist.

He walked you to the nearest wall and slammed you against it.

You gasped, head falling back.

“Bucky—please—”

He didn’t answer with words.

He fucked up into you, pinning you to the wall with raw, bruising thrusts.

Your back scraped the wall lightly with every slam. His cock pistoned in and out with wet slaps that filled the room.

You were crying out openly now, voice wrecked.

“Bucky—Jesus fuck—please—fuck—so deep—”

“Yeah?” he growled, teeth bared in a savage grin. “That’s what you want? You want me to breed you? Fill you up?”

You sobbed.

“Yes—please—fill me—want it—want you to come in me—”

That broke him.

He rammed in hard, deep, so deep you saw stars.

Your orgasm ripped through you violently, making you scream his name over and over.

He groaned, voice cracking as he spilled inside you, cock jerking, flooding you with thick, hot spurts of cum.

He held you pinned there, buried to the hilt, making sure you took every last drop.

You shook in his arms, twitching, boneless.

He stayed like that, breathing hard against your neck, his cock still sheathed inside your spasming cunt.

He kissed your temple, breath shaky.

“Good girl,” he rasped. “My good fucking girl. Took all of it.”

You whimpered, pressing your forehead to his.

His hands caressed you slowly, thumb stroking your thigh where it was wrapped around him.

He didn’t rush to pull out.

He just stayed buried in you, letting you both come down, letting your cunt milk him for every last bit of heat he’d given you.

And when he finally carried you back to bed, lowering you onto the sheets, his cum still leaking from you, he kissed you tenderly.

Like you were the only thing in the world.

—

Your body was limp, boneless. You felt the wet smear of him between your thighs, hot and sticky on the sheets, but you couldn’t even bring yourself to care.

Your lids felt impossibly heavy. You tried to fight it, blinking slow and sluggish.

“Mmh… Bucky, I’m—s’fucked up,” you mumbled, voice thick and slurred, the words tumbling clumsy and broken from your slack lips.

Your eyes only opened halfway before fluttering shut again.

Bucky let out a soft, breathless chuckle.

“Yeah, baby,” he rasped, voice hoarse but warm with amusement. “You are. Did say I was gonna fuck you so hard.”

You made a small, helpless noise of protest, shifting weakly on the sheets but barely moving.

He pressed one last kiss to your temple before pulling away carefully.

“Hold on,” he murmured.

You heard him pad to the bathroom, the water running briefly. He wet a face cloth just enough to make it damp and warm, squeezing it once before turning off the tap.

He came back to you immediately, dropping to one knee at the edge of the bed, eyes soft but focused.

“Easy, sweetheart,” he soothed.

He parted your thighs gently with one big hand, the other carefully wiping you clean.

You whimpered faintly at the contact, twitching once from oversensitivity, but you didn’t fight him.

“Shh,” he hushed you. “I know. Just cleaning you up.”

He was thorough but gentle, wiping away the messy streaks of his cum still dripping from your swollen, used cunt. He made sure you were as comfortable as he could make you, murmuring little reassurances under his breath.

Your breathing evened out, eyelids fluttering but too heavy to keep open.

“Mmh… i—sleep… you…” you tried again, the words falling apart, unintelligible.

But Bucky understood.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “I know, baby. Sleep.”

He tossed the dirty cloth aside onto the floor without caring, then crawled fully onto the bed beside you.

He settled on his back first, then turned onto his side to face you. His metal arm slid carefully under your neck like a pillow, the cool vibranium pressed against your flushed, overheated skin. His flesh arm curled around your waist, dragging you gently but firmly into his chest.

You melted instantly.

Your head rested on his shoulder, nose pressed to his throat, inhaling the raw, spent scent of sweat, sex, and his skin.

He pressed a lingering kiss to your hairline, nose buried in your damp hair.

His fingers found your hair at the back of your head and began to play with it slowly, combing through the strands to soothe you.

Your breathing slowed even more, going soft and steady.

He felt you go heavy in his arms.

“Good girl,” he whispered so quietly it was almost for himself.

Your lips parted, a final sleepy huff of breath warming his skin, and you went fully limp, finally out.

Bucky smiled.

He let his eyes drift shut, fingers still tangled in your hair, body wrapped around yours like a shield.

He could feel the faint wetness still smearing between your thighs, his cum still inside you.

The thought made something possessive and hungry coil in his gut, even through the exhaustion.

He sighed, pressing another kiss to your forehead.

Tomorrow.

There would be tomorrow.

Rounds. Plural.

He fell asleep knowing full well he was going to fuck you stupid all over again come morning.

[binkybonkybucky]

the reader had such good monologues and line delivery it felt like i was living through a tv show. especially the one where she went:

No soft voice and sad eyes. You're either in this with me or you're out, but you don't get to half-ass it anymore. You don't get to knock on my door at 2 AM because you had a nightmare and then pretend we're just neighbors. You don't get to dance with me at weddings and then act like it meant nothing.

i knew it was so very personal. bucky knows exactly what soft voice and sad eyes she means. all of those were a direct attack on his character and there’s no way he can get himself out using diplomatic speaking. i think most of all, i loved how normal the reader was. they didn’t have some traumatized backstory or internal warfare going on. they were just always themself, truly and unabashedly.

pressure points | b.b.

✮ synopsis: bucky's gotten good at keeping his distance from his harmless, sunshine-y neighbor. but when you get taken because of him—because someone figured out you're his weak spot—he realizes how spectacularly that plan backfired. turns out the winter soldier's soft spot is a lot more dangerous than he thought.

✮ pairing: post-thunderbolts!bucky x fem!reader

✮ disclaimers: violence, kidnapping, blood and injury, torture (not graphic), angst with a happy ending, emotional hurt/comfort, established feelings but complicated relationship, second person POV, fem!reader, miscommunication, intense yearning, emotionally constipated!bucky, past trauma, mild language, fighting sequences

✮ word count: 10.6k

✮ a/n: first fic on this blog and it's basically just 10k words of soft bucky yearning xoxo

The first time Bucky Barnes sees you, you're trying to shove a couch through a doorway that's at least six inches too narrow, and losing spectacularly.

He's coming home from another pointless congressional hearing—the kind where everyone talks in circles about defense budgets while carefully not mentioning the alien invasion from three months ago—when he spots you in the hallway. You're wedged between the arm of what looks like a vintage velvet monstrosity and the doorframe of 4B, hair escaping from whatever you'd tried to contain it with, muttering a stream of increasingly creative profanity.

"Fucking—come on—you absolute bastard of a—"

The couch shifts. You yelp. Bucky's halfway down the hall before he realizes he's moving.

"Need a hand?"

You twist around, and something in his chest does this stupid, inconvenient flip. Your face is flushed, one cheek smudged with what might be dust or maybe yesterday's mascara, and you're looking at him like—well. Like he's not Bucky Barnes. Like he's just some guy in the hallway who might know how geometry works.

"Oh thank god," you breathe, and the relief in it makes his mouth twitch. "I've been battling this thing for twenty minutes. I think it's winning."

He assesses the situation with the same tactical precision he'd use for a Bulgarian arms deal, if arms deals came upholstered in emerald green and smelled faintly of vanilla perfume mixed with fresh sweat. The angle's all wrong. You've been trying to force it through horizontally when it needs to go vertical, then rotate.

"Here." He steps closer, and you shift to make room, your shoulder brushing his chest in a way that absolutely doesn't make his pulse stutter. "If we flip it—"

"Oh, you're strong," you say, like an observation about the weather, as he essentially deadlifts one end of your couch. The metal arm whirs faintly. You don't flinch. "That's convenient."

Convenient. Right. He maneuvers the couch through the doorway in three efficient moves, trying not to notice how you smell like coffee and something floral, how you hover just inside his peripheral vision like you're trying not to crowd him but can't quite stay away.

"There." He sets it down in what's clearly the only spot it could go in your tiny living room. The space is chaos—boxes everywhere, art leaning against walls, books stacked in precarious towers. "You just moving in?"

"Yeah, from—" You wave a hand vaguely eastward. "Nicer neighborhood. Turns out freelance graphic design doesn't pay for Manhattan rent. Who knew?" The self-deprecation comes with a grin that transforms your whole face, and Bucky has to look away, focus on the box labeled 'KITCHEN SHIT' in aggressive Sharpie. "I'm—well, you probably don't care what my name is."

He does, actually. Cares in a way that makes his teeth ache.

"Bucky," he offers, even though you clearly already know. "4C."

"The grumpy congressman." Your grin goes wider, teasing. "I've seen you on C-SPAN. You look like you're being held at gunpoint during those hearings."

"Feel like it too," he mutters, and the laugh you give him hits like a shot of whiskey—warm and slightly dizzying.

"Well, Congressman Barnes of apartment 4C, you've just saved my Saturday. Can I pay you in beer? I've got—" You dig through a box, emerge triumphant with two bottles. "Hipster IPA or hipster IPA?"

He should say no. Should maintain boundaries. Should remember what happened the last time he let someone get close—the scar on his ribs from Belgrade still aches when it rains.

Instead, he finds himself accepting a bottle, listening to you chatter about the neighbor who warned you about the rats (definitely real) and the ghost (probably not real but who knows), watching how you gesture with your whole body when you talk, like you're too much for your own skin.

It's dangerous, how easy you are to be around. How you look at him like he's just Bucky, not the former Asset, not the killer, not the congressman who can't pass a single fucking bill. Just a guy who helped with your couch.

He stays too long. Drinks two beers. Helps you unpack exactly three boxes before some long-dormant self-preservation instinct kicks in and he makes excuses about constituent emails.

"Thanks again," you say at the door, and there's something in your eyes—curiosity, maybe. Interest. "For the couch. And the company."

"No problem."

He's halfway to his own door when you call out: "Hey, Barnes?"

He turns. You're leaning against your doorframe, backlit by the disaster zone of your apartment, smiling that smile that makes his chest tight.

"I make really good coffee. You know. If congressional hearings ever drive you to caffeine dependency."

It's an offer. An opening. Everything in him screams to close it, lock it down, maintain operational security. Instead, his traitorous mouth says, "I'll keep that in mind."

He's so fucked.

The thing is, Bucky's gotten good at keeping people at arm's length. Seventy years of being a weapon teaches him that distance equals safety—for them, not him.

When you're already dead, what's a little more damage?

So he shouldn't notice when you start leaving your apartment at 7:23 every morning, shouldering a bag that's always slipping off your shoulder. Shouldn't time his own exits to avoid those encounters, then feel like an asshole when he succeeds. Definitely shouldn't lie awake listening through the thin walls as you sing along to whatever pop music you play while cooking, off-key and enthusiastic.

But here's the other thing: you make it really fucking hard to maintain distance.

You leave cookies outside his door with notes that say things like "for emergency constituent-induced rage" and "survival fuel for C-SPAN." You knock when you know he's home, ask to borrow sugar or vodka or a screwdriver, then stay to chat like his apartment isn't just bare walls and a couch Sam made him buy. You touch—casual, constant. A hand on his arm when you laugh, fingers brushing when you hand him things, like physical contact isn't something that makes his brain static out.

"You're a really good listener," you tell him one evening, three weeks into whatever this is. You're sitting on his floor, back against his couch, because you'd knocked asking for wine and then somehow ended up staying. Your knee presses against his thigh. He's catastrophically aware of every point of contact. "Like, actually good. Not just waiting for your turn to talk."

"Not much of a talker," he says, which is true and also easier than explaining that he's memorizing everything—how you twist your rings when you're nervous, the way your voice drops when you're saying something real, how you look in his space like you belong there.

"Bullshit." You bump his shoulder. He doesn't flinch anymore, which is either progress or a sign he's completely fucked. "You're just selective. Quality over quantity."

You say things like that—observations that feel like being seen, really seen, not just looked at. It's terrifying. It's addictive. It's going to get you killed.

Because here's the thing Bucky knows down to his bones: everything he touches turns to ash. Everyone he cares about becomes a target. And you—with your sunshine laugh and your disaster apartment and your way of looking at him like he's worth something—you're exactly the kind of light that attracts the worst kind of dark.

He should stay away.

He doesn't.

"So," Sam says, watching Bucky check his phone for the third time during their coffee meeting. "Who is she?"

"What?" Bucky pockets the phone. You'd texted asking if he knew how to fix a leaky faucet. He knows seventeen ways to kill a man with a faucet. Fixing one can't be that different. "Nobody. Work thing."

"Uh-huh." Sam's doing that face, the one that means he's about to be insufferably perceptive. "That's why you just smiled at your phone. Over a work thing. You. Smiled."

"I smile."

"No, you do this thing with your mouth that's like a smile's evil twin. This was an actual smile. So. Who is she?"

Bucky takes a long drink of coffee, considering how much lying is worth the effort. "Neighbor."

"Neighbor." Sam leans back, grinning. "Cute neighbor?"

The memory of you last night, paint in your hair and gesturing wildly about your latest client, flashes unbidden. His silence is apparently answer enough.

"Buck. Man. This is good. You need—"

"I need to not get people killed," Bucky cuts him off. "I need to remember that anyone who gets close to me ends up hurt. I need—"

"You need a life," Sam interrupts right back. "You need to stop punishing yourself for shit that wasn't your fault. You need to let yourself have something good."

Bucky's jaw works. The phone buzzes again. He doesn't check it.

"She doesn't know what she's getting into," he says finally. "She's—" Bright. Warm. Good. "She's not part of this world."

"So keep her out of it." Sam makes it sound simple. Like there's a way to compartmentalize, to have you without putting you at risk. "Be her neighbor. Be normal. Be happy, for once in your goddamn life."

Normal. Right. Because nothing says normal like a centenarian ex-assassin with more kills than most armies and a metal arm that could crush a skull like an egg.

But then he thinks about your smile when he fixed your garbage disposal last week. How you'd said "my hero" in this teasing, fond way that made him want impossible things. How you treat him like he's just Bucky, not a weapon someone else aimed.

"I don't know how," he admits, quieter than he meant to.

Sam's expression softens. "Nobody does, man. You just try anyway."

The faucet thing turns into a whole production.

You answer the door in tiny pajama shorts and an oversized t-shirt that says "FEMINIST KILLJOY" in glitter letters, and Bucky's brain shorts out for a solid three seconds. Your hair's piled on top of your head in what might generously be called a bun, and there's toothpaste at the corner of your mouth, and he wants to—

"Oh good, you're here," you say, grabbing his arm and pulling him inside. Your fingers are warm through his henley. "It's making this noise like a dying whale. I tried YouTube tutorials but I think I made it worse."

The kitchen is a disaster. Tools scattered everywhere, water pooling on the floor, YouTube still playing on your laptop ("—sure to turn off the water main first—"). You've clearly been at this for a while.

"Did you turn off the water?" he asks, already knowing the answer from the growing puddle.

"I turned off a valve," you say defensively. "Several valves. None of them seemed to be the right valve."

He finds himself fighting a smile as he locates the actual shut-off. You hover behind him as he works, close enough that he can feel your breath on his neck, keeping up a running commentary that's part apology, part stand-up routine.

"—and then the wrench slipped and I maybe screamed a little bit, and Mrs. Nguyen next door started banging on the wall, and I had to yell that I wasn't being murdered, just defeating by plumbing—"

"Hand me the—" He turns to ask for the wrench at the same moment you lean forward to see what he's doing. Your faces end up inches apart. Time does that thing where it forgets how to work properly.

Your eyes are very wide. There's a water droplet on your cheek. Bucky's hand twitches with the urge to wipe it away.

"Wrench," he manages, voice rougher than intended.

"Right. Wrench. That's a—" You scramble backward, nearly slip on the wet floor. He catches your elbow automatically, steadying you, and your skin is so warm under his fingers it feels like a brand. "Thanks. I'm not usually this much of a disaster. Actually, that's a lie. I'm exactly this much of a disaster, you've just caught me on a particularly disastrous day."

He fixes the faucet in under ten minutes. You insist on making coffee as payment, which turns into leftover pizza, which turns into three hours on your couch watching some reality show about people making elaborate cakes. You provide running commentary that's funnier than the show itself, and Bucky finds himself actually laughing—not the dry chuckle he's perfected for public appearances, but real laughter that comes from somewhere deep in his chest.

"See?" you say during a commercial break, grinning at him. "I told you this show was addictive. Next week they're making a life-size dragon cake that actually breathes fire."

"Next week?" The words slip out before he can stop them, too revealing.

Your grin softens into something else, something that makes his chest tight. "Well, yeah. You can't miss fire-breathing dragon cake. That's un-American."

It becomes a thing. Thursday nights, your couch, increasingly ridiculous cooking shows. You always have too much dinner ("I'm terrible at portions, shut up"), he always fixes something that's broken ("it's not broken, it's just temperamental"), and somewhere between cake disasters and your laughter, Bucky forgets to maintain distance.

"Your boyfriend's here," Mrs. Nguyen announces loudly when Bucky knocks on your door a month later, because apparently the entire floor has decided they're invested in whatever this is.

"He's not my—" Your voice cuts off as you open the door. You're wearing a dress, which is new. Red, which is newer. Lipstick, which is going to kill him. "Hi."

"Hi." His brain's stuck on the curve of your shoulder, the way the fabric clings. "Going out?"

"Wedding. Old college friend." You're fidgeting with your earring, a sure tell that you're nervous. "I hate weddings. All that optimism and overpriced chicken."

"So don't go."

"Can't. I already RSVP'd, and I'm a good friend even if I'm a wedding-hating gremlin." You pause, still fiddling with the earring. "Unless..."

He knows what's coming by the way you're biting your lip. "No."

"You don't even know what I was going to ask!"

"You were going to ask me to go with you."

"...okay, so you did know." You lean against the doorframe, giving him a look that's probably supposed to be convincing but mostly just highlights how your eyes catch the hallway light. "Come on. You're a congressman. You must love overpriced chicken and small talk."

"I really don't."

"There's an open bar."

"Still no."

"I'll owe you one. One big favor. Anything."

That makes him pause, but not for the reason you think. The idea of you owing him anything makes his skin itch. You already give too much—your time, your laughter, your casual touches that rewire his brain. But the idea of watching you navigate a wedding alone, of other people getting to see you in that dress...

"Fine," he hears himself say. "But I'm not dancing."

The smile you give him could power Brooklyn for a week.

He's absolutely, catastrophically unprepared for how you look in candlelight.

The wedding venue is one of those rustic-chic places that thinks exposed beams equal personality. You're at table eight, which puts you safely in "college friends but not close enough for the wedding party" territory. You've been providing whispered commentary all through the ceremony ("five bucks says she wrote her vows the night before"), your shoulder pressed against his in a way that makes paying attention to anything else physically impossible.

"See that bridesmaid?" You nod toward a blonde who's definitely already three champagnes deep. "That's Amber. We were roommates sophomore year. She once tried to seduce our RA by leaving Post-it poetry on his door."

"Did it work?"

"Depends on your definition of 'work.' She did get his attention. Also a conduct violation." You're playing with the stem of your wine glass, fingers tracing patterns. "Thanks for this, by the way. I know wearing a suit and making small talk isn't exactly your idea of fun."

He could tell you that wearing a suit is nothing compared to tac gear, that small talk is easier than Senate hearings. Could mention that the way you keep unconsciously leaning into him makes any discomfort worth it. Instead: "It's fine."

"Such enthusiasm." But you're smiling, soft and maybe a little fond. "Dance with me?"

"I said no dancing."

"You said that before you had champagne. And before they played—" You tilt your head, listening. "Oh my god, is this Bon Jovi? We have to dance to Bon Jovi. It's the law."

"That's not a law."

"It's a law of wedding physics. Come on, Barnes. One dance. I promise not to step on your feet much."

The thing is, he can't say no to you. It's becoming a problem. You want him to fix your sink? Done. Need someone to hold your laptop while you Skype your mother? He's there. Want him to dance to "Livin' on a Prayer" at some stranger's wedding? Apparently, that's happening too.

You're a terrible dancer. Genuinely awful. You have no sense of rhythm, keep trying to lead, and you're laughing too hard to even pretend otherwise. It's perfect. He spins you out just to watch your dress flare, pulls you back too close, and for a moment—your hand in his, your face tilted up, surrounded by fairy lights and other people's happiness—he forgets why this is a bad idea.

"See?" you say, slightly breathless. "Dancing's not so bad."

His hand is on your waist. He can feel your pulse through the thin fabric. "No. Not so bad."

Someone bumps into you from behind, pushing you fully against his chest. Your hands come up to steady yourself, one landing over his heart, and he knows you can feel how it stumbles. Your smile falters, shifts into something else. Something that looks dangerously like realization.

"Bucky—"

"They're cutting the cake," he says, stepping back. The loss of contact feels like losing a limb. "Should probably watch. For your show."

You blink, then recover. "Right. Yeah. Cake."

But you're quiet for the rest of the reception, and he catches you looking at him with this expression he can't decode. Like you're working through a complex equation and not liking the answer.

He drives home. You spend the ride fiddling with your phone, uncharacteristically silent. When he pulls up to the building, you don't immediately get out.

"I'm sorry if I—" you start.

"Don't." It comes out harsher than intended. He tries again, softer: "You didn't do anything wrong."

"Feels like I did." You're still not looking at him. "I forget sometimes, that you're—that we're—"

"Friends," he supplies, even though the word tastes like ash. "We're friends."

"Right." You finally meet his eyes, and there's something careful in your expression now. Guarded. "Friends."

You're out of the car before he can figure out what to say to fix this. He watches you disappear into the building first, red dress like a wound in the grey evening, and knows he's fucked everything up without quite understanding how.

You pull back after that.

It's subtle—you still smile when you see him in the hall, still text him memes at inappropriate hours. But you stop knocking on his door for impromptu dinners. Stop touching him casually. When he offers to fix your eternally-dripping showerhead, you say you'll call the super instead.

"You're moping," Sam tells him two weeks later, during one of their mandatory "make sure Bucky's not spiraling" brunch dates.

"I don't mope."

"You're the Black Widow of moping. The Michael Jordan of emotional constipation." Sam pauses. "That neighbor you mentioned?"

Bucky's silence is damning.

"What'd you do?"

"Why do you assume I did something?"

"Because you always do something. You get close to someone, panic, and pull some self-sabotaging bullshit." Sam's voice gentles. "Talk to me, man."

Bucky stares at his coffee like it holds answers. "She wanted to dance."

"...okay?"

"At a wedding. And I—we danced. And it was..." He doesn't have words for what it was. How you felt in his arms, how the world narrowed down to just the two of you, how for a moment he forgot he was dangerous. "And then I shut it down."

"Why?"

"Because." He sets the mug down too hard, coffee sloshing. "Because she's sunshine, Sam. She's late-night cooking shows and glitter pens and leaving snacks for the delivery guy. She has no idea what I've done, what I'm capable of—"

"Did you ever think maybe she does know and doesn't care?"

"Then she's naïve."

"Or maybe she just sees you better than you see yourself." Sam leans forward. "Buck, you can't protect people by pushing them away. That's not how it works."

"It's worked so far."

"Has it? Because from where I'm sitting, you're miserable, she's probably confused as hell, and nobody's actually safer."

Bucky wants to argue, but then his phone buzzes. Your name pops up: my smoke alarm is having an existential crisis. is it supposed to beep in morse code?

He's already standing before he realizes it.

"Go," Sam says, shaking his head but smiling. "Fix her smoke alarm. Talk to her like a human being. Maybe try not to fuck it up this time."

Your door is already cracked when he gets there, smoke rolling out in lazy waves.

"I'm not on fire!" you call before he can knock. "Well, the oven mitt was, but I handled it."

He finds you on a chair, ineffectively fanning the smoke detector with a dish towel. You're wearing those little pajama shorts again and his brain still isn't prepared for the sight.

"How does an oven mitt catch fire?" He reaches up, disables the alarm with practiced ease.

"Well, when you forget it's on your hand and rest it on the stove burner..." You shrink a little at his look. "I was distracted."

"By what?"

You don't answer, just hop down from the chair. This close, he can see the flour in your hair, the way you're worrying your bottom lip. "Thanks. Sorry for texting, I know it's late—"

"Why are you apologizing?"

"Because—" You make a frustrated gesture. "Because I'm trying to give you space. Because you clearly regretted the wedding thing and I'm trying not to be that neighbor who develops inconvenient feelings—"

"Feelings?" His brain snags on the word like cloth on a nail.

You go very still. "Shit. I mean. Not feelings. Just. You know. Neighbor...ly concern. Very platonic. Super appropriate."

"You're a terrible liar."

"Yeah, well, you're terrible at—" You stop, visibly collecting yourself. When you speak again, your voice is carefully level: "I like you, okay? More than I should. And I know that's not what you want, and I'm trying really hard to be okay with that, but you standing in my kitchen looking all concerned while I'm having a feelings crisis is really not helping."

The words hit him like a physical blow. You like him. More than you should.

"You don't know me," he says, defaulting to the easiest argument.

"Bullshit." There's heat in your voice now. "I know you reorganize my bookshelf when you think I'm not looking because the chaos bothers you. I know you bring me coffee on Tuesdays because you noticed I have early meetings. I know you have nightmares—yeah, the walls are thin—and I know you pace afterwards like you're trying to walk off whatever you dreamed about."

Each observation feels like being flayed open.

"I know you're careful," you continue, softer now. "I know you think you're dangerous. And I know you've probably got reasons for that. But Bucky? I also know you'd never hurt me. Ever."

"You can't know that."

"Why? Because you're what, too damaged? Too dangerous?" You step closer and he should step back but he's frozen. "You carry my groceries. You fixed my faucet. You danced with me at a wedding even though you hate dancing. Really dangerous stuff there, Barnes."

"You don't understand—"

"Then explain it to me." Your chin juts out, stubborn. "Give me one good reason why we can't—"

He kisses you.

It's the wrong thing to do. Selfish. Stupid. But you're standing there in your flour-dusted pajamas, looking at him like he's worth fighting for, and his self-control just...snaps.

The sound you make—soft, surprised, maybe relieved—shorts out every rational thought in his head. Your hands come up to frame his face, fingertips cool against his burning skin, and then you're kissing him back like you've been waiting for this, like you've been drowning too.

You taste like smoke and whatever you were baking, sweet with an edge of burn, and he's dizzy with it. His hands find your waist, fingers spreading wide against the soft cotton of your shirt, and he pulls you in until there's no space between you, until he can feel your heartbeat hammering against his chest. You're so warm, so alive, radiating heat like a small sun, and he wants to map every degree of it with his mouth, his hands, his—

Reality crashes back like ice water.

He jerks away, but his hands won't let go of your waist, like his body's in revolt against his better judgment. You're both breathing like you've run miles—harsh, ragged pulls of air that fill the space between you. Your lips are swollen, kiss-bruised, and he did that, he marked you, and the savage satisfaction of it wars with the knowledge that he's just made everything infinitely worse.

Your eyes are huge, pupils blown wide, and you're looking at him like he's just rearranged your entire understanding of the universe. One hand is still on his face, thumb pressed to the corner of his mouth like you're trying to hold the kiss there, keep it from escaping.

"That's why," he says roughly. "Because I want—because you make me want things I can't have."

"Says who?" Your eyes are very bright. "Who decided what you can have?"

He doesn't have an answer for that. Doesn't know how to explain the mathematics of survival, how everyone he's ever cared about becomes a liability, a target, a grave.

"I should go," he manages.

"Or," you say, "you could stay."

The offer hangs between you like a lit fuse. He can see the future unspool in both directions: leave now, go back to safe distances and polite nods in the hallway, watch you eventually move on with someone who doesn't come with a body count. Or stay, and risk you realizing what a mistake you're making. Stay, and selfishly take whatever you're willing to give for however long you're willing to give it.

You're still looking at him, patient and terrified and hopeful all at once.

He leaves.

The word echoes in his head all the way back to his apartment. Coward. Coward. Coward. But it's the right thing to do. The safe thing. You'll hurt for a while, maybe hate him a little, but you'll be alive to do it.

He doesn't sleep. Just sits on his couch, staring at the wall that separates your apartments, listening to the muffled sounds of you cleaning up. The shower runs at 2 AM. He knows you cry in the shower when you think no one can hear—learned that three weeks into being neighbors, when your freelance client stiffed you on a big project. He'd wanted to break the fucker's legs then.

Now he wants to break his own.

You're a better person than he'll ever be, which is why you still smile at him in the hallway.

It's careful now, contained. The kind of smile you'd give any neighbor, not the one that used to light up your whole face when you saw him. You don't knock anymore. Don't text about your smoke alarm or your leaky faucet or the rat you're convinced lives in the walls. You just...exist, parallel to him, in a way that makes his chest feel like it's full of broken glass.

"Fixed it myself," you say one morning when he catches you wrestling with a new deadbolt installation. Your drill slips, gouging the doorframe. "YouTube University, you know?"

He could fix it in under a minute. Could show you how to align the strike plate properly, how to test the throw. Instead: "Good for you."

Your smile flickers. "Yeah. Good for me."

Mrs. Nguyen gives him dirty looks now. The whole floor does, really. Like they know he's the reason you don't laugh as loud anymore, why your music's quieter, why you started getting grocery delivery instead of making three trips up the stairs, arms overloaded, dropping things and cursing cheerfully.

It's fine. It's working. You're safe.

He tells himself that every night when he hears you through the walls, moving around your apartment like a ghost of the person who used to dance while cooking.

Three weeks post-kiss, Valentina calls them in for a mission that's barely legal on a good day.

"Weapons shipment," she says, sliding photos across the conference table with her usual theatrical flair. "Enhanced tech, off-market, very much not supposed to exist. The kind of toys that make governments nervous."

"So we're stealing them," Walker states, not asks.

"Recovering," Val corrects with a smile sharp enough to cut. "For the safety of the American people, of course."

Yelena snorts. Alexei's already studying the compound layout like there'll be a test. Bob's doing that thing where he shrinks into himself, trying to become invisible. Bucky catalogs exits, counts guards in the surveillance photos, and tries not to think about how you looked last night, hauling groceries with your hair falling in your eyes.

The mission goes sideways in minute three.

"Intel was wrong," Ava's voice crackles through comms, too calm for the situation. "Triple the guards. And—"

The explosion cuts her off. Then another. The "barely defended warehouse" is a fucking fortress, crawling with military-grade security who definitely got the "shoot to kill" memo.

"Fall back," Bucky orders, but Alexei's already charged ahead, yelling something about Soviet glory. Walker's trying to flank, Bob's panicking, and somewhere in the chaos, Yelena starts laughing like this is the best thing that's happened all week.

It takes two hours to fight their way out. By the end, Bucky's left arm is sparking, his ears are ringing, and he's pretty sure at least three ribs are cracked. Yelena's favoring her right leg, Walker's bleeding from somewhere he won't admit, and Bob—Bob's dissociating so hard Bucky has to physically guide him to the extraction point.

"Well," Val says over comms, observing from her safe distance, "that was bracing."

Bucky doesn't trust himself to respond.

They limp back to New York in sullen silence. No debrief—Val's already spinning the disaster into something palatable for the brass. Bucky goes straight home, ignoring Sam's calls, ignoring everything except the need to get somewhere quiet before he starts breaking things.

His hands are still shaking when he reaches his floor. Adrenaline crash, probably. Or the delayed realization that they'd all nearly died for some bureaucrat's idea of asset recovery. Or—

Your door is open.

Not open-open. Cracked, like it didn't latch properly. Like someone left in a hurry. Or—

The deadbolt is broken.

The one you installed yourself three weeks ago. The one he'd watched you struggle with, pride keeping you from asking for help.

Bucky goes utterly still.

His body moves before his brain catches up. He's through your doorway, cataloging details with mechanical precision: lamp knocked over, books scattered, coffee table shoved sideways. Signs of a struggle. Signs of—

Blood.

Not much. Just droplets on the hardwood, leading toward the kitchen. But enough. Enough to make his vision tunnel, his chest compress until breathing becomes theoretical.

"Sweetheart?" The pet name slips out, raw. No answer. He clears each room like he's back in Hydra facilities, except his hands won't stop shaking because this is your space, your things, your—

Your phone is on the kitchen floor, screen cracked. There's a handprint on the wall—bloody, smeared. Too small to be anyone's but yours.

Something inside him breaks. Clean, sharp, like a bone snapping. The careful distance he's maintained, the walls he's built, the conviction that keeping you at arm's length would keep you safe—all of it crumbles in the face of your empty apartment and that small, bloody handprint.

He's already moving, phone out, calling in favors he's been hoarding. Because someone took you. Someone came into your home—the home he was supposed to be protecting by staying away—and took you. And they're going to learn exactly why the Winter Soldier's name still makes people flinch.

His phone rings. Unknown number.

"Barnes." He doesn't recognize his own voice.

"Ah, the infamous Winter Soldier." The voice is male, amused, completely at ease. "I was hoping we could talk."

"Where is she?"

"Safe. For now. Though that really depends on you, doesn't it?"

Ice spreads through his veins, familiar as an old friend. This is what he was trying to prevent. This exact scenario. You, hurt because of him. You, taken because someone figured out—

"What do you want?"

"You've been playing house, Barnes. Getting soft. Forgetting what you are." A pause, calculated. "I'm going to remind you. And your little neighbor? She's going to help."

The line goes dead.

Bucky stands in your ruined apartment, surrounded by the evidence of his failure, and feels something fundamental shift. Not break—he's been broken before. This is worse. This is the cold clarity that comes after, when there's nothing left to lose.

Someone made a mistake today. They touched you. They made you bleed.

He's going to paint the city red for it.

"Buck, slow down—"

"No." He's already moving, gathering gear with brutal efficiency. The weapons he's not supposed to have. The tech that's definitely illegal. Every favor, every resource, every skill Hydra beat into him over seventy years.

Sam's on speaker, trying to be the voice of reason. "You can't just go in guns blazing—"

"Watch me."

"This is exactly what they want. You, isolated, operating without backup—"

"They have her, Sam." The words come out raw, flayed. "They took her because of me. Because I was stupid enough to think distance would keep her safe."

Silence on the other end. Then: "What do you need?"

That's why Sam Wilson is Captain America. No more arguments, no more trying to talk him down. Just immediate, unwavering support.

"Intel. Cameras in my building, surrounding blocks. Last twelve hours." He straps a knife to his thigh, then another. "And get me backup."

"I can rally your team. Get Walker, Yelena—"

"No." The word comes out sharp. Another knife. Extra magazines. "The Thunderbolts are compromised. That clusterfuck of a mission proved it."

"Buck—"

"They're not ready for this. Half of them can barely work together without Val pulling the strings." He's checking his tactical vest, muscle memory taking over. "This isn't a government op. This is personal."

"So what, you're going in alone?"

Is he? Bucky stops, considers his options. The Thunderbolts are a mess on a good day—Walker's still trying to prove something, Bob's hanging on by a thread, and Alexei treats everything like a performance. They're not who he needs for this.

"They touched her," he says simply.

"I know, man. I know. But—"

"Get me what intel you can. I'll handle the rest."

"Buck, come on. At least let me—"

"They have her, Sam." His voice cracks, just slightly. "Every second we waste talking, they could be—"

"Okay. Okay. Intel coming your way. But Barnes? Don't do anything stupid."

"Too late for that."

Bucky stops in your doorway, looks back at your apartment. There's a photo on your bookshelf—you and him at the building's July 4th party. Mrs. Nguyen had insisted on taking it. You're laughing at something, leaning into him, and he's looking at you like—

Like you're everything he never thought he'd get to have.

"I'm coming for you," he tells the empty room. A promise. A threat. A prayer to whoever might be listening.

Then he disappears into the night, and the Winter Soldier goes hunting.

The trail goes cold in six hours.

Whoever took you, they're not amateurs playing at being dangerous. They're ghosts—professionals who know exactly how to disappear in a city of eight million people. Every camera angle's been scrubbed. Every witness suddenly develops amnesia. Even the blood in your apartment leads nowhere; cleaned of DNA markers by something that makes Bucky's teeth ache with familiarity.

"Talk to me, Buck." Sam's voice through the earpiece, carefully level. "Where are you?"

Bucky stands on a rooftop in Queens, staring at another dead end. Another empty warehouse that should have had something, anything. "Nowhere."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only one I've got." His metal hand clenches, servos whining. Below, the city keeps moving, oblivious to the fact that you're somewhere in it, hurt, taken because of him. "They're good, Sam. Too good."

"We'll find her."

We. Like this isn't Bucky's fault. Like his past isn't bleeding into your present, staining everything he tried so hard to keep clean.

He drops from the rooftop, lands hard enough to crack pavement. A passing couple startles, hurries away. Good. He doesn't feel particularly human right now anyway.

Hour twelve. Yelena finds him in your apartment, sitting on your couch like a grieving statue.

"This is pathetic," she says, stepping over the crime scene tape he'd ignored. "Even for you."

"Get out."

"No." She perches on your coffee table, uncharacteristically serious. "You think sitting here feeling sorry for yourself will find her? You think guilt helps?"

"I said—"

"I know what guilt looks like, Barnes." Her voice cuts, precise as the knives she carries. "I know what it is, failing someone you—" She pauses, searching for the English word. "Care about. But this?" She gestures at him, at the apartment, at the bloody handprint he can't stop staring at. "This is just... как это... self-pity? No, worse. Useless."

The laugh that tears out of him is ugly. "Thanks for the pep talk."

"Someone needs to knock sense into your thick skull." She leans forward. "Whoever has her, they want you like this. Emotional. Sloppy. Making mistakes."

"I know that."

"Then stop giving them what they want."

Easier said than done when every surface in this apartment carries your ghost. The mug on the counter with your lipstick stain. The book splayed open on the side table, marking your place. The sweater thrown over the chair—his sweater, actually, stolen three weeks ago when you'd claimed your apartment was freezing.

"Keep it," he'd said, trying not to notice how it made something primal in him satisfied, seeing you wrapped in his clothes.

"Just until I fix my radiator," you'd promised, but you'd worn it three more times that week, and he'd never asked for it back.

"Barnes." Yelena snaps her fingers in his face. "Сфокусируйся. Focus."

"I am focused."

"You're spiraling." She pulls out her phone, shows him surveillance footage he's already memorized. "Look again. Really look. Use your brain, not your bleeding heart."

He wants to tell her he's looked at nothing else for twelve hours. Instead, he watches you leave your apartment at 6:47 PM, mail in hand. Watches you come back at 6:53. The timestamp jumps—7:31 to 8:15, forty-four minutes missing. By 8:15, your door's ajar and you're gone.

"Professional crew doesn't need forty-four minutes for grab," Yelena says, her English getting rougher as she thinks. "So why take so long? What were they doing?"

Bucky's phone buzzes. Unknown number.

His blood turns to ice, then flame.

"You're going to want to watch this alone," the familiar voice says. "Though I'm sure your friend is lovely. Hi, Yelena."

She stiffens. Bucky's already moving, putting distance between them, some instinct screaming danger.

"Just me," he says. "Let her go."

"See, that's your problem, Barnes. Still trying to protect everyone. Still thinking you can control who gets hurt." A pause. "Check your messages."

The video file is already there. His hand shakes as he opens it.

You're in a concrete room—could be anywhere, everywhere, the kind of place that exists in every city's bones. Sitting in a metal chair, wrists zip-tied but not apparently hurt beyond the cut on your temple still sluggishly bleeding. You're still wearing his sweater.

"Say hello, sweetheart." The voice comes from behind the camera.

You look up, and the defiance in your eyes makes his chest seize. "Go fuck yourself."

The slap comes fast, snaps your head sideways. Bucky's phone creaks in his grip.

"Language." The camera shifts, focuses on your face. "Try again."

You spit blood, manage a smile that's all teeth. "Hi, Bucky. Nice weather we're having."

Another slap. Harder. Your lip splits.

"I told you he made you weak." The voice continues conversationally as you work your jaw, testing damage. "The Winter Soldier, reduced to playing house with some nobody. It's embarrassing, really."

"You talk a lot for someone hiding behind a camera," you mutter.

This time it's a fist. Your head rocks back, and when you look up again, your nose is bleeding. But you're still glaring, still unbroken, and Bucky loves you so fiercely in that moment it feels like drowning.

"Here's what's going to happen," the voice continues. "Every hour Barnes doesn't come alone to the address we'll send, things get worse for you. And before you get any ideas—" The camera pans to show three other men, armed, professional. "—we've planned for contingencies."

Back to you. Blood drips onto his sweater. You notice the camera returning, look directly into it. "Don't you fucking dare," you say, and despite everything—split lip, bloody nose, zip-tied to a chair—you mean it. "You hear me, Barnes? Don't you—"

The video cuts.

Bucky stands very still in your empty apartment, phone in pieces at his feet.

"That bad?" Yelena asks.

He can't speak. Can barely breathe around the rage threatening to tear him apart from the inside. Somewhere in the city, you're bleeding because of him. Hurt because he was selfish enough to let you close, stupid enough to think distance would be enough.

Another text. An address in Red Hook. Come alone or we start cutting.

"Is trap," Yelena says, dropping articles like she does when she's focused. "Obviously trap."

"I know."

"You can't just walk in there like idiot."

"I know."

"So what's plan?"

He looks at her, and whatever she sees in his face makes her step back. "I give them what they want."

"Barnes—"

"They want the Winter Soldier?" His voice sounds wrong, mechanical, like something dredged up from permafrost. "They've got him."

The address leads to a warehouse because of course it does. These people, whoever they are, lack imagination. Bucky counts heat signatures through thermal imaging—six outside, unknown inside. Doable, if he's what he used to be. If he's willing to be what he used to be.

"Don't you fucking dare."

Your voice echoes, but it's drowned out by older programming. By muscle memory that never quite faded, no matter how many therapy sessions or good days or shared dinners with someone who looked at him like he was worth saving.

"In position," Sam's voice, because fuck going alone. Fuck giving them what they want. "West entrance."

"Rooftop," from Yelena.

"Back door," Walker, surprisingly. "For the record, I think this is stupid."

"Noted," Bucky says, and walks through the front door.

The space is exactly what he expected. Concrete floors, exposed beams, the kind of place that swallows sound. They're waiting for him—five men in tactical gear, no identifying marks. Professional contractors, not ideologues. Which makes this personal.

"Dramatic entrance. I respect that." The voice from the phone materializes into a man in his forties, military bearing, forgettable face. He's standing next to a metal table laid out with tools that make Bucky's scars ache. "Though you were supposed to come alone."

"Yeah, well." Bucky spreads his hands, easy target. "I've never been good at following orders. Ask anyone."

"Funny." The man circles him, predator studying prey. "That's not what your files say. 'Perfect compliance.' That was the phrase, wasn't it?"

Old wounds, precisely targeted. These people have done their homework.

"Where is she?"

"Close. Alive. For now." The man stops in front of him. "You know, I studied you. The Winter Soldier. Hydra's perfect weapon. And then you just... stopped. Became this." He gestures dismissively. "James Barnes, failing congressman. Playing superhero. Pretending you're not what we made you."

"We?"

The man smiles. "Not Hydra, if that's what you're thinking. Hydra was sloppy. Cult-like. No vision beyond control." He pulls out a tablet, shows Bucky a logo—a chimera, three-headed. "Cerberus. We're more... refined. We deal in weapons, not world domination. And you, Barnes? You're a weapon pretending to be human."

"Cool speech." Bucky's cataloging angles, distances, how fast he'd have to move. "Must've practiced in the mirror."

The man's smile tightens. "Bring her out."

Two more men emerge from a side room, dragging you between them. You're conscious but barely, feet stumbling, head lolling. They drop you on the concrete, and you don't get up.

Everything in Bucky goes very, very quiet.

"So here's the deal," Cerberus continues. "You're going to work for us. Exclusive contract. Your particular skills in exchange for her life."

"No." Your voice, cracked but clear. You push yourself up on shaking arms, meet Bucky's eyes across the warehouse. "No deals. No trades."

"Sweetheart—"

"Don't you 'sweetheart' me." You manage to get to your knees, swaying. Blood's dried on your face, but your eyes are blazing. "You think I don't know what they're asking? You think I'd let you—" You have to stop, catch your breath. "I'd rather die than be the reason you become that again."

"How touching," Cerberus says. "But not your call." He nods to one of his men, who pulls out a knife. "Barnes? Your answer?"

The knife moves toward you.

The world explodes.

Flash-bangs through windows, smoke grenades, the distinctive whine of repulsor beams. Cerberus shouts orders, but it's too late—the Avengers don't do subtle when one of their own is threatened.

Bucky moves. Not the measured approach of a soldier, but the brutal efficiency of a weapon. The man with the knife goes down first, arm snapping under metal fingers. The second barely has time to scream. He's not thinking, just reacting, just removing threats between him and you.

Someone shoots him. Barely feels it. Someone else tries hand-to-hand, which is adorable. He puts them through a wall.

"Barnes!" Sam's voice, sharp. "Shield up!"

He spins, catches the thrown shield, uses it to deflect a spray of bullets meant for you. You're trying to crawl to cover, leaving bloody handprints on the concrete, and the sight shorts out whatever restraint he had left.

When the smoke clears, Cerberus is the only one left standing. Backed against the wall, gun trained on you because of course it is. These people are predictable to the last.

"Come any closer and—"

Yelena drops from the ceiling, lands on him like gravity given form. The gun goes flying. Cerberus goes down choking on his own blood, Yelena's knife finding the gap in his armor like it was designed for it.

"Predictable," she says, wiping the blade clean. "I told you they were predictable."

But Bucky's already moving, dropping to his knees beside you. You're conscious, breathing, alive. That's all that matters. Everything else—the mission, the cleanup, the questions—fades to white noise.

"Hey," he says, hands hovering over you, afraid to touch. Afraid to hurt. "I've got you."

"Took you long enough," you manage, then promptly pass out in his arms.

He catches you, holds you against his chest, and something in him breaks. Or maybe it finally, finally mends. Either way, he's done pretending distance keeps anyone safe. Done acting like he deserves to make choices about your safety without you.

"Med team's three minutes out," Sam says quietly.

Three minutes. He can hold you for three minutes. Can keep you safe for three minutes.

After that? After that, everything changes.

But for now, in the blood and smoke and aftermath, Bucky Barnes holds the person he was stupid enough to fall in love with and makes a promise:

Never again.

Never fucking again.

The medical bay at the Tower is too bright, too sterile, too full of people who keep looking at Bucky like he might snap. Maybe he will. He's been sitting in the same chair for four hours, watching machines monitor your breathing, and every beep feels like an accusation.

"You need to get that looked at," Sam says, nodding at the blood seeping through Bucky's shirt. Gunshot wound, probably. He honestly can't remember.

"I'm fine."

"You're bleeding on their fancy floors."

"I'm fine."

Sam exchanges a look with Yelena, who's been uncharacteristically quiet since they arrived. She's cleaned the blood off her hands but keeps flexing them, like she can still feel it.

"At least change your shirt," she says finally. "You look like extra from horror movie."

He doesn't move. Can't move. Because what if you wake up while he's gone? What if you open your eyes and he's not there, again, like he wasn't there when they took you?

"Barnes." Dr. Cho's voice cuts through his spiral. "She's stable. Three broken ribs, concussion, various contusions, but nothing life-threatening. She's lucky."

Lucky. The word tastes like copper in his mouth. Lucky is winning the lottery, not surviving a kidnapping because you had the misfortune of living next to him.

"When will she wake up?"

"Soon. The sedatives should wear off within the hour." She pauses, studying him with that look medical professionals get when they're about to say something pointed. "You, however, need treatment. You're actively bleeding on my floor."

"Sam already made that joke."

"It wasn't a joke." But she moves on, knowing a lost cause when she sees one. "I'll send a nurse with supplies. Try not to die before she wakes up. The paperwork would be tedious."

She leaves. Sam leaves. Even Yelena eventually wanders off, muttering something about vodka and terrible life choices. And then it's just Bucky and you and the steady beep of machines he'd tear apart if they stopped working.

Your hand is smaller than his. He knows this—has known it since the first time you grabbed his wrist to drag him to see some neighbor's new puppy—but it feels more pronounced now. More fragile. Your knuckles are split from fighting back, and there's still blood under your nails. His blood? Theirs? He doesn't know, and the not knowing makes him want to put his fist through the wall.

"You're spiraling again."

Your voice is hoarse, barely above a whisper, but it might as well be a gunshot for how hard it hits. His head snaps up to find you watching him, eyes half-open but alert.

"You're awake."

"Mmm. Kind of wish I wasn't." You try to sit up, wince, immediately abort that mission. "Fuck. Did anyone get the number of the truck that hit me?"

"Don't—" He's hovering, hands fluttering uselessly, afraid to touch you. "You shouldn't move. Dr. Cho said—"

"Dr. Cho can kiss my ass," you mutter, but you stop trying to sit up. Your eyes track over him, cataloging damage. "You're bleeding."

"It's nothing."

"It's literally dripping on the floor, Barnes."

"It's fine."

You stare at each other. Four hours of practiced speeches evaporate in the face of your actual consciousness, leaving him with nothing but the memory of your blood on concrete and the sound you made when they hit you.

"So," you say finally, voice carefully neutral. "Cerberus. That was fun."

"Don't."

"Don't what? Make jokes about my kidnapping? Process trauma through humor? Acknowledge that you're sitting there bleeding because you decided to Rambo your way through—"

"You could have died." It comes out louder than intended, raw. "You almost died because of me."

Something shifts in your expression. "Bucky—"

"No." He's standing now, needing distance, needing space between him and the way you're looking at him. "You don't get to—to act like this is fine. Like this is some funny story you'll tell at parties. They took you because of me. They hurt you because of me."

"They took me because they're assholes who thought they could use me as leverage." You're struggling to sit up again, ignoring whatever pain it causes. "That's on them, not you."

"You're only leverage because I was selfish enough to—" He stops, runs his hand through his hair. "I knew better. I knew what would happen if I let someone close, and I did it anyway."

"Let me get this straight." Your voice is gaining strength, and with it, heat. "You think you 'let' me get close? Like I didn't have any say in it? Like I didn't practically force-feed you cookies until you acknowledged my existence?"

"That's not—"

"And what, you think keeping me at arm's length would've magically made me safer? News flash, Barnes: I live in that building because it's what I can afford. That makes me a target for regular criminals on a good day. At least with you around, I had someone who actually gave a shit if I made it home."

"Don't." The word cracks. "Don't act like I was protecting you. I'm the reason you were bleeding. I'm the reason they—"

"You're the reason I'm alive!" You swing your legs over the side of the bed, bare feet hitting the floor with determination that makes his chest tight. "You think they took me because they wanted leverage? They took me because they were cleaning house. Because they knew you'd gotten soft, gotten close to someone, and that made you unpredictable."

You stand, sway, catch yourself on the bed rail. He moves forward instinctively, and you hold up a hand.

"No. You don't get to touch me right now. Not when you're about to do something stupid and noble and self-sacrificing." You take a step, then another, closing the distance between you despite your own warning. "They were going to kill me either way, Barnes. Whether you came for me or not. The only difference is that you did come, and now I'm alive to be really fucking pissed at you."

"You don't understand—"

"I understand perfectly." You're close enough now that he can see the bruises forming on your throat, the way you're holding your ribs, the tears you're refusing to shed. "You think you're poison. You think everyone you touch gets hurt. You think the best thing you can do is be alone forever because that's what you deserve."

"Stop."

"No. Because here's the thing, James Buchanan Barnes—you don't get to make that choice for me." Your voice breaks, just a little. "You don't get to decide I'm better off without you. You don't get to kiss me in my kitchen and then run away like a coward. And you sure as hell don't get to sit there bleeding and act like it's some kind of penance."

The medical bay feels too small suddenly, like all the air's been sucked out. You're looking at him with eyes that see too much, that refuse to let him hide behind the careful walls he's rebuilt in the last three weeks.

"They hurt you," he says, quieter now. Lost.

"Yeah. They did." You reach up, slowly, telegraphing the movement. Your hand cups his face, thumb brushing over the bruise on his cheekbone. "And it wasn't your fault."

"How can you say that?"

"Because blaming you for what they did is like blaming a bank for getting robbed." Your other hand comes up, framing his face, forcing him to meet your eyes. "You're not responsible for other people's evil, Bucky. You're only responsible for what you do about it."

"I should have protected you better."

"You literally threw yourself between me and automatic gunfire."

"I should have never let them take you in the first place."

"Oh, so you're psychic now? Can predict the future?" Your laugh is watery. "Add that to the resume. Congressman, ex-assassin, part-time fortune teller."

"This isn't funny."

"It's a little funny." But your smile fades, replaced by something fiercer. "You want to know what's not funny? Spending three weeks watching you shut me out. Sitting in that chair, knowing you were hurting, and not being able to do anything because you decided I was better off without you."

"You are—"

"Finish that sentence and I swear to god, Barnes, concussion or not, I will punch you in your stupid, self-loathing face."

He almost smiles. Almost. "You could barely stand five seconds ago."

"Adrenaline's a hell of a drug." But you're swaying again, and this time when he reaches for you, you don't stop him. His arms come around you carefully, mindful of injuries, and you lean into him like you've been waiting for permission. "I'm so fucking mad at you."

"I know."

"Like, incandescently furious."

"I know."

"You don't get to leave again." It comes out muffled against his chest, but he hears the steel underneath. "I don't care if the entire population of supervillains decides I'm their new favorite target. You don't get to leave."

His arms tighten fractionally. "Sweetheart—"

"No." You pull back enough to glare at him, and even bruised and exhausted, you're the most beautiful thing he's ever seen. "No 'sweetheart.' No soft voice and sad eyes. You're either in this with me or you're out, but you don't get to half-ass it anymore. You don't get to knock on my door at 2 AM because you had a nightmare and then pretend we're just neighbors. You don't get to dance with me at weddings and then act like it meant nothing. You don't get to—"

He kisses you.

There's no grace in it—just collision, pure physics as his mouth finds yours with the same brutal efficiency he'd use to take down a target. Except this isn't violence, it's something worse. It's capitulation. It's three weeks of want compressed into the space between one heartbeat and the next.

The noise that escapes you—half gasp, half sob—unlocks something feral in his chest. Then your teeth catch his lower lip, sharp and unforgiving, and his vision whites out entirely. You kiss like you fight: dirty, determined, taking no prisoners. Your tongue slides against his and his knees actually buckle, what the fuck, he's faced down alien armies without flinching but you're going to be what finally kills him.

His hands fly to your face, metal and flesh cradling your jaw like you're something precious even as he devours your mouth like you're anything but. You're pressed so tight against him he can feel every hitch in your breathing, every shudder that runs through you when he angles his head and deepens the kiss into something filthier, something that has you making these broken little sounds that he wants to bottle and keep.

The medical bed hits the back of your thighs—when did he walk you backward?—and you use the leverage to pull him down, down, until he's curved over you like a question mark, like gravity itself has reorganized around the heat of your mouth.

When you finally break apart, it's only because biology demands it. You're both wrecked—breathing like you've run marathons, lips swollen and spit-slick, staring at each other like you're not quite sure what just happened.

Your pupils are blown so wide he can barely see the color of your irises. There's a flush spreading down your throat, disappearing beneath the hospital gown, and he has to physically stop himself from following it with his mouth. His hands are trembling where they frame your face, thumbs pressed to your cheekbones like he's checking you're real.

"That's not an answer," you manage, but your voice is thoroughly fucked, and your hands are still twisted in his vest like you'll shoot him if he tries to move away.

"Yes, it is."

"No, it's really not. It's a deflection. A really nice deflection, but—"

"I'm in." The words feel like jumping off a cliff. Like defusing a bomb. Like coming home. "I'm in. Whatever that means, whatever that looks like. I'm in."

You study him for a long moment, and he tries not to fidget under the scrutiny. Finally: "You're going to therapy."

"I'm already in therapy."

"You're going to actually talk in therapy instead of just staring at the wall and hoping Dr. Raynor gets bored."

"...fine."

"And you're going to let me have a say in my own safety. No more unilateral decisions about what's 'best' for me."

"Okay."

"And you're going to teach me self-defense. Real self-defense, not just how to throw a punch."

"Deal."

"And—" You sway again, this time more dramatically. "Oh. Okay. Maybe sitting down now."

He guides you back to the bed, hands steady even if nothing else is. You let him fuss, let him adjust pillows and pull up blankets, and he tries not to think about how easily you fit into his hands. How right this feels, even with blood on his shirt and bruises on your skin.

"For the record," you say as he settles back into the chair beside your bed, "I'm still mad."

"I know."

"Like, really mad. There's going to be yelling. Possibly throwing things."

"I can take it."

"And groveling. Lots of groveling. I'm talking flowers, chocolates, the works."

"Noted."

You reach for his hand, lace your fingers through his. "And you're going to tell me you love me."

He freezes. You squeeze his hand.

"Because I know you do. I've known since you reorganized my bookshelf by genre and then pretended you didn't. And I love you too, you absolute disaster of a man, but I need to hear you say it. When I'm not concussed and you're not bleeding. When we're both safe and no one's trying to kill us and we can actually have a real conversation about what this means."

His throat feels tight. "I can do that."

"Good." You close your eyes, exhaustion finally winning. "Now get your gunshot wound treated before you bleed out on my watch. I'm not explaining that to Sam."

"It's not that bad."

"Bucky."

"Fine."

But he doesn't move. Not yet. Instead, he sits there holding your hand, memorizing the way your fingers fit between his, the steady rise and fall of your chest, the fact that you're alive and here and somehow, impossibly, still want him around.

The sun's coming up by the time a nurse finally corners him, threatening sedation if he doesn't let her treat the gunshot wound. You're properly asleep by then, fingers still tangled with his, and he lets the nurse work around your grip rather than let go.

"She's tough," the nurse comments, applying what are probably too many bandages.

"Yeah."

"And stubborn."

"Definitely."

"Good." She pats his shoulder, maternal despite being half his age. "You're going to need it."

He doesn't ask what she means. Doesn't need to. Because you're right—he's a disaster. A work in progress on his best days, a barely controlled catastrophe on his worst. But you looked at all that and decided he was worth fighting for anyway.

The least he can do is try to prove you right.

When you wake up again, he's there. When Dr. Cho kicks him out so you can rest, he goes to therapy and actually talks. When Sam asks if you're together now, he says yes without qualifying it.

And when you're finally released, when you're back in your apartment with its new locks and its carefully cleaned floors, when you knock on his door at midnight because the nightmares found you too—he opens it. No hesitation. No distance.

"Hey, neighbor," you say, and the smile you give him is worth every risk, every fear, every moment of doubt.

"Hey yourself."

You step inside, and he closes the door behind you, and for the first time in longer than he can remember, Bucky Barnes stops running from the possibility of happiness.

It's terrifying.

It's everything.

It's enough.

[binkybonkybucky]

this is so crazy good it’s actually insane. the characterization of post-thunderbolts bucky in this was exactly what i’d imagine it to be. and the thought of big beefy bucky confessing all his feelings so simply and literally proclaiming his vows to father hood while being balls deep is the actual dream.

reckless fever, lover girl!

pairing: bucky barnes x avenger!reader summary: you think it’s nothing—just a one-off, a fluke—when bucky softens at the sight of a baby in your arms during a cookout. but then it keeps happening. babies at airports. babies on recon. babies in vending machine ads. and every time, he looks at you like you’re the answer to a question he hasn’t asked out loud yet. he starts carrying gum “in case someone’s kid gets fussy on a flight,” stares too long at tiny boots in store windows, and once, unironically, asks if your hypothetical child would like goats. you’re not dating. officially. no one knows. but you’ve been sharing a bed for months and he makes you tea without asking and you’re starting to have dreams about pacifiers. he’s subtle about it. until he’s not. until he’s standing at a target, holding a baby hat like it cracked his ribs open, and says he wants a family—with you. not someday. now. word count: 10.7k content warnings: 18+ mdni, fem!reader, piv, oral (f! receiving), soft dom bucky, light bdsm undertones, bucky barnes being whipped (he gets the baby fever first let's bffr), kind of feral bucky, you think you guys are in a situationship when he's fully looking at baby registries, nipple play, yearning, angst, dirty talk, praise, overstimulation, self-induced angst, multiple orgasms, talks of pregnancy and starting a family, marathon sex, riding, fingering, body worship, size kink, bucky picks the reader up, he talks you through it, breeding kink, unprotected sex, creampie notes: this is the most unhinged, feral thing i've ever written. i hope you enjoy!

The baby gets handed to you like a bread basket.

No warning, no instruction manual. Just, “Here, can you hold her for a sec?” from someone—one of the off-duty OXE staff maybe, or someone’s civilian cousin. You don’t catch a name, just a flurry of motion, and then—

She’s in your arms.

Somehow, between the last debrief and the next recon drop, a grill appeared in the Watchtower's rooftop patio, along with several folding chairs, a cooler full of Avengers-branded soda, and one slightly charred volleyball. You suspect Val had something to do with it. Some psychological team-building exercise disguised as a cookout. 

Either way, you’re here.

She’s maybe seven months old, squishy-cheeked and furrow-browed, in a tiny Sentry onesie. Her hair is an indecisive wisp of something light brown, fine and floaty like thistle down, and her eyes—heavy-lidded, contemplative—regard you as though you’re a particularly uninspiring segment of the Discovery Channel.

“She’s—uh,” you say, because your brain’s buffering. “Hi?”

“Hey,” you say again, dumbly.

Next to you, Bucky lowers his beer so slowly it’s like watching a magic trick. He blinks once, then again, like he’s not sure you’re real or the baby is. Possibly both.

“What—why—did you steal a baby?” he asks.

“She was just handed to me.”

You shift, trying to get comfortable. She’s a solid little thing, warm like a fresh loaf of bread, and her hand is currently fisting your collar with alarming purpose. Your shirt stretches under the assault.

Bucky’s still staring. You can feel it—like a sunlamp trained directly at your temple. His mouth is parted slightly. One finger taps against the side of his bottle, rhythmically, unconsciously.

“She’s fine,” you say. “I’m holding her fine, right?”

“Yeah. No, yeah. You look—good.”

You glance at him. His eyes snap up to yours, then away again, like they touched something they weren’t supposed to. The tips of his ears are pink.

You almost say something—tease him, maybe—but the baby chooses that moment to yawn, a full-body, jaw-cracking affair. She snuggles closer into your chest, small cheek pressing into the fabric of your shirt, and suddenly it’s less funny.

Bucky tilts his head, unreadable. “She trusts you already.”

“She’s a baby,” you say, trying to shrug it off. “She trusts anyone with a pulse.”

“No. She knows,” he says, like it’s a settled fact. His gaze lingers on the place where her fingers clutch your shirt, and then—slowly—drifts back to your face.

You feel that look all the way down your spine.

The barbecue hums around you—low, uneven, weirdly domestic for a group like this. Someone’s burned the corn on the grill again (probably Walker, judging by the smoke and the defensive muttering). Yelena’s holding court by the picnic table, sunglasses perched on her head, force-feeding Bob the world’s most questionable potato salad and narrating it like a cooking show. Alexei’s seated in a folding chair two sizes too small, already shirtless and red-faced, beer in hand, yelling something about meat science. Ava is off to the side, calmly reading the nutrition label on a bag of marshmallows like it might be a coded message.

But you and Bucky are caught in this little bubble. A stillness between the beats. The baby, breathing softly. Bucky, watching you like the moment means something more than he’s prepared to admit.

She shifts in your arms. Grunts. You adjust your hold, and Bucky makes a small, strangled noise.

“She good?” you ask.

“She’s—she’s got a strong neck,” he says, as though that’s a compliment. Then, after a second. “You’re really good with her.”

“You’ve seen me hold her for thirty seconds.”

“Still.”

You hold his gaze a beat longer than you should. It’s soft, something unguarded in it. You remember, vaguely, hearing Steve say once that Bucky used to watch people the way most men look at stars. Like there was something miraculous in the simple fact of their existence.

You think maybe you’re beginning to understand what he meant.

“She wants you,” you say, mostly to break the tension. The baby is reaching now, hands grasping toward the collar of Bucky’s henley like she’s on a tiny mission.

He stiffens. “She what?”

“She’s targeting you. Consider it payback for all that glaring you did at the diaper bag earlier.”

“I wasn’t glaring,” he says. “I was…assessing.”

You arch an eyebrow. “Well, she’s assessing you back. Here. Take her.”

You don’t give him a choice. You carefully shift the baby into his arms, and despite all his protesting, he takes her like he’s afraid she’ll break—gently, like someone handed him a fragile truth.

For a moment, he just stands there—awkward, tense, unsure. His left arm, the vibranium one, catches the light in hard, gleaming lines.  But then she sighs, her head lolls toward his shoulder, and his body reacts before his mind does—he cradles her closer, shifts to support her neck, leans in slightly like he’s listening to her breathe.

A hush settles around you.

“She’s warm,” he murmurs.

“That’s a good sign. You’d know if she was cold. Babies are very vocal about injustice.”

His eyes don’t leave the baby’s face. Those eyes—stormcloud blue, too old for his face, always a little wary—are softened now. They flick across her tiny features like he’s reading scripture. Absorbed. He sways just slightly, unconsciously, like some long-dormant instinct is waking up in his bones. “She’s got little eyelashes,” he says, like it’s the strangest thing he’s ever seen.

“She’ll grow into them,” you say softly. “It happens.”

He’s silent a long time. The baby squeaks in her sleep and tugs at the collar of his shirt.

“She’s… safe,” he says, the word delicate on his tongue. “You can feel it, can’t you? Like the whole world isn’t so bad. Just—quiet, for once.”

Your chest aches.

He glances at you then, and for a split second, he looks completely vulnerable. Like there’s something perched just behind his teeth that he doesn’t know how to say.

You step closer. Not enough to touch. Just enough for proximity to pass as intimacy.

“Bucky.”

He doesn’t look away from you.

“I think you’d be good at it,” you say quietly. “The whole dad thing.”

You watch the thought settle on him—slow and heavy, like snowfall. He blinks, once. Breathes in, shallow. His jaw shifts, like he might say something and doesn’t. And then—

“I’d want you there,” he says.

It’s not casual. Not joking. Just... real. A plain sentence, stripped of armor.

You freeze. The baby exhales against your collarbone like she’s aware of the moment and giving it space. Bucky, for his part, looks like he’s just handed you something delicate and possibly flammable.

“Oh,” you say, brilliant as ever.

And he nods. That’s it. A small thing. But he looks weirdly shell-shocked by the admission, like he’d surprised himself saying it aloud. Like he hadn’t even meant to. His smile comes after, slow and stunned and slightly lopsided—almost sheepish, as if he's staring straight at the sun and can’t quite believe it’s warm.

Then her parent’s voice breaks through, all cheerful gratitude. “Hey—thanks! I just needed a sec.”

You watch Bucky blink back into the moment, his hands reluctant as they ease from the baby’s back. He doesn’t quite give her up at first. His fingers linger on the edge of her onesie like they’re memorizing the feel of it. When he does let go, it’s too slow to be casual.

Just like that, the baby’s gone. The space she took up in your arms feels heavier now that it’s empty.

You glance sideways. So does he. But you don’t quite meet in the middle.

Instead, you reach for a napkin and hand it over wordlessly. He accepts it like it’s a diplomatic gesture, dabbing at the drool spot on his shoulder with a sort of distraction.

“She liked you,” you offer, voice quieter than you meant it to be.

His lips quirk. A ghost of a grin. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

There’s a silence after that—longer than it needs to be. Not uncomfortable, just... spacious. Like it’s waiting for someone to step into it. Neither of you do.

Then Bucky clears his throat. “Wanna go in on a pack of bibs?”

You blink. “What?”

He shrugs, suddenly preoccupied with smoothing the napkin along his leg. “Just—you know. For next time.”

You almost laugh. You want to. But something in your chest goes soft instead.

“Yeah,” you say. “Sure. Next time.”

.

Everyone else calls you “the new Avengers.” Valentina prefers to call you just "the Avengers," like saying it with enough fake reverence will make people forget it started as a Hail Mary branding ploy and ended with supernatural darkness swallowing half of New York.

You still call it the Thunderbolts in your head. Not out of loyalty. Just because it fits better.

Technically, you weren’t supposed to be on the roster. Neither was Bucky. He was busy playing congressman—pressed suits, policy meetings, public appearances where he looked like he’d rather be fighting a bear. He wasn’t exactly thrilled about the job, but it was penance, or progress, or both, depending on who you asked. You’d been benched too, in a less official capacity. Tactical reassignment, they said, which is just HR speak for “we don’t know what to do with you yet.”

But then Bob Reynolds cracked in half like a cosmic wishbone. And everything went sideways.

They needed people who could navigate pocket dimensions without losing their minds. People who wouldn’t balk at the Void whispering their worst memories back to them in surround sound. People who could get in and out of a childhood bedroom that wasn't theirs, and still say the right thing.

You and Bucky, for better or worse, fit the bill.

Yelena vouched for you. You’d worked a few ops together—low-profile, high-risk, the kind of assignments that didn’t end up in press releases. Bucky came with his own résumé, mostly consisting of grim nods and trauma credentials.

So now you’re here. In a Watchtower with folding chairs and lunchboxes with your face on them. With a new badge and a code name you didn’t pick. With Bob, whose grip on sanity is improving in inches. With Ava, who can barely look at light too long without phasing through it. With Alexei, who’s taken to shirtless speeches and the New Avengers merch like a religion. With Walker, who somehow thinks this is a promotion.

And Bucky.

You don’t talk about what you are.

There’s no label. No neat little term to slot yourselves under, no status update or whispered confession over pillowcases. No one’s dared to say the word “relationship,” and yet you’ve brushed your teeth side by side, curled instinctively toward each other in sleep, passed cups of coffee back and forth like currency. You’ve learned each other’s silences. Memorized the geography of old scars. He knows how you like your eggs. You know when his silence means don’t ask and when it means please.

It’s not nothing. It never was.

You’re just not telling the others. Not because you’re ashamed—god, no—but because it’s yours. And because once the world knows something, it stops being sacred. It becomes strategy. Becomes leverage. People like Valentina will smile too wide and call it a liability. Alexei will make a crass joke. Walker will ask for details.

It’s easier this way. Quieter. Unnamed, it can’t be ruined.

And besides—you don’t even know what to call it. What to call him, when it’s three a.m. and he’s tucked behind you in bed, breath warm against your neck, arm slung around your waist like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. 

Bucky’s not a man who rushes things. He moves slow, careful, like he’s learned the cost of wanting too much. And you—you’ve never let someone all the way in without already picturing the exit wound.

But moments like earlier—when he held that baby like she was breakable and looked at you like you were the answer to a question he hadn’t meant to ask—they’re getting harder to ignore.

You don’t think about it. Not actively.

You just… catalog. Silently. Carefully. Like a squirrel with emotional acorns.

.

It’s past midnight when you find him again in the kitchen.

You knew he’d be here. You always do.

There’s leftover risotto on the stove and a mostly full bottle of red wine on the counter. He’s sitting at the tiny table like it’s a church pew—hunched a little, fork in hand, bare feet braced on the cold tile floor. His hoodie is soft with age, sleeves shoved up to his elbows, and the vibranium arm glints under the light. His hair’s still damp from the shower.

He looks up when you pad in—doesn’t startle, doesn’t flinch. Just finds you with those soft, sleep-starved eyes like he’s been waiting for you. “You’re up.”

“So are you,” you say, sliding into the chair across from him. “Could smell garlic from my room.”

“I put more cheese in it this time,” he says, with the quiet pride of a man who’s learned domesticity through stubborn practice and YouTube videos.

You reach for the wine, pouring yourself half a glass. The silence between you is familiar. Easy. It’s the kind that grows roots.

“Bad dream?” you ask.

“Yeah,” he says.

You nod. You don’t ask about it.

Instead, “You always this good at risotto?”

“First one was basically wallpaper paste,” he admits. “Sam said it was fine. His sister actually cried.”

You snort, half-choked on your sip. “Cried?”

“She got emotional. Said she saw God in a grain of arborio.”

You’re still grinning when he pushes the pot toward you with a silent offer. You help yourself, spooning some into a mismatched bowl. It’s warm. Comforting. Rich with butter and—yeah, definitely more cheese.

This—this is your favorite version of him. Not the soldier. Not the team lead or the briefing-room strategist. Just Bucky. Tired and soft-eyed in the kitchen, humming low when he stirs a pot. Still, in a way that feels rare and deliberate.

You think about the baby again from earlier. About the way he looked at her. How his whole body went still, but his eyes went soft, like he’s seeing something he misses but can’t remember.

You stir your wine with a finger. Casual. Not casual at all.

“I’ve been thinking,” you start, mostly just to fill the space. “Weird day, huh?”

His brow ticks up, a silent question.

“That baby,” you say. “She just… latched on. Like I was made of Velcro.”

There’s a beat.

“She liked you,” he says. Quietly. Not teasing. Just honest.

You huff a small laugh, not quite hearing the undertone. “She drooled on me. That’s practically a proposal.”

But he doesn’t smile.

He’s looking at you the same way he looked at the baby—still, like something cracked open and never quite resealed. You miss it entirely. Instead, you sip your wine and stretch your legs beneath the table, toes brushing his. “But, I mean, you held her like a pro. Natural instincts, huh?”

His gaze lingers on you for a moment more before dropping to his bowl. He stirs it slowly, the motion absent.

“I used to think I’d have a bunch.”

That surprises you, but he keeps going.

He smiles a little, faint and crooked. “Back when I was just some punk from Brooklyn. Thought I’d get married. Have a couple kids. A porch swing. You know. The American Dream.”

“What changed?” you ask, voice gentler than you meant.

He shrugs. “Everything. Time. Who I became.”

You nod slowly. Try not to let your chest cave in.

“Rebecca used to say I’d be a good dad,” he adds. “She said I was good with her dolls.”

“Your sister?”

He nods. There’s a glow in his eyes now—faint, faraway. “She was eight years younger. I helped raise her, after my ma got sick. Used to walk her to school, do her hair. She liked braids. I wasn’t good at ‘em, but I tried.”

You try to picture it—Bucky, hair slicked back, hands clumsy with a brush, coaxing bows into place on a giggling child’s head.

Your lips twitch. “Braids?”

“Bad ones.” He finally glances at you, mouth quirking faintly. “She called ‘em ‘buckle braids.’ Said they looked like seatbelts.”

You laugh, unexpected. He ducks his head, a little embarrassed, but you miss the way his eyes stay on you too long.

“She’s still alive, isn’t she?” you ask softly.

He nods. “We talk. It’s… complicated. A lotta years between us now.”

There’s another pause.

You don’t fill it. You just watch him, lit gold by the stovetop light, swirling his water like it’s something stronger. He looks far away in that moment—not guarded, not distracted, just... elsewhere. Like his mind is somewhere quieter, and he’s trying to remember how it felt to live there.

He looks like a man trying to remember a life that feels more like a dream.

You think about the look on his face earlier, when that baby yawned and curled into your chest. How he’d watched like he couldn’t quite breathe. Like he’d seen something he wanted and couldn’t name. And yeah—okay—it tugged at something in you too, sure. But not like it did to him. He’s still in it. Still holding on to the ghost of that moment with both hands, even now.

You look at him—soft in a hoodie and bathed in golden light, cheeks pink from wine and warmth and maybe something else—and your chest twists with something slow and awful. The kind of ache that leaves no bruise.

And still. You push your bowl toward him and say, “Okay, fine. I’ll admit it. This is good.”

He snorts, low. “Told you. Not totally helpless.”

“Mm,” you hum. “Jury’s still out.”

But your smile lingers, even as your heart doesn’t know where to settle.

You don’t talk about babies again. Not directly.

But when you both stand to rinse the dishes, you brush past him and say, “For the record… I bet you’d nail braids now.”

And his ears go pink.

You pretend not to see. Because if you do—if you look too closely—you might not be able to keep pretending you don’t know what all of this means.

.

“I want ten of my babies. Obviously.” Ava dips a fry into mustard with the kind of grim determination usually reserved for defusing bombs. “Different thing.”

You’re all at the diner again. It started as a joke—something Walker demanded once after a particularly grim mission, swearing by the restorative power of bacon and drip coffee—and somehow, it stuck. Now it’s tradition: post-debrief pancakes, a rotating cast of bruises and black eyes crowding into a corner booth that’s definitely too small. No one’s sure when it became sacred, but no one skips it, either.

The baby talk started again—somehow inevitably—because of the mission. 

A standard evac turned sideways. Smoke, rubble, a collapsed stairwell. Someone heard crying. Alexei went full Terminator through a wall. And when the dust cleared, there he was—coughing soot and holding a six-month-old like it was a live grenade. The baby didn’t even cry. Just blinked and drooled and grabbed Alexei’s nose like he owed him money.

It should’ve been a footnote in the mission report. It turned into a full-on debate about parental instincts, fight-or-flight hormones, and who would actually survive trying to raise a baby while doing this job.

From there, it was only a matter of time before Ava declared her hypothetical soccer team of spawn with a kind of detached confidence that suggested she’d already drawn up the chore wheel.

You nod slowly, as if that’s a normal sentence to hear over diner food at 9 a.m. on a Thursday. “Different thing,” you echo, like that explains anything.

There’s a pause filled only with the faint sizzle of a kitchen grill and the shriek of someone’s child two booths over. You’re content to let the silence stretch, to keep spooning eggs into your mouth like a sane person, until John leans back. His arm stretches across the vinyl booth with the exaggerated flair of a man who thinks he’s charming. He tilts his head toward you like he’s about to ask for a kiss, and then drops the bomb.

“What about you? Ever think about having kids?”

Your fork pauses mid-scramble. You blink. Once, then again, slower. The question isn’t new—it’s just never been aimed quite so directly at your throat before.

And somewhere in your mind, like a coin dropping into a well, you hear Bucky’s voice again.

“I used to think I’d have a bunch.”

The memory curls in your chest like a secret.

“Sure,” you say finally, and it comes out like a shrug in sentence form. “Sounds like fun. You know. In a nightmarish, identity-altering kind of way.”

John grins like you’ve handed him a gift. “Hey, I know a guy if you’re interested.”

“Oh?" you deadpan, already regretting it.

“Banked some before deployment, real clean record, full medical—”

There’s a sound beside you. Ceramic on laminate. Not a crash—more of a punctuation mark. You glance over.

Bucky’s hand rests on his coffee cup like he’s trying to stop it from shivering apart. The cup’s rim taps against the table once, sharp and accidental. His face doesn’t move. Doesn’t look at you, or at John. He stares into the coffee like it’s a black hole that might finally suck him in, if he just glares hard enough.

Walker doesn’t notice. Or pretends not to, which is maybe worse.

You shift slightly, angle your body just enough to catch Bucky’s profile. Not his eyes—he’s not giving you that. But you see the muscle ticking in his jaw, the way his thumb presses against the handle like it’s either that or throwing the cup against the wall. He breathes, slow and heavy, like he’s counting to ten. Like ten isn’t enough.

And you—idiot that you are—you feel it too. That low, aching pull at the thought of him with that baby. How natural he’d been. How soft his voice had gone. And how, for one weird, echoing second, you’d let yourself imagine it. Not just him with a child. But him with yours.

(It’s a thought you shouldn't let live, but it does anyway—burrows in, sharp and hungry. He’d be such a good father. Steady hands, steady voice, a tenderness in him that most people never get to see. You’d watched it spark to life like muscle memory, something old and unforgotten. 

And then, because your brain is a traitor, the thought tilts—what it would feel like to give him that. To give him that child. Not some hypothetical future, not a vague maybe someday. You. Him. 

That kind of closeness. That kind of permanence. 

The weight of him over you, inside you, something rough and reverent and completely undoing. It knocks the air from your lungs before you can even feel it coming. 

You imagine his voice rough and low—you’d look so fuckin’ good like this, he’d murmur, hands spreading over your stomach, already possessive. Full of me. Mine. You imagine his mouth, soft and reverent between your thighs, saying let me make you a mom, like it’s the last sane thought in his head.

And you—well, now you're sitting in a diner booth trying to pretend you didn’t just think the words “let me make you a mom” while someone’s child screams three feet away. You’re not proud. You are, in fact, actively praying for death. Or coffee. Whichever comes first.

So you do what you do best. You pivot.)

“Anyway,” you say, louder now, aiming your voice like a dart at Walker’s oblivious skull. Making sure your voice is light enough to convey that there isn't a world that it would ever happen with him. “Let me know if your guy offers a bulk discount. I’ll take two or three. Maybe four if they come pre-housebroken.”

John laughs. “First five are free. They just start billing you in sleep and soul erosion.”

Bucky finally moves. Not much. Just enough to slide the cup an inch back toward the middle of his placemat, like maybe now it’s safe. Like maybe no one noticed.

You’d like to kick John under the table. Just enough to shut him up. Just enough to let Bucky breathe.

Instead, you swirl your fork through yolk and wait for someone else to speak. Hope to someone out there that this whole baby thing will be put to rest.

.

But that day was just the start.

You don’t know if something cracked open in the universe or if Bucky secretly bartered a piece of his soul to a baby-loving deity in exchange for emotional clarity, but suddenly—it’s like the planet has been overrun. Babies. Everywhere. Strollers, carriers, those ridiculous kangaroo pouches. Toddlers with juice mustaches and light-up shoes. Infants in tiny sunglasses.

Worse, you’re always with him when it happens.

It starts innocently enough. You’re on stakeout. The intel turns out to be garbage—no targets, no movement, just an empty building and a guy who might’ve been Hydra or might’ve just been bad at directions. You’re about to call it when Bucky… stops walking.

No explanation. Just freezes on the sidewalk.

You turn, squinting. “What? You see something?”

And then you hear it. A laugh. Tiny. High-pitched. Pure. You scan the street and there it is: a baby in a stroller, arms flailing with chaotic joy, pink beanie slipping sideways on her round little head. Her mom is pushing her like it’s just a Tuesday. But Bucky—he crouches. Hands on his knees. Watching like he’s stumbled across the Ark of the Covenant.

“That’s a good laugh,” he mutters, almost reverently. “That’s… like a top-tier laugh.”

You blink. “You ranking baby laughs now?”

He doesn’t answer. Just keeps watching. Like the baby might do it again. Like he’s rooting for her.

You nudge him with your elbow. “Want me to get you a ringtone?”

He says nothing. His silence is telling.

Then it escalates.

Buenos Aires. Late afternoon. The heat’s syrupy, everything sunstruck and slightly too bright. You’re waiting for the decryption key to finish running—loitering under a chipped awning while the team fans out down the block, pretending to be tourists. You’re halfway through a warm soda and reading something in Spanish when Bucky drifts up beside you.

You don’t look at him. You’ve learned not to. He does this thing sometimes—leans in close enough for his shoulder to brush yours, says nothing at all, and just exists like a slow-burn fire you’re pretending not to feel.

This time, it’s worse. He gestures toward a store window. Shoes. Not just any shoes—tiny tactical boots, scaled down like someone was kitting out the junior division of the Avengers. Rugged soles, reinforced stitching, little laces that look too delicate for real fieldwork but too precise to be anything but serious gear. They’re absurd. They’re perfect.

“You think they make those in toddler size 5?”

You turn. Slowly. Give him the full weight of your skepticism. “Planning to outfit your own baby militia?”

He shrugs. Casual. Easy. Too easy. “Just wondering. Hypothetically.”

But then his eyes flick toward you—just for a beat. Like he’s measuring something. Like he’s waiting for a reaction you don’t know you’re giving.

You keep walking. Pretend not to feel your heart skip unevenly.

And it becomes a pattern. A weird, creeping, almost endearing pattern. You’re raiding safehouses, rerouting encrypted intel, shaking a tail in Prague, and somehow Bucky is the one lingering in front of vending machines, pointing at squeezable yogurt pouches like they’re alien tech.

“These have the little resealable caps,” he says, deadpan. “For babies, I think. Smart.”

You blink. “You want one?”

“No,” he says, looking thoughtful. “Just—clever design. Kid-friendly.”

You stare. He shrugs. Again. It’s becoming suspicious. Too real.

.

Later, it’s dark. Safehouse. Everyone asleep or pretending to be. You and Bucky are curled in the guest room that’s technically yours but hasn’t been solo occupancy in weeks. 

He’s already touching you before your brain catches up. Warm fingers ghosting under your shirt, calloused and rough, sliding over your ribs like he’s taking inventory of your soft places. You’re breathing shallowly before he even kisses you, your body already recognizing this as surrender.

There was a time when you thought Bucky would be a gentleman.

Reserved. Polite. Old-world chivalry repackaged in tactical black. You’d imagined he was probably hesitant in bed, at first. Careful. The type to ask twice, maybe three times, before putting his hands anywhere remotely close to where you’d actually want them. You thought he’d kiss softly. Whisper his affections like prayer. You thought—foolishly—that his stillness was quiet.

It’s not.

It’s restraint. Caged hunger. A man constantly one flick away from wrecking you completely.

Because Bucky doesn’t fuck like a soldier. Or a hero. He fucks like a man starved. Like he’s spent entire decades in lockdown with nothing but the memory of heat, and you’re the only warmth he’s ever wanted. He’s filthy in the way that makes your ears ring. Filthy in the way he moans your name when he’s too far gone to realize he’s saying it out loud.

Filthy in the way he says please.

That’s the worst part. The please.

Please kiss me, sweetheart. Please, let me stay in a little longer. Please, don’t stop. Please, I’ll be good. Please, have my ki—You gasp. He hasn't said that last part. You can't entertain that.

“Remember that time in Bolivia?” he murmurs, more statement than question, voice a gruff rasp against your throat. “When I fucked you against the wall and I had to put my hand against your mouth, because—Jesus—because you were being too loud?”

You tried to open your mouth. You usually have some sort of witty remark. But tonight his hand is trembling a little, and your chest’s too full of ache to joke.

"We can't do that here, sweetheart. I need you to stay quiet for me. Can you do that without my help?"

It’s always like this—a little desperate, a little unhinged. Like you both know it can’t mean what it means and keep doing it anyway. A nightly game of chicken with the truth.

Your legs spread, obscene, filthy, and soaked—giving him just the right view. He ducks down underneath in a flash, tongue swiping out before he does so, the pink flesh needy and hungry. The flutter of his eyelashes as he takes you in and wraps your legs around his face.

And when he pushes his tongue inside you, it’s slow. Not teasing. Not lazy. Just deliberate. Like he’s trying to stay—inside you, with you, in the moment.

Your hands are in his hair, your legs wrapped tight around his head, and then—midway through a breath, a moan, a whisper of his name—his hand slides up.

Spreads across your stomach.

Not rough. Not possessive.

Settled.

Just—there.

Like he’s holding a thought.

His thumb traces one slow arc across your skin. Then another. Circling your navel like he’s drawing a map. Or casting a spell. You don’t even register it until his breath stutters.

You freeze—just for a second—but he doesn’t stop moving. Doesn’t stop looking at you, either. You look down and his eyes are dark, wide, wrecked. Like he’s trying to rein it in. Like he’s already failing.

“Jesus,” he murmurs, half-strangled, pulling away from your cunt long enough for you to see the long, shimmering streak that connects his mouth to you. “You’d—fuck, you’d look so perfect like this.”

You blink down at him, too far gone to process. “Like what?”

He doesn’t answer. Just looks at you—like he wants to say it. Like the words are climbing up his throat and he’s fighting to keep them down. He presses a kiss to your thigh instead, then to your core, mouth hot and desperate.

“Sorry,” he breathes. “I just—”

You’re not stupid.

But you are, maybe, willfully stupid. Denial’s easier than everything else. Safer. You pull his head closer instead, scratch at his hair, drag him deeper into your legs feels like you're trying to climb out of your own skin.

Come inside me, come inside me, the thought, intrusive and loud and irrational, echoes in your head, even as he wrenches your first orgasm of the night from you. You watch as he licks up the remnants from between your legs, then the way his tongue darts out to catch the streaks around his stubble.

And you think, with a sense of finality, that you're fucking doomed.

.

It doesn’t help that the rest of the team is starting to notice. Yelena’s not subtle—she’s taken to raising her brows whenever you and Bucky so much as walk in the same direction. Alexei hums under his breath sometimes, low and vaguely ominous, usually something about “strong bloodlines” or “resilient genetics,” just loud enough to make your skin prickle. Even Val, smug and sharp-eyed, had that moment last week where she looked between the two of you, then at the empty supply room, and muttered, “Better not be rearranging furniture in there.”

The thing is—you and him have always been subtle. Always toeing the line but never stepping over.

Except now, lately, that subtlety is starting to unravel. Not in big ways, but in increments. A slip of tone. A lingering look. The way he doesn’t bother disguising the softness in his voice when he says your name. It’s like he’s decided—quietly, firmly, permanently—that you’re it. And he’s just waiting for you to catch up.

It’s in the little things.

He starts carrying gum in his pocket “in case someone’s kid gets antsy on a flight.” He asks if the noise-canceling headphones in your shared gear bag might work for toddlers. He watches you when you pick up a fallen pacifier at a rest stop, eyes going all soft at your hands, like he’s imprinting something in his head he doesn’t quite understand.

Then, during a recon op, he nudges you awake after you dozed off in the back of a surveillance van. “You sleep like a baby,” he says quietly.

You think he means it as a compliment, but your heart flips and your brain short-circuits, and you spend the rest of the mission wondering if he’s trying to tell you something or if you’re going insane.

(You do not, in fact, sleep like a baby. You drooled on the armrest. He said nothing.)

Weeks pass. Missions blur. The baby sightings continue like clockwork. You start to brace for them. For Bucky’s inevitable sighs. For the way his expression slips into something almost wistful.

You’re trained to read microexpressions. He should know this. You see it—the way his jaw softens, the way his shoulders fall just enough to say I want this. Not now, maybe. But someday.

And more terrifying: the way he keeps looking at you. Like you’re part of that someday.

And God—how could he?

How could he look at you like that?

You’re good at the quiet things. The watching, the stitching-up. The banter. The fight, when you have to. But you’ve never known what it means to build something that doesn’t involve exit strategies or a go-bag tucked under the bed.

Bucky… he deserves someone solid. Someone who’s not half a shadow. Who’d instinctively know how to hold a baby without second-guessing. Who’d have a laugh that sounded like Sunday mornings, and hands that were always warm. Someone who could braid a child’s hair without worrying they’d pull too hard. Someone kind. Someone permanent.

Not someone like you.

You’re not sure if he even sees the difference. You’re not sure if he knows he’s dreaming with his eyes open when he looks at you like that.

But you do.

You just pretend it doesn’t mean anything. Because if it does—if he’s looking at you like he already knows, like he’s already chosen—

Well.

You’re not ready for that kind of fallout.

Not yet.

.

The worst—by far—is the petting zoo in Nebraska.

You’re there under completely fabricated cover identities. Something about an eco-terrorist cell operating out of an adjacent farm-to-table cheese shop. You’ve both got sunglasses and fake names and those little earwig communicators that make you feel like you’re in Mission Impossible. You’re trying to be inconspicuous.

But then you pass the small animal enclosure.

There’s a toddler up ahead, perched on her dad’s shoulders like a giggling parrot. She squeals—delighted—at the sight of the baby goats, then gets lowered gently down so she can feed them through the fence. Her little fingers curl around the bars, one of the goats licks her hand, and she lets out a laugh so pure and shrill and untouched by the horrors of modern living that it actually makes your chest hurt.

You don’t even register it at first—just the absence of footsteps beside you. Then you glance back.

He’s standing there, completely still, like he’s been struck by divine intervention. Like that baby goat and that toddler just rewired something deep in his old brain. His expression is unguarded in a way that makes your stomach tilt. Soft and stunned.

He doesn't even pretend to be focused on the mission anymore.

And then—then—he turns to you. The most serious he's ever been. Eyes locked on yours.

“Do you think ours would like goats?”

You nearly choke on your lemonade. Actually choke. You cough once, twice, like your lungs are trying to escape your body. “What?”

And it’s not just the question—it’s the way he says it. Our kid. Not flippant. Not ironic. Not followed by a wink or a smirk or even a shy smile. Just fact. 

“I said,” he repeats, casually, clearly, like it’s the most normal thing in the world, “hypothetically, would our kid be into goats.”

You just stare at him. You’ve stopped trying to be cool about this. The number of times he’s said our baby with absolute, unsettling conviction has reached what can only be described as a statistically significant trend.

“I don’t know, Bucky,” you say, rubbing your temples. “I think most hypothetical babies are goat neutral until proven otherwise.”

He hums. Actually hums, like he’s storing that away. “Makes sense. We'll have to test it early. Build a baseline.”

“Stop,” you say, pointing a finger at him like that might restore order to the universe. “You’re not serious.”

His eyes flick to yours. And there’s no twinkle there. No smile. Just this steady, almost stubborn kind of affection—so open it knocks the wind out of you.

"You said I’d be good at it,” he says, voice low, so only you can hear. “The whole dad thing.”

You open your mouth. Then close it. Then open it again like a very confused fish. Because you remember saying it. You remember the patio, the way the baby curled into his chest. The kitchen, the risotto, the late hour and the way he’d talked about braiding Rebecca’s hair. You remember the quiet ache in your chest, the one that’s back now, curling tighter.

And you don’t know what the hell to say. You really don’t. Because he’s looking at you like he’s already imagined the whole damn life and decided it was worth every scar. Like he’s already picked out the parts of himself he wants to give a kid—the kindness, the patience, the rebuilt softness—and buried the rest.

So you make a joke. Mask it. Swallow the quake in your throat and reach for levity like it’s body armor.

“Well, if the goat thing doesn’t work out, we can always try hamsters,” you say. “Low stakes. Contained mess. Give Yelena's little guy a friend.”

The goat bleats behind you. Bucky doesn’t flinch. Just watches you like he's still waiting for an answer—a real answer—that you're not sure how to give.

You move on. .

It finally breaks in a Target.

Of course it does.

You’re on a supply run for the team. Technically, this is all mission prep and there's assistants for things like this—med supplies, energy bars, razors, weird thermal socks Yelena swears by—but somehow, somewhere between the bottled water and the electrolyte tablets, you and Bucky wander into the wrong aisle.

Not wrong like “accidental.” Wrong like fate’s playing dirty.

Now you’re standing in front of an endcap display you definitely didn’t mean to find, and there it is. Tucked between pastel swaddles and soft-textured washcloths, like a landmine in the wrong aisle—a tiny cotton baby hat, pale blue with little stitched ears.

It’s nothing. Just a hat.

But Bucky’s staring at it like it cracked his ribs open.

“Hey,” you murmur, stepping closer. “You okay?”

He doesn’t answer.

Just reaches out and picks it up. Turns it over in his hands slowly, like it’s something fragile. Like it might vanish if he isn’t careful. His thumb brushes over the tag. He squints at it like he’s trying to make sense of the fibers. His jaw’s set hard, but there’s something in the line of his shoulders—something tired.

“Bucky,” you say again, gentler this time.

He doesn’t look at you. “Did you know their heads are soft?” His voice is quiet. Almost reverent. “Babies. Their skulls don’t even come together for a while. You have to be real careful.”

You blink. “Have you… been reading about this?”

He swallows, shrugs. “I don't know. I just—I see stuff. I look it up.” He sets the hat down too fast. It doesn’t bounce. It just flattens there on the shelf like it’s watching him back.

You don’t speak. Neither does he. You just stand there for a second, like the air’s been drained from the aisle.

There’s a baby crying somewhere in another aisle—high-pitched and sputtering. A lull, then a hiccuping wail. A mother murmurs something gentle in response. The sound floats over the shelves and then disappears.

Eventually, you both walk.

Wordless. Past rows of seasonal candy wrapped in rustling orange plastic. Discount school supplies. Travel-sized deodorant and decorative lint rollers. Your cart is still half full, but you don’t look at it. Your eyes keep tracking him instead. His steps are slower than usual, like each one is being dragged out of him. His shoulders slope in that particular way you’ve started to recognize—like he’s still holding that hat in his mind, careful and afraid.

The automatic doors swish open and spill you into the afternoon like you’ve been exiled.

Outside, the parking lot’s too bright. The sun glares off windshields and the pavement radiates that late-summer kind of heat—baked rubber and exhaust fumes and burnt asphalt. A shopping cart wheel squeals in the distance, sharp and whiny. The plastic Target bags crackle like they’re judging you.

You lean against the car. It’s hot through your shirt. The silence settles again—heavier now. Thicker. Like it’s pressing into your ribcage and asking for something neither of you are sure you’re ready to give.

You look at him. Not just glance—look.

He’s standing with his back half-turned, metal hand flexing and unflexing at his side, like he’s trying to let something out but doesn’t trust what’ll happen if he does. His vibranium arm glints in the sunlight—charcoal black veined with gold, all matte finish and unforgiving elegance. It doesn’t belong here, not really. Not in this mundane little parking lot, not against a backdrop of SUVs and clearance bins.

But neither does he.

You let the silence stretch a little longer. Let the heat sweat on your back, the wind tousle your hair, the tension between you wind tighter like thread pulled taut.

Then, finally, like you’re testing a live wire. “What’re you thinking about?”

He breathes in slow. Shaky.

And then, finally, he speaks—voice soft, too soft for someone built to survive war. “Do you have any guesses?”

That’s new.

You blink. Look down at your shoes. Your reflection warps in the car door.

“I don’t want to guess wrong,” you say. Even though you know fully well.

He huffs something between a sigh and a laugh. It’s not bitter. Just… tired. Then he gestures loosely, not at anything in particular. Just out. Broadly. Helplessly.

“We keep running into this,” he says, quieter now. “Not just here. Everywhere. At the grocery store. On recon. That billboard downtown with the giggling baby and the diaper brand we’ll never have enough time to run and grab from the store. That kid last week with the tiny shoes, remember that one?”

You do. You remember too well.

“There was this moment,” he continues, voice cracking, not looking at you yet, “when I saw that kid—and I thought, he’s going to walk into your arms someday. And I realized—I already want that."

He’s pacing now, one hand on his hip, the other dragging through his hair like he’s trying to pull something out of his skull. The sleeve of his hoodie is shoved up to the elbow. His dog tags are visible. His metal hand flexes open and closed like he needs something to grab onto.

“I just couldn't stop thinking about it.” He laughs, breathless and small. “Which is stupid, right? I mean—look at me. Who the hell am I to want something like that?”

“Bucky…” You trail off. Because he deserves it. He deserved all of it and you want to give him everything.

“But this? You?” he says again, shaking his head like he still can’t believe he has to say it out loud. “This isn’t hollow. This is wanting. Real wanting. Not some half-dead echo of need or distraction or—God—forgiveness. I don’t want you because I think you’re gonna fix something in me. Or because I think this’ll be easy. I want you because it’s you.”

His eyes find yours again—steady, burning.

“Because when I think about a future without you in it, it feels wrong. Like my bones know it. Like every damn instinct I’ve got wants to drag me back to wherever you are and just—stay.”

Your throat tightens. He presses on.

“And don’t get it twisted—I see you. I see the way you move through missions. The way you think six steps ahead, the way you take hits like they’re nothing and still check on everyone else first. You’re not some fragile thing I wanna put behind glass. You’re steel. You’re tougher than half the people I’ve fought beside. You don’t need anyone. Hell, you don’t need me.”

He steps forward. Lowers his voice.

“But I want to be needed by you. I want to be the guy who gets to hold you when the world’s too loud. I want us. A home. A baby—maybe two. One of ‘em likes goats. I don't know. Maybe we argue about preschool names and you yell at me for lettin’ them eat cereal off the floor. You're the person I want to be a disaster in front of at 3 a.m. because our hypothetical child won’t sleep unless you sing that dumb Fleetwood Mac song—” 

“Fleetwood Mac isn’t dumb.” 

“See? That’s exactly the tone you’d use,” he says, as if that proves a point. 

You blink hard. Your chest aches in that quiet, painful way reserved for things that are almost too good to believe.

“And I’ve been trying to be subtle,” he says, a rough laugh in his throat. “Pointing at strollers like a moron. Buying those damn pouches with the resealable caps. I kept hopin’ maybe you’d see it. Maybe you’d say somethin’ first. I didn’t wanna scare you off. I know what we’ve been through. What you’ve been through.”

He looks down for a second, then back at you—gentle now, gentler than you’ve ever seen him.

“But I’ll wait. As long as you need. I’m not going anywhere. And if you’re scared? Good. Me too. Means we’re not makin’ this decision with our eyes closed. But don’t pretend it’s not real. Don’t tell me I’m imagining this, because I know what this feels like. I’ve spent too long not feeling anything to mistake this for anything else.”

His vibranium hand curls into a loose fist at his side. Not clenched. Just steady. Anchored.

“I want this. With you. All of it. Even the hard parts. Especially those. I want the missions and the night shifts and the baby who won’t stop crying and the mess and the fear and the way you look at me like I might still be good. I want all of that, and I want it with you.”

And there it is again—that feeling like your ribs are about to crack open from the pressure of it all. From the weight of being seen this clearly. This completely.

You step closer, close enough now that the heat from him leaks into your skin. You stare up at him, eyes burning.

“You really want all that with me?”

He nods. “More than I’ve ever wanted anything.”

“And you’re really not afraid I’ll mess it up?”

His smile is small, pained—like he’s trying to hold it together with fraying thread. “You’ll mess it up. So will I. We’ll accidentally teach them to swear. Maybe we let Alexei babysit and they come back speaking fluent Russian and craving vodka. I’ll still want you. Even when we’re sleep-deprived and overwhelmed and knee-deep in goldfish crackers. Especially then.”

Your voice cracks open without warning. Raw. Bare.

“Bucky—what the hell am I supposed to say to top that?”

“You don’t have to say anything,” he says softly, hand cupping your cheek with the kind of conviction that makes your knees go weak. “Just… don’t walk away. Don’t—God, please—don’t say no. Not to this. Not to me.”

You nuzzle closer into his hand. Slowly. Your voice, when it comes, is paper thin. “You really think I’d say no to goat-loving, minivan driving Bucky Barnes?”

His mouth twitches. “You making fun of me?”

You smile. You’re shaking a little. “Only a little.”

He laughs, and it’s a real one—wet around the edges, but honest.

And that—God. That lands like a sucker punch.

You take a breath. Step closer. Your heart is a drumbeat in your ears but your voice—your voice is iron and sunrise. “Okay. Let’s say, hypothetically, we make our first one now. What then?”

Bucky’s entire body stills.

Like he’s been hit center mass—not by a bullet, but by possibility. Like your words cracked open a vault somewhere deep in him and he’s still trying to process what came out. His breath hitches. His brows lift just slightly. You can almost see it—each implication of what you just said unfurling in real time: first one, meaning more than one. Meaning permanence. Meaning forever.

His eyes go wide—like, really wide. Like he’s just been handed the Infinity Gauntlet and told to babysit it. His mouth opens, then closes again. Then opens. A soft, stunned “Now?” escapes.

You nod. Slowly. “Yes. Now.”

And it’s like a switch flips. Whatever gears were turning in his head just snap into place, and then he’s grabbing you—gently, desperately—and kissing you like he hasn't kissed you thousands of times before. It’s all hands and breath and something that tastes like joy, wild and uncontainable. You laugh into it, half-giddy, half-overwhelmed, and then someone leans out of a passing minivan and honks.

You both jump. Bucky flips the guy off without looking. “Keep driving, asshole!”

You’re laughing so hard your ribs hurt, and you have to clutch his arm just to stay upright. He looks at you like you’ve personally realigned his entire future.

Then it’s a race. You barely make it through the parking lot without tripping over yourselves, bumping shoulders and brushing hands and laughing like lunatics. Bucky opens the car door for you like he’s being timed for a rescue op, and the moment your ass hits the passenger seat, his hand is on your thigh—firm, possessive, fingers warm even through the denim.

He doesn’t even pretend to drive normally. The car peels out like you’re being chased, tires screeching as he swerves onto the freeway with all the caution of a man on fire.

His other hand clenches the wheel, knuckles pale. “You sure you’re not gonna regret it?” he asks, voice low, like it’s been scraped out of him. Like he’s terrified this is a dream and one wrong word will wake him up.

You glance over. He’s flushed down to his collar, eyes flicking from the road to your face and back like he can’t decide which is more dangerous. You’re smiling so wide it hurts your cheeks.

“If you keep asking questions like that,” you murmur, “I might pull you over and climb on top of you right here.”

He chokes. Visibly swerves. “You—you’re not joking.”

“I am, Bucky. We're at a fucking Target.”

He lets out a groan like it physically pains him. “You’re evil.”

You lean your head back against the seat, breathless with laughter. But then you glance sideways and—yeah. That look on his face? That’s love. That’s a man about to commit several felonies in your name.

“I’m gonna treat you so fuckin’ good,” he mutters, almost to himself. “Gonna make you feel safe and spoiled and full of me. Gonna worship you every damn night. You don’t even know.”

“Oh, I know,” you say, suddenly a little breathless. His grip on your thigh tightens, just for a second.

His foot presses harder on the gas.

The car hums like it’s picking up on the tension. Bucky’s jaw is set, eyes dark, every red light a personal affront to his timeline. At one point he actually mutters “no” at a yellow light and runs it anyway. Another person flips both of you off until they squint and see who's in the car. Bucky doesn’t blink.

When the Watchtower finally comes into view, he exhales like he’s just crossed a finish line. The tires screech again as he parks, but you barely register it. Because the second the engine cuts, he turns to you, all flushed cheeks and unholy devotion, and whispers, “Upstairs. Now.”

And then—

He lifts you like it’s muscle memory, like your body belongs there, bracketed against him. Your legs wrap around his waist. Somehow, some way, he finds the bedroom with barely a glance, kicks the door shut behind him, and lays you down like you’re breakable.

Not fragile. Important.

He hovers above you for a beat, breath uneven, gaze raking over your face like it’s the first time he’s really let himself look. Like he’s memorizing this—just in case the world tilts sideways again.

He bends down, his voice rasping against your mouth. “You still sure about this?”

You pull him back to you by the waistband of his jeans. “I said I wanted all of it.  The house. The minivans. The goats. I meant it.”

Something in him loosens. Not all the way, not yet—but enough to soften his edges. He exhales through his nose and kisses you like it’s a vow, mouth warm and open and aching. His hands find your thighs, settle there like they’ve always known the shape of you. Thumbs brushing slow circles like he’s grounding himself on your skin.

You kiss him back with everything you’ve got, fingers fisting in the fabric of his shirt—and when you tug, it’s not subtle.

And you tug at his shirt again. “Bucky—”

“No, just—let me—” He peels it off over his head in one fluid motion, and fuck. You’ve seen him shirtless before. Dozens of times. Training sessions. Medical checks. Casual Sundays in sweatpants.

But not with the full breadth of him laid bare, chest heaving, dog tags glinting faintly in the low light. Thick, ropey muscle, that deep ridge where his hip cuts in and disappears under the waistband of his jeans. He’s massive. Bigger than you can ever brace for. Every inch of him looks carved from the kind of strength that short-circuits your higher brain function.

And it hits you, all at once, how strong he really is.

Not just tactical, not just capable—but superhuman. The kind of strength that could lift a car or crush a man’s throat or pick you up like you weigh nothing. You’ve felt it before—in combat, in sparring, in those accidental brushes where he’d catch your wrist or hoist you clear of an explosion.

You’re trying to keep it together—you are—but then he grins. That slow, crooked, devastating thing like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. “You’re staring,” he murmurs, voice gone husky with amusement.

You shoot back, “So are you.”

“Yeah,” he says, and steps in, close enough that his chest brushes yours, heat radiating off him like a furnace. “Difference is, I’m about to do something about it.”

Your mouth goes dry. Your brain attempts a witty reply and fails spectacularly. So you shove at his shoulder with mock offense, and he grabs your wrists—gently, easily—and pins them to the mattress above your head.

Oh.

It’s nothing. No pressure, no real force. But it reminds you. Reminds you exactly what he’s capable of. How easily he could break you. How carefully he never has.

“Could hold you like this forever,” he murmurs. “You’d let me, wouldn’t you?”

You squirm beneath him, flushed and wrecked and undone.

“You’re so goddamn beautiful,” he breathes, dragging his nose down your throat. “I could carry you around all day. Pick you up, fuck you against a wall, against a table, hell, the fridge, if I wanted.”

You gasp, and his grip tightens—just enough to feel it.

"I need to get you ready first," He pulls back slightly, meets your eyes. “That okay?”

You nod. Hard. “Yes. Fuck, yes.”

His stubble rubs along your neck, your collarbones, until he pauses at your chest, nuzzling one of your nipples with his eyes closed—reverent. His tongue darts out, sucking and pulling at the sensitive muscle, more for his sake than for yours. 

There's a graze of his teeth—then, his other hand comes to meet your other breast, ever the multi-tasker. He murmurs your name, once, twice, the sound vibrating low against your skin.

You don't know how long he stays like that, in that blissful purgatory, his leg, between your legs, just barely giving you the stimulation you need, until his mouth, his beautiful, beautiful mouth, gets faster, more greedy, and the leg you're grinding against pushes deeper against you—

"Come for me, sweetheart."

It's like fucking fireworks. You cum with a groan, eyes closed shut, whining low and deep and overwhelmed.

When you come to, vision returning to you in hazes, you look at him through fluttering lashes, the way he strokes his cock in front of you. Painfully hard, red, and weeping, but it's his words that make you short-circuit next.

“You’re gonna let me put a baby in you, huh?”

Your breath catches.

He kisses you before you can answer—deep and consuming and hungry—and when he pulls back, there’s a look in his eyes you’ve never seen before. Something molten. Something fierce.

“Been thinkin’ about something else too,” he confesses, dragging his mouth along your jaw. “You, round with my kid. All soft and happy. Maybe bossin’ me around with that look you get when you’re pretending not to care.”

The words stick—and it's all the warning you get before he's slotting his cock in between your cunt, slipping inside of you.

His hand settles on your stomach, low and possessive. He presses his palm there like he’s already claiming it. Like he’s asking permission to fill it. You can feel it, the pressure delicious, as his thrusts get messier, less controlled. The room's filled with the sound of it, groaning and snapping and skin slapping together.

“I’ll be good,” he says, voice cracking. “I’ll be so good. You’ll never have to lift a finger. I’ll make breakfast. I’ll learn lullabies. I’ll paint the damn nursery if you want me to.”

You moan, high and helpless. “Keep talking.”

He thrusts—deep, slow, intentional. “I’ll hold your hand through the appointments. Rub your back when it hurts. Run to the store at 3 a.m. for pickles, or chocolate, or whatever the hell you need—”

Then, his hand–the metal one—moves between you, lower and lower until his thumb's hovering right over your clit, pinching and squeezing and rolling it, and you have to fight every cell inside of you not to cum right then and there, even while he's looking at you and saying everything so, so goddamn perfectly.

You clench around him, once, twice, like a vice grip that's desperate for him to feel just the way he makes you feel.

“Jesus,” he breathes. “You’re so—fuck, I just wanna—” He shakes his head, then mutters against your collarbone, “Don't do that, not yet, I'll cum."

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” you whisper. "I just wanna–oh god—show you how thankful I am."

His hips rock against yours. 

“You wanna thank me?” he pants, jaw trembling as he fights to hold on. “Then do it with an ultrasound. Let me hear it. Let me see it.”

You whimper, wrecked by the words alone.

“Say it,” he demands, but softer now. Frantic and obsessed. “Tell me you want it too. Tell me you want to keep me forever.”

“I do,” you gasp. “I do—God, Bucky, I do—”

Then he shifts, pushing himself deeper inside, and one brutal thrust later, raking his hands across your abdomen, you gasp. Shuddering, shaking like a leaf, finishing in his arms so hard that you nearly twist out of his grasp.

Seconds later, Bucky spills into you, and you can feel the precise moment he throbs inside you, warmth filling you up, up, up, and you can fill the drip of his cum spilling out from the sheer volume of it. You've never felt so full.

When you try to get up, he stops you with a gentle pull against your waist. He buries his face in your neck. “Need you to stay still,” he growls, words slurred, “make sure it takes.”

And who were you to say no to that?

You're tangled up in him, hours later. Or maybe minutes. Time’s a blur. The sheets are kicked halfway down the bed, your leg slung over his hip, the air still thick with heat and something heavier. Sweeter. Like gravity finally decided to show up and drag you straight into the future.

Bucky’s arm is around your waist, metal plates cool against your damp skin, the weight of him grounding. He’s curled slightly, head bowed like he can’t stop looking at you. His fingers draw slow, absent circles on your belly—like the thought never left him. Like it’s only just beginning.

Neither of you says anything for a long time.

And then, quietly, “You okay?”

You nod, not trusting your voice. Your heart’s still hammering like a warning bell and a love song. “You?”

He huffs a laugh into your shoulder. Presses a kiss there. Then another, softer. His voice is hoarse when he finally answers. “I’ve never been this okay.”

There’s a pause. You don’t fill it. You just watch as his thumb drags slow and soft across your stomach again, like he’s memorizing the shape of possibility.

“I can see it,” he murmurs. “Not just a kid. Our kid. One that frowns like you and kicks like me. One who’s smart, and stubborn, and throws food at Walker's head during holidays.”

You snort softly. “You think we’d raise a kid that obnoxious?”

His grin is lazy and real, eyes bright with something so big it makes your chest ache. “I hope so.”

You stare at the ceiling for a beat. Let the words sink in. Let the idea grow legs.

Then you roll closer, press your palm over the hand that’s still stroking your belly.

You whisper it this time. Fragile. Hopeful. “You think this’ll do it?”

Bucky shudders—actually shudders—and shifts to kiss your jaw, your cheek, your mouth like it’s a prayer.

“Sweetheart,” he says, low and wrecked, “I’ll do it again. And again. All night, if that’s what it takes.”