castawaycreature - Tumblr blog

castawaycreature · 2 days ago

Text

I just love a little jealousy trope.

little black dress 𐙚 b.b

pairing: new avenger!dom!bucky barnes x fem!reader

warnings: nsfw, 18+, minors dni, unprotected sex, rough sex creampie, possessive!bucky, bathroom sex

summary: you and bucky have always danced the line between desire and something more. but he never made his move, so you showed him exactly what it looked like when john does.

word count: 4.8k

author's note: hii my darlings! i had this fic in mind for a while now, and it took me a few days to finally get to writing it! and, honestly, john's growing on me 🥹 i hope you enjoy reading it as much as i enjoyed writing it! thank you for your support <333 love ya guys and stay safe out there! 💖

The dress was barely a dress at all, if anything it was more suggestion than fabric, clinging to your body like a second skin.

Black silk, paper-thin, and cut like it was designed to destroy restraint. It slipped over your curves without resistance, the kind of fit that made strangers stare and men lose their footing.

The back plunged low, scandalously so—baring the line of your spine, the dip at the small of your back, the parts of you that longed to be touched. The hem itself was short enough to provoke imagination, short enough to turn heads.

You hadn’t even considered a bra, the silhouette just didn’t allow for one, but truthfully, that wasn’t the reason. The absence was part of the appeal, it made you feel unrestrained

The silk whispered across your thighs as you moved, every step practiced and purposeful, it caught the light in just the right places, teased your skin like a lover’s touch.

You could feel how the dress made you watchable, the kind of thing people noticed and couldn’t look away from. Every inch of exposed skin became a silent challenge and every shift of your hips, a calculated dare.

You stood at the mirror, sliding in one earring, then the other, your lips were slicked in a soft, gleaming gloss that caught the light every time your mouth curved.

Yelena’s voice carried through the doorway, amused. “Wow. You trying to kill Bucky?”

You didn’t flinch, just met her eyes in the mirror as she leaned lazily against the frame, one brow arched in mock accusation, a knowing smirk tugging at her mouth.

“Maybe,” you murmured.

“He doesn’t stand a chance.”

You turned slightly, letting the dress shift like a ripple down your thighs, your mouth curving into a knowing smirk. “He’s had chances,” you said, voice lower now, almost thoughtful. “He just never took them.”

Yelena’s grin widened. “Don’t let him off easy. The man’s been blue-balling himself for months.”

She disappeared down the hallway with a lazy wave, leaving only the soft sound of her boots against tile and the muted thrum of your own heartbeat.

The tension between you and Bucky had always lived in that thin space between too much and not enough. Flirting had blurred into something else long ago, something darker, slower, heavier.

It lived in the way his eyes tracked you across a room like you were a threat to him. In the way his touch lingered a second too long when he helped you up off the mats. In the way your breath caught every time he leaned close enough that you could practically feel his restraint.

It had become a game, a slow-burn stalemate of low voices, shared glances, and touches that hovered right at the edge of indecent. He’d press you down during training, thick thighs caging you in, vibranium fingers wrapped firm around your wrist, and the heat between you would spike.

He never moved. Never let himself fall.

And you were tired of pretending not to notice the way his hands tightened when you teased. The way his jaw clenched when your laugh came too close to someone else’s ear. The way he looked at you—like he wanted to devour you, and somehow hated himself for it.

Your heels clicked softly against the concrete as you stepped out of the compound’s elevator, each step deliberate.

Ava was already by the SUV, one hip cocked, gaze flickering between her phone screen and the cluster of the others around her. Bob nodded along absently to the pulse of whatever bass-heavy song Yelena had commandeered for the aux.

Alexei stood beside them, sipping something clear from a paper cup that definitely hadn’t been cleared by protocol, honestly, nothing he had been drinking since the team moved into the compound had been, not that you were complaining though.

But all of them stilled, for just a second, when you walked out into the warm, electric hum of the night.

John let out a low whistle, his gaze unfiltered and unhurried as it raked down the length of you. “If I knew you were wearing that,” he said, voice warm with amusement, “I’d have taken longer to get ready.”

You smiled, slow, confident, a little cruel, and breezed past him with a smirk that felt like the start of trouble. “Too late, Walker.”

As you passed, your fingers brushed Bucky’s. Barely. A whisper of contact, just enough to feel the static crackle between you. It could’ve been dismissed as accidental, if not for the way his fingers twitched, the almost-imperceptible flex, like he was fighting the urge to catch your hand and hold it there.

He was leaned against the SUV’s doorframe, arms folded across his chest. Stil, watchful. The tightly-leashed expression he wore wasn’t new, it was the same one he wore during missions, when the objective was in sight but the timing wasn’t right. Controlled tension, that coil of restraint wrapped tight beneath the surface.

His black tee stretched obscenely across his chest, the sleeves clinging to biceps that seemed to be sculpted from Adonis himself. His jeans were broken-in and low-slung, worn soft in all the right places, he looked lethal, almost unbothered. Except he wasn’t.

His gaze dropped—from your eyes to the slope of your bare back, pausing there before trailing lower. You caught the subtle shift in his jaw, the clench and release that gave him away.

He didn’t say a word. He didn’t have to.

And you didn’t look back.

Inside the SUV, it was chaos, the kind that came with too many personalities jammed into one vehicle. Alexei and John were already halfway into an argument over the playlist. Both men reached for the center console like it was some kind of atomic bomb they were racing to defuse.

“I pick! You picked last time,” Alexei snapped, clearly offended.

“That was the gym,” John countered, cocky and unbothered. “This is clubbing. Different playlist.”

“It’s still music, идиот (idiot).”

Bob, ever the neutral third party, tried to mediate with a calm voice and a poor sense of timing. Yelena, predictably, told him to stop touching her mirror, and he did, again.

You climbed in last, taking the only seat left, right beside Bucky. It was tight, deliberately so. Your thigh pressed flush against his, the heat of his body seeping into yours through denim and skin, a slow, smoldering current that made your breath hitch.

He didn’t shift. Didn’t lean away. Didn’t lean in, either.

He sat like he’d been poured into the seat and frozen there, every muscle drawn tight beneath his skin, jaw ticking, eyes fixed on the window like it was the only thing keeping him together. His stillness wasn’t calm, it was restraint, sharp-edged and suffocating, the kind that only lasted until something snapped.

You could feel it in the air between you, thick and heavy. You knew that silence, knew what it meant when Bucky went quiet like that.

So you moved instead. Slow. Intentional.

You crossed your legs with a fluid, unhurried motion, letting the silk of your dress slip higher on your thighs. The fabric whispered against your skin, you knew what you looked like, knew how little the dress left to the imagination.

And you knew he was watching. Even if he wouldn’t look directly, you could feel the way his focus narrowed.

The effect was immediate, barely visible, but you saw it.

The twitch in his jaw. The subtle exhale through his nose. The slow, unmistakable flex of his gloved fingers against his thigh, the leather creaking ever so slightly as his knuckles tightened.

You turned your head just enough to catch him in your peripheral vision, your voice dipped low and syrup-sweet.

“Something wrong?”

He didn’t speak at first. Just blinked, once, as if clearing a fog, his throat worked around the words like they tasted dangerous.

“You know exactly what you’re doing,” he said, low, hoarse, like it scraped its way out of him.

Your smile curled, wicked and slow. You bit the inside of your cheek to keep it from spreading too far, too fast, but you were glowing with it. Thriving in the weight of his unraveling.

That wasn’t denial. That was surrender, dressed in defiance.

And you hadn’t even touched him yet.

Tonight was going to be fun.

The bass hit first, low, pulsing and thick enough to feel in your chest. It vibrated up through the soles of your heels as lights strobed across the club in rhythmic flashes, bathing the dance floor in a kaleidoscope of heat and haze.

Everything smelled like sweat, smoke, and sex, bodies pressed too close, perfume clinging to skin, desire hanging thickly in the air.

The boys peeled off toward the back, claiming a booth near the edge of the floor wall, Bucky didn’t even look at you as he passed, didn’t acknowledge the dress, the skin, the sway of your hips. But you felt him clock every inch, felt his gaze dragging behind him like smoke.

Let him look.

You, Ava, and Yelena made a beeline for the bar, heels clicking against sticky tile, hips swaying in easy confidence. The kind of entrance that wasn’t loud, but undeniable. The three of you moved with practiced grace, synced like predators on the hunt.

Ava leaned her elbows on the counter, tipping her head just enough to catch your reflection in the mirrored back wall. Her mouth curved in a smirk, “So… what exactly do you have up your little sleeve tonight?”

You took your time answering, sipping your margarita first, your eyes went wide, mock-innocent, voice featherlight. “Nothing. Just drinks, dancing.”

Yelena snorted—elegant and completely unamused. “Right. And I only wear red lipstick when I’m feeling shy.” Her accent slipped ever so lightly as she raised a brow, tipping her glass at you. “Game on.”

You laughed into your cocktail, the rim cold against your mouth, the liquid burn sliding smooth down your throat. “Come on. I’m overworked and underfucked. Let a girl have her fun.”

Ava raised her glass in mock salute. “Here’s to that.”

Yelena clinked hers against both of yours and deadpanned, “To sins we don’t plan on confessing.”

You grinned behind your glass, letting the moment bloom in your chest, the ache, the buzz, the sharp sparkle of anticipation. The burn of your drink was satisfying, but it was nothing compared to the heat unfurling low in your belly, thick and steady, pulsing with every beat of the music.

This wasn’t about about playing coy or waiting for someone else, him to make the first move. It wasn’t about almosts, and it damn sure wasn’t about patience.

Yelena finished the last sip of her drink with a dramatic sigh, setting her glass down, “alright,” she said, turning toward the dance floor. “Lots of bad decisions on the floor tonight,” the blonde added, gesturing with a tilt of her chin to the sea of bodies moving, looking like they were chasing sin.

Ava grinned and looped her arm through hers. “Pick your poison.”

They disappeared into the crowd, a blur of glitter and limbs, swallowed up by pulsing lights and sweat-slick rhythm, leaving you at the bar with a half-full glass and the slow, deliberate thrum of possibility building beneath your skin. You didn’t follow.

Not yet.

Instead, you leaned against the counter with one elbow, the condensation of your drink trickling down your fingers. You drew slow, idle circles into the damp ring left behind, a flick of your nail here, a swirl there.

The music surged, thick and pulsing, you sipped slow, lips parting just enough to let the burn slide over your tongue.

John walked up beside you like a storm rolling in off the coast, easy grin, crooked charm and amused timing. He moved like he’d known you’d be here, like he was already in on the joke.

Two drinks in hand, shirt sleeves rolled up, hair a little too perfect not to be deliberate. He looked you up and down once—not subtle, not rushed.

“They abandon you already?” he asked, lifting a brow, offering the second drink with a tilt of his wrist.

You smiled, slow, sly, just the curve of your mouth like the lift of a weapon. “Strategically separated.”

He handed you the drink, and your fingers brushed his, just enough skin to spark. His gaze dropped, the way your dress hugged your hips, the bare line of your shoulder. He sure as hell wasn’t trying to hide it, and you didn’t ask him to.

“What’s the angle?”

You met his eyes, calm and unblinking, lashes dipped low. “Wanna help me with something?”

He huffed a soft laugh, low and almost fond. “You’re always up to something, aren’t you?”

You gave a little shrug, sipping slowly. “Mmhm.”

He leaned in a fraction, close enough that you could feel the heat of him—not touching, just there.

You tilted your head, eyes glittering, voice smooth. “I need a little distraction. Something that'll get under his skin.”

You didn’t say jealous, you didn’t need to. It was all over your posture, the way you lingered in the doorway between control and provocation. That got you a full pause. A low whistle through his teeth as he set his own glass down on the bar behind him.

His eyes narrowed. “You trying to get me killed?”

You smiled almost sweetly “Mmm. Maybe.”

John’s gaze dragged over you again, slower this time. Appraising. Heat in every pass. His tongue wet his bottom lip before he spoke again, voice dropping an octave. “You know,” he murmured, “with you looking like that, I don’t think it’ll take much.”

You said nothing. Just held his gaze, then—still watching him—reached down and slid your fingers through his. A small tug. No force.

An invitation.

And he followed, just like you knew he would. Because of course he did.

The bass swallowed you whole the moment your heels touched the floor.

It pulsed through the soles of your feet, climbed up your spine, sank low into your stomach—all rhythm and thudding pressure. Lights slashed through the darkness, catching glances of skin and sweat, painting the crowd in strobe-lit temptation.

The air was thick—muggy with lust and music, electric with the scent of alcohol, perfume, and too many people pressing too close. You could feel the pulse of it against your ribs, in the backs of your knees, deep between your legs. It was visceral, almost alive.

Bodies moved in waves, hands where they shouldn’t be..

You led John into the center of it, into the heat and chaos and everything you’d been simmering with all night. You didn’t ask, you didn’t wait. You turned, pressing your body flush to his, and started to move.

It wasn’t subtle and it wasn’t meant to be.

You rolled your hips into his slowly, deliberately, letting the music guide your rhythm—the kind of movement that left no room for interpretation.

John’s hands found your hips easily, like he’d been waiting for the cue, his fingers tight, almost possessive, but not quite. He moved with you, his body catching the pace of yours, letting the friction build, letting the fantasy settle into reality.

His touch dipped lower, tracing the shape of your waist, down the curve of your hips, then sliding further—over the swell of your ass, where he squeezed once, firm and unbothered.

You arched into him instinctively, feeling him hard against you, and felt the heat of his breath against your neck when he chuckled, voice thick with amusement and something darker.

“Shit,” he murmured near your ear, half-dazed. “You really want him to kill me, huh?”

You didn’t answer.

You just turned in his arms—slow, like silk unrolling, until your back was pressed against his chest. Your ass ground into his crotch with no shame, no pause, no hesitation. You wanted him to feel it. Wanted everyone watching to see it, to see you.

You moved with intent, liquid and hot, your body matching the beat in slow, deliberate waves. Letting the music pulse through your hips. Letting every roll say watch this. Watch her choose someone else.

His hand spread wide across your lower back, holding you there, fingertips pressing just hard enough to feel. The other settled on your waist, fingers splaying low beneath the hem of your dress, riding the curve of your body like he’d earned it.

Your hand slid behind you, fingers skating up the back of his neck, slipping into his hair, tugging him down until his mouth hovered just behind your ear.

You didn’t speak. Didn’t need to.

Because across the dance floor — through the haze and the lights and the pounding bass — he was watching.

Bucky hadn’t moved.

He was still sitting in the booth, drink untouched, his shoulders stiff, coiled like wire. Elbows braced on his knees, hands loose but twitching, almost as if he was holding something back. Like if he gripped any tighter, the glass in his hand would break.

His jaw was locked, the muscles working hard beneath his skin.

But his eyes—those fucking eyes—they were locked on you.

Cerulean. Burning. Blown wide. He wasn’t blinking, hell he probably wasn’t breathing. He was consuming you with nothing but a stare, tracking every shift of your hips, every breath you took, every inch of your body pressed to someone else’s.

And when your eyes finally met his, it felt like something cracked open between you—a tether stretched so tight it sang with tension.

You smiled.

Coy. Dangerous. Just the corner of your mouth, like you weren’t thinking about him at all when every second of this performance was for him. Like he wasn’t the reason you wore the dress. The fuck-me heels.

Then you turned your head—slow, deliberate—just enough for Bucky to see your lips ghost against John’s cheek.

Your fingers slid from the back of the blonde’s neck to his jaw, tilting his face toward yours with a kind of practiced care.

And you kissed him.

Full, slow and intentional. Lips parted. Breath caught. Not rushed and definitely not for fun.

Not for John. Not even for you.

Just for the man across the club who hadn’t taken his eyes off you since the moment you stepped onto the floor.

The man who hadn’t touched you.

You didn’t break the kiss right away.

You let it linger, just long enough for Bucky to watch your lips part against John’s, your fingers curled lightly in the fabric of his shirt. Just long enough for him to feel the choice in it.

The defiance. The line being drawn in real time.

You weren’t playing anymore. You were showing him what it looked like when you stopped waiting.

He was already watching, and he hadn’t looked away once.

And across the club, where the music drowned everything but the pulse in his jaw, Bucky sat like a man seconds from detonation.

Yelena leaned in, loud and unapologetic. “Your girl’s with Walker now, huh?” she said, nudging him with the sharp edge of her elbow, eyes tracking the slow, obscene way your bodies moved.

That did it.

The brunette stood, fast and sharp, like a wire finally snapping and shoved past Alexei without a word, shouldered Bob hard enough to make his drink spill.

And he came for you.

Bucky didn’t care. Didn’t slow down. Didn’t speak.

His boots pounded against the floor, direct, unrelenting, cutting a path through the crowd like he was built for one purpose only: you.

People moved before he touched them. Stepped aside like they could feel it coming off him—the possessive edge carved into every clenched muscle.

You didn’t see him until it was too late.

Until his hand wrapped around your wrist. His touch—firm, hot and unmistakable.

Your body jerked back instinctively, caught off guard by the sudden contact. His grip wasn’t rough, but it was tight. Claiming. As if letting go wasn’t even an option.

Your head snapped around, startled, mouth parted. “What the fuck are you—?”

He didn’t answer, didn’t look at John, didn’t acknowledge the beat still hammering around you.

He just dragged you.

One hard tug and you stumbled into him, your heel skidding against the floor, the front of your dress catching against his jeans for half a second before you found your footing again.

John called something behind you, your name, maybe, or just a startled, amused curse but it was swallowed by the music and the crowd.

Bucky didn’t stop. He pulled you through the writhing bodies like they weren’t there, cutting a clean line across the chaos. His grip on your wrist never loosened, not once and you didn’t resist.

Not really.

Not when your skin was flushed, your breath caught somewhere between panic and arousal, and your pulse was thrumming like a war drum in your throat.

He turned down a narrow hallway, cool and dim and lined with flickering wall sconces, and barely slowed before slamming his boot into a door. It flew open with a sharp, echoing crack, and then—

You were inside.

The door slammed shut behind you with a force that made the wall shudder, and then his hands were on you. Everywhere. Hard palms on your waist, his body pressing into yours, his mouth already devouring.

He pinned you against the door with the full weight of his body, all chest and heat and barely leashed violence. His mouth crashed into yours like a punishment, and it was filthy. Hot breath. Tongue. Teeth dragging across your bottom lip until you gasped. He kissed like he wanted to bruise, like he needed to stake a claim from the inside out.

One hand fisted into your hair and yanked your head back hard enough to make you moan; the other gripped your thigh, shoving it up around his waist as he ground his cock into you through his jeans—thick, hot, already hard.

“You think I didn’t see what you were doing?” he growled into your mouth, voice ragged and ruined. “Grinding on Walker like that? Kissing him like you wanted me to fucking lose it?”

You couldn’t answer, too breathless, too far gone, and maybe that was the point. He didn’t want words. He wanted surrender.

He spun you hard—chest to the door one second, then bent over the sink the next. The mirror caught your wide eyes, your flushed cheeks, your mouth already parted in anticipation as he shoved your hips forward and flattened his hand between your shoulder blades.

You barely had time to breathe.

His hand yanked your dress up in one swift, brutal motion, baring you to the air.

No panties.

Just slick, swollen heat between your thighs.

The gasp that tore from your mouth wasn’t just shock—it was want. Need. Desperation.

He froze for half a beat.

Then, “Fucking knew it.”

The sound of his voice—shredded, possessive, starving made you clench around nothing. Your knees almost buckled, but he caught you, of course he did. One arm wrapped tight around your waist, the other slid down, fingers slipping between your thighs without hesitation.

He groaned. Deep. Raw. “You’re soaking.”

He didn’t ease in, didn’t test the waters. He shoved two fingers inside you, knuckles deep, while his thumb circled your clit with tight, filthy pressure.

You jerked against the counter, legs straining, hips rocking helplessly into his hand.

“Filthy little tease,” he hissed against your neck, biting hard enough to leave a mark. “You walk around with this dripping cunt and expect me to stay quiet?”

You whimpered something—his name, or maybe please—but it didn’t matter. He was already undoing his belt with one hand, jeans shoved down just enough, cock springing free, heavy and thick and leaking. He lined up behind you, ran the tip through your folds, groaning when he felt how wet you were.

Then he slammed into you.

One brutal thrust, all the way to the hilt.

You cry out, not from pain, but from shock. From the stretch, from the sheer depth of him. He was thick, perfectly shaped to ruin you, and he didn’t give you time to adjust. He pulled out halfway and slammed back in harder.

Again. And again. And again.

Your hands clawed at the counter, your thighs trembled. You were already splintering.

He fucked you like he didn’t care who heard. Flesh slapping against flesh, deep and punishing. He didn’t hold back. Didn’t slow down. He knew exactly what he was doing—grinding his hips into your ass, hitting the spot inside you that made stars burst behind your eyes with every stroke.

One hand fisted in your hair again, wrenching your head back so he could watch your expression in the mirror. The other found your clit and didn’t let up.

“Say it,” he panted, fucking you harder. “Say you’re mine.”

“Bucky—”

Another thrust. Vicious.

“Say it.”

“I’m—fuck—I’m yours,” you sobbed, eyes glassy.

“Damn right you are.”

Your orgasm hit like an explosion—a scream dragged from deep in your chest, your body locking up around him, pulsing, shaking. Your legs gave out and he held you up, fingers digging into your hips as he fucked you through it, chasing his own release.

But he didn’t stop.

Didn’t slow. Didn’t let you breathe.

“That’s it, princess,” he groaned. “Give me another one. Come on. You can take it.”

You were drenched. Shaking. Fucked-out and trembling. Your body tried to fight it, twitching and jolting with every thrust, but his hand on your clit kept moving—tight circles, never breaking rhythm.

You came again with a broken scream—your second orgasm ripping through you, thighs trembling violently as your body begged for mercy. Your cunt spasmed around his cock, pulsing so tight it dragged a strangled sound from his throat.

“Fuck—fuck, I’m gonna—”

He slammed into you one last time, deep and final, his hips jerking hard against your ass as he came with a growl—a raw, filthy sound buried in the curve of your neck as he spilled inside you, thick and hot, his cock pulsing with every wave.

He didn’t move for a moment, just held you, breathing ragged, his hand still gripping your hip like he thought you might vanish.

Eventually, he pulled out—slow, careful, your body still fluttering from aftershocks, his cum slick and warm as it slid down your inner thighs. You swayed a little, overstimulated and trembling, and he caught you instantly.

“Easy,” he murmured, voice rough as gravel. His hands steadied your hips. “I’ve got you.”

You let him turn you gently toward him, your heart still galloping in your chest, legs jelly-soft. His fingers were shaking as they fixed your dress—tugging the fabric down over your hips, smoothing it over your thighs like it mattered now.

You looked up at him, lips kiss-bruised, eyes dazed, makeup smudged.

His hand cupped your jaw, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth. He didn’t speak for a moment—just stared at you, pupils still blown wide, jaw still tight, like he was trying to figure out how the hell he let it get that far.

“Tell me,” he rasped, “did it work?”

You blinked, throat still too dry to laugh properly. “You mean the jealousy plan?”

His mouth twitched—not quite a smile. “You trying to drive me fucking insane?”

You tilted your head, kissed his thumb. “Just needed a reaction.”

He leaned in, forehead resting against yours. “You want a reaction, princess” His voice dropped to something low and lethal. “Next time, you ask. I’ll give you everything.”

You swallowed, heat sparking in your belly again despite everything. “That a promise?”

He kissed you—softer this time. Still deep, claiming.

“Yeah,” he whispered against your lips. “You can bet on it”

Finally, you opened the bathroom door.

And stopped short.

A paper sign, written in black sharpie and taped crookedly across the door, flapped in the hallway breeze:

OUT OF ORDER — DO NOT ENTER

Laughter exploded a few feet away at the booth.

Yelena and Bob were doubled over, howling. Ava leaned against the wall like she’d been waiting. John stood smugly sipping his drink, clearly proud of himself. And Alexei, hands in his pockets, gave Bucky a once-over and shook his head with faux disappointment.

“Was it worth it, Barnes?!” Yelena hollered, absolutely delighted.

Alexei sighed. “I owe Walker twenty bucks. Told him he’d snap before midnight.”

You groaned, burying your face in Bucky’s shoulder as he groaned under his breath.

“Oh my god.”

You laughed into his chest, muffled. “Told you I’d get your attention.”

He slid his arm around your waist again, pulling you in tight.

“You’ve got all of it now,” he muttered. “Hope you know what the fuck to do with it.”

And you did. You just grinned.

a/n: i hope you enjoyed this fic! if you did, please consider dropping a comment or even a reblog 💌 it keeps me motivated! thank you my loves

#bucky barnes #bucky smut #fave

1K notes · View notes

castawaycreature · 3 days ago

Text

I actually have no words for this. So beautifully written. So intense and sweet and angry like it should be. Loved it. Thank you for this.

In The Woods ; B. Barnes

The truth is stranger than in all my dreams. Oh, the darkness got a hold on me.

Pairing: Thunderbolts!Bucky x Ex-Avengers!F!Reader

Synopsis: He left you behind to keep you safe, but safety never stopped the heartbreak. Now, a year of grief, silence, and sleepless nights unravel the moment he shows up at your door with his new team—bruised, breathless, begging. You’re angry and he’s sorry, but the love is still there. It always has been.

Warnings: Angst, hurt/comfort, y/n is mean & angry (for a bit), bucky is guilty, swearing, ft. thunderbolts, bleeding/injuries, sambucky break-up (mentions), yearning, not dating but a secret third thing, mentions of natasha & her death, y/n is “team sam”, mentions of tfatws (briefly), mentions of hell/religious imagery, violence/blood, SMUT, MDNI, kissing, oral (f), spit, p in v, creampie, unprotected sex (don’t), happy ending, no tb spoliers/ WC: 13.5

A/N: Bucky in Thunderbolts….mind goes brrr. Not helping the SamBucky divorce allegations but alas, anything for the story. Ignore any choppiness in the timeline or story, I wrote this with the worst migraine.

The forest was bleeding.

Not with colour—but silence. With snow falling slow and heavy, catching on branches and burning footprints as fast as they were made. The trees stood like sentinels, black-limed and reaching. Nothing but white, wood, and blood.

Bucky’s breath came ragged through the hush, fogging the air. His gloved hands were soaked red. Yelena was slung between him and Walker, unconscious but breathing, the warmth of her body slowly seeping through his coat.

They weren’t going to make it.

He should have known. He should have been prepared for it, but he hadn’t been.

“Bob,” Bucky called, voice tight, hoarse. “Stay close.”

Bob—still limping, still glassy-eyed from the explosion—nodded and trudged forward, boots crunching through the snow. He wasn’t built for this. Not yet. Not like this. Val had shoved him onto the field too soon, too eager.

Bucky had tried arguing, tried telling her that he was still fragile—a liability—but she hadn’t listened. And Bucky didn’t need more on his plate, but he’d take care of him. Or, at least, he’d try.

Ava phased in and out ahead, scanning, ghostlike. When she disappeared for a moment too long, Bucky felt the silence of the clearing, tenfold. She was trying to stay ahead of whatever might still be behind them.

But, Bucky could feel it. He could taste it.

They were done. Just miles of snow and trees and nowhere to go.

Yelena was bleeding out and Walker wasn’t any better, wobbling on his legs as he tried to stand up straight. They wouldn’t last long out here, certainly not while dragging each other.

“Shit,” he muttered, stopping long enough to fumble with the tablet in his pouch. His hands shook—exhaustion, adrenaline, guilt—never ending guilt, swimming in his veins. He tapped into the satellite overlay, breathing hard, as their current location pinged into view.

Grid 48-F.

The North woods. Nothing but a snow storm. Cold, empty—remote. No outposts for miles.

These weren’t woods happy campers visited. Untouched land, ridged and slanted, surrounded them. A perfect place for illegal activity but not so perfect to do the right thing.

But—there—just there—barely on the edge of the map.

A single black dot, beeping in and out existence, almost as if a trick of the light, like it wasn’t meant to be found.

His chest caved in around it.

The coordinates suddenly looked familiar, as did the landscape. He narrowed his eyes, held the tablet up, heart slowing down.

He knew these coordinates.

Bucky stared at it for a long, frozen second.

A place he hadn’t let himself think about in almost a year.

A place filled with half-buried memories—laughter over old vinyl records, the sound of boots on the porch, a sweet voice telling him to sit as he was cleaned up. Steam curling from a mug handed to him without a word.

Nights too quiet and long to pretend the tension wasn’t there. That the affection, curling around the wood and into the floorboards, wasn’t there. That the flicker of love, of want, wasn’t soaking into his skin.

Your eyes, warmer than firelight, watching him with a softness he’d never be able to find anywhere else.

He hadn’t been able to go back.

Not after deciding to leave you. Not after ignoring your calls when you got back from your mission. Not after telling himself it was for your safety—for your distance, from him and the darkness and chaos that seemed to follow him.

He’d convinced himself that cutting the cord meant saving you.

But now?

Now the cord was pulling him back, wrapped around his neck and tugged, and he couldn’t rip it off even if he tried.

“Bucky?” Bob’s voice small, nervous. He glanced at Bucky before focusing ahead, cold and wet.

Bucky looked up, snapped out of it. “We’re not going to the evac point,” he said, voice low yet carrying. “We won’t make it. We’d freeze before the rendezvous got here.”

“Then where?” Walker grunted. “We’re going to die out here.”

Bucky hesitated, eyes on the trees, on the white mist curling through the frozen pines.

Finally, he said, “There’s a cabin.” He paused, like it hurt to admit. “It’s not far.”

He didn’t say who it belonged to. He didn’t say it was the one place in the world he’d once felt safe and at peace. Didn’t say he hated every second of his life since they landed in this cold hell a few hours ago.

Instead, he just adjusted Yelena’s weight on his shoulder and started moving.

They reached the edge of the clearing an hour later.

The sky was bleeding to black now, dim with twilight, blue shadows sinking low between the snowdrifts. The cabin stood half-hidden beneath a thick layer of frost and pine, smoke curling softly from the chimney. Warm light flickered behind the frosted windows.

It felt like a punch to the gut.

Bucky paused at the treeline and held up a fist. The team crouched, quiet, bodies stiff from cold. He scanned the clearing, fingers twitching at his side. His mouth and eyes went dry.

He didn’t think you’d be here.

You hadn’t been the last time he checked. A year ago. After he stopped answering your messages. After he told himself staying away was the only way to protect you from the mess he was about to wade into with Val.

Just once, last year, in a moment of weakness, he looked for you. Actively searched for you. He just needed to know, just needed to make sure you were okay, safe. He couldn’t find you. Sometimes, he can still feel that raw panic, the way his heart had stopped breathing when he came up empty, the way he had fallen to his knees and clutched at his chest like someone had ripped his heart out of him.

The smoke was fresh. The path to the shed was shoveled. There were footprints.

His stomach dropped.

You were here.

He turned, eyes on the snow. “Stay put. I’ll clear it.” His voice was low.

“What if someone’s inside?” Ava asked, curious at Bucky’s shift in behaviour.

Bucky’s jaw tightened. “Then I’ll handle it.”

He crossed the snow like a ghost.

Every step was agony. Every crunch of ice beneath his boots cracked open another memory.

The porch creaked under his weight.

His hand slid along the doorframe. He knew exactly where you kept the spare key, the trick to the lock. He’d fixed it once, after you kicked it shut too hard. He remembered the way you’d rolled your eyes and offered him a beer while he worked.

He didn’t want to break in.

He didn’t want to disrespect this place, the peace that surrounded it.

He didn’t want to hurt you again.

He just—

He just needed somewhere to hide.

His fingers curled around the doorknob, heart in his throat. You wouldn’t have been able to tell that he was once an assassin, once a killing machine.

And then—

Click.

“Don’t move.”

He froze, muscles stilling.

The cold metal of a rifle barrel touched the base of his skull. It was the first time it had in years. He forgot how hard it was, how chilling.

“Turn around. Slowly.”

The voice behind him was sharp, cold, measured—devoid of any emotion and warmth.

Your voice.

Bucky turned.

And there you were.

Wrapped in flannel and fury. Face hard as ice, sharp eyes, steady behind the sight of your rifle. Your finger on the trigger didn’t even shake. It was steady, pressing. He felt a sliver of fear, something foreign and familiar all at once.

He drank in the sight of you like he was breathing for the first time, like he had been drowning at the foot of an altar and hadn’t known peace, hadn’t known salvation until this moment.

Your hair was a little longer, circles under your eyes. New, faded scars on your face, under your eyebrow and lips. Same old boots.

Still exceptionally beautiful as the day he lost you.

The only thing different was your expression.

New.

You didn’t look surprised. Not the way he was. You weren’t drinking him in.

You looked furious, angry, murderous.

That, he decided, was the worst part.

“...Y/n,” he breathed, voice cracking.

You stared at him, eyes like knives. Finger pressing the trigger harder, like you were going to pull.

“What the fuck are you doing here, Barnes?”

The barrel of your rifle didn’t drop.

Even as the snow clung to his hair, melting down his jaw. Even as his expression cracked open into something half-empty, half-anxious.

Even as his lips parted like he might say something real, something soft, something that would make you pull the trigger.

You didn’t let yourself care, didn’t let yourself even entertain the thought of anything except the press of the barrel into his skin. You couldn’t—couldn’t even take a moment to comprehend that he was in front of you, alive.

“You’re trespassing,” you said, voice ice-edged and flat, and dangerous. “So either tell me who’s bleeding in the trees or I put one in your leg and call Sam.”

That hit him.

It hit him.

He flinched—subtle, almost imperceptible—but you caught it. Just like you used to catch every other shift in him. The way he’d crack a knuckle when he was anxious. The way his jaw would tighten when he was lying. The way he could never look you in the eyes when he said goodbye.

You clicked the safety off.

He didn’t even raise his hands.

“Yelena’s hurt. So is Walker,” he said, voice lower now. Rougher. Sandpaper. “Bob’s with us. We just needed a place to—”

“You think you can just show up here?”

It came out sharp. Too sharp. Quick, something prickling.

Something behind your ribs cracked open. A dam you didn’t even realize you were still holding back. You stepped forward, closer, gun still pressing against his forehead. Snow on your boots, fury in your chest, your heart pounding so loud it echoed in your ears.

He was still standing on your porch.

Your space.

A sacred, secret spot you had once shared with him, but no longer.

You were seething. How fucking dare he?

“I ought to shoot you, you know that? Put a bullet in your arm, maybe your shoulder.”

“I didn’t know you were here,” he said quickly, eyes on you, like it made it better. “I wouldn’t have—I wasn’t gonna stay. I just—”

“Just what, Bucky?” you snapped. “Thought you’d break in? Treat it like another asset to use up and leave behind? Like you did with me?”

He could feel his heart crack, his resolve, all the effort he’d put in himself to forget you, all came crashing down. He felt small, guilty.

He didn’t even think about his team, the ones watching him from the treeline, taking in this new version of him. They’d never seen him stand so still, so disarming.

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Swallowed thickly.

His shoulders curled in just a little. Like he’d been waiting for this. Like it still hurt more than he expected.

Your hands shook, once. His eyes fell on them before lifting, piercing into yours. You lowered the rifle only because you didn’t trust yourself not to pull the trigger on accident.

And then—movement. A shuffle behind the trees.

Bucky turned his head slightly, called out, “Come on out.”

You watched as Bob stepped into view first, arms braced under John’s weight. Blood stained the sleeve of Walker’s coat, and his jaw was clenched with pain. Ava phased beside them a second later, hauling Yelena, unconscious and pale, her forehead slick with blood.

Your stomach turned. You swallowed the bile. You knew them, or, knew of them. Although you had removed yourself from society as best you could, you still kept in touch. Listening, watching.

They looked like shit, like they’d been through hell.

But you didn’t look at them, not really.

You looked at Bucky. Watched the way his lips turned down at the sight of them in concern.

It made you sick that part of you still cared.

That the sight of Yelena’s crumpled form made you shove the pain down into your gut. That instinct took over and you stepped aside, jerking your head toward the door.

“Inside. Now.”

Bucky didn’t move, not right away.

Maybe he was stunned, or trying to think of something to say.

But you didn’t wait. You turned your back on him—on all of them—and pushed the cabin door wide.

The warmth hit you like a slap, familiar and inviting yet surprising.

The fire was still crackling in the hearth. Your mug of half-finished tea sat forgotten on the windowsill. The cabin smelled like pine and old wood and the lilac cleaner you used on the floors just that morning.

It smelled like you.

And then they all stumbled in, dragging the snow and blood and silence behind him.

Ava pulled Yelena onto the couch. Bob dragged Walked across the carpet, propped him up somewhere. He hovered close, face pale, eyes wide. You moved fast—medical kit from the cabinet, extra blankets from the trunk, towels tossed in the sink.

Your movements were sharp, precise. Practiced and automatic.

You didn’t look at Bucky.

You didn’t need to.

You could feel him behind you, like a storm gathering behind your spine. Like a memory clawing up your throat.

Your voice was low when you finally broke the silence.

“This place isn’t a fucking outpost.”

“I know,” Bucky said quietly. Almost like he couldn’t believe you’d think he’d disrespect this place, one that had once been so kind to him.

“Then why the hell are you here?”

“I didn’t have a choice.”

You snorted. “There’s always a choice.”

His voice cracked, desperate. “I didn’t think you’d be here.”

“Yeah?” You turned, eyes meeting his briefly, hard and angry. “You make a habit of not thinking and being an idiot?”

The silence after was thick enough to drown in.

And he felt it. Drowning, deeper and deeper.

“They’re good people.” It’s all he could say.

“Don’t care.” You did. You couldn’t help yourself, because they hadn’t done anything to wrong you—except Walker—but even then. Their past had no relevance to you. You’d take care of them. It was who you were.

“I just… I thought—”

“What, Bucky?” you snapped eyes narrowed, voice shaking. “What did you think would happen? That I’d open the door and thank you? That I’d be so grateful for the ghost of you showing up on my fucking doorstep that I’d forget everything else?”

He flinched again. Didn’t try to defend himself.

Good. He shouldn’t.

You stepped toward him, close enough that he could feel the heat of your fury.

“I waited, you know. After I got back. I waited. Every goddamn day. Thought you’d call. Thought you’d explain. But you didn’t. You just disappeared. Like none of it meant anything.”

Bucky’s eyes burned.

“It meant everything,” he said, voice low. Raw.

You shook your head. “Too late.”

He wanted to say something else—there was so much to say, so much to apologize for, but you moved away from him, left him standing near the kitchen. He felt something crack at the distance, which was funny, he mused painfully.

For a year, he spent thousands of miles away from you, but he hadn’t felt the distance—the loss—till now. Everything inside him was aching and his hands curled into fists as he watched you, eyes burning into your back.

You worked in silence.

Yelena’s breathing was shallow but steady, her wound cleaned and wrapped beneath layers of gauze and tape. She hadn’t woken yet, but the colour was beginning to return to her face. You tucked another blanket around her, brushing damp hair back from her forehead with a gentleness that surprised even you.

There was something about her, something so achingly familiar in the way she held herself, even unconscious. She had a scar, a small faded one right on her chin. Briefly, your mind flashed to Natasha, of a story she told you years and years ago about her sister and a stapler.

Bob hovered nearby like a kicked dog—wide eyes, oversized hoodie stained with someone else’s blood. His hands trembled as he offered a clean towel, his lip caught between his teeth.

You took it from him carefully, fingers brushing his.

“Thank you,” you murmured. Your voice dipped, just for him, something softer and inviting, like you knew who he was, what he had done, and decided he deserved kindness anyways.

His face lip up like a spark had caught in his chest and he smiled bashfully before he looked away.

Ava sat perched on the arm of a chair, arms crossed. Her eyes tracked every move you made, sharp but not hostile. Just watchful, trying to familiarize herself with you. You caught her eye and nodded at her. She nodded back. Quiet understanding passed, soldier to soldier.

Then you turned to Walker.

He was half-reclined on the floor near the fire, jacked peeled off, blood soaking the side of his shirt. Bob had done what he could—pressure, bandages—but the bleeding hadn’t fully stopped.

You knelt beside him, jaw locked. You didn’t speak at first, rage bubbling in your throat. Just the sight of him, of his battered face made you angry, made you remember the way things were, back when Walker was the biggest pain in your ass, before Bucky had left.

He winced when you pressed against the gauze.

“You know,” you said, voice low, steady, “I ought to let you bleed out. If it were up to me, you’d be lying in the snow somewhere, half-dead.”

He didn’t respond, just looked at you through gritted teeth.

You didn’t look away. You wondered if he was remembering it—the violence, the hatred. The man he was, and very well may be. Growth can’t be disguised under darker clothes and new management.

Resentment lingers—you’d know.

“You’re lucky I give more of a shit about him,” you added, nodding toward Bob. “And Yelena. That’s the only reason I haven’t thrown your ass back into the cold.”

Walker’s jaw tightened. “Yeah. I got that.”

You peeled back the soaked bandage with clinical detachment. You didn’t even bother to be gentle.

Across the room, Bucky flinched.

He was leaning against the far wall, arms crossed over his chest, a storm in his eyes. He felt a flicker of something—regret, guilt—familiar, so fucking familiar, as he watched you. Your shoulders were rigid, tight with restraint.

You disliked John, you always had. Before, you had fought with him about his morals, about the way he held himself and the shield. Bucky had stood behind you, behind Sam. He had agreed.

There was something borderline repulsive about the scene in front of him, of you cleaning up John Walker as Bucky watched with mild concern and his friend—Sam—was nowhere to be found.

He wondered if you found it disgusting, who he had become and who he had decided to work alongside. He’d understand. He hated himself most days, too.

You handed Bob another towel.

“Keep pressure here,” you instructed, something softer in your voice as you addressed Bob. “Don’t let him bleed through it again.”

Bob nodded, instantly obedient.

You turned away.

Bucky followed you with his eyes like he couldn’t help it. Like he hadn’t been starved of you for too long. Like he had any right.

You moved past Ava, brushing her shoulder. “You hurt?”

She shook her head. “Just bruised.”

“Bathroom’s through the back,” you said. “Towels under the sink. You can clean up.”

She looked at you, eyes narrowing like she wasn’t sure how to read your tone. But she nodded once and stood, disappearing down the hallway.

And then—silence again.

Except for the fire. And Bob whispering something to Walker, Yelena’s slow, shallow breaths.

You turned, arms crossed, lips turned downwards.

And finally—finally—you looked at Bucky. You silently begged your heart not to give out.

He was bigger, healthier. Gaunter around the eyes. His hair was longer, curling at the ends, damp with snowmelt. His coat was torn. Knuckles scabbed over. Metal hand twitched like he wanted to reach for something—someone.

You didn’t let yourself soften—not at the look in his eyes, not at the way his entire body looked like it was a second away from giving out.

“You can take the cot,” you said, jerking your head toward the corner. “If you think you’ll sleep.”

It was a low-blow, something petty and mean, bringing attention to his trouble with sleeping, but it was all you had. Just these quips, the coldness in your voice. It was all you could throw at him, all you had since he had taken everything else—your trust, heart, and smile.

“I—” He cleared his throat, hoarse. “I’m sorry.” It wasn’t enough, and came out too quickly, too quietly. It was too heavy, too weightless.

You scoffed, eyes shifting to the floor before meeting his. “Fuck off.”

Bucky’s mouth opened, then closed again.

You turned your back to him.

It was past midnight when Yelena stirred.

You were sitting at her side, fresh gauze in your hands, watching the slow rise and fall of her chest. It had been steady for hours—but now, her fingers twitched, lashes fluttered. Her body went still before she relaxed.

“Yelana?” you murmured, trying to keep your voice soft, safe.

She blinked slowly, disoriented, as her pupils adjusted to the low light of the fire. Her mouth moved, cracked lips forming words you couldn’t hear.

“Hey,” you leaned in. “You’re okay. You and your team are safe.”

Her gaze drifted, found your face. Her eyes drifted along your skin, taking in your features. Recognition flashed in them before they moved to the room behind you.

“...we made it?” she rasped, voice hoarse and dry.

You nodded, features softening a bit at the slight accent in her voice. It reminded you of Nat’s, the way it slipped out sometimes, because of certain words, when she felt safe.

“Bled all over my floor, but yeah.”

A small, broken laugh escaped her and she winced immediately, bringing a hand to her ribs.

“Try not to move,” you said gently. “You’ll ruin my fine patch job.”

She was quiet for a beat before she lifted her eyes, lips curled downwards. “You were her friend, weren’t you?”

You blinked in surprise, lips parting. You had heard about Yelena from Nat, near the end. During the blip, when she had decided that she had kept enough to herself, she told you about her little sister. You never thought you’d get to meet her.

“I was,” you swallowed. “We were good friends.”

“She told me about you,” Yelena said, quietly, like it was a secret. “Just once. Told me I could come to you for anything.”

Your heart tightened in your chest and you nodded, trying for a smile. “Yeah. You could—can.”

Something dark, a mixture of grief and anger bubbled in Yelena’s chest and you saw it, saw the way it pulled at her from her hair. It was familiar, a feeling you knew well. “She talked about you,” you offered, trying to pull her out of her own mind. “She loved you.”

“Yeah,” Yelena swallowed, “I know.”

You patted her shoulder gently before pushing yourself up. Her hand caught your wrist and you looked down, eyebrows raised.

“I didn’t know,” she whispered.

You crouched down. “Know what?”

“That you’re her.”

You frowned, tilting your head in question. “Her?”

Yelena’s eyes lingered on your face, tracing your scars and the bridge of your nose. “The one he never talks about.”

Your breath caught, and your eyes widened, just a bit, but enough. You said nothing.

“He’s in love with you, you know.” She winced as she tried to sit up. “He doesn’t know how not to be.” She paused, glancing at your trembling fingers. “It leaks out of him.”

Your jaw clenched and you looked away, heart falling to your stomach and fingers curled. She watched as you kept your eyes on the fire, hating how dry your throat had gotten.

“I’ll check on you in a bit,” you said finally, quietly. “Try to sleep.”

She didn’t protest, just smiled softly before shutting her eyes.

They were all asleep by two, or pretending. But it was quiet, tense, something weighed.

Walker was sprawled ungracefully on the rug, arm bandaged and elevated, snoring softly. Bob had curled up in the armchair, long limbs tucked close, face peaceful. Ava took the cot near the back wall, one leg bouncing softly until it stilled.

And Bucky—

Bucky sat in the kitchen, silent, staring into the dark like it held answers he hadn’t earned. It was too overwhelming—being here. There were memories, soft laughter and lingering touches that had crawled into the crevices of the wood, peeled the stains back until the entire cabin felt smaller, haunted. In the warmth of the kitchen, the wood groaning under his weight, he felt like he could have done it.

He could have stayed. Could have fought off Val for you, kept you out of the limelight.

He could have fought harder.

He should have fought harder.

He doesn’t know what that made him—a coward, maybe. Someone afraid. He had grown, gone to therapy and made friends, but the fear, the curling of unworthiness in his bones would never leave. He knew that.

He stared down at the table, eyes focusing on the swirls and edges of the wood. His herbal tea, the one you had forced them all to drink, was sitting cold in front of him. He was glad you hadn’t given him the one he used to drink—the exotic ones, ones he’d never heard of and couldn’t imagine. It would have felt like holy water in hell, something condemning and horrid, but sweet all the while.

You slipped on your boots and coat and eased the front door open, letting the cold bite at your face. The stars above were clear, silver on black. The trees whispered in the distance, inviting.

Bucky heard the door open and froze, stilled as he stared into the open space.

You sat on the porch steps and pulled the knife from your side pocket.

It was old now, worn. The handle smooth from your thumb, the constant rubbing and brushing.

You’d never stopped carrying it.

Sam had found it at a vintage store. “Some kind of weird sentimental symbolism,” he’d said, when he gave it to you. “Sharp. Pointed. Quiet. Soft around the edges. Like you.” Bucky had added your initials to the leather sheath in his own careful scrawl.

You used to carry it just to remember the two of them. When you were on long missions, when they had stumbled into some trouble far away—when it was quiet.

Now, you carried it because it was all you had left.

You pressed your thumb into the base of the blade, not enough to break skin, but just enough to feel something—to wake you up if this was a bad dream. It felt like one. It felt strange, like you could guess the ending but it changed every time you searched for it, when the flicker of want, of fear, grew larger.

The cabin behind you creaked softly, weight shifting and the wind howling.

You didn’t turn. Didn’t need to.

His footsteps were heavier now. Not loud, but familiar—measured, hesitant. A bit like when he first arrived here, years ago. The way he never pressed his full weight into the wood until he grew comfortable, until he was sure that the wood—that you—could support him.

He sat beside you.

Not too close, but closer than he had been in a year. The porch was old pine and groaned beneath his weight, like the cabin couldn’t help but mimic the sadness that dwelled in you—in the absence of him.

You stared at the trees, eyes fluttering shut briefly as the cold wind brushed against your skin. The moonlight was sharper now, illuminating you both perfectly, a silent spectacle for the Gods.

The knife gleamed in your palm like it could split you open. Something was tearing apart.

“It’s…colder than I remember,” Bucky said, after a long silence.

You said nothing.

A part of you wanted to lunge at him, plunge the knife into his heart and ask him if it hurts, if the pain measures to your own. You gripped the hilt of the knife tighter, looked at a tree where a gun was hidden.

He exhaled slowly, white breath curling in the air as his nose twitched. “I didn’t know you’d be here.” He said it like it made it better, like he knew you were bleeding out and these words were all he could offer, little bandaids he kept on hand.

“Yeah,” you said, voice sharp and bitter. “You’ve mentioned that.”

He rubbed his hands together, flesh and metal and yet he hadn’t felt warmth in months, years—whenever he touched you last. A brush against your shoulder, knees bumping under the blanket.

“You shouldn’t’ve been.”

You turned sharply, eyes narrowed into slits. He almost moved back. “You think you get to decide where I go now?” Your hold on the knife tightened, slipped into place.

“No—”

“Because last I checked,” you interrupted, “you lost that right. When you ghosted me. When you walked away from Sam and into fucking politics. When instead of taking her down, you joined up with Val fucking Fontaine and turned into some New Avenger.”

You were seething, jaw clenched as the words came out like bullets. Your fingers twitched around the blade and you almost, almost, lifted it, just to see what he would do. You were angry, so fucking angry, and hurt, and worried, and—God—Why was he staring at you like that?

“I was trying to protect you,” Bucky said quietly, a whisper that floated into the wind.

“Don’t,” you snapped. “Don’t you dare say that to me.”

He looked down, hair falling across his face as his fingers curled into fists.

“Do you know what it felt like?” You whispered, voice cracking, mentally blaming the cold. “Coming home after six months to find no one there? I saw Sam. He looked at me like I’d been buried alive. And then I had to ask about you and he just—he looked so tired. Like he didn’t have any energy left.”

Your grip on the knife loosened but his shoulders tensed, pinched together like he was trying to keep himself still.

“Sam was busy with the government and he had Joaquin and I…I had no one.” You inched forward, wanting him to see the look in your eyes. “I called you. Every day. Texted you, sent voice messages. I got nothing. Nothing, Buck. Not even a fuck-you.”

Bucky couldn’t breathe, he was sure he had stopped breathing the moment he sat down but now his chest hurt, his eyes stung and his fingers twitched. “I couldn’t,” he said, almost begging, his voice cracking.

“I couldn’t.”

You finally turned your full body toward him. If this conversation was finally happening, maybe for the last time ever, you wanted to be present for it. If he was truly going to rip your heart out of your chest, you wanted him to have a clear shot. “Why not?”

He met your eyes—red, bright blue, and so exhausted.

“Because Val knew about you.”

Your stomach twisted. The way he said it—haunted, like it was the worst thing in the world, like he’d never been more shaken.

“She knew everything. She had a file, your name. Where you trained, where you came from. She knew. And she told me…if I didn’t cooperate, if I didn’t step in line, she’d make you vanish.”

You stared at him, lips parting in surprise. The air thinned around you. It was less about what he said and more about the way he said it, the way he panted out the words, like they’d been taking so much space in his body.

“She said it like she was doing me a favour,” he whispered. “Like she was giving me an option. I knew what she was capable of. I’ve seen what her people do, Y/n.”

“So you left,” you breathed out. “Without a word.”

“It was the only way to keep her away from you,” he said, his eyes pleading. You had to understand—understand that he’d do anything to keep you safe. “I had to disappear from your life. I thought…if I stayed gone long enough, she’d think you didn’t matter.”

Your throat closed, anger bubbling into something colder—grief. “I did matter.”

“I know,” he said, eyes piercing into yours, pink lips pulled into a frown. “Christ, I know. Don’t you think I’ve thought about it every day? Don’t you think I regret it? I thought I was saving you. But I was just…just a fucking coward.”

Silence—the woods watched, trees listened.

The stars did not blink, just stayed still, offering as much comfort as they could.

You breathed in the fresh air, trying to get your blood circulating. Your pulse pounded in your chest and you wiped at your face, angry and so fucking sad. All you wanted was to live in your anger forever, to keep it at the surface and present, but here he was, hands trembling, telling you how far he had gone to keep you safe.

“I missed you,” you admitted, softly. “Every day. Even when I was angry.”

Bucky turned toward you, jaw clenched. His hand reached out before he dropped it. His eyes were wide and bright and sorry.

You looked down at the knife. “I came here, once. After you left. I thought maybe being here would help. That I could feel close to you.”

He swallowed hard, dug his nails into his palm.

“But it just…just made it worse. Every corner. Every stupid crevice. You’re in all of it.” You paused, a small smile, filled with everything but warmth. “Ended up staying. What does that say about me?”

He looked small, like he might shatter. Like the weight of your words was too much, like his superhuman strength was nothing against them.

“I wanted my best friend,” you said, voice small. It was easier to be like this—sad, fucking pathetic, and angry, with him. It always had been. “I needed you, Buck. And you weren’t there.”

“I wanted to be,” his words came tumbling out, hurried and harsh. “You think I didn’t want to break every fucking rule and come running the second I saw your name pop up on my screen? I wanted to call, to explain. But Val—she had eyes. I thought if I held out long enough, she’d lose interest.”

“She didn’t,” you mused. “She sent you here.”

Bucky looked startled, exhaled sharply, like he hadn’t considered it. This whole time—he thought it was a coincidence. His bad fucking luck. But it was Val—of course. That scared him, made him want to pick up his team and leave you, the sooner he left the further Val got to you.

“I shouldn’t’ve come.”

“No,” you said, softer, a bit surprised at your immediate answer. “But I’m glad you did.”

He looked at you, startled. His eyes, so blue, so bright, widened a fraction.

You wiped at your eyes again, trying to brush away the feelings that had bubbled out of your chest and out in the open, dancing across your skin.

“Because now you get to see what you left behind…and I—I get to see you. Alive.”

Bucky’s breath caught and his fingers shook. His shoulders dropped and a part of you, a small, horrible part of you relished in it. Briefly, but it pleased you.

“You’re my best friend,” he said, like a confession. Like it meant something else, something he thought about, something that burned bright and warm in his veins every night. “That’s the problem. I had to walk away.”

He said it with heat—desperation.

Please, he was saying, understand—I love you.

You looked at him then, fully, completely. And for the first time in nearly a year, your anger cracked, just a little—then crumbled, until it fell off you like rain. It was still there, soaking into your skin, but slid off.

“Then stop walking away,” you whispered, responding to the words he wasn’t saying but was leaking out of him. “If I’m your best friend,”—if you love me—“stay. Stop running.”

The words found a life of their own, stumbled out of your mouth before you could catch them, before you could measure their consequences—they fell along Bucky’s skin like snow, soft and beautiful and cold and unseen.

The moon above you was heavy and silver and listening—waiting, glowing, yearning.

The silence stretches on, hovers softly over the snow, a blanket over the cold.

You don’t say anything for a long time.

Not after you ask him to stay.

There’s just the knife in your hand and the throb in your chest and the goddamn moon staring down at you like she knows, like she understands—despite your embarrassment, the hole in your chest that was once filled with anger and pride and hurt. Now hollow, remnants of it all dried and crisp.

And then—

You laugh.

It’s not soft, not amused. It’s empty, something clipped.

“I can’t believe I just asked you to stay,” you admit, bitter and in disbelief. “I’m your best friend. Right. You care about me so much I had to grieve you.”

He flinches, chin tipping downwards.

You’re on your feet before you even realize it, pacing the porch like it’s the only way to stay upright. You had imagined having this conversation with him hundreds of times, all different. When you had come back and Sam told you he didn’t know where Bucky was, your entire life fell apart. Sometimes, on bad days, you can still feel the ache in your chest.

For a moment, a day, a week, a while, you had thought you had lost him. Until he turned up on your fucking television.

“I lit a candle for you in some tiny church in Madrid. Did you know that?” you spit. “I thought you were dead. Or worse—I thought you’d become someone I didn’t recognize.” Your eyes met his and they fell along his suit, the black, the A that had once meant so much to you.

“I’m not sure I recognize you now.”

Bucky doesn’t say anything—can’t. His heart is beating out of his chest and he’s blinking too fast. He never meant for this to happen—never wanted you to be in pain because of him.

“I hated you,” you whisper into the air. “But I never stopped—” You stopped, swallowed the words, the ache. “You don’t get to say that to me. Best friend? Please.”

“You always have been,” he said, quietly. “Even when I tried to forget you.”

You whirled on him, a flicker of anger raging in your eyes. “And what? I’m supposed to be grateful? Being your best fucking friend? Like it didn’t crush me? Like it’s enough?”

“No,” he responds, throat dry. “I don’t expect that.” He knows, he fucking knows.

“Then what do you want, Bucky? Forgiveness? Closure? You want to cry under the stars and say you’re sorry and pretend like that makes it better?” You can’t breathe, fingers trembling.

“No.”

“Then what?”

Bucky stood slowly, took a step forward—didn’t reach for you.

“I just wanted you to know,” his voice is so quiet, his breath warm and cheeks pink. “That I never stopped choosing you. Even when it looked like I didn’t.” He moved closer, needed you to see him, hear him.

“You have been, and always will be, my first choice. Even if it won’t lead me to you.”

You look away, shaking and eyes shining. “I didn’t—don't—want your protection. I wanted you.”

I always have, you didn’t say.

“I know,” he says, voice breaking and heart heavy. “I know that now.”

You wanted to hit him—to kiss him. You wanted to break every bone in your body until the pain matched the ache in your chest, just so it could feel real.

You pressed your palms to your eyes, feeling too much and pathetic and like the facade you had tried to bolt into place for months was slipping. “You let me think you didn’t care.”

“I thought it would make it easier.” He was close now, his body heat caressing yours, inviting and sorry.

“It didn’t.”

“I was trying to keep you safe.”

“I’m not made of glass,” you hissed. “I’m not something fragile. Stop acting like I am.”

“I know that,” he admits, voice gruff and shaking. “I know how strong you are. That’s never been the problem.”

“Then what is?” Why couldn’t he just say it—how many years had passed in this dance, in this slow waltz you both were determined to participate in.

Bucky looks at you and your heart skipped a breath. He heard it, almost smiled, but he was lost in your eyes, in the way they glowed and were on him.

“I don’t get to keep good things,” he says, words coming out like glass in his throat.

“I don’t get forever, Y/n. I don’t get safe. I don’t get to love something without watching it get taken from me.”

You stopped breathing, head tilting back as he moved closer, lips parted. His words collided into your chest, ripped through layers and layers of skin until they sat heavily on your bones, pried their way inside your heart.

“You think I was protecting you? I was protecting me.” His hands were fists at his side. “Because the second I saw her file, the second Val mentioned your name, all I could think about was you bleeding out somewhere—and it being my fault.”

His voice cracks—hard, raw. He’s looking at you like he’s never going to see you again, like he’s at the crossroads and at any moment, he’ll be dragged to hell. The way the damned look an angel, in yearning and mourning.

“I couldn’t lose you,” he whispered. “So I walked away.”

You shook your head, fingers uncurling and curling. “So you lived with a ghost.”

He nodded, solemn. “Better than your blood on my hands.”

“And what about me?” You snapped. “What about what I had to live with? You think it didn’t kill me, wondering why I wasn’t enough to stay for? Why Sam and I weren’t?”

His whole body tensed and his breathing hitched.

“I would’ve rather had you,” you said, words trembling. “Ruined. Broken. Afraid. I would’ve taken every messy fucking day, every stupid risk, every scar. I wanted you. I didn’t want safety.”

Bucky’s quiet for a long time.

His shoulders shake once—twice.

With stark apprehension, your eyes widened—- he’s crying.

Not softly, but like it’s wrenching out of him. Like the pain has been festering for years, decades, even. Like he’s refused to feel any emotion for so long that now, it’s tearing out of him.

You don’t move—can’t. You’ve never seen Bucky cry before—not when Steve left, not when his nightmares had him yelling in his sleep.

He didn’t ask for comfort.

You stood still.

“I kept thinking,” he said, through the tears, absolutely wrecked, “that maybe if I left early on, it wouldn’t hurt as much.”

“Did it help?” You asked quietly, resisting the urge to rub his arm.

He shook his head. “I’ve never been more miserable.”

You’re both quiet again.

Just the wind now, the trees.

He sat back down, slowly, like the weight of it all is too much.

After a long, long beat—you sat too.

The knife is still in your hand.

You don’t touch him. He doesn’t try.

He just sits there, eyes red, face raw. A man undone.

And for the first time in a year, the silence between you is not empty.

It’s full—of pain, history, of the soft, slow pulse of something broken that still wants to live.

The silence stretched again—different, not bitter. Just tired.

The kind of quiet that lived after grief has passed itself, after all the screaming is done. What remained is ache, the king you can breathe through, if you sit still long enough.

You stared at the woods, the snow drifting off the trees. Your fingers curled tight around the knife.

“I kept it,” you said, suddenly. Filling the silence. “The knife.”

Bucky turned his head slightly, eyes falling on the metal in wonder.

You traced your thumb over the hilt. “You and Sam gave it to me after Belgium. Said I earned it, saved both your asses. A gift.”

“You did,” he murmured, licking his lips.

You almost smiled.

Instead, you nodded towards the woods. “I took it on this last mission.”

Bucky’s quiet for a beat, then, “What happened?”

You don’t answer right away—breath curling in the cold. “I don’t know if I want to tell you.”

His voice is gentle, understanding. “That’s okay.”

You shifted, momentarily uncomfortable, knife balanced on your knee.

“I was in Kaltag,” you said, finally. “Started as intel extraction. Easy, in and out. But it wasn’t. Not even close.”

Bucky hated how haunted you sounded, how winded, even after a year, you seemed to be. Like you weren’t sure if you had outrun the threat, or if it loomed behind you still.

You swallowed and ran your hand through your hair. “It went on for three months longer than it should’ve. I lost my whole team.”

You could feel him tense, the way the guilt inside and around him increased tenfold.

“I made it out,” you said softly, reminding him and yourself that you were okay. “But it was close.”

He turned slightly, not touching you, but near. Closer than before.

You tried to ignore how good it felt, how it immediately eased the tension in your own shoulders.

“When I got back to New York,” you continued, “I called you, first thing. I couldn’t think about anything else. Just—telling you I was alive.”

He closed his eyes, jaw clenched

You wrapped your arms around your knees and rested your cheek against your arm, eyes on him. He looked so beautiful, so tortured as he sat there, listening to you.

“I left you a voicemail. Told you I missed you.”

“I listened to it,” he said, hoarsely, pained.

“I almost wish you hadn’t.”

He opened his mouth before shutting it. He couldn’t argue—not when your voicemails, your voice, kept him sane for so long. It was the only physical thing he had of you.

You pressed your lips together when the wound felt like cracking open again.

He pressed his hand to his mouth, exhaled hard. “I’m sorry.”

You nodded once, expecting it. Taking it better than you did earlier.

He glanced towards the cabin, peeking inside. You followed his gaze.

“Your team,” you started. “They’re good people.”

Bucky shook his head. “Not exactly.”

You shrugged, the ghost of a smile passing by your lips.

“Yeah. Maybe not good. But…they’re trying. I think.”

He nodded then. “Yeah. They are.”

There was something in his voice, something soft and vulnerable and uncomfortable. “You care about them.”

He paused, like he didn’t like how fast he might’ve answered. “I do.”

You traced the knife again. It felt a bit like your spine–rigid, cold, worn out. You glanced at him once, just to understand, to dig the pain in further. “Are you happy?” Your voice is soft, almost serene. “You said you were miserable but did you find something with them? Something you didn’t have before?”

Bucky looked at you, his whole body stiffening. There’s more beneath your words, he hears it. The sharp edge of grief, of doubt. He doesn’t answer immediately because the truth is—he doesn’t know. He hasn’t thought about himself, about his wants or his feelings in months.

You were braced for it—the soft, diplomatic lie. Bucky missed you, you knew that. He missed Sam too, even if he hadn’t said it. But you saw the way his eyes narrowed when one of them winced. It was a look you were more than familiar with—what you weren’t familiar with—was not being on the other end of it.

He clears his throat and looks up, his eyes twinkling under the starlight. “It’s not the same.”

You looked at him, wary. He sounded older, exhausted.

“It’s good. They’re good,” he said. “But it’s not the same. Not even close.” His throat was clogged with sadness, with nostalgia.

You turned away, tried to breathe. You hated how he could get you like this, all unraveled and messy. He was the only one who ever could.

Bucky waited. Then said, gently, “It’s okay.”

You shook your head, gripped the knife tighter. “No, it’s not.”

“It’s okay to ask me.”

You blinked, knife slipping slowly from your hand. You both had said so much tonight, opened the floor to feelings and anger and questions neither of you had ever thought you’d get to. It felt a bit like going in circles, like he couldn’t help but keep you safe and you couldn’t help but hate him for it over, and over again.

“To wonder,” he added. “You can ask. You always could.”

You gripped the knife tighter and your lips trembled, partly due to the cold and partly due to the weight of what you wanted to ask.

Were you ever going to come back? You wanted to ask, scream into the air. Did you find a new family?

Bucky breathed in deeply, closed his eyes. When he opened them, he turned his head to look at you. His eyes were bright, earnest. “I’ve only ever belonged to one place,” he said, softly. “One person.”

His words, wrapped in gentle warmth, brushed against your skin and you froze, stilled as your eyes widened a bit.

“Don’t say that if you don’t mean it.”

Something quiet, a mixture of grief and love and sadness paints across his face and the corners of his lips quirk upwards momentarily, like he imagined this conversation, but not like this.

“I’ve never meant anything more.”

The knife dropped slightly in your lap. You wanted to believe him. Wanted to take his words and cradle them to your chest, coo at them.

But your heart was still wrapped in barbed wire, hands bloody as you tried to keep him at arm's length.

There’s a long, still beat.

“What about this mission?” You cleared your throat, tried to push the warmth away with your cold breath.

“What brought you here?”

Bucky exhaled and looked out over the snow. His jaw flexed and he ran a hand through his hair. It was longer, parted and freshly cut. He looked so good. You looked away.

“There was a compound,” he started. “Hidden in the mountains. Yelena had a lead. Val gave the green light, but the intel was wrong.”

He shook his head, looking years older and frustrated—jaw tight.

“It was a trap. A set-up. Ava nearly got blown apart. Yelena and Walker took shrapnel. Bob was doing well but then he panicked. We barely got out.”

You looked at him then, quietly stunned. He sounded like a proper leader, someone who cared. He sounded a bit like a Sergeant and a small—large—part of you almost winced in pain. You always knew he was a leader, despite following Steve everywhere. It was who he was, a man who took the lead, control, when he had too.

“And then you came here.”

His voice dipped, a little bashful. “Didn’t realize where I was at first. Not until I checked the coordinates again.”

“And when you did?”

His eyes were glasser now, glowing brightly, like your very own temptation. “I didn’t want to.”

“But you did.”

He nodded, solemn. “Because I knew it was the only place they’d be safe.”

You understood, in retrospect. He was right. You knew this terrain, and had heard whispers of the death that followed. It’s why you chose this place for solitude, not just anyone can survive in a place like this.

“I would’ve helped, you know.” You brought your knees to your chest. “Even if you weren’t there.”

He nodded, like it was obvious. “I know.” You’re a good person. The best he knows. But he was a coward and he was selfish and there was a part of him that would have done anything to see you, even if it meant shooting himself in the foot.

There’s a long pause—seems to welcome itself between every moment.

And then—his voice breaks a little, vulnerable.

“I’m sorry.”

You don’t look at him. You can feel the fire melting. It’s all gone and now he’s smothering the burned ambers, making sure there isn’t anything left.

“I’m so fucking sorry,” Bucky said, again, harder, wetter. “For all of it. For walking away. For staying away. For not calling. For letting you think—”

“Stop, Buck.”

He stopped, eyes wild and lips parted. You stared out at the snow, the rising light. You often stayed awake until sunrise, but you had barely done it with company.

“What’s done is done. And you can’t fix it.” You paused, pretended not to notice his full-body flinch. “Not with words, at least.”

“I know.” He sounded so defeated, like he was about to be dragged away and he was using his last breath on this, on apologizing, even if it didn’t mean anything to you.

You glanced down at your hands, brushed your thumb across the engraving. It was still warm, still smelled like him if you pretended long enough. “But,” you almost smiled, “thank you. For apologizing. It’s a start.”

Bucky released a short breath and his eyes gleamed. He nodded and slowly—so slowly—you let your shoulder brush his.

Just barely—enough. The first touch between you both in a year, something soft and passing, weightless, but so incredibly heavy.

His breath stuttered and he froze, almost as if his stillness could convince you to do it again.

You don’t say anything.

Neither does he.

The sun began to rise, gold light spilling over the trees. It touched your porch, your boots, the blade of your knife. The world around you began to glow.

And for the first time in a long time, you both felt warm—not whole, but alive. Like there was meaning now, like maybe, just maybe—you could start again.

The morning came quietly.

Fog clung to the trees like ghosts reluctant to leave, coiled through the branches and rolling over the forest floor. It muffled the sounds of birds and leaves, wrapped the cabin in a kind of hush—a sacred, fragile peace. You didn’t sleep, just sat near the front window for most of the night, listened to the crackle of the dying fire, feeling Bucky’s presence behind you like static in the air.

When you finally stepped outside, the grass was slick with dew. Cold bit at your ankles through your boots. You made your usual perimeter check—like muscle memory, a prayer.

It wasn’t until you circled behind the old shed, half-hidden in undergrowth, that you noticed it. Something thin and taut stretched between two trees—nearly invisible unless the light caught it just right.

Infrared wire. Trip-triggered—directional.

Your heart stuttered. That wasn’t yours.

You crouched, studied it. It was recent—clean. Hadn’t been disturbed by animals. That meant one thing—someone had been here.

And not long ago.

You didn’t make a sound, just rose and moved, boots silent against the snow.You ducked back into the cabin and found the team already stirring.

Yelena sharpened a knife by the fireplace, Walker was rubbing sleep from his eyes, Ava said cross-legged with a datapad balanced on her knee. Bob was quietly eating dry granola and leaned over the arm of the chair he was sitting in, trying to get a closer look at whatever Ava was looking at.

And Bucky—

Bucky watched you before the door even closed.

You didn’t say anything at first, just met his eyes, that solemn blue set into all that worry and quiet guilt. The heat from the night before was still burning in those eyes, still warm and attentive.

You looked away and cleared your throat, shattering the comfortable silence that had built upon the slow fire.

“We’ve been compromised.”

They all stilled, exhaled quietly.

You stepped towards the table, pulled the map out, laid it flat. “Infrared tripwire. North perimeter, ten meters past the old woodpile. Wasn’t there yesterday.”

Yelena stood immediately, trying to hide the wince of pain. “Can you show me?” She wheezed a little.

You shook your head, held up a hand. “Not now. I already marked it. We need to assume they know you’re here.”

Bob cursed low under this breath as Walker rubbed his temples. “That’s just great.”

Ava’s voice was sharp, “How long do we have?”

“Not long enough,” you said, voice tight.

And that’s when Bucky moved. Just a step, but the whole room shifted with him. The air charged, the team straightened.

“I’ll handle it,” he said, voice calm, strong. Like there wasn’t a world, a situation, where he wouldn’t handle it.

You turned to him, sharply. “You’ll—Bucky, you think I can’t handle my own perimeter?”

“That’s not what I’m saying.”

You crossed your arms. “Then what are you saying?” There was almost no heat behind your words—very little curtness, nothing like the day before. The team noticed, the way your shoulders weren’t as tense, the way Bucky slightly leaned towards you, like he couldn’t help it.

He looked at you, pain flickering through his expression. “I’m saying we brought this upon you—I did.”

You scoffed, rolling your eyes and dropped your arms.

“Oh, please.”

“We did,” he said, louder now, more insistentent. The moment he noticed that look in your eyes, like you were disturbed, he knew what had happened. His heart had stopped beating at the idea of drawing danger to you.

“You were off the radar and safe. And we dragged you back into this.”

“I took you in,” You reminded him. “You didn’t force me.”

“You shouldn’t have had to,” he snapped, worried and furious with himself. “You should’ve been allowed to live without the past coming to your front door with guns and tripwires.”

“You don’t get to decide that for me,” you hissed, low, stepping in close. “We talked about this. I’m not some fragile memory in your head. I’m right here. I chose to help. I knew the consequences.”

His voice dropped, low and softer, like he was pleading. “And I’m choosing not to let you get killed because of us.”

There it was.

The silence was sharp, crackling. Everyone else disappeared into background noise, blurred by the weight of what passed between you, the anger and softness of last night, the years in between.

Bucky knew—knew the likelihood of you actually dying was low, you were strong, so fucking strong and so intelligent and one of the best fighters he knew, but he couldn’t get the image of you—hurt, bleeding—out of his head.

“I know you think you have to fix everything,” you said, quiet, tired, understanding. “But not this.”

“This is the only thing I can fix,” he said, and his voice cracked. Like he had spent the few hours after your time on the porch just thinking, mulling over everything you had said, everything he hadn’t said. “Please, let me.”

The rest of the team had scattered quietly, trying their best to give you space. They shifted away, towards the fireplace and the wall, made themselves smaller, but watched carefully, nosey and interested.

They didn’t know much about Bucky. He had always been a private person, preferred to listen to their stories than share any of his own. But in the beginning, when it was all new, they could tell his heart wasn’t in it, that obligation and morality drove him.

His heart had always belonged to another, he had left it somewhere—ran without it.

Now, they had finally seen it—the woman that kept his heart, the one place his guard hadn’t been up, the way he let himself be small, let himself be, with no title. They weren’t even sure if he knew, if he knew that his heart lived here, existed in the palm of your hand, in the edges of the wood.

You stared at him, and maybe it was adrenaline, or just the years of knowing him—of knowing his heart even when he wouldn’t speak on it—but something in your chest broke. The softness in his eyes, replacing the usual hardness and fury. The way he had naturally moved closer to you, like you were the center of his gravity.

“Y/n,” he said then, softly. Your name felt holy on his tongue, something divine. Like he was standing at the top of some cathedral and the beauty overwhelmed him and all he could do was utter the name of his worship. It felt like a promise, something far deeper than the word itself.

“James,” you whispered back, just as softly—delicate. It slipped out, something instinctual. You watched his entire body tense before it relaxed, before the wrinkles near his eyes smoothed out and his eyes gleamed—just for a moment, but blinding.

He stared at you like you’d just torn open the sky. He hadn’t been called that in years, not by anyone else but you. It was his name, but it felt like yours, something you held onto.

But then the moment passed. The threat crept back in, like a shadow reasserting itself.

He shook his head, leaned back. This always happened, he always got lost in you, lost his mind as soon as he laid eyes on you. “We’re leaving.”

“What?” you said, breath catching, feeling like you had been pushed off a cliff.

“We’re going to pull the enemy off your trail. Lead them into the open. Finish it.”

“No,” you said, chest tight, feeling like a child and the blanket was being ripped off of you. “You need me.”

“I can’t ask you to do this.”

“You’re not asking,” you told him. “I’m telling you I can. I’ve fought beside you. I’ve bled beside you, you know I’m good for this.”

“I know,” he said, like it pained him. “God, I know. You’ve always been better than me at this. But let me do this. Let me protect something, just once, without destroying it.”

“Bucky—”

“I’m not leaving you,” he said, quickly, breathless, stepping closer. “Not forever. Just for this. Let me end it, and I swear—I’ll come back.”

Your throat closed, his cold, metal hand closing around your heart. You didn’t even know when he had reached in, when the barbed wire had fallen away. “You can’t promise that.”

“I can,” he said, his forehead almost touching yours. His breath was warm as it brushed your cheek. He sounded so sure, so confident. “And I am. I will come back.”

The firelight in his eyes wasn’t desperate, wasn’t afraid—it was resolute. “I can’t let you go again. I’m not strong enough.”

He was already pulling on his gear when you stepped in front of him again, heart in your throat.

“This isn’t fair,” you said. None of it felt fair—felt real. You had just gotten him back, just made peace with him, with the familiarity that gripped you by the jaw.

“I know,” he replied.

You looked into his eyes, in the way they drank you in. They shifted downwards, over his body, memorizing. Without thinking too hardly, you reached for his hand.

His fingers closed around yours instantly, like they’d been waiting—like he’d been falling and you had just reached out for him. His calluses scraped against your knuckles, grounding you. Heat flooded your body, almost tipped you over. His thumb brushed against your pulse point, pressed on it.

“I hate you,” you whispered, not a single hating bone in your body. You were sure the hatred, the anger was somewhere deep within your body, hiding and floating and real, but it wasn’t present, wasn’t pressing against your skin the way the fear, the love—the want—was.

“I know,” he said again, smiling just a little. “I don’t.”

You pulled him into a hug and you both breathed for the first time. He held on like he never wanted to let go, his arms instantly wrapped around you, hands pressing into your skin. The silence between you was fuller now—stitched together with hope, with fear, with the half-formed shape of something possible—real.

He pulled back, looked you in the eye. He looked younger, someone in love.

“I’ll come back,” he said again, and this time, it felt like a vow.

You let him go.

Stood there as he went, silent and still as snow fell. Let him hold your hand for a second longer than he should have. Let his eyes rest on you like they always had—gently, painfully, like it was the last time.

“Stay safe,” he said, smiling softly.

You watched as they disappeared into the mist and the trees with soft smiles and nods, into the fight that waited beyond the edge of safety.

He had promised. He’d whispered it in the hush between your porch and you, where things had often been left unsaid but then he said it.

“I’ll come back. You don’t have to let me in—but I’ll come back anyway.”

You stood on the porch until they were gone, arms wrapped around yourself, chilled to the bone.

You just stood there, empty and filled with hope—waiting.

And hoping he wouldn’t break this promise too.

It snowed again that morning.

This white lace drifted down from the treetops, quieting the woods like a lullaby. Two weeks had passed since he left. Since he stood at the tree line with his eyes locked to yours like it would be the last time.

You tried not to count the days. Tried to act like it didn’t matter—but the ache in your chest made a liar of you. It always did.

Each morning you opened your door just a little too fast. Each night you lit the fireplace and left the hall light on, telling yourself it was just for warmth, for visibility. But really, you didn’t want the place to feel so empty if—when—he came back.

Today, you wore one of his old shirts. Soft cotton and faint cologne still clinging to the collar. You hadn’t meant to put it on, not really, didn’t even know it was his at first, but when you touched the fabric, it felt like a memory.

And that’s when it happened.

Three slow, heavy knocks at the door.

You froze, heart in your throat. Then you rushed, stumbled barefoot through the living room, fingers fumbling with the handle. When the door creaked open, the cold hit you first—and then him.

Bucky.

He stood there, snow in his hair, lips split, knuckles scraped, breath heaving like he’d run through the forest without stopping. A duffle hung over one shoulder. His blue eyes were glassy, rimmed red with exhaustion and something else—something soft, searching.

“I’m sorry it took so long,” he breathed out, quickly. “I had to make sure everything was finished. That you were safe.”

You said nothing, couldn’t speak. You just stared at him, wide-eyed, chest rising.

“I didn’t know if I’d make it back,” he continued, like he knew you were barely breathing and wanted to give you a second. “Didn’t know if you’d still want me here. And if you slam the door in my face, I’ll understand.”

You didn’t.

Instead, you stepped out onto the porch, into the snow. Shoved him hard in the chest—once, twice. And he took it, didn’t move or flinch, just let you. He looked at you like you were sunlight.

And then you grabbed him by the collar of his jacket and pulled him down and kissed him.

God, the kiss. It wasn’t gentle. It was fire—heat and years of longing poured into it like you both had been holding your breath since the day you met. His hands dropped the bag, found your waist, warm and trembling and real. You opened your mouth to him and he groaned, low and guttural like he’d waited years for the taste of you.

He stumbled into the cabin with you in his arms, the door shutting behind him. Snow melted off his jacket onto the floor as he pressed you against the wall, mouths locked, hearts wild.

He kissed you like a promise, like he’s finally letting himself fall. His lips moved with yours in slow, lingering passes, breath hitching slightly when your fingers tangle in the soft hair at the nape of his neck.

“Bucky…” you whispered, breathless, as he pulled back just a little, just enough to look at you again.

“I’m right here,” he murmured, brushing his lips along your jaw. “Not going anywhere.”

He kissed you again, deeper this time, hungrier—but still gentle, like every kiss was him saying I’m here without needing the words.

“I love you,” he rasped out, pressing his lips firmly against yours. “I’m in love with you,” he whispered against your mouth, breathing like a man starved. “I’ve always been in love with you.” He sounded reverent, voice raw.

You pressed your forehead to his, blinking back tears, lips plump and breathless. “You hurt me.”

“I know.”

“I’m still so angry.”

He pressed a soft, hovering kiss to your jaw. “I’ll take all of it. Every piece of it.”

You swallowed hard, blinking away the tears. “I’m in love with you, you idiot.”

He smiled then, the softest, most brightest thing you’d ever seen. A man who had been lost in the woods, in the snow, who finally found his way home.

The fire cracked behind you, casting everything in gold and flickering shadows. He looked beautiful, something magical and unreal, like he had been crafted by the most expensive stained glass.

You looked up at him, slid your hand to the base of his throat. “What does this change?”

“Everything,” Bucky said, voice raw. “But it doesn’t have to change all at once. You don’t have to let me in tonight. You can hate me, scream. I’ll wait.”

You exhaled shakily, shifted closer. “I’ll be mad at you tomorrow.”

He nodded, like he expected worse, like he was so enamoured by you.

“But tonight—” You touched his jaw, traced the bruises like they were yours to soothe. “Tonight… I just want to feel you. Want to know you’re mine.”

His mouth opened like he might say something, but all that came out was a soft, wounded nose before he kissed you again. Slower, deeper. His tongue traced his devotion into his gums as he slid his trembling hands under your—his—shirt and when his palms found bare skin, he sighed against your lips.

“I’ve always been yours.”

You took his hand and led him down the familiar hallway, toward the bedroom. The fireplace crackled low in the other room. Moonlight spilled across your floorboards. A few candles flickered by your bedside, forgotten after another sleepless night—but now, they painted him in gold.

The door shut behind him and he watched you like he didn’t believe you were real. “Are you sure you want this?” He asked gently, eyes soft. “I’m not going anywhere.”

You nodded, looking up at him like he had always belonged here, in your room, desperate and panting and beautiful.

“Do you know how many nights I longed for you? Wanted your touch?”

He reached for you then, slow and gentle, like he was afraid that if he moved too fast, everything would fall apart. His lips found your cheek, your jaw, your neck. Kisses layered like apology, like worship.

“I’ll make up for lost time,” he murmured, unbuttoning your shorts with careful fingers. “I swear to you.”

When your shirt slipped off your shoulders, his breath caught.

He stepped forward, hands devout, fingertips grazing your skin like he was afraid to wake from a dream.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered. “You don’t know what it did to me—thinking I’d never get to touch you. Never get to love you.”

He touched you like you were something sacred, something so beautiful and otherworldly. He made you feel wanted, loved.

“You’re here now,” you whispered, lips lifting into a small smile. You watched as his breath hitched, as his fingers flexed and he almost fell into you.

He kissed you again, rough and deep and messy. Like every second he’d spent away had built this fire under his skin and only you could soothe it. His hand slid into your hair, pulled you closer. His lips moved to your jaw, your collarbone—and he moaned softly, like the taste of your skin was salvation.

You unzipped his jacket, whimpered as Bucky’s teeth grazed against your ear, the skin just below. You pulled at his shirt and with one hand, he pulled his henly off, reattaching his lips to your skin, kissing down your neck.

Your hands slid down his chest as you leaned into him, panting against the side of his head. His lips sucked and licked your skin, finding comfort in leaving marks on your skin.

You pulled away, needing to see him, to breathe him in. “I wanted to take care of you,” you whispered, reaching for the waistband of his pants. You kissed his neck, licked a bead of sweat.

“Wanted to—”

He caught your wrist gently, kissing your knuckles. You were glowing, something ethereal and his heart almost gave out. “Let me,” he said. “Please. Let me love you first.”

He sounded so pretty, so breathless. You melted, relishing in the way his gaze burned into you. Fell back onto the bed as he knelt between your thighs, spreading you open like something holy. His kisses trailed lower, burning a path down your body. Over your breasts, your stomach, down the soft skin of your hips.

He pressed hot, wet kisses all over your breasts, cupped one while he sucked on your nipple, tongue swirling. He whispered against your skin, his devotion, his cries of your beauty.

He sucked, licked and kissed the skin of your hips, just above your panty-line. Blew air onto the mark, kissed it once, twice, then grinned. Bucky looked up at you—eyes dark and tender—and his smile turned into something soft, something so devastating.

“You’re so beautiful, Y/n.” He nudged your thighs apart even more, shifted you up on the mattress so he could lay down on his stomach comfortably. He kissed your inner thigh before brushing his nose against your cunt. You almost squeezed your legs shut when he sniffed, a moan escaping his lips.

“Can I taste you, pretty girl?” He asked, voice husky. When you nodded, slid your hand into his hair and pulled, desperation and heat dancing in your eyes, he pressed a kiss to your folds.

“Please, Buck,” you breathed out.

That was all he needed. He buried his mouth between your legs like he’d been born for this. Like nothing mattered more than making you feel it. He moaned into you, fingers gripping your thighs, pulling you closer, letting his tongue swirl and suck and worship until you were crying out his name, hips trembling under his hands.

You gasped when his tongue swirled around your cunt—broad, slow licks that made your knees shake. He moaned like it was his release, like your pleasure soothed something deep in him. He sucked your clit with such reverence, it made you sob.

“James—”

His arms wrapped around your thighs, grounding you. He pressed his nose against your clit, rubbed your slick all over his face as his tongue fucked you, curving just right.

“That’s it, baby,” he moaned into your pussy, the vibrations making your head spin. “Say my name.”

“So good,” you panted, grinding your hips against his face, pulling at his fair. His metal hand spread your folds and you almost screamed, the sudden cold mixed with the heat of his warm breath was too much.

He sucked and licked, tongue swirling around your clit. He felt your whole body tense, the way you tried closing your legs around him. He held your hips still, sucked harder. “Cum for me,” he whispered. “Want to taste you. Need to—fuck, baby, please.”

And when you did, when you shattered his tongue, cried out his name, he didn’t stop. He kissed you through it, breathed your name like a prayer as he sucked and swallowed your cum. He kissed your thighs and your belly, rested his cheek against your stomach like he could live there.

“That’s it. So sweet. So fuckin’ good for me,” he babbled, kissing your skin. “That’s my girl.”

He stripped, pulled his pants off and kicked off his boxers. His cock was hard, red, pre-cum dripping like it never had before.

When he finally climbed over you, lips swollen, pupils blown, you grabbed his face and kissed him hard. You could taste yourself on him and it made your head spin. You needed him, needed all of him.

“What do you need, baby?” He asked against your lips, sucked on your tongue.

“You,” you breathed out. “I want you. Please, Bucky—need you inside—”

He gripped his cock and slid it in between your folds, hissing in pain when your pussy fluttered around him. He met your gaze and smiled, something soft and wicked and angled his cock, sliding in, slow and thick, his mouth open as he groaned, long and low.

“Oh, my sweet girl,” he groaned. “Fuck—so tight—”

He pulled out, slowly, moaned—loudly—forehead pressed to yours, his hand gripping your waist as he thrust in slowly, deep, claiming you like he meant it. He was so big, so thick and veiny. Heavy on top of you, metal arm braced beside your head.

“I’ve wanted this for so long,” he rasped. “Always dreamed of it being like this. Of being yours.”

“You are,” you whispered, seeing stars. “You’ve only ever been mine.”

He groaned against your throat and fucked you with everything he had, slow and worshipful, but every time your hips met, he whimpered like it was too much, like it wasn’t his cock sliding in and out of your sopping pussy. The candlelight danced across his skin, sweat glistening on his back as he hovered over you, panting against your mouth, begging softly with every thrust.

“Tell me I’m yours,” he begged, practically growling into your mouth.

“M-mine, James, fuck. You’re—mine.”

“That’s right,” he moaned. “I’m yours. And you’re mine. My perfect girl. My fuckin’ everything.”

Bucky’s obsessed with you, with your pussy, with the warmth of the cabin and being where he belongs, here, with you—loving you. His lips are all over you—biting, sucking, kissing your throat, your tits, your mouth. You look up at him and roll out your tongue, eyes glassy. His hips stuttered for a moment before he spat in your mouth, watched you swallowed with this groan that sounded like he’s in pain.

His cock dragged along your walls, bruised your cervix, making you sob. Your nails dragged across his back as his dog tags dangled in your face. “Fucking me so good,” you moaned, kissing his ear.

“You’re so good,” he panted. “Takin’ it so well, my sweet girl.”

He pulled out halfway, smiling briefly when you whined.

And then—he slammed back in, hips snapping hard, cock punching into your cunt so deep you scream.

“Please,” he whispered. “Let me make up for everything.”

“You already are,” you breathed, toes tingling and the coil in your chest tightening. “I love you, Buck.”

He kissed you again, messy and open-mouthed, your tongues tangling, breath mixing, spit shining your lips. He was so deep, so thick inside you, and when he angled his hips just right, you cried out, clutching his back, nails digging in.

“Gonna come,” you gasped, drooling a bit, pussy gushing.

“Do it,” Bucky said, desperate. He kissed you again, licked the edge of your mouth. “Come for me, sweet girl. God, I need it.”

He pressed his chest harder against yours, fucked into you harder. Your breath stuttered as white flashed across your gaze and the coil in your chest unravelled and you cummed, body wracked with pleasure.

His name left your mouth like a prayer. You pulled him down, kissed his cheeks, his neck, held his face in your hands as you whispered the words he’d waited a lifetime to hear.

“Come inside me”

He stilled, shuddered. His eyes found yours, full of disbelief and adoration.

“Please,” you said, eyes almost rolling back. “I’ve only ever belonged to you.”

He surged forward, pressed his lips hard against yours as he cummed with a broken moan, hips rocking, cock pulsing inside you as he whispered your name over and over. He fucked his cum into you, collapsed into your arms, buried his face in your neck.

“I love you,” Bucky breathed out, pressing a soft kiss under your ear.

You hummed, ran your fingers through his hair, feeling full and content. “And I love you.”

Neither of you moved for a long time.

Eventually, he shifted, just enough to pull the blankets over you both. His body stayed half on top of yours, your arms around his waist, holding him tightly.

Outside, the snow fell silently.

Inside, wrapped in each other’s arms, you both had finally found home.

#bucky barnes x reader #fave

3K notes · View notes

castawaycreature · 3 days ago

Text

Crying, screaming, throwing up.

when the sun hits (it matters where you are)

pairing: bucky barnes x emergency room nurse!reader summary: it’s your name, written in the soft fog of his breath. and his name, traced endlessly across your skin. you've always been meant to cross paths this way. (soulmate au!) word count: 11.4k words content warnings: 18+ mdni, fem reader, praising, piv, overstimulation, shower sex, creampie, face riding, dirty talk, ungodly levels of yearning, mentions of violence and clinical situations, death, explores heavy themes

You’ve gotten very good at waking up without hope over the years.

Your alarm goes off at 4:48 a.m. because you refuse to wake up on the hour like everyone else. It’s a small rebellion—pointless, probably, but in a life built from shifts and protocol, those twelve minutes feel like something you own.

The soulmark itches before you even lift the blankets. You don’t touch it. Haven’t in years. It rests on your left side, just under the ribs, where your arm folds when you cradle a patient or scrub blood from your skin. The name’s still there. James Buchanan Barnes. Etched like a brand.

You learned to stop reading it a long time ago.

You were thirteen the first time you felt it — not the weight of it, not really, but the press of inevitability. The skin just under your ribs itched for three days straight, and no matter how you scratched, how you pressed cold washcloths to it or distracted yourself with school or swimming or the terrifying newness of puberty, it pulsed with the promise of something you couldn’t name.

"Maybe you're allergic to something," your mom said, more distracted than concerned, passing you a bottle of calamine lotion while balancing a phone call.

Then, the name came in the middle of the night.

You’d woken up disoriented, not from a nightmare exactly, but from the sense that something had shifted. That your body was no longer just your own.

You pulled up your pajama shirt with trembling hands, stomach flipped inside out with something like fear. Or awe. And there it was, written in a careful, antique script like it had always been there — James Buchanan Barnes.

You said it out loud. Just once. Just to see if it sounded real.

The next morning, you pretended to look up World War II details for an eighth-grade project. Typed his name into Google with fingers that wouldn't stop shaking.

This—this definitely wasn't what you were expecting. You were expecting someone… someone at least closer in age, someone who was maybe going through the same strenuous expectations of middle school, someone… someone who was alive.

It was underwhelming at first. Just a name. A war vet. Deceased. You didn't think you'd find him so easily. You spiraled past Wikipedia into forums your school firewall probably would’ve blocked if they knew what they were doing. You dug deeper. Wikipedia spiraled into conspiracy forums. Articles turned into footnotes, turned into theories, turned into pictures. Redacted documents. Old photographs.

That was when your chest started to ache.

He wasn’t a boy.

He wasn’t even a man in the way people are alive.

He was history, frozen in sepia. James Buchanan Barnes, colloquially know as Bucky, a soldier, missing in action. You found an old black-and-white photo with him half smiling in uniform, arm slung casually around the Captain America's shoulders, and your throat closed like you’d been punched from the inside. Because he looked real. Not just an idea, not just a ghost.

And you loved him. You didn’t mean to. But there it was.

That summer, you begged your parents to take you to D.C. "For the exhibits," you said. "The history. Please."

You cried in the car. Your mom reached back and handed you a bottle of water. “Carsick?” she asked.

"Yeah," you lied, watching trees blur past as the pit in your stomach grew deeper.

At the Smithsonian, your eyes scanned every exhibit like you were searching for a face in a crowd. You found him in a war display—just a photo, again. Yellowed and framed. A plaque. Sergeant Barnes. You stood there too long. An older woman beside you glanced over, then away, probably confused as to why this pre-teen was staring at the display with such fervent intensity.

You didn’t touch your mark.

Not there. Not in public. But you felt it, a phantom pulse echoing under your ribs. Like it knew. Like it missed him too.

That was the first time you understood what it meant to lose something before you ever had it. To mourn a future that could never come.

That summer, you grieved a stranger.

The rest of those months passed in a fog. Friends talked about boy bands and sleepaway camps and the boy from seventh grade who cried during dodgeball. You started reading old war journals and relics and Stark experiments just to feel closer to a time you’d missed. By the start of the school year, you'd already gone through your U.S. History syllabus and back.

At night, you lay awake imagining what it would’ve been like to meet him before the fall. What you’d say. If he’d be kind. If he’d recognize you.

If he’d regret it.

By sixteen, you had your mind made up. Not because you wanted to save people—though you did—but because it felt like the only thing that made sense. Something tethered. Something present. You’d learned how to triage your own feelings, how to hold grief without crumbling under it. ER nursing made too much sense. You wanted the immediacy. The clarity of purpose. The adrenaline to chase out the what-ifs.

You told your guidance counselor it was about the job stability.

You didn’t say that you needed a life that moved fast enough to keep you from looking back.

You got good at it. Fast. Precise. Reliable. The type of person they called first when a kid came in coding, when someone’s chest had to be cracked open at bedside. You learned how to operate under pressure. How to compartmentalize. You learned to move toward chaos, not away from it.

And eventually, you stopped looking at the name. Not because it faded—it never did—but because it became too familiar. Like a scar. Like an old story you didn’t tell anymore, because no one would believe it.

Because you hardly believed it yourself.

You peel yourself out of bed, step into the shower. The water doesn’t stay hot for long, but you don’t need it to. You just need enough heat to convince your muscles to move, your brain to stop stalling. The morning ritual is muscle memory now: shampoo, rinse, conditioner (leave-in), scrub your face, try not to look at yourself too closely. By the time you’re dressed and out the door, you’ve spoken zero words and swallowed two ibuprofen with the stale dregs of yesterday’s coffee.

The drive to the hospital is quiet, but not peaceful.

The city’s in that strange twilight lull between night and morning, where the drunks have staggered home and the nine-to-fivers haven’t yet left their beds. It feels like a ghost town with too many ghosts. Some days, you swear the silence carries weight. Residual grief, maybe.

You park in the far corner of the lot because the closer spaces are already claimed by the truly unwell—nurses who never go home, residents who sleep in call rooms, attendings who live to round. You used to be like them. You’ve grown out of the martyrdom. Or maybe you’ve just run out of energy to perform it.

The hospital doesn’t smell like death, not exactly. It smells like ammonia and latex and that synthetic lemon cleaner that’s supposed to mask the rest. You wave to the front desk nurse, badge in, and clock your shift the way you have every day for the last six years.

Your soulmark is never mentioned. Not because people don’t see it, though you keep it hidden well, but because no one talks about soulmarks anymore. It’s passé. Soulmate matching used to be romantic. Now it’s considered a statistical liability. There are support groups for people like you, sure, but they mostly spiral into grief therapy and long-winded self-help monologues. You tried one once. A woman wept about her soulmate dying in Sokovia. Another talked about her mark changing. Yours never did.

Soulmate politics are complicated now. Too many anomalies. Too many cases like yours.

There’s a thread on Reddit dedicated to soulmarks tied to dangerous people. Super soldiers. Villains. Politically gray mercenaries. Your name—his name—comes up sometimes. You don’t engage. You lurk. Scroll through the comments. Watch strangers try to figure out what they’d do if it were them.

The consensus always boils down to one thing: If your soulmate is a killer, you have a moral obligation to reject the bond.

You don’t know if you agree. You don’t know if you disagree either.

Most days, you just ignore it.

Your shift starts like any other. A stabbing. A toddler with a fever. An elderly man who doesn’t remember how he got here. The trauma bay gets two back-to-back ambulance drop-offs, both from the same freeway accident. The paramedics hand off a broken woman in pieces. You get her on oxygen. You get her to CT. You get her prepped for surgery. You don’t think about her name, or her face, or what might’ve been the last thing she said.

You think about the steps. You think about the chart.

This is what makes you good at your job.

You care. You just don’t let it show anymore.

Lunchtime—if you can dignify that title with a limp vending machine sandwich and fifteen minutes of couch—is spent in the staff lounge, watching reruns of The Great British Bake Off with the volume off. The man on screen is assembling an architectural sponge cake. You feel emotionally invested. Mostly because you think it might collapse.

One of your colleagues—Zoya, you think, though you’ve never quite decided if you like her or not—slides onto the couch beside you with the weary grace of someone who’s been on her feet for nine hours. She’s got a protein bar in one hand and her phone in the other.

“I read the polls,” she says, chewing like the bar personally insulted her. “People are actually fired up this time around.”

You hum in response. Noncommittal. You don’t take the bait.

“They say Barnes is running for Congress,” she adds casually, eyes flicking sideways toward you. “That surprises me. Who woulda thought?”

You don’t blink. Don’t flinch. Just peel a piece of lettuce off your sandwich like it’s offended you. “Guess being an Avenger's not the high-paying career it used to be.”

Zoya snorts. “Seriously. You think he’s for real?”

You lift one shoulder. “I think I’ve seen stranger things on C-SPAN.”

She lets out a low whistle. “Still wild, though. Imagine finding out your soulmate is, like… that guy.”

You glance at her. Smile. Tight. Unreadable. “Yeah,” you say. “Imagine.”

She doesn’t press. You both go back to watching a woman on screen cry over underbaked choux pastry.

It’s easy now. Easier than it used to be. Pretending he doesn’t matter. Pretending you don’t know his voice by heart. Don’t remember the way your mark burned that day in the laundromat. Don’t still check the news for his name the way other people check the weather. It’s a skill.

And like all your best skills, it was learned the hard way.

When you get home that night, your legs ache, and your stomach hurts from too much caffeine and not enough food. You drop your bag on the couch, toe off your shoes, and stand in the middle of your kitchen for ten full seconds trying to remember what it means to rest.

Your phone buzzes on the counter. A missed call. Your ex. You don’t call back.

Instead, you go to the sink, wash your hands out of habit, and glance down at the faint outline of the mark under your scrub top.

You trace it, just once. Not enough to mean anything.

Just enough to remember that it’s still there.

You were twenty-four when you first saw his face in motion. In reality.

It was a Tuesday. You remember because it was your one day off that month, and you’d spent most of it in a laundromat trying to get the smell of bile and bleach out of your scrubs. You were curled up on the plastic bench by the window, still damp from rain, watching a battered flatscreen overhead.

BREAKING NEWS: GLOBAL MANHUNT UNDERWAY FOR FORMER SOVIET ASSASSIN.

You didn’t flinch when the words came up. At first, they didn’t mean anything. But then the photo appeared, grainy and indistinct—a security cam freeze-frame. Dark jacket, metal arm, face caught mid-motion.

There he was. James Buchanan Barnes.

You felt it like a punch. Air gone. Sound sucked from the room. Your hands tightened around a bottle of Tide.

They said he bombed the Vienna International Centre. Killed a king. Injured dozens. Your brain refused the narrative, but not because you knew better. You didn’t. It was just … incongruent. Cognitive dissonance. You couldn’t square the name on your skin with the cold, feral man on the screen. But that didn’t stop you from watching.

You didn’t leave the laundromat. You sat there long after your clothes finished drying. Hours, maybe. Absorbing every second of the footage. Reading every chyron.

You watched the raw surveillance clips when they hit the web—him running, being chased, fighting like something born in a lab. Like something not quite real.

And then, all at once, the world tilted.

He was real.

Not a myth. Not a name in a book or a mark burned into your side to haunt you. Real. He was breathing the same air, walking the same crumbling sidewalks, looking over his shoulder beneath the same indifferent sky. There was this thrumming under your skin—louder than your heartbeat, sharper than breath—that said he's alive. Not long-dead. Not lost to time. But here. On this earth. Behind your eyes. And somehow, you had to keep living like that wasn’t the most destabilizing fact you’d ever known.

You memorized the cadence of how people said his name.

At some point, you realized you were shaking.

That week, your mother called, like she always did. You didn’t tell her. She asked how work was. You said fine. She asked if you’d seen the news. You said you hadn’t.

You started keeping your left side covered, even in the shower.

In the weeks that followed, he became a name everyone knew. The Winter Soldier. The media dug up every blurry photo from seventy years of history, every CIA leak, every whisper in a dossier. You catalogued them without meaning to. It wasn’t obsession. Not exactly. It was survival.

Then came the reveal: it wasn’t him. Not exactly. Not only him.

Mind control, they said. Brainwashed. Hydra.

You read the words like they were gospel. Like they explained something they didn’t. Like they offered you absolution by proxy. You hated that you wanted to believe it so badly. You hated how much of yourself you saw in the hollow of his eyes when he was caught on camera again—restrained, confused, a man unraveling.

You hated that you understood it.

Then came the Blip.

The morning the sky broke, you were in trauma bay three with a man who’d been impaled on a metal pipe. You blinked, and he was gone. Just … gone. The pipe, slick with his blood, clanged against the floor, still warm. Your brain froze. Your hands kept moving.

Your friend Ashley vanished mid-joke during lunch break. Half your ER staff was gone by the end of the day. You worked thirteen more hours without blinking. You only remembered bits—someone screaming in the stairwell. Someone trying to break into the pharmacy. A girl with burns and no parents left to consent to treatment. You remember the air smelling like copper and panic. The vending machines ran out by day two.

When you finally got home, your building was quiet. Too quiet. The streets were deserted, eerie and raw like the aftermath of a dream you couldn't fully wake up from. Someone had looted the gas station across the street. You stepped over broken glass to get inside.

You turned on the TV. Sat down on the floor. Let the flickering images wash over you in silence. Aerial shots of cars abandoned mid-commute. Apartment buildings full of empty beds. Hospitals choked with the chaos of subtraction.

Then his name came up. Just for a moment. In a reel of the missing.

James Buchanan Barnes. Missing. Presumed dust. It seems like the world would never get tired of those three words recurring in your life like a sick joke, like a sucker punch.

You knew it before they even confirmed it. Knew it in your bones. The soulmark burned for days after. A phantom itch. A psychic scream. You whispered to the room, “No. No, no, no—”

You didn’t go to work the day they called it. That he was gone. That it wasn’t speculation anymore.

You called out sick, which you never did. Stayed under the covers with your curtains drawn and your phone turned facedown. You didn’t cry. Not in the way that would’ve felt cathartic. There was no release. Just weight. A steady pressure under your sternum, like your lungs were packed too tight with silence.

Grief like that doesn’t come all at once. It drips. Slow. Insidious. A lifetime’s worth of maybes collecting in your throat.

You tried to tell yourself he wasn’t yours.

That you didn’t know him.

That the mark didn’t mean anything.

That you didn’t feel the loss like your own skin folding in on itself.

But you stopped wearing crop tops after that. Stopped sleeping on your left side. Stopped reading the news altogether, because every time they mentioned his name—even in passing—it felt like someone reaching inside your chest to twist the knife, just to see if you’d bleed.

Your friends thought you were just burned out. Work was hard. Everyone was struggling.

“Have you tried meditating?” someone asked once.

“Have you tried shutting the fuck up?” you almost said. Instead you smiled. Said you were fine. You let them believe it.

You threw yourself into the ER. Picked up extra shifts. Took on the worst cases. Became the one they called for the ugly ones—the resuscitations that didn’t work, the organ donors, the impossible parents waiting for bad news. It gave your hands something to do. Gave your grief a mask.

You were so good at pretending you didn’t care that even you started to believe it.

But sometimes, on the drive home—when the city was too quiet and the sky too empty—you caught yourself glancing at the passenger seat like someone should be there. Like you’d forgotten to pick him up.

You imagined what he’d be like. Not the soldier. Not the assassin. Not the man they called the Winter Soldier like he was myth, not bone.

Just… a person.

Would he have been quiet in the mornings? Would he have let you take the last piece of toast? Would he have liked dogs? Would he have hated how sterile hospitals feel? Would he have looked at you like your name was written on him, too?

The mark never faded. You used to check. Stupidly. Desperately. You read somewhere once that when a soulmate dies, the mark vanishes. But yours didn’t. Not even a little. It stayed sharp. Clear. Unforgiving.

You don’t know if that made it better or worse.

All you knew was this: it didn’t matter if the world called him a ghost. He was real to you.

And he was gone.

And you had to go to work tomorrow, like none of it ever mattered.

Time passed. You got used to the silence.

Then, five years later, he came back.

Just like that.

No fanfare. No press release. Just a name in a sea of billions. Alive again. Somewhere in the world.

You didn’t sleep for three days after that either.

He resurfaced differently this time. Tactically invisible. Not a headline anymore. Then, out of nowhere—a year or two later—he announced his candidacy for Congress.

You nearly laughed. Not because it was funny. But because it felt so surreal, so absurdly mundane, that your brain short-circuited. It had been three back-to-back 12-hour night shifts. Your scrubs still smelled faintly of antiseptic and vending machine coffee. Your eyes burned. Your feet hurt. And there he was—your mark, your ghost—printed five feet tall next to a mattress ad.

You stared. Read the copy three times. Just to be sure it wasn’t a hallucination.

You told yourself not to look him up. Then you got home and did it anyway.

His campaign site was minimal. No donation pop-ups, no splashy endorsements. Just a simple landing page, a schedule of town halls, and a single embedded video labeled Why I’m Running.

You clicked play.

It started with silence. Then the low rasp of his voice, steadier now, filled your apartment.

“I’m not here to pretend I’ve always done the right thing,” he said. “I’m not here to sell redemption. Just accountability. I’ve seen what happens when systems break, when good people fall through the cracks. And I believe we can build better.”

There were no slogans. No party jargon. Just him, seated on a worn bench near a city garden, hair shorter than you remembered, jaw shadowed with a few days’ growth. Still armored, but softer. Realer. He didn’t mention soulmarks. Or the war. Or the weight of being a name that history couldn’t agree on.

But he didn’t need to.

You watched the video twice. Then again the next night.

And you didn’t vote for him.

You didn’t vote against him either.

You just… waited. Watched. Tracked the polls like you were taking a patient’s vitals. Checked for signs of movement. Hoped it wouldn’t all combust before the finish line.

When he won by 6.4%, you sat in your dark apartment, phone lit in your palm, and felt something in your chest go still. Not relief. Not pride. Just… a strange, anchored kind of knowing.

He was out there. Alive. Choosing something. Choosing this.

And somehow, that meant something to you, too.

You still don’t talk about it. But every so often, you read the transcripts from his interviews. You pretend it’s because he talks about legislation affecting healthcare infrastructure. It isn’t.

You’ve never reached out. Never driven past one of his town halls. Never liked a single post.

But you know which office he holds. You know the hours of his community clinic situated right by the VA. You know what color his suit was the day he was sworn in.

The name on your ribs has not changed. It probably never will.

And maybe he’s never thought of you at all.

It starts with a nosebleed.

You’re just off shift. Third one this week. Your badge is clipped to your hip, your hands smell like latex and soap, and your brain is somewhere between REM and resignation. You’re half-waiting for the crosswalk light to change when you see a man slump against the side of the public library and slide down like his bones have given up.

At first, you think: drunk. Happens more than you’d like to admit, and it's Brooklyn you're talking about. But then you see the way his hand curls against his thigh—controlled, but shaky—and the tight set of his jaw. His suit is immaculate. Not a homeless guy. Not a junkie. And that look on his face? That’s not intoxication.

That’s pain.

You cross the street. Instinct before thought.

“Hey,” you call, crouching near him. “You okay?”

He looks up. There’s a beat—half-second, maybe less—where neither of you speaks. His eyes are blue. Really blue. And he’s not just handsome, he’s specific. Recognizable in a way that drops into your stomach like a lead weight.

You know who he is. You've spent half your life committing him to memory, watching him coming and going like a revolving door.

Selfishly, instinctively, you can't help but glance down at his left hand—covered by a glove. He notices, shifting slightly, uncomfortably.

Finally, he blinks. “I’m—yeah. Fine.”

“That’s a lie,” you say, because you’re too tired to be polite. “You’re about to pass out. I’m guessing low blood sugar. Maybe dehydration.”

He breathes through his nose like it’s an old habit, like he’s used to being clocked and is choosing not to bristle. “I was just at a council meeting. Forgot to eat.”

“Drink anything?”

“Two coffees and a Red Bull.”

You stare at him. “Jesus Christ.”

His mouth twitches. Just barely. “I didn’t say it was a good idea.”

You glance around. It’s midday. Plenty of foot traffic, but no one’s stopped to help him. Of course not. Most people pretend not to see, even if he's a U.S. representative who's helped save the world a handful of times. New Yorkers have learned to mind their own business these past couple of years.

“Alright, Mr. Barnes,” you say, because you don’t want to say James or Bucky, not the name etched on your skin. “Can you stand up?”

He lifts an eyebrow. “You know who I am?”

You consider lying. “Yeah.”

His expression doesn’t change, but something in him goes still. A readjustment. Like he’s running probabilities behind the curtain of his eyes.

“And you still came over,” he says.

“Don’t take it personally. It's my civic duty; I’d help a mediocre politician too if they were about to eat pavement.”

A snort. Then, with the faintest tilt of his head: “Lucky me.”

You help him to his feet. He leans on the wall. Doesn’t quite use you for balance, though you think he might want to. You guide him into the nearest air-conditioned bodega and deposit him on a bench near the pharmacy counter. Buy two bottles of Gatorade and a protein bar. You don’t ask for reimbursement.

He drinks like it hurts to swallow. Like he’s out of practice with kindness.

“Thanks,” he says. Eventually.

You nod, sitting on the far end of the bench. “You should probably have a handler.”

“I do,” he says dryly. “She left five minutes before I remembered I hadn’t eaten.”

You glance at him sidelong. “So what, she’s in the wind?”

“Texted her,” he replies. “Told her I was fine.”

“You always lie to the people trying to keep you alive?”

Something flickers at that—too fast to name. “Sometimes.”

A silence settles. Not uncomfortable, exactly. But charged.

You glance down at your hands, then back at him. “Do you get nosebleeds a lot?”

“Not usually.”

“Good. If it starts again, you’re going to the hospital.”

His smile this time is faint, but real. He takes a glance at your scrubs, gears turning in his head. “You work there?”

“Yeah.”

“Doctor?”

“Nurse.”

He gives a little hum. “Makes sense.”

You frown. “Why?”

“Because you didn’t flinch.”

The statement lands oddly. “New Yorkers don’t usually flinch at guys hunched against the wall mid-day.”

“Not that,” he says. “Me.”

You meet his gaze. Don’t look away. “Well. Maybe they should.”

He stares at you for a long moment. You get the sense he’s parsing something. Not calculating. Listening. Not just to what you said, but how you said it.

“You didn’t tell me your name,” he says.

You open your mouth. Then close it.

And for the first time in your life, you think: If I tell him, he’ll know.

You’re not sure what scares you more. Him knowing. Or him not.

He notices the hesitation. His eyes drop—unintentionally, you think—toward your ribs. Just a flicker.

You say, quietly, “Don’t do that.”

He nods once. Doesn’t ask again.

Another moment passes. You hand him the rest of the protein bar.

He doesn’t say thank you again. He just eats it.

Eventually, he stands. A little steadier now. You watch him check his phone. You think he might offer to walk you somewhere, but he doesn’t.

Instead, he looks at you like he’s memorizing something. Then:

“You know,” he says, “there was a time I thought she’d be dead.”

Your heart skips.

You try to sound normal. “Who?”

He doesn’t smile. Not this time. Just studies your face.

“My soulmate.”

You freeze.

“Figured she’d died during the Blip,” he continues. “Or worse. Thought I felt it. But I came back and the mark was still there. So. Who knows.”

You inhale slowly. “What would you have done if it was gone?”

“Moved on,” he says.

You nod. Try to play it off. “That easy, huh?”

“No.” His voice drops a register. “But I would’ve had to.”

Silence again. He exhales. Checks the time. Nods once.

“Well,” he says. “Thanks for saving me from an embarrassing death outside a library.”

You stand too. “Wasn’t gonna let a congressman die on my watch, Mr. Barnes."

He gives a lopsided smile, and suddenly, you see a flicker of that man you saw in the Smithsonian all those years ago. “Call me Bucky. I'm just a guy, today.”

Then, softer: “See you around.”

You don’t say anything. Just watch him go.

When you finally look down at your ribs, you expect the name to be glowing or bleeding or something dramatic.

It isn’t.

It’s just there. Quiet. Permanent.

You don’t see Bucky again for months. He's gone from James Buchanan Barnes to Bucky, and it feels like foreign territory.

Not in person.

You follow his trajectory the way you follow the weather—warily, with one eye on the exit. A year into being entrenched in politics, and he gets pulled into a team, a superhero one, nonetheless. The new Avengers become a household name, or something close to it. You don’t pay for the streams, but you hear the headlines. They’re sent in to handle things that the rest of the government won’t touch. Places too messy. People too expendable.

Their first mission didn't have a name. Just a black void on every screen.

For New York, it was basically another Tuesday.

It starts mid-shift.

You’re in the middle of helping intubate someone when the power flickers—just once, like the building’s held its breath. Everyone stops. Monitors beep a half-second late. The trauma bay lights blink. Then come back. Then cut out again.

You keep your hands steady. Overhead, a resident says, “Is it just us?”

Someone else says, “No, it’s the whole block.”

And then your phone buzzes.

Not a call. A national alert.

EMERGENCY ALERT: ANOMALOUS EVENT IN PROGRESS. SEEK SHELTER.

You finish the procedure anyway. You don’t panic. You don’t run. You switch to battery-powered floodlights and keep your mask on. That’s the thing about being on the inside when the world starts to fall apart. You don’t get to pause.

Outside, the sky changes. It turns the color of old bruises. A gash opens above the skyline—wide, black, impossibly still. Something like a mouth. Something worse.

They call it the Void later. You never see it in person. Not really. You just feel the air change, the pressure drop. You feel the way every patient suddenly stops bleeding. The way everyone holds their breath.

And then, hours later, the lights flicker back on.

The void collapses into itself like it was never there.

And just like that, you keep working.

Afterward, the news trickles in. Bucky was there. Of course he was. He and the others were part of whatever last-ditch plan got the void to close. Whatever sacrifices were made, they’re classified. What isn’t: the look on his face when they put him on the podium afterward.

You watch it from the break room, over a vending machine lunch.

The new Avengers are announced. Not the old guard. A stitched-together lineup of whoever’s left, whoever didn’t run, whoever’s willing to keep showing up.

Bucky stands at the edge of the stage.

He looks like a man being honored at his own funeral.

You watch the broadcast until it ends.

You don’t say a word.

Two weeks later, you run into him again. And it’s so dumb, so ordinary, you don’t even realize what’s happening until you’ve already said yes.

You’re coming out of the pharmacy with three days’ worth of migraine pills and a jug of Pedialyte, and he’s just… there. Baseball cap, dark coat, looking like he hasn’t shaved in a week. The glove's off, his metal hand shining under the sterile lights. He spots you before you spot him.

“Hey,” he says, not quite surprised. “Funny seeing you here.”

You squint. “You okay?”

“I was gonna ask you the same thing.”

You glance down at the bag in your hand. “Pharmacy run.”

He nods. “I’m heading to get coffee. Want one?”

You open your mouth. Pause. And then, God help you, you say, “Yeah. Sure.”

You don’t talk about the void.

You talk about everything but.

The café is half-empty. He orders a black coffee and a lemon poppy seed muffin like someone trying to prove they’re still human. You ask for a chai. He insists on paying.

You sit across from each other, not touching. Not leaning. But there’s something in the air between you—charged, familiar. Like a room you’ve walked into before in a dream.

“Still at the hospital?” he asks.

“Yeah. We don’t really get to retire. Or take vacations.”

“That’s a shame.”

You shrug. “It’s a calling. Or a curse. Not sure.”

“I know the feeling.”

You sip your chai. He breaks the muffin in half and doesn’t eat it.

There’s a pause. Then—

“You never told me your name,” he says again. Not quite a question.

You watch him. Something in your chest thuds like recognition.

You set your cup down.

“I didn’t think you wanted it.”

He blinks. “Why wouldn’t I?”

You glance at the window, at the people outside walking past like none of this matters. Like the world didn’t almost end. Like the two of you aren’t teetering on some invisible edge.

“I don’t know,” you say finally. “Because you didn’t press.”

He doesn’t speak for a second. Just watches you, something gentle and old in his eyes.

Then he smiles. Soft. A little tired.

“Because I wanted you to give it when you were ready.”

The silence between you shifts. Not heavier. Just realer.

You say your name.

It fills the air between you like a quiet truth.

He breathes it in like it means something.

“Can I see you again?” he asks.

Your throat tightens. But your voice stays steady.

“Yeah,” you say. “I think you can.”

You don’t say anything as you leave the café. Just nod goodbye and let the door close between you. But later, when you replay the afternoon in your mind, it lingers. The quiet between words. The fact that he didn’t ask to see the mark. That he didn’t flinch.

The fact that when you said your name, it felt like exhaling. You don’t expect to see him again so soon. Not really.

But you do.

Twice that week, by accident.

First, it's after an especially gruelling night shift. The sun's barely even peeking through the trees yet, and you're covered in miscellaneous bodily fluids and there's bags under your eyes that weigh you down. Outside the bodega near your building, where you planned on getting bread and bananas and off-brand electrolyte packets. He’s coming out with a six-pack of seltzer and one of those microwave dinners that scream I-don’t-trust-a-stove as you're coming in. You nod at each other, and, looking down at your scrubs and your state, he asks if you just got done.

You nod. "Every Tuesday at 7 AM."

He asks how your shift went. You lie and say easy. He doesn’t call you on it.

The second time, you’re on a park bench halfway through a sandwich you don’t want, getting some much-needed air during your lunch break when a shadow falls across your lap.

It’s him, in jeans and a threadbare henley, hair mussed like he slept wrong. It's oddly domestic. You resist the urge to tuck a stray strand behind his ear. “Didn’t take you for a turkey club kind of girl,” he says, like this is the kind of thing you’ve always talked about. You offer him half without thinking. He takes it.

It’s not every day. Not even often. But you start to spot him in places you never used to. On the corner outside the pharmacy. At the edge of the farmer’s market. Once in the hallway of the clinic where you pick up your medical license renewal. He doesn’t make it obvious. He doesn’t insert himself. But he’s there.

And slowly, without meaning to, you start looking for him.

There’s a night when the ER is chaos and the weather is worse and your body is vibrating with exhaustion. Your car's given out on you. You miss your bus. You consider calling an Uber, then don’t. You’re standing under the overhang by the staff entrance, shivering in your scrubs, scrolling your phone for nothing in particular, when headlights sweep across your shoes and stop.

A car idles. Familiar. Black. Out of place like a shadow with wheels.

You squint into the window, and of course, it’s him. “Stalking me?”

He straightens, just a little. “You said your shift ended at seven.”

“I did,” you say slowly, walking toward him. “Didn’t mean it was an invitation.”

His mouth twitches. “Consider it a standing offer.”

You glance at the car, then back at him. “You gonna tell me how you got a vehicle this inconspicuous, or is that classified?”

He opens the passenger door. “Perks of being an Avenger.”

You eye him. “Is this kidnapping?”

“If it is, it’s the most considerate kidnapping ever. I brought snacks.”

You get in.

It becomes a habit after that.

That’s the first ride.

It becomes a habit. Not a routine, exactly. That would suggest he comes at the same time, says the same thing, follows a pattern. He doesn’t. He’s unpredictable in the way thunderstorms are—sudden, insistent, quietly necessary. He’s just… there. Enough times that your coworkers start raising eyebrows. Enough times that you stop pretending it’s odd.

You don’t talk about the soulmark. Not directly.

But you talk about other things.

The price of gas. The merits of different hospital coffee. He tells you, offhandedly, that he used to hate mornings until he had to start facing them at 5 a.m. with a loaded weapon. You tell him you’ve delivered twins in a supply closet. Neither of you laughs, but the air warms between you.

One evening, he brings you tea instead of coffee. He says it’s because you looked like you hadn’t slept. You want to ask how he knew. You don’t.

You get used to the way his presence takes up space. Quietly. Without pushing. You start saving podcasts to share. You start to notice the way his metal hand rests against the gearshift like he’s forgotten it’s not flesh.

He learns your tells. Which sigh means you’re burned out and which means you’re hungry. He doesn’t always talk, but he listens better than most people speak.

And slowly—terrifyingly—you start to want him to be there.

Bucky never texts.

Not once.

He calls.

Always.

Even for the smallest things. A grocery question. A movie suggestion. A let-me-know-when-you’re-done. Sometimes you don’t pick up, and he doesn’t leave a voicemail. Just calls again an hour later like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

One day, you ask him why.

He’s driving, one hand on the wheel, the other—metal—resting on the gearshift like it belongs there.

“I don’t like waiting for a response,” he says, after a beat. “Feels like talking to a wall.”

You nod. “Makes sense.”

He glances at you, then adds, “Also, I can't type for shit. And autocorrect thinks I’m a lunatic. My PR manager thinks I'm a walking liability waiting to happen." You don't know what makes you snort first; the thought of him keyboard smashing his phone or the fact that he has a goddamn PR manager.

Then, the first time you see the arm up close, he’s asleep on your couch.

You’re supposed to be watching a movie. You don't even know who initiated, who invited who over. But something old and black-and-white is flickering on the screen, one of his picks. But somewhere around the twenty-minute mark, he dozed off. His hoodie’s bunched up at the elbow, metal catching the lamplight.

You don’t stare. Not really. But you don’t look away either.

It’s not the glossy, hyper-chrome finish you remember from the surveillance footage. Not the Soviet brutality of jagged red stars and burnished steel. This one’s different. Sleeker. Sleek but brutal. Matte black and dark silver, subtle gold veins etched faintly between the segmented plates—Wakandan tech, you realize. Lightweight. Adaptive. The sort of engineering that moves with a person, not against them.

It looks like something alive. Something that remembers things.

You wonder if he remembers it’s there. If it registers temperature. Pressure. Pain. If the nerves ghost in that space the same way yours do when your fingers go numb from fatigue. If it ever aches when it rains.

You don’t ask.

Not yet.

He stirs, eventually. Looks at you through half-lidded eyes.

“Did I miss the plot twist?”

“You missed a wedding, a car crash, and three dramatic monologues.”

“Damn,” he mutters, stretching. His hoodie pulls a little higher. You glimpse the sharp, seamless lines of the elbow joint. Compact. Clean. Not like a machine—like an exoskeleton. Like armor. You look away. “We can rewind.”

You shrug, smirking into your mug. “I don’t know. I’m kind of emotionally invested now. I might want you to suffer through the confusion with me.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, still half-asleep, eyes flicking toward the screen.

You don’t rewind.

You just sit there, the credits rolling, and listen to him breathe as he falls back to sleep. You start to wonder what it would be like to fall asleep with his hand on your side. With the mark between you, not unspoken, but accepted. Real. You start to feel it again—that pull. The one you used to ignore. The one you used to press down like a bruise that wouldn’t fade.

This is what soulmates are about, you think. What they’re meant to be.

Not the fireworks. Not the rush. Not the storybook symmetry or the neat little bow at the end. Not the lightning strike of recognition. It’s quieter than that. Slower. Messier. Built of hours and questions and the space someone leaves you to be tired, to be flawed, to be real.

You think maybe it’s this — the way he handed you your coffee earlier exactly the way you take it without ever having asked. The way he watches the road when you don’t want to talk and turns the music up just a little, like a soft wall between you and the world. The way he never reaches for your hand, but always lets his linger close enough that you could.

It’s the consistency. The patience. The terrifying kindness of being seen when you’re not trying to be. When your armor’s off, not because you dropped it, but because he never asked you to put it on in the first place.

There’s something in your chest that loosens when he’s near. Some old tension that stops buzzing like an alarm.

And maybe that’s what the mark is. Not fate, not prophecy, but permission. A tether, yes—but one you can pull at your own pace. One you can choose.

And every day you don’t walk away, you’re choosing him.

Even if neither of you has said it yet. Even if neither of you knows how.

“You ever get tired of people looking at you sideways?” you ask him once, on a late-night walk back from a diner you guys have started to frequent together. You’ve both got milkshakes in hand because Bucky insists they’re a cornerstone of civilization, and you’re learning not to argue when he gets weirdly nostalgic.

He takes a sip. Shrugs. “Used to.”

“And now?”

“Now I don’t care.” A pause. “It helps that you don’t.”

You look over. He’s not smiling, but he’s softer. Always is, around you. Less edge. Less shield.

“I used to,” you admit. “When I was younger. I thought it’d fade. The mark.”

He nods, like he’s heard that before. Like he understands more than you meant to say.

“It didn’t,” you add.

He glances at you, then at your side. Not lingering. Just a flicker.

“Good,” he says, so quietly you almost miss it.

You stop walking. “Why?”

He doesn’t look at you. Just finishes his drink. Crumples the cup in one hand.

“Because I’m still here,” he says, like it should be obvious.

And it is.

Somehow, it is.

He cooks, occasionally. Not well. But with effort. One night, he burns a grilled cheese so thoroughly the fire alarm goes off. You have to wave a towel at the smoke detector while he swears under his breath and throws the pan in the sink.

You’re still laughing when he sets two very sad sandwiches on the table and mutters, “Fine. Next time, we order.”

“There’s gonna be a next time?”

He gives you a look. “Unless I’m banned from your kitchen.”

You pick up half a sandwich. “You’re on probation.”

He watches you take a bite. Raises an eyebrow.

You chew. Swallow. “Tastes like regret and cheese.”

That gets a huff of laughter. He doesn’t laugh easily—not fully—but you’re learning the sounds he makes when he’s amused. The little exhales. The under-his-breath muttering. The half-smile he hides behind his hand.

You’re learning all of it.

And you’re starting to think he’s learning you too.

One night, he’s quiet.

Not in the usual way — not in the half-aware, hands-in-pockets, I’ve-seen-too-much kind of way you've learned he wears like a well-worn, favorite coat. This silence is heavier. Not a thing he’s hiding from you, but a thing he’s holding. Something sharp and delicate and dangerous, like broken glass wrapped in cloth. You don’t know what it is yet, but you feel it.

You’re curled up at opposite ends of the couch, legs almost touching, the ghost of his knee brushing yours whenever either of you shifts. The movie’s still playing, long-forgotten. It’s just noise now. A screen flickering in the background while your heart waits.

He inhales like it hurts. And then—

“Can I tell you something?”

His voice is quiet. Too quiet. And he’s not looking at you Blue eyes staring straight ahead at the TV, the little space between his brows wrinkled into something indecipherable.

You blink, slowly. “Yeah,” you say, just as softly. “Of course.”

That gets a breath out of him. Not a laugh. Not quite a sigh. Just something let loose. You watch him stare ahead, fixed on a point in the middle distance like it’s safer than you. Like your face is too much to hold right now.

“I used to hate it,” he says. “The mark.”

You don’t move.

You don’t breathe.

“I thought—” He rubs the heel of his hand over his sternum, just once, like something aches there. “I thought it was some kind of punishment. Like the universe picked me just to prove it could.”

Your heart twists.

He still won’t meet your eyes. But he’s speaking now, and it feels like something old and knotted finally starting to unravel.

“I didn’t know what it meant, not really. Not at first. Just this pain. A weight. And then the name came, and it didn’t mean anything. Just letters. A future that didn’t make sense.”

His hand tightens, flexes, then drops into his lap again. You watch the way his fingers curl, restless and bare.

“And then it did mean something. And it got worse.”

He swallows. Hard.

“Because I looked you up.” His voice dips, almost like he’s ashamed of it. “When I got the chance. I knew. Who you were. Where you were. For years. I didn’t—I didn’t do anything about it. But I knew.”

Something tightens in your chest. A coil. A knot. He looked for you. All those years, he searched and he reached and he wanted all the same. You want to reach for him, but you wait. You feel like if you breathe wrong, he might vanish.

“I kept thinking—if I left it alone, if I stayed away, maybe the universe would rethink it. Give you someone better. Someone cleaner. Someone safe.”

Finally, his gaze flickers to you. Brief. Bracing. The kind of look you imagine he’s given a thousand times in battle — checking to see if the person beside him is still alive.

“And I thought I could carry that,” he says. “I thought if I ignored it long enough, maybe it’d fade. That maybe you’d forget, or never know. And I could just—live around it.”

His laugh is bitter. Not sharp, exactly, but cracked around the edges.

“But it didn’t fade. You didn’t fade.”

You feel like you’ve stopped breathing entirely.

He leans forward, elbows on his knees, fingers knotted together. The mark under your ribs aches in quiet sympathy.

“You know what’s worse than feeling like you don’t deserve someone?” he asks, eyes fixed somewhere near your ankles. “Feeling like you do, for just one second. Like you could, if only you were different. If only everything hadn’t already happened.”

He sits back again. Slower this time. Exhausted.

Your chest is tight, full of static. Your eyes sting.

“I used to see your name and think, how cruel. That someone like you had to carry the weight of someone like me.” Bucky finally looks at you again, and there’s nothing distant about it. It’s searing. Devastating. “But then you showed up. That day at the library. And I—”

His voice falters.

He swallows again, blinking hard. “I’ve spent so long being looked at like I’m a weapon. Like I’m a ghost. But you looked at me like—” He stops, breath caught in his throat. “Like I was real. Like you’d known me. Like I wasn’t a mistake.”

You blink fast, because the alternative is crying.

“And I didn’t know what to do with that. I still don’t know what to do with that,” He exhales, a quiet tremor in his chest. “I don’t know if I’ll ever be the person who deserves this. Or you. Or the mark. But I want to be.”

He turns toward you fully now, and for the first time, he doesn’t look away.

“I want to try,” he says, softly. “If you’ll let me.”

You reach for his hand. Slowly. Carefully. Like it’s something sacred, and your fingers meet his.

You don’t say anything right away. There’s no need. His hand tightens around yours like an answer. Like a prayer. And under your ribs, where the mark lives, you feel it — not a tug, not a weight, but a warmth. Like the sun, breaking through after years of winter.

He doesn’t let go of your hand.

His fingers are rough in some places, calloused in others, warm where it counts. He holds you like he’s learning how. Like maybe the trick is not to grip too tight, but not to let go either. That sweet, aching middle ground. Like maybe you’re something breakable—but not fragile.

You’re not sure how long you sit like that. Just the two of you, suspended in this strange, soft liminal space between the past and whatever comes next.

The TV hums in the background. The couch dips where your knees almost touch. You swear you can hear his pulse—yours too—skipping every third beat, then rushing to make up for it.

He’s still watching you like he’s waiting for you to vanish.

You speak first. Barely a whisper. “I think I started loving you before I even knew what it meant.”

His eyes close, slow. As if the words are a balm. Or a blade. You’re not sure which.

“I used to feel you before I understood how,” you continue, voice steady now, stronger with each word. “Not in the mark. Not in the skin. But in the air. In the quiet. I’d be washing blood off my hands at three in the morning and think—I’m not alone. Not really.”

His throat moves with the effort of swallowing. He doesn’t speak. Not yet. You’re not done.

“I hated you for it too, for a while,” you admit. “For making me hope. For giving me something to lose before I ever had it.”

You shift, close the last few inches between you. He doesn’t flinch. Just watches, gaze dark and wide and impossibly open.

“I didn’t want this to be real. Because if it was, it meant I could break. That I had something to break for.”

He breathes out your name. Just once.

You touch his face. Thumb trailing the edge of his cheekbone, slow and deliberate. He leans into it like he’s forgotten what it means to be held. “I see you,” you whisper. “I see you. Not the headlines. Not the soldier. Not the mark. Just… you.”

And something inside him unravels. Not all at once. Not like a dam breaking. But like a thread pulled gently, deliberately, until what’s been bound up for too long begins to loosen.

“I love you,” he says, and it’s not polished. Not pretty. It’s real. Broken around the edges. Bare and breathless. “I love you, and it’s terrifying.”

You nod. Because you know.

He exhales. Then moves.

He kisses you like he means it. Like it’s the first and last time he’ll ever be allowed. His lips press to yours, slow at first, exploratory. Like he’s trying to memorize the shape of it. The feel. You breathe him in. Let your hand slip to the back of his neck, anchor him there.

He doesn’t rush.

His hands, warm and steady, skim your waist like he’s relearning what it means to touch without taking. To be given something instead of stealing it. He pulls you closer—not to possess, but to be sure you’re still there.

When he parts from you, it’s just for breath.

You lean your forehead against his. “We’ve already survived so much,” you whisper. “What’s one more impossible thing?”

His laugh is soft, unguarded. It shakes a little at the end.

You tilt your face, kiss him again—deeper this time. His response is immediate. Hands tightening, lips parting. You taste the urgency in him, the tremble beneath restraint. Your mouth moves against his like a promise. Like maybe this—you—was what the mark was always meant to lead to.

Not fate. Choice.

His metal hand brushes your hip, steady and impossibly gentle. He maps the curve of your ribs like he’s memorizing the lines of his own name. You press your palm to his chest, feel the echo of your name there too. Not carved in flesh, but in feeling. In ache. In the quiet places only the two of you have ever touched.

“Come here,” he murmurs, voice wrecked and low.

You’re already there.

Bucky kisses your neck. Your shoulder. The space just under your jaw. He doesn’t rush the way his hands roam—careful, reverent, like he’s turning pages of something sacred. You think your heart's going to burst or stop at any given moment, because there's no way he's real.

When he pushes your shirt and your bra up over your head, your hands quickly move up to knot through his hair, anchoring them there until he's groaning and mumbling against your skin. He leans down, open mouthed kisses along the way until he finds what he's looking for, taking a pert nipple into his mouth and playing with the other with his metal hand. "Bucky, I—"

He doubles down, holding you closer against his core so he can feel you bucking against him, grinding uselessly against the rough fabric of his jeans so he can feel you pulse, head flooding your core. "Fuck, don't stop. Please don't stop, Bucky, I'm—" You sigh breathlessly when you look down and he's got your nipple between his teeth, gently tugging as he looks up at you with too innocent blue eyes. Like he's not pulling you apart.

"I won't stop, sweet girl," Bucky shakes his head, laughing softly like he can't believe it. "Don't even think I could, if I tried."

The rest of your clothes end up as a pile on the floor, and then it was just Bucky slowly undressing in front of you between your knees. It's enough to make you lose your breath, but his next words sends another sharp heat to pool between your legs. "I'm gonna make you feel so good. You're so good to me, you—fuck, I'm gonna take my time with you. You gonna keep being good for me?"

"Yes, yes," You whispered, arms coming to wrap around him as he carries you to your bed, nails scratching lightly on the toned muscles of his back. "I'll be so good, I wanna feel good—just be with me."

He comes back to you, bare and ready and when you glance down, you can't help the gasp that escapes you. He's big. Bigger than you've ever had, thick and heavy and weeping at the tip. Gorgeous. Fuck, he's gorgeous. At the quiet sound, he pulls back a little bit, just enough to ask, with concern that's mixed with a little bit of amusement. "You okay, baby?"

Baby. Baby. The word rings in your ears, pushing another quiet, needy sound through your lips that Bucky's all too eager to swallow. But then suddenly, he stops and you have to resist the urge to whine. He presses a kiss against your skin, eyes searching yours. "Baby," Fuck, there's that word again. "I'm—I didn't bring anything with me. I don't wanna—"

You part your thighs without being told and the want in your voice is so clear, so evident. "Bucky, I'm clean. I'm on the pill, and I want you so bad, I need it. I need you inside me, want you to mark me, fill me until I'm overflowing with you."

He curses, looking at the way you're spread out underneath him. His hand reaches out to cup you where you're glistening and swollen and impossibly soft. "I can't say no to that, can I?"

"No," Your legs hook around him as he situates himself between your legs, your heart rate rising as he's so, so goddamn close, you can feel his body heat. "No, you can't."

When he finally sinks himself inside of you, you feel like you're being consumed. It's like your birthday and Christmas and the fucking Fourth of July, all in one, making you moan and swoon in a way that you know will have your neighbors sending a strongly worded complaint in the morning.

He's hard and fast and brutal, rocking against you while he sings praises into your hair, and you're wondering how you've ever been able to live without this. How you can't possibly live without this ever again, but then his hand, warm and on a mission, snakes its way beneath your stomach and pulls and pinches at your clit, and it sends you on another high.

Bucky groans. "Just what you needed, huh, baby?"

You nod, moaning out his name in reply.

One particularly hard thrust, after pulling almost all the way out and then rearranging you in a way that should be impossible, and you're falling apart on him as he fucks you through it. He loves you, he loves you, and he means every single word.

When he cums, it hits you like a train, still reeling from the aftershocks of your last orgasm when he groans and roars, putting his face to your throat and babbles—baby, sweet thing, the love of my life.

Afterwards, you just wanna lay in the mess with him, tangle yourself up with his legs and arms and get stuck there, but you're–the mess between your legs is sticky and quickly drying and the though of Bucky, soaking wet and dripping with water under the spray of your—

"Shower," you murmur. And Bucky nods against you, leaning down so he can wrap his arms around you and carry you down the hall to the bathroom.

It doesn't end there.

You ride his face under the shower. He's so good, on his knees like this was penance. For not being there for years, for not coming home to you sooner. His name rattles around your mouth and his tongue makes delicate, soft little shapes on your clit and nibbles against your thighs when you squeeze him just the right amount to make him a bit dizzy. A cool hand on your back, heat rushing in between your legs. His beard sending pinpricks up your spine as you curl your hips closer to his mouth.

Then—all at once, you on his tongue with a stuttered gasp, head spinning as he laves you with all sorts of praise. His other hand snakes up, circling and rubbing your clit like a man on a mission. "Oh god, oh god."

"Let me have all of it, sweetheart, baby, god. Let me taste you."

You do, of course, fucking of course, you let him. "My baby, taking everything ya want from me. I'll always give it to you. Christ."

When Bucky moves over your body, standing up to his full height, you're all too eager to taste him on your tongue. He's smiling lazily against your lips, like he's won a fight. It's sweet, it's a little sticky, it's—god, it's so fucking attractive, the way his lips and his stubble shine under the bathroom lights with your juices. "Say my name, Bucky, say it—"

He says your name, over and over and over and it's perfect. The water continues to spray above you, soaking both of you, but especially him as it dribbles down to the base of his cock. When he sinks into you, thick and heavy and ready until your shoulder blades knock against the cool tile, you both hold your breath until he's all the way inside, flush against your skin.

There's his hands on your hips, a momentary pause, before his hips start snapping against yours. His dark hair, sopping wet and falling into his face, barely concealing the way he grits through his teeth. "Fuck."

You love him so much. You don't think you've ever felt a love so all-encompassing, a love that sets you on fire. You'd give him absolutely anything, everything he wants. Your words fail you, but it's the only thing you can think of as he continues to pound into you, up against that sweet, sweet spot that sends your vision spinning. In the haze of your mind, you can hear yourself moaning, begging—

Then you're falling apart again, cumming with a silent scream.

"There you go," Bucky groans and suddenly, you can feel it too, the way he fills you up, throbbing and pulsing inside of you. Until he was empty and you were full. "There you go. So good, baby. Been so good."

All at once, it all comes back to you.

The bathroom is fogged with steam, the mirror a blurred memory of your shapes, blurred edges, the safe hush of water hitting tile. He doesn’t speak when you finally wrench yourself apart from him, just to move behind him, doesn’t tense when your hands press against his shoulder blades to guide him just slightly aside—enough to step in beside him, under the spray. He shifts automatically, lets you in. Like it’s instinct now.

The water is hot, almost too hot, but he doesn’t flinch. He crowds you a little, warm chest to your back, arms curving around your middle like you’re something to protect. Or anchor to. Or both.

You feel the kiss of cold tile against your front, his breath low against your shoulder. It should be overwhelming. Should make you squirm. But instead, it feels inevitable. Like exhaling. Like gravity doing what it always does.

You lean back into him, and he lets you turn. No push. No pressure. Just a subtle retreat that gives you space. When your eyes find his in the low light, he’s already watching you, his gaze open in the way it only is now, after. After everything. After the storm and the silence and the choosing.

“Pass me the soap,” you murmur.

He obliges. Hands you something dark and nondescript, expensive-smelling and deliberately plain, like everything else he owns now. The scent hits as you squeeze a dollop into your palm—cedar, maybe. Bergamot. Clean, and quietly masculine. Like him.

He runs a hand through his hair, rinses under the stream, half turning away from you, blinking water from his lashes.

“Uh-uh,” you chide gently. “Get back here.”

His brow lifts, bemused, but he obeys. Always does, when it’s you. You rub your hands together to lather the soap, then step forward—closer than necessary. Not because you want to tease. Because you want to see.

You start at his sides, palms gliding slowly over his ribs, where old scars have long since faded into muscle. He sucks in a breath, low and sharp. Not from heat. From the contact.

Your fingers move across his stomach, up over the dip in his chest, across the swell of his shoulders. He stands perfectly still—except for the breath hitching in his throat, the twitch of his jaw. You press your body to his, full skin-to-skin, and feel his chest rise beneath your breasts, slow and tight.

He watches you like he’s never been touched like this before. Like the softness is the part that breaks him. Not the hunger. Not the fire. But the care.

You rise up on your toes, sliding your hands over the back of his neck, around the nape. One hand slips down between his fingers, rubbing suds over the back of his hand. His metal arm stays still at his side, but his flesh hand… it flexes beneath yours. Tightens around your fingers like something unbearable is unraveling in his chest.

That’s when you look up. That’s when you see it.

He looks wrecked. Not from what happened in bed. Not from anything physical. But from this—this ridiculous, tender act of washing him like he matters. Like you’re not asking anything in return. No demands. No debt.

Just love.

And he knows. You can see it—see the realization in his face as clear as sunlight on glass. He knows now, as fully as you do, what this is. What you’ve been. What you are.

You want to look away. Want to laugh it off, run, bite something smart and quick and false between your teeth just to fill the silence. You don’t.

He takes your wrist gently in his flesh one—fingers cradling the inside like it’s something delicate. Then, with his other, his metal thumb presses to your skin, slow and deliberate.

He traces a letter. Then another.

It’s not rushed. Not uncertain. The motion is familiar. Repeated. You've traced over his name countless of times, and the rough pad of his pointer finger goes through a path you've known for half your life.

Your throat tightens.

“You,” he says quietly, voice rough from emotion and steam and everything in between.

He takes your hand gently and takes it to his ribs, where your name's resided for the better part of his life. “And me.”

You stare down at the mark he’s making, not because it’s visible, but because it’s real. You can feel it there, etched into the space between heartbeats.

“You and me,” he murmurs again. “Always was gonna be.”

Then, still holding your wrist, he lifts your hand to his lips and kisses your knuckles. Softly. As if you were made of prayer.

There’s nothing else to say. No big revelation. No sudden orchestral swell.

Just this. Just the sound of the water, the warmth of his chest against yours, the slow unraveling of every wall you ever built around the part of yourself that's wanted to believe in love since you were thirteen, staring at your skin in awe.

Later, there will be groceries. Buses. Shifts at the hospital. He'll have to go back to being an Avenger. Other lives moving in parallel lanes around yours.

But right now, it’s this.

It’s weightlessness.

It’s your name, written in the soft fog of his breath. And his name, traced endlessly across your skin.

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #fave

3K notes · View notes

castawaycreature · 3 days ago

Text

So sweet, so cute. Intense even. In my favourites it goes.

Wanna Be Yours ; B. Barnes

Secrets I have held in my heart are harder to hide than I thought

Pairing: Avengers!Bucky x Avengers!F!Reader

Synopsis: Bucky’s been in love with you for longer than he’ll admit. But when a moment of clarity after a misunderstanding on his part cracks the tension between you wide open, he finally gets to show you just how much.

Warnings: Fluff, minor angst, minor hurt/comfort, bucky yearns like a mf, brief misunderstandings, insecurities, friends to lovers, ft. the avengers & friends, sam being sam, minor jealousy, pining, SMUT, minor romanogers (not sorry), cursing, Bucky’s sort of shy and awkward (at first), praise kink, dirty talk, unprotected sex, MDNI, pussy pronouns, mutual obsession, kissing, switch energy, soft!dom bucky, begging, gentle possessiveness, religious imagery, oral (f and m rec), riding / WC: 7.7k

A/N: Thank you so much for this request! This was meant to be short…a drabble…but then I started to listen to Hozier and well…yeah. Title inspired by I wanna Be Yours by Arctic Monkeys.

Bucky doesn’t think he’s ever met someone like you.

He’s told himself it’s because you’re kind. Because you don’t flinch when he walks into a room, because you laugh at all his dry one-liners, because you bring him coffee without asking and leave notes that say “don’t forget to eat after training” like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

But, the truth is, he likes the way you exist. The way you fill space with warmth without trying. The way you somehow make him feel like he’s part of this new world, that he can exist here too.

With you.

He doesn’t know when it started—not exactly.

There wasn’t a single moment where the light shifted or the heavens parted. No slow-motion entrance, no dramatic realization.

But somewhere between your half-sleepy smiles over morning coffee and the way you laugh at his dry sarcasm like it’s the best thing you've heard all day—he fell.

Hard.

Somewhere between the early morning training sessions and the late night chamomile tea, his heart grew, both in size and fonder, and it became an innate feeling—the love—the want. It became embedded into his bones, in his DNA. Like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And maybe it was always going to happen. Maybe it was inevitable. Because you’re the only one who never looked at him like a ghost of something broken, like he still had to search far and wide for the man he became. You don’t flinch when his fingers twitch or treat him like a ticking time bomb, or a relic, or worse—an object of pity.

You treat him like he’s just…Bucky. Someone who deserves kindness, a friend.

You bring his favourite kind of bagels without asking. You mock his grumpy scowls and tease him into smiling. You sit with him in silence and don’t try to fix the quiet. You seem to enjoy it with him—understand.

You once fell asleep with your head on his shoulder during a movie night, and he thought he might die from how carefully he held his breath, afraid of waking you.

He wants you—so badly it aches.

But he’s never said anything, never dared. Not when being your friend already feels like more than he deserves.

He gets to see you every day and that should be enough—it never is.

Tony announces it during a briefing: an Avengers Gala. Hosted at the Tower. Black tie. Heroes and allies from across the globe. Sponsored by Stark Industries and curated, of course, by Pepper.

Bucky half listens, frowning, until you perk up beside him.

“Oh, fancy,” you murmur, nuding him with your elbow, capturing his attention, though it had always been yours. “You gonna wear a tux, Barnes?”

He smirks faintly, something easy and familiar and yours. “Only if it comes with a hidden holster.”

You snort, hiding part of your face when Pepper’s eyes meet yours. “As if you need a hidden holster to hide a gun. Don’t you have three somewhere on you right now?”

Bucky shrugs, lips lifting into something brighter, simply because you’re right. “Guilty.”

You roll your eyes and blink innocently at Pepper, pretending that your attention isn’t on the man beside you. Bucky’s eyes soften into something stupid and he leans further back in the chair, pressing his arm against yours.

You giggle and lean in close to whisper something snarky about Tony’s need for dramatics, and he feels your breath against his neck—he swallows hard.

You turn back to the front, eyes falling on the screen, none the wiser.

Bucky spends the rest of the meeting barely hearing a thing.

Later that night, after you bid him goodnight, he lingers by the window of the communal lounge, half-lost in thought as city lights blur beyond the glass.

Steve finds him like that—arms folded, jaw tense, quiet in the way only Steve knows means he’s thinking about you—something beautiful yet horrid about himself.

“You should ask her,” Steve says softly.

Bucky exhales, having heard Steve’s light footsteps and seeing his reflection. “It’s not that simple.”

Steve shrugs, stepping up beside him. “Sure it is. You like her. She likes you.”

Bucky exhales louder. “She doesn’t—”

“She does,” Steve interrupts, nuding Bucky with his shoulder. “Trust me.”

Bucky huffs a tired laugh. He would trust Steve with his life—with more, but not with this. Not when his blonde friend couldn’t see Natasha’s feelings for him. “And what? Ruin this? She’s the best thing in my life. If she says no—”

“She won’t.” Steve gives him a look, one Bucky thinks he wore many, many years ago, back when he would Steve in alleys. “You think she touches everyone like that? Laughs like that?”

Steve crosses his arms, raises an eyebrow. “Do you honestly think she looks at anyone else the way she looks at you?”

Bucky doesn’t answer, just shoves Steve back with his shoulder lightly. Part of him wants to believe it, like there’s a world where you like him—love him, the way he loves you. Wants to care for him the way he wants to care for you.

But, the other part of him, the one that often wins, is scared—scared he’ll ruin everything, that he might see the flicker of pity in your eyes. The last thing Bucky wants is for you to think that his feelings for you, his honest adoration for you comes from anything except his care, his heart.

He loves you, but you were his friend first. He’ll always be your friend, even if he aches for more.

Steve lays a hand on his shoulder, something warm and solid. “Even if I’m wrong, I don’t think you have anything to worry about, Buck. A few weeks, and it’ll be past you.”

Bucky hums like he agrees, but he’s not sure. He doesn’t want to put you in an uncomfortable position, or feel like you aren’t safe with him. Because he cares—so much. He’d rather live in silence and the brief touches then make you feel like your friendship isn’t enough for him.

Because, God, it is. It’s everything to him, a root in his heart that’s grown into branches and leaves.

Still, that night, he lies awake for hours, hand resting over his chest, heart thudding too loudly.

I’ll ask her tomorrow, he thinks. I will.

He almost does.

He finds you in the lounge the next evening, curled up with a book and a half-drunk coffee. You’re wearing one of those soft hoodies that always make you look impossibly cozy, socked feet tucked beneath you.

He steels himself, breathes in deeply—thinks back to the lines he said over and over to himself in his bedroom.

Then he hears it.

“I don’t even have a date for this thing,” you’re saying to Sam, voice light and faintly exasperated. There’s something there, something familiar, something he hears in his own voice sometimes when he talks about you but he can’t register it, can’t pinpoint it.

You shut your book with a dramatic sigh. “Honestly? I’m kinda glad. No one to impress, no pressure.”

Sam snorts and swats your feet away, pretending to shuffle back when you inch your toes closer to him. “I’ll take you.”

You raise a brow, legs stretched weirdly. “You?”

Sam grins, lets out a quiet laugh. “No need to look so surprised.” He shrugs, “Come on. Low expectations. No romance. Plus, I look good in a suit.”

You tilt your head, hum thoughtfully. Sam spreads his arm, putting himself on display. “Deal. You’re my date.”

You clink mugs, laughing.

Bucky stops in his tracks, his stomach twists and he can’t breathe.

He doesn’t hear the teasing edge, he hasn’t been good at noticing these things. He doesn’t see the subtle glance Sam casts toward the hallway, like he knows Bucky’s there. Doesn’t realize this is Sam’s own way of pushing him.

No—he just hears the words. You’re my date.

And something in him goes quiet.

It’s quick, the way everything inside him shuts down and he almost sags against the wall. Like the wind has been knocked out of him. He’s breathing hard—but at least he’s breathing. He shuffles back, quietly, hiding in the shadows.

He’s fine—he would have been fine if you had said no to him, if you had told him that someone else had asked—but Sam?

Momentarily, very briefly, something akin to anger—jealousy—flickers in his chest, loud and bright and instantly, it's put out, dies quickly until the ashes spread across his chest. He hears you laugh, soft, carefree, and his heart settles.

He’d do anything for you, for that laugh.

Bucky swallows the lump in his throat, the jealousy he’d never admit to and the question on his lips and turns, walks down the hall and tosses the single rose into the trash.

He gets you flowers often, whatever he passes by on his runs that he thinks you would like, might brighten your floor, but he’s never gotten you roses.

It was a line he drew for himself.

He glances at the folded rose and sighs.

The line gets thicker.

The gala is a blur of silk and glass and lights that glitter like champagne bubbles.

Every year, Bucky swears that Pepper has outdone herself. And every year, she proves that she’ll always have more up her sleeve.

Bucky wears a classic black tux. His hairs slicked back, neat, and beard trimmed. He looks sharp, clean, polished. But inside, he feels like he’s unraveling.

Because you walk in and you look—

“Jesus,” he breathes, barely audible.

You’re radiant, glowing and beautiful—perfect. Your dress, a deep purple, hugs you in all the right places, glittering like stardust with every step. He tries to think back to you mentioning the dress at all, but all he can remember is the way you winked at him.

Your smile could bring a man to his knees.

He knows, because he’s halfway there, legs weak. And all he can think is, I was going to ask her.

I could have had this.

He looks away, blinks a few times to remind himself of his place. If he’s caught gawking at you—well, he knows what would happen.

He keeps to the shadows most of the night, nursing a glass of whiskey, tucked into the quiet corners. He mingles briefly, making sure to be polite, to be seen. Tony put a lot of effort into this, made sure that it curated to all of them, the least he could do was make his appreciation shown.

But you? You’re a firecracker on the floor, bright and loud and so fucking radiant. Laughing, twirling, dancing with Clint, with Nat, with whoever grabs your hand. You’re drinking and smiling—magnetic.

But your eyes—they’re fleeting, looking for something, someone.

Bucky can’t look away.

Until you find him.

You corner him outside on the balcony, where the air is cool and quieter and he can breathe.

“There you are,” you say, hand on your hip. “Avoiding me?”

Bucky’s throat goes dry. He’s leaning on the railing and tilts his head towards you, resisting the urge to turn completely. “No. Just needed some air.”

He can’t look at you—not your eyes or your dress or your smile. It’s blinding, too much. He just needs one day—one day and he’ll be fine, one day and his heart will settle, make peace with you and Sam.

You take a step closer, head tilting in that curious way that always makes his heart soften.

His eyes flick up. There it is—that sharp breath he always seems to take when he sees you.

You smile at him softly, lay your hands on the railing next to his. “You gonna ask me to dance”

He blinks. Then, slowly, pushes himself off the railing, turns his whole body to face you properly. The muscles in his face smooth out and his shoulders drop, relaxed.

“I should be the one asking you that,” he murmurs, so softly, delicate.

Your grin tugs wider. “So ask me, then.”

He swallows, eyes flickering between yours before he offers his hand. “May I have this dance?”

You take it.

The music is warm, old jazz bleeding through the speakers as bucky pulls you onto the floor. His hand is strong at your back, the other gentle at your waist. He moves like he was born to this—measured, smooth, leading you without hesitation.

You’re laughing, a bright smile on your lips as your eyes shine. You spin, twirl, your head tilts back as he draws you close.

“You’re good at this,” you breathe.

Bucky leans in, lips near your temple. “Used to be the only way to get a girl to notice me.”

You turn into him, mouth brushing his ear. “Now I know you’re lying. Steve told me you were quite the heartthrob.”

Bucky laughs, low and deep. Your eyes flutter shut and you hold onto him tighter. He’s so warm, so solid under your hands. Your eyes meet his and you notice that the smile on his lips—while small—is the most genuine one you’ve seen on him tonight.

“Not anymore,” Bucky says, quietly, his body guiding yours.

“Debatable,” you answer, giving him an exaggerated glance over. “You clean up nice, Buck.”

He tilts his head towards you, almost bashful. You breathe out a quiet laugh, soft, but it awakens something in him and he lifts his eyes to meet yours.

Blue—electric, so deep and filled with so many unspoken things.

“You look beautiful,” he tells you, earnest and soft.

People have been complimenting you all night, but you only really cared about one—his. His words settle something in your chest and you smile, gloss shining under the glittering lights.

“Thank you, Bucky.”

He swallows, steps in line with you. His eyes glance around the room once and he frowns.

“Where’s your date?”

You raise an eyebrow and scrunch up your nose in thought. “Date? What Date—Oh. You mean Sam?”

Bucky’s jaw tightens and he nods, looks away when your eyes search his. You find what you’re looking for and duck your head to hide your smile, biting your bottom lip.

You lift your head and meet his stormy eyes, a gentle smile on your lips. “He wasn’t really my date. We just came together. He immediately disappeared.”

You look away, search the crowd until your eyes land on Sam’s familiar figure and the beautiful woman he’s flirting with. You laugh quietly, shake your head at his antics.

Bucky’s staring at you like you’ve just stabbed him in the back.

You both sway in time, the world shrinking until it’s only the two of you.

You lean in, pressing close. “I wish you’d asked me to the gala.”

Your words were nothing more than a whisper, quiet, melting into the music and noise, but they were honest. As soon as Tony had introduced the idea, your heart had been set on going with Bucky. He looked at you once during the debrief—like he was trying to imprint you into memory—it gave you hope, something light and soft igniting in your chest.

But then hours passed, a day. It was approaching fast and you had slowly made peace with the idea that he wasn’t going to ask, that he didn’t see you the way you saw him—whole, permanent—a part of your DNA.

So, when Sam asked, you said yes. Simply to have someone there, an arm to hold.

But you had looked for Bucky all night, saved the best dance for him.

It didn’t stop the want, though—it burned behind your fingertips, deep behind your eyes. So you let it slip, the quiet admission. “I was hoping you would.”

His heart stops and he tenses—eyes wide.

Before he can respond, someone whisks you away—Steve, grinning as he twirls you into the next number.

Bucky stands there, stunned. He knows how he looks—gaping, eyes wide, heart stuttering wildly. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Peter look over, concerned. He waves away the concern and walks off the dance floor, finds a seat he knows is taken, and readjusts his tie.

Everything inside him feels tight, like his own fist is closing around his organs. Your words ring in his ears and he has half a mind to pour some water in his ear, just to drown out your voice.

He watches as you dance with Steve, bright smile on both your faces. A drink appears in front of his face and he grabs it, mutters a quick thanks and tips it back, enjoying the burn, if just to get his mind off what he could have had if he had just not been a coward.

Sam finds him a few moments later, sipping something sweet with a mint leaf. He takes the seat next to him, leans back.

“You looked good out there,” he says, nodding toward the dance floor.

Bucky glances down at his empty glass before he places it on the table. “Why’d you ask her?”

Sam shrugs, his smirk softening. “Figured if I make you jealous enough, you’d finally make a move.”

Bucky tips his head back and squeezes his eyes shut. Of course, he thinks. It was such a Sam idea, so childish and filmy. Suddenly, Peter’s look makes more sense. He huffs, throws him an annoyed look.

“I was going to. I had it all planned out. Then, well…”

Sam slowly nods, smile twisting into understanding.

“She said yes to me.”

“Yeah.” Bucky doesn’t mean to sound so defeated, he just can’t help it. In the grand scheme of things, it’s not even a big deal. He knows—now—that Sam has no romantic interest in you and you didn’t seem to have any for him.

But, like most things of the heart often do, it felt like the end of the world. Like his life would have been so much better if he had walked in with you, his arm supporting you—his cologne surrounding you.

“Why didn’t you ask her sooner, Buck?” Sam’s voice is quiet as he leans in a bit, wanting to hear the answer over the music.

Bucky almost rolls his eyes but catches himself at the last second. Instead, he twists his fingers together. “We only found out about the gala the day before and it took me hours to build up the nerve.”

Bucky swallows and Sam tries to hide his amusement. He loves seeing ex-assassin Bucky Barnes being bashful, almost shy.

“I like her,” Bucky admits, quietly, like it wasn’t written on his heart and on his fucking sleeve. “So much. I didn’t wanna rush and ruin everything.”

Sam goes quiet, smiling softly. “Is that why I saw a rose in the trash?”

Normally, Bucky would have made some stupid comment about Sam going through the trash, but all he could do was sigh, pinch the bridge of his nose.

Sam’s eyes flick up, behind Bucky, and his smile widens into a grin, eyes bright with something akin to pride and amusement.

“Well, seems like you have a lot going on,” Sam offers, quickly. He pushes himself up, grabs two glasses of champagne from a passing waiter and hands them to Bucky. Bucky stares up at him, half confused and half annoyed—a look Sam is quite familiar with.

“Hi, Y/n.” Sam wiggles his fingers at you and briskly walks away, gets lost in the crowd, leaving Bucky with his spine straight.

Before Bucky can turn around, or book it across the dance floor, you walk from behind him to Sam’s chair and take a seat. Bucky’s staring at you like a deer caught in headlights, eyes wide. A mixture of warmth and love, soft and heavy, fills your body and your lips curl into something secretive.

You gently take the glass from his hands and stare at him, admiring. You let the silence settle between you both, build into something welcoming before you lightly clink your glasses together.

While you bring it to your lips, Bucky simply sets it beside him, staring at you like you might disappear any second and he rather just take you in.

Eyes on him, you place the glass next to his, heart warm and butterflies in your stomach as you slowly stand. Everything inside you almost melts when he instinctively leans closer, hand hovering in case you need him.

You step forward, lean in close, your breath brushing Bucky’s ear. “Can I have one last dance?”

He doesn’t even think, just nods. He stands up slowly, lets you lead him back onto the floor.

This time, the music is slow, intimate. No twirls, just you, in his arms, your cheek against his chest. The hand on his shoulder now rests at his neck and his fingers curl around your waist, his thumb brushing skin.

He feels your lips near his ear, almost collapsing from the sensation alone.

“Do you like me, Bucky?”

Bucky’s throat bobs and his fingers curl into your skin tighter, almost like he could will the answer out of his body. Over your shoulder, Steve and Sam both gave him a thumb’s up before turning.

Bucky clears his throat and pulls you closer. Your eyes lift to meet his and he slowly nods.

“Yes,” he tells you, quietly. “I do.”

It wasn’t just like—it was love. He knew it was. He hadn’t felt it before but he knew it, like a stranger you saw often enough to recognize. But he didn’t want to scare you, push you away.

Bucky was familiar with your smiles, the way you brighten when you’re happy, but it was nothing compared to now—nothing compares to the way you were glowing as he sways you, the way your eyes shine and your smile—oh, your smile, it was so soft and so loving.

“Me too,” you tell him, just as quiet. “So much.”

His heart slams and a shiver runs up his spine. He blinks at you slowly, lips parting. You lean back, eyes shining, wanting to take this moment in its entirety.

Inside, everything is warm and burning. The way he holds you, like you’re something precious has your mind reeling and all you want is to hold him, for him to touch you and smile at you the way you ache for.

Then—he smiles at you.

It’s beautiful. Heart-breaking.

Utterly devastating as it lights up his face, smooths out all the crevices and worries in his face.

He pulls you flush against him and you giggle, something soft and airy but it lights Bucky up in a way you’ve never seen before. Your fingers brush the hair at his nape, nails scratching his skin.

You lean forward, press your lips to the edge of his jaw. His eyes flutter shut and a deep rumble escapes him. The fire in your belly burns brighter and the need inside you cracks alive and all you see is him.

“Take me home.”

You barely recognize your own voice. The want—something you keep hidden, locked away for months or years—you hardly remember—has been pulled to the surface.

Bucky stares, breathless. He doesn’t even know if the music is still playing because all he can see and hear is you. Everything else fades to the back and his neck is warm but he’s so happy—confused, but all warm inside.

Your smile turns slightly wicked, the slight alcohol and confidence burns through your veins.

“You gonna make me beg, Buck?”

Oh, he’s in for it.

His voice is low, a rasp, barely hanging on. “Ask nicely.”

You laugh, bright and beautiful.

The Bucky you know, quiet, warm, confident, is staring back at you with a small smile, heat and want and love dancing in his eyes.

“Please, Bucky,” you whisper, teasing. “Take me home.”

He takes your hand and leads you out, without looking back.

The elevator doors close with a soft chime.

The silence settles—electric.

You’re still holding his hand—the metal one, cool and solid, familiar.

Bucky stands opposite you—broad, strong, flushed from dancing. His chest rises and falls like he’s just run ten blocks, suit tight across his shoulders. You lean back against the mirrored wall, flushed, breathless, heart still pounding from that last dance.

Your eyes lift to meet his.

He’s on you in a second, hands gripping your waist, mouth slanting over yours with desperate, open-mouthed hunger. It’s not gentle, or soft. It’s heat and need and years of unspoken want bursting at the seams.

He kisses like a man who’s been starving for you, like he’s trying to memorize your mouth with his tongue. You moan into him. His tongue slides against yours, and he groans like he’s tasting something forbidden.

He kisses with desperation. With reverence. With a low, guttural sound in the back of his throat as your hips slot against his.

You break the kiss with a gasp. “Bucky—”

He dips to your throat, tongue licking into the space just below your jaw.

“Christ,” he breathes. “You’re killin’ me.”

“Good,” you pant, fingers curling into his jacket. “You deserve it. For making me wait this long.”

Your hands fist in the lapels of his tux, pulling him closer, closer, like there still isn’t enough of him touching you. He groans into your mouth when you bite his lips, his fingers digging into the meat of your thighs.

“Fuck—” he breathes. “You taste so good.”

You gasp as his metal hand slides beneath your dress, gripping your thigh and hoisting you up like you weigh nothing. You wrap your legs around his waist, dress riding high, and thank God for the slit.

“Been wantin’ to do this for so fucking long,” he rasps against your throat, kissing, biting, sucking bruisses into your skin. “Didn’t think I could—didn’t think you’d want me—”

“I do,” you whisper, dazed, fingers in his hair. “God, Bucky, I want you—”

“And you’ll have me,” he kisses your neck, the skin below your ear. “You said please,” he pants, “and I listen when you ask.”

The elevator dings. The doors slide open.

He doesn’t put you down.

Your back hits the wall just outside the elevator, on his floor. He pins you there with his body, mouths at your neck like he hasn’t enough, like he’s been starving.

You drag your fingers through his hair, tugging, pressing your chest flush against his.

“I wanted you,” you whisper, losing your mind. “All night. I kept looking for you—”

His voice is hoarse, Brooklyn accent thick and strong. “I was tryin’ not to fuckin’ look at you. Drove me insane.”

You arch into him, gasping when his hips grind into yours. You can feel the thick press of him through his slacks, rubbing against the soaked lace between your legs.

“Fuck,” you moan. “Bucky—please—”

“I got you, sweetheart,” he whispers, kissing your collarbone as he moves through the space blindly, holding you tight against him. “You’re mine tonight and forever. All fuckin’ mine.”

He lays you down on the couch gently, like you’re something sacred and precious—and you are.

Then he sinks to his knees in front of you, hands warm and pressing into your thighs as he drags them down your legs, eyes aflame.

You barely have time to blink before he’s pulling your legs over his shoulders and pushing your dress higher, higher, until your thighs are bare and open and trembling.

He stares at your panties—dark with wetness, delicate against your skin. His thumb rubs circles into your skin, like he can’t help but touch you, but remind you that you’re safe—loved.

“Pretty little thing,” he murmurs, thumb stroking the damp lace. You gasp, legs trying to shut. His hands, big and warm, hold you open with little force, like he can command your body by sheer will. “Can I take ‘em off?”

You nod, breathlessly. All your dreams, fantasies you’d had but kept to yourself, were coming true. “Yes, Yes—please—”

Bucky slides them down your legs, kissing your skin as he goes. His heart is about to jump out of his fucking chest and go barraling down the tower. He can hardly believe he’s on his knees—nose almost pressing into your cunt—can barely remember the gala itself.

He spreads your thighs wide and groans—low and deep, almost painful.

Bucky tried to be a gentleman, tried to be the good boy his mama raised, but some nights, when his hand wrapped around his cock, all he could picture was your pussy—how soft and beautiful it must have looked, how he’d make her drip for him.

The real thing didn’t even measure. He can’t believe he thought his imagination could do her any justice.

“Fuck me,” he breathes, eyes wide and shiny. “You’re so wet. Fuckin’ dripping, baby.”

“Only for you,” you whisper.

There’s something warm in your voice that makes him look up, into your hooded eyes. You smile, nothing but love and promise on your face. It’s like you're telling him that you know—know he’s thought about you, that you want him as bad as he wants you, that you want everything he has to offer.

His eyes are blazing, chest heaving.

The curve of his smile presses against your skin as he presses soft, open mouthed kisses to your thighs. You barely notice his trailing hand until it lands on your ass and he squeezes hard. You yelp at the feeling and jerk forward, his other hand steadies you easily. There’s laughter in your breath as you breathe out, eyes fluttering shut.

Bucky licks a harsh stripe of your core, holds you down as you writhe under him. He presses his face closer to your cunt as his tongue licks and suckles, laps up all your juices. The sweetness, the unique taste of you has his eyes rolling back and he knows he’ll never taste anything that would compare.

The sounds of slurping and his lips smacking around your clit make your legs shake as you try to breathe. He tilts his head further, pushes his tongue deeper within you and you moan, broken and obscene.

He curls the tip of his tongue upwards and you almost scream, tears falling down your cheeks at the pleasure.

“Yes, yes,” you chant, words falling from your lips like praise.

Lifting his eyes, Bucky hums at the sight of your pleasure, the way the tears fall prettily down your cheeks. One of his hands slides up your body, just to feel you, but before he could bring it back towards him, you grab it with a tight grip and settle it around your throat.

He groans into your folds and your legs shake. Needing more, you begin moving your hips feverishly against his face, grinding down on him. Bucky moans into cunt as you smear all your slick over his face, his chin dripping with drool and arousal.

“Bucky—oh my god—fuck—”

He grunts, and the sound vibrates through you.

“Could do this forever,” he pants.

“You taste so good—so sweet—gonna make you cum on my fuckin’ tongue—”

Your sweet scent and taste overwhelm his mind and he begins losing it, ruts against the edge of the sofa like a schoolboy, his lips latch onto your clit as he pushes himself closer to your dripping cunt, nose rubbing deliciously against your bud as he slides his tongue in and out of you.

“James,” you cry, eyes barely open as you watch him suck you dry. The hand on your throat slides down to yours and he threads your fingers together and squeezes once, twice, thrice, before your legs pulse erratically and your walls clench around his tongue.

“I’m so close, baby.”

Bucky’s brain short-circuits at your words, at the term, and he spreads you open wider and licks at you harsher, licking long strips as he teases your clit with his nose.

“Cum, sweetheart,” he edges, lulling you closer to your orgasm. He needs this as bad as you do. “Cum all over my face, Y/n.”

His words are enough to break you and your vision blurs as you moan, your stomach coils and recoils as your orgasm washes over you like cold water, soaks him completely.

Bucky continues to push his tongue into your gushing pussy, lips coaxing all your juices down his throat, making you throw your head back as you arch into him. He licks and sucks harshly, even as you mumble incoherently about it being too much.

When he pulls away, face covered in your slick, he smiles. Your whole body trembles and you lift your head just in time to watch him coat his fingers in your juices before he plops his fingers into his mouth and sucks.

He looks so pleased, so completely, irrevocably and ardently in love with you.

“Jesus Christ,” you gasp, pussy fluttering. “Where the hell did you learn that?”

He grins—messy, flushed, lips shiny with your cum.

“You think I wasn’t dreamin’ about this? Every fuckin’ night?”

He lifts you easily, arms secure beneath your thighs and back. You melt into him, still dazed, as he carries you into his bedroom.

Just before he lays you down, you grip his shoulders.

“Wait,” you murmur, breath hitching. “Let me.” You unwrap your legs from around him but his hold on you stays tight, keeping you close.

You push him until he stumbles back, landing on the bed with a grunt. He stares up at you, dazed.

You climb into his lap, straddling him. Your dress is in bunches, and you remind yourself to apologize to Nat…she probably won’t want it back.

Bucky tries to touch your hips, tries to breathe, but you grab his wrists and pin them to the bed. You’ve been in this position before, but it was in the training room, briefly, before he flipped you over. Now you know why.

His breath catches when you press down on him, your wet cunt dragging across his hard bulge.

“Hands to yourself,” your words are soft, teasing.

He groans, tips his head back. “You’re killin’ me, sweetheart—”

You push yourself off him and start to stop. The straps of your dress slide off your shoulders slowly. You shimmy it down your body, piece by piece, letting it fall until you’re completely naked in front of him.

He stares like you’ve knocked the breath from his lungs, like he’d follow you anywhere—take a bite of the apple simply because you looked at him.

He’s been cast from heaven but he doesn’t mind, because Eden stands in front of him, beautiful and soft and looking at him—like he’s worthy of it.

“Holy fuck,” he breathes out, groanign at the sight of you.

Grinning, you twirl for him. There’s scars on your skin, burns and patchy stitching, but you don’t care. You never really have and with the way Bucky’s looking at you, like you’re his salvation, you can’t help but move closer.

“You like?”

It’s a bizarre question, because you can see how much he likes it—how beautiful you are to him. But, still, because he’s always been sweet, he smiles something soft and nods, fingers twitching like he might reach out.

“You’re beautiful. Absolutely stunnin’.”

You giggle and slide onto his lap again, kiss his throat and then move lower, kissing down his chest as you begin undoing his shirt. Bucky’s hands stay at his side, curling into fists because all he wants to do is touch.

You pull off his tie, undo the buttons slowly—torturously—and push the fabric open to reveal his bare chest. You’ve seen him shirtless a few times but every time, it knocks the wind out of you.

Broad, defined, and hard.

You kiss every inch.

His abs flex as you drag your mouth down to his waistband, slowly getting to your knees. You undo his belt and pants slowly, hand grazing his cock through the fabric.

He’s so hard—big—straining, leaking.

You free him and his cock slaps against his stomach, thick and heavy and beautiful. It’s everything you thought it would be and more.

“My God,” you almost whine. “No wonder you’ve got such an ego.”

He laughs—then gasps when you kiss his inner thigh—close, so close.

You kiss and bite his skin, etching your name into his skin so the ghost of your lips can live on. Once you’re satisfied, you lift your eyes and almost gasp at the way his cock was leaking, his tip red and veiny. Mesmerized, you lean forward and shift your eyes to his, finding nothing but darkness staring back at you. His blue eyes, the ones you love so dearly, have been replaced by something predatory, almost possessive.

Still, you could see the softness threaded into the crinkles of his skin, the way he refuses to move, to touch you, until you make it clear that you want him to. You rest your cheek against his inner thigh and smile up at him.

“I like you, Bucky.” Your voice is low, a mere brush of air against his skin, but he hears you. You need him to know—that this is more than lust for you, that it’s for life. “You gonna let me show you how much?”

Not trusting his voice, he simply nods. You blink up at him, unmoving. Swallowing the lust that claws in his throat, Bucky tilts his head forward. “Yes,” he breathes out. “Whatever you want.”

Bucky barely had enough time to cry out your name before you lick a long stripe from his base to his tip, circling your tongue around him once before you repeat the action once more. All his empty words die in his throat as he releases a shaky breath at the feeling of your warm mouth taking him in completely.

Pressing your tongue flat against the underside of his cock, you taste the salty taste of his sweat and precum. It takes over your senses and you shift forward, circling your tongue around his tip. Pooling some spit on your tongue, you let it drip down his length as you wrap your hand around him, pressing soft kisses to his tip.

Bucky groans, breathing heavier as his legs spasm around you. He moans out your name and you look up to the sight of his eyes screwed shut, head thrown back. His chest rises rapidly and he looks so beautiful, a thin layer of sweat glistening on his forehead, hair brushed back and unruly.

“Oh, fuck,” he moans, his voice cracking as you push him further down your throat, ignoring the burn because he tastes addictive, sounds sweeter than anything you’ve ever heard.

You hollow your cheeks, spit dripping down your throat as you work him with your mouth, humming when he hits the back of your throat.

“Fuck—baby—” His voice breaks, raspy. “That’s it—that’s so fuckin’ good—” His thighs tremble and his abs clench.

He twitches in your mouth and you push him deeper, practically begging. Before he can cum—

He pulls you off, voice and body wrecked. He pants, cock standing straight and leaking and harder than it’s ever been.

“Wanna cum inside you,” he whimpers, pulling you off the floor and into his arms. “Wanna feel you, Y/n, baby—please.”

You’re nodding, still reeling from the emptiness in your mouth. You straddle him again and he surges forward, captures your lips in a hot, messy kiss. It’s all teeth and lips and his hands are everywhere on you.

As he kisses you senseless, you reach between your legs and guide him to your entrance, hissing into his mouth when his tip drags between your folds.

The satisfying tightening and burn of his veins against your gummy walls make you both moan in unison, your body falling limp into his as you sink down completely, the base of his cock hitting your core. The stretch feels amazing, so good, and all you can do is tuck your face into the crook of his neck, biting back a sob.

His hands grip your hips, jaw slack. He can’t breathe—can barely think with your pussy wrapped around him, warm and tight and so perfect.

“Fuck—you feel so fuckin’ good—so tight—”

He nips at your jaw, tongue dragging across your skin as you roll your hips, bracing your hands on his chest. You feel so full, leaking all over his lap. You press a soft kiss to his neck and his hips jerks upwards, filling you to the brim, his tip reaching parts of you only he could.

You part your lips to say something, anything, but he interrupts you by crashing his lips against yours, swallowing your gasp greedily. His lips move roughly against yours, so perfect, as one of his hands slide down to your ass, gripping tightly as he moves his hips against yours.

He kisses down your body, pressing wet, open mouth kisses to the skin between your breasts, licking and sucking, tongue brushing against your nipples.

You were a mess above him, head thrown back and eyes sewn shut, incoherent mumbles and whimpers leaving your lips as you pull and scrape his hair and the nape of his neck.

He twitches inside you, against your sensitive walls and you almost cry out. As if sensing your distraught, one of his hands grip your waist protectively and he presses a soft kiss to the side of your head.

You slowly move, sliding him in and out of your pussy. His hold on your waist helps lift you up and down, guiding you to a delicious pace. His hands slide from your waist to your ass, resting there.

Bucky throws his head back when you begin jumping on his cock, his balls slapping against your cunt. You grip his shoulders and he can feel his skin break as you dig your nails into his skin, the creak of his bed loud as the room fills with your mixed moans.

You slow down, press down on his length to catch your breath. Grinding on his laps, his cock brushes against all your sweet spots, stretches your walls with a delicious burn. You wiggle around on his cock and Bucky’s eyes fly open and he stares at you with a heavy gaze.

He sits up straighter, wraps his arms around you and kisses your throat. “Can’t—fuck.” He thrusts his hips up, almost animally. “Gotta have you—”

Holding you close, he flips you onto your back and thrusts.

You gasp as he drives into you, pressing you into the mattress. He grips onto your hips and pulls you towards him, flush against his pelvis as he rocks his hips forward, fucking his cock into you.

Back arched, you moan when his hand travels to your throat and he holds you firmly beneath him, tilting your head backwards as he applies just the right amount of pressure to your jugular veins, making you lightheaded as he slides in and out of you at a bruising pace.

He smiles when you whimper, teeth grazing the side of your throat as he bites down, pressing your hips flush against his pelvis, the tip of his cock brushing against your cervix, making you see stars.

His hand cups your jaw and his mouth claims yours, softer, despite the rough and messy pace of his hips. He kisses you slowly, traces his devotion into your gums.

“I love you,” he whispers, like he couldn’t help it. “I love you.”

Your heart stutters and you wrap your arms around his neck—tighter. You kiss his nose, the edge of his lips, before his lips.

“I love you too.”

It was inevitable, you think. You were always going to fall in love with him. There was so much to love.

He groans like he’s about to lose it, like your words have single-handedly freed him from all of his crimes and sins.

“Gonna cum,” he rasps.

“Inside,” you whine, begging. “Cum inside me—please, Buck.”

His hips stutter and he practically growls. “Fuck—my pretty girl. Gonna cum inside you,” he moans. “Fill you up—want it to stay—wanna make you—”

“Yes, yes,” you pant, his cock filling you to the brim.

You clench around him, vision going white as you gush around him and he shudders, hips stuttering as he spills inside you with a broken moan of your name.

He thrusts through it, panting, pressing kisses to your cheek, your neck, your lips.

Once he’s sure he’s emptied himself completely inside you, he slows his pace and presses kisses all over your face, slowly halting the movement of his hips. You fall into a slump underneath him and he wraps his arms around you tightly, body pressing against yours, mumbling quietly to you.

“Sweetheart,” he whispered after a moment.

You hum, eyes too tired and droopy to open. He rubs your stomach soothingly, tries to ground you before he moves. “Are you okay, Y/n? Do you need anything?”

Slowly, you shake your head and open your eyes. He’s staring back at you with so much love in his eyes, nothing but softness and concern bright in his eyes. He nudges his nose against yours and you smile, cracking his chest open.

“Just you,” you whisper, finger curling into his dog tags as you pull him in for a kiss.

He laughs into your mouth but kisses you with the same fervor you kiss him with. Gently, Bucky pulls out of your sopping cunt and you both bite back a hiss. He shifts his weight and maneuvers his body until you’re laying in his arms, your chest pressing against his, legs intertwined.

He knows he has to clean you up, get you a glass of water and maybe something to eat, but your eyes flutter shut and your hand rests on his heart so he puts it off, knows you need him more.

He runs his hands along your arms and then your shoulders, pressing into your skin occasionally to remind you that he’s right here—for good. You snuggle into him, press a kiss to a scar above his heart.

He strokes your spine with trembling fingers, his heart full and warm and content.

“You’re mine now,” he whispers, voice rough and soft and questioning.

You lift your eyes to meet his and kiss his jaw. “Was always yours.”

He smiles—small, awestruck.

“You’re still my best friend,” he says, quietly. Like he needs you to know.

“And you’re mine,” you respond, just as quiet.

He presses his lips to your forehead, holds you tight against him.

It’s all he’s ever wanted—to be yours. In every way.

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky smut #fave

2K notes · View notes

castawaycreature · 4 days ago

Text

JON BERNTHAL | SEXIEST MOVIE CHARACTERS for ✨ bernthirst movie madness ✨

546 notes · View notes

castawaycreature · 4 days ago

Text

my (very simple) take on kastle to 'sparks (dakota's version)' by coldplay!!! with a purpose, of course because i genuinely love how frank pleads to/for her.

also, i just realised how karen's expression visibly melted when he said 'please' in the first clip—someone sedate me.

35 notes · View notes

castawaycreature · 4 days ago

Text

if a man as hot and tortured as frank castle referred to me exclusively as “red,” knew of my alter ego and provided me with emotional support in the wake of my best friends death. you’d have to pry me off him with a crowbar. rip to matt murdock but we’re the exact same.

218 notes · View notes

castawaycreature · 4 days ago

Text

17K notes · View notes

castawaycreature · 4 days ago

Text

242 notes · View notes

castawaycreature · 4 days ago

Text

when i tell y’all i want nothing more than this rn

54 notes · View notes

castawaycreature · 5 days ago

Text

Oh to be married with Frank Castle..

white dress with Frank Castle

a/n: yummy.

warnings: explicit smut, minors dni

______________________________________

You weren't sure if it was the wine, the weight of the ring on your finger, or the look in Frank Castle's eyes, but something inside you was unraveling.

The chapel had been quiet. Just the two of you, a worn out priest who owed Frank a favor, and a bouquet of wildflowers you picked that morning.

Frank never wanted anything loud. No eyes. No danger. Just you and him.

Your dress was simple. Off-white silk that hugged the shape of your body, but didn't scream for attention. You weren't the type to shout, anyway.

Around others, you were quiet, thoughtful, always observing. But when it was just you and Frank?

That's when your confidence showed.

He loved that. Said it scared him in the best way. And now, he couldn't stop looking at you.

The motel room smelled like cheap soap and aftershave. Frank had insisted on choosing it himself, off-grid, out of sight. But in this moment, under the soft gold light of a flickering lamp, it might as well have been a castle.

You sat on the edge of the bed, heart pounding, skin buzzing with nerves and anticipation.

Frank stood in front of you, jacket off, shirt half-unbuttoned, hair tousled from running his hands through it a hundred times that day. His eyes didn't leave yours.

"You nervous?" he asked quietly, voice like smoke and gravel.

You shook your head. "Not of you."

That made something behind his gaze flicker.

Something tender. Dangerous. Worshipful. He knelt in front of you slowly, hands resting on your knees. "I ever tell you what you do to me?" he murmured.

You smiled a little, shy under his intensity. "Once or twice."

Frank's hands slid up your thighs, slow and heavy, stopping at the edge of your dress. "Say the word," he whispered. "And I stop. No pressure. No expectations."

Your breath caught. "I married you, Frank. I want this. I want you."

He growled low in his chest, the sound of a man who'd been holding something back all damn day.

Then he stood, took your hands, and pulled you up against him in one smooth motion. Your body collided with his, soft against solid steel. You barely had time to gasp before his mouth was on yours, rough, deep, hungry.

He kissed like he fought, no hesitation. No mercy.

His hands slipped to your hips, gripping them like he needed to anchor himself there.

He always made it look easy to lift you off your feet and walk you backward toward the bed.

You hit the mattress with a breathless laugh, dress pooling around you. Frank loomed over you, bracing himself with one arm. The other hand reached up and cupped your face with surprising gentleness.

"You don't know what you do to me," he whispered. "You don't even see yourself, do you?"

You swallowed hard. "I see the way you look at me."

He smirked, not cruelly, but like he was proud of being caught. "I look at you like that because you're mine now."

His voice dropped even lower. "And I take care of what's mine."

Then he leaned down and started unzipping your dress.

You gasped as cool air hit your skin, and his lips followed the trail of the zipper down your spine, hot and slow. His hands were big and warm, guiding the silk down your shoulders, over your chest, your waist, your thighs, until it was nothing but a puddle on the floor.

Frank sat back for a moment and just looked. You felt shy under the heat of his gaze, but you didn't hide. Not tonight.

"Jesus Christ," he whispered, rubbing his jaw with one hand. "You're perfect."

You blushed, biting your lip, but met his eyes. "Come here, Castle." That did it.

He was on you in a heartbeat, mouth finding yours again, hands splayed wide across your body. He explored every inch, taking his time.

Kissing your neck. Biting your shoulder.

Whispering how good you felt, how soft, how sweet.

"You don't get it," he groaned against your throat.

"I've done things, seen things, and I never thought l'd get this. You. Peace. A real goddamn life."

You cupped his face, looking into those broken, soldier eyes. "You deserve it."

His breath caught, like your words hit him harder than a bullet ever could.

Then he pressed his forehead to yours, chest heaving. "I'm gonna make you feel so good, sweetheart." And he did.

He kissed his way down your body, taking his time. Worshipping. Every sound you made only pushed him further, like he needed to memorize the way you gasped his name, the way your hands curled in the sheets when he touched you just right.

When he finally moved over you, pressing his full weight against you, he stopped and looked down.

"You okay?" he asked, voice husky. You nodded, legs wrapping around his waist.

"Don't make me beg, Frank."

He grinned, wolfish and wrecked.

"Be careful, baby. I like when you beg." Then he slid into you, and everything else, the motel, the danger, the world, disappeared.

It wasn't just sex. It was claiming. A promise. A release.

He moved slow at first, savoring it. Holding your hands above your head, kissing your lips, your cheek, your temple. But the control didn't last. It never did with you.

Soon, he was moving harder, deeper, your body stretching around him perfectly, your name on his lips like a vow. "You're mine," he growled in your ear. "You hear me? No one else ever gets this. Just me."

"All yours," you breathed, back arching. "Always." Your nails dragged down his back, and he hissed.

You'd leave marks. He loved that.

He pulled one of your legs higher around his waist, changing the angle, you cried out, clinging to him. That rough rhythm, the sweat on his skin, the way his mouth kissed you through every pulse of pleasure, it was too much. It was perfect.

And when you came apart beneath him, he held your face in his hands and watched every second of it, like he didn't want to miss a single moment of your pleasure.

He followed right after, letting out a low, groan as he buried his face in your neck and shattered.

His weight settled over you, warm and heavy, every inch of him flush to your skin. The sweat between your bodies, the heat still lingering in the sheets, it was thick, intoxicating. He hadn't even pulled out yet.

Frank stayed there, breathing hard into the crook of your neck. You could feel the tremor in his arms, the way his hands curled into the sheets beside your head like he needed to ground himself.

Then, his voice, quiet, rough, serious.

"I should pull out." The way he said it made your breath catch.

Your hands found his face. "But you didn't."

His eyes met yours, wide, something feral creeping in around the edges.

"No," he said, voice like thunder on the horizon. "I didn't."

And he still hadn't.

He shifted, drawing his hips back just a little, not enough to leave you, just enough to feel the way your body still clenched around him. He was still hardening again, slow but certain. Your breath caught.

You felt it, the faint, sticky warmth inside you.

The heat. The claim. You saw it in his eyes when he looked down at where you were still connected. A different kind of hunger now. One that had been there all along but had stayed quiet. Until now.

"Look at you," he rasped, dragging his nose down your jaw, kissing the corner of your mouth. "Takin' all of me like you were made for it."

Your body responded instantly, hips arching, legs wrapping tighter around him. He was already starting to roll his hips, slow and deep again, lazy but dangerous.

"You are," he murmured. "You're mine. And now you got me buried so deep inside you..."

You whimpered, arching into him. His hand slid over your lower belly, resting there possessively. "That feel good, sweetheart?" he asked, voice low and rough in your ear. "That ache? That stretch?"

You nodded, too dazed to speak. "You know what that means, don't you?" He was fully hard now, moving with more purpose, not frantic, not rushed. Controlled. Intentional.

Every thrust heavy and slow, like he was trying to work every drop of himself even deeper inside you.

"It means I'm gonna fill you again."

Your breath hitched, and he smirked. ''Cause you married me," he growled, lips dragging down your neck. "You promised yourself to me, every inch."

A sharp gasp escaped you as his hips snapped forward harder, pulling a deep moan from your throat.

"Let me put a baby in you," he whispered.

That broke something inside you, your thighs trembled around him, nails digging into his shoulders.

His breath caught, that reaction lit him up like a fuse.

"You want that?" he rasped. "Want me to fill you up again? Make sure it sticks this time?"

"Frank-" you moaned, breathless, dazed, wrecked. "You look at me," he said, thrusting deeper. "Like you want more than just a ring. You want me to ruin you. To own you."

"I'm already yours," you choked out.

"That's right," he growled. "And I want everyone to see it. Want your belly swollen. Want 'em to know I did that to you."

He leaned down, teeth grazing your neck. "No one touches what's mine. You understand?"

You nodded frantically, tears burning at the corners of your eyes from the overwhelming pleasure, the stretch, the pressure, the need.

Frank wrapped your legs tighter around his waist and moved harder now, losing the last bit of restraint. He chased your high like a man possessed, keeping you right on the edge, hand back on your stomach again like he could will it into fullness.

You came again first, shaking, breaking, crying out his name like a vow.

And Frank followed, raw and claiming, hips grinding deep and staying there as he poured every last drop of himself into you again.

He didn't move. Not for a long time.

You lay there, panting, sweaty, his chest pressed to yours. His hand still on your stomach. You could feel him twitching inside you, and the warm flood that followed made you tremble.

He lifted his head finally, eyes dark but soft. "You okay?"

You nodded, tears on your lashes. "Better than okay."

He kissed your temple. "I meant it," he murmured. "I want that. With you." You touched his face. "Then don't pull out next time either." That grin, that dangerous Frank Castle smirk, came back.

"Oh, sweetheart," he whispered. "There's gonna be a lotta next times."

#frank castle #frank castle smut #fave

111 notes · View notes

castawaycreature · 5 days ago

Text

So cute, so sweet. My god, soft Bucky has an extra spot in my heart.

soft hands, heavy heart 𐙚 b.b

pairing: inexperienced!new avenger!bucky barnes x fem!reader

warnings: nsfw, 18+, minors dni, soft smut, praise kink (sorta), slow first time, unprotected sex, creampie, a tinge of angst if you squint, the fluff makes up for it

summary: bucky wants you, but he just doesn’t know how to let himself have you. but you’ll spend every second showing him how it feels to be wanted.

word count: 4.5k

author's note: hi my sweethearts! i'd like to think that after bucky returns, he would need a lot of reassurance and tlc, especially after all he has went through. i feel that he would love to be guided and to know he is loved. so i hope this fic encapsulates that 💌 love ya guys and stay safe out there! requests are open!

so in love with soft!bucky

It starts with his hands. Or rather, what they don’t do.

They hold yours when you’re walking down quiet halls in the compound, fingers interlocked, the brush of calloused skin a comfort more than anything else.

They linger at the small of your back when no one’s looking—firm, steady, grounding you when the world gets too loud.

They cradle your face when you’re scared, trembling, coming down from the edge of something violent. Missions gone wrong, intel turned sour, blood on your skin. In those moments, his hands are everything you ever needed. Steady and safe.

But when your lips are on his?

When your body presses into his in the quiet dark of your shared bedroom, heat blooming between the both of you like something long-restrained finally breaking free?

That’s when they stop.

Always. Just… stop.

Bucky, your boyfriend, your partner, the man who has grown to be your person. He kisses you like he’s starving, like you’re the only thing anchoring him to this world, but somehow, he never touches you when it matters most.

And it’s not like you haven’t tried. You have, god you tried.

More than once, lying against his chest at night, your fingers ghosting beneath the hem of his shirt, tracing the hard lines of his abdomen. Kissing along the sharp cut of his jaw, whispering how much you want him. How much you need him.

Each time, his breath hitches, his body goes rigid. Then, slowly, carefully, almost apologetically, he pulls away from your touch.

Not with disgust, not with rejection. There’s no coldness in the way he moves. No sharp recoil.

But there is something worse that you have come to realise. Fear.

The first time it happened, you brushed it off.

He’d had a long day. The mission briefing with Val had been rough, all sharp orders, bad intel, and barely contained frustration within the team, Walker had quite literally stormed out of the meeting room.

Bucky had come back tense, shoulders tight, jaw set, that look in his eyes that meant he was still somewhere else. Still halfway in a fight.

So when you leaned in that night, pressing soft kisses under his jaw, fingers slipping beneath the hem of his shirt, and he stilled beneath you, gently shifting away with a quiet murmur of your name, you let it go.

You curled into his side instead. Told yourself he was tired. Told yourself you were tired too. You ran your fingers lightly along his arm until his breathing evened out, steady and slow.

And when sleep finally took him, you whispered a kiss to his shoulder and closed your eyes, thinking, hoping, maybe next time.

The second time, you wondered.

It was a few nights later. He wasn’t tense then, he wasn’t distracted or moody or freshly back from some dark place.. He was relaxed, even, the kind of rare, quiet ease you didn’t always get from him.

You both had laughed over dinner, some home cooked lasagna you had whipped up after finding the recipe online. You had teased him until he smiled into his fork and shook his head, muttering about how much trouble you were.

He’d watched you like he always did, like you hung the moon and the stars, like he didn’t know what he’d done to deserve this, to deserve you.

And when you kissed him that night, slow and lingering, your hands soft on his jaw, you felt that same warmth in him. The way he kissed you back, like he meant it.

So you tried again. Slid your hand beneath his shirt, fingers brushing the firm lines of his stomach.

He flinched. Not much. But enough.

And then, just like the first time, he shifted away. Pressed a kiss to your forehead and murmured, “Get some sleep, sweetheart.”

You froze. Pulled your hand back like you had touched something sharp.

And then you nodded, smiling just a little too quickly.

“Yeah. Okay.”

You turned onto your side, curled up with your back to him.

Tried your hardest to not let the sting behind your eyes show.

His arm came around you a few moments later, his chest pressed to your back like nothing had changed. Like everything was still okay.

You didn’t say a word.

But that night, long after you were sure he was asleep, your eyes stayed open. Staring at the shadowed wall. Wondering what it was about you that made him pull away.

The third time, you couldn’t hold it in anymore.

It had been an easy day, all things considered. No missions. No debriefs. No emergencies. Just the two of you, and the rare kind of quiet that settled into the compound like a blanket.

You ate dinner in bed, greasy takeout balanced precariously on Bucky’s lap while some forgettable movie played low in the background.

You stole bites from his container; he rolled his eyes but let you. Laughed when you misquoted a line. Kissed your cheek. Brushed rice off your shirt with the softest smile.

And maybe that was what made it worse.

Because everything had felt right. Comfortable. Easy. The kind of night that warmed you from the inside out.

It was late when the movie finally dwindled into credits. You stacked the empty containers on the nightstand, slid back under the covers, and curled against his chest with a sigh. His arm came around you like it always did, instinctive, easy. Protective.

For a while, neither of you spoke. The glow of the screen lit the room in soft, flickering blue. Your legs were tangled with his. Your cheek rested against the cotton of his t-shirt. He felt steady beneath you. Safe.

So when you tilted your head up and kissed him, it wasn’t with expectation. It wasn’t about sex, or hunger, or even want.

It was soft. Familiar. The kind of kiss you gave someone when you were in love.

He kissed you back, of course he did. That part was never the problem. He always kissed you like you were the only thing in the world that could anchor him.

But the moment your hand slipped beneath the hem of his shirt, everything changed.

Just the pad of your fingers brushing lightly over his stomach. Just a touch.

And still, he tensed.

You felt it the way someone feels a tide turning, quiet, sure, inevitable.

He didn’t flinch. He didn’t recoil. He just went still. Careful. Measured. One hand lifted to catch your wrist and gently moved it away from his skin, like it wasn’t a rejection. Like it didn’t mean something.

But it did.

He turned slightly, as if he meant to settle back into bed like nothing had happened. Like you could pretend this wasn’t the third time in a row.

But you didn’t follow.

Instead, you sat up slowly, drawing your knees to your chest, the sheet falling across your thighs. You stared at the far wall, lips pressed into a thin line, throat tight.

You heard the shift in his voice before he even finished asking.

“Hey,” he said softly, already sensing the change. “What’s wrong?”

You didn’t answer right away.

The silence that followed wasn’t loud. It was thick. Still. The kind of quiet that feels like the moment before something breaks.

When you finally spoke, your voice came out low, shaky.

“Do you want me?”

He didn’t move.

You didn’t look at him. You couldn’t. You kept your eyes on your hands, twisting your fingers in the blanket like it might keep the rest of you from unraveling.

“Because I want you,” you continued, quieter now. “And every time I try, you pull away. I know you care about me, I know you do, but I can’t help wondering if maybe I’m wrong about all of it.”

He went very, very still.

Then, “Stop.”

His voice was sharp, and the suddenness of it made you blink.

You turned, startled.

He was sitting up now, scrubbing a hand over his face. His jaw was tight. His shoulders tense. Like your words had opened something he hadn’t meant to expose.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath. “I didn’t mean to—just. I’m sorry. Don’t say that. Ever.”

You stared at him.

“Then talk to me,” you said softly. “Because it’s getting harder not to take it personally.”

He didn’t look at you.

His gaze dropped to the sheets. His fists were clenched in his lap. The vibranium hand trembled slightly. The other, human and scarred, looked like it was holding on to something invisible.

You sat beside him again. Close, but not touching.

Your voice was quiet. Measured, ounded, but not accusatory.

“You think I don’t see the way you look at me?” you asked. “Like you’re in love with me?”

You swallowed hard.

“Because you do. Every day.”

He still didn’t say anything.

“And then I touch you, and you freeze. Like I’ve crossed a line I didn’t know was there. Like I’ve done something wrong.”

There was something in your chest pulling tighter with every second of silence. Something raw and anxious and aching.

His hands stayed clenched.

You reached for him, carefully, wrapping your fingers around his wrist. The human one. His skin was warm. His pulse jumped beneath your touch.

“Bucky,” you whispered. “What is it? You can tell me.”

He exhaled. Rough. Uneven.

For a second, you thought he might deflect. That he might dodge this like he had before — with a soft kiss or a change of subject. But then he swallowed hard, eyes flicking to yours for just a moment before dropping again.

“I haven’t…” he started, then paused. Cleared his throat. “I haven’t done anything since before the war.”

The breath caught in your chest.

He laughed, but it wasn’t amused. It was hollow. Embarrassed.

“Not just sex,” he said. “Anything. After HYDRA… after everything. I didn’t—I couldn’t.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, visibly ashamed. Smaller, somehow. Like admitting it out loud took more from him than he’d expected.

“It’s been over eighty years.”

You didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Just watched him.

“I know it doesn’t make sense,” he said, still not meeting your eyes. “You’re here, and you’re kind, and you’ve never pushed. But I get so far and then it’s like—like my body just shuts down. Like some part of me still thinks I’m not allowed to want things.”

Your heart twisted.

Not from pity. But from the weight of it. The quiet devastation he carried like a second skin.

Then, more quietly:

“You think I don’t want you?” His voice dropped. “Fuck, sweetheart. I want you so bad it hurts. Every night I lie here hard as a fucking rock just thinking about you.”

His jaw clenched. His eyes squeezed shut.

“But I’m—” He shook his head. “I’m scared.”

You moved then.

Not away. But forward.

You reach for his wrist again, let your fingers slide gently down to his hand. His pulse was racing. His breath shallow.

“Scared of what?” you asked, softer now.

He looked at you. Finally. Really looked. And what you saw in his eyes made your chest ache, something wide and raw and terrified.

“That I’ll disappoint you,” he said. “That I won’t know what I’m doing. That you’ll want someone who’s not stuck in the goddamn 40s when it comes to this stuff.”

Your face softened. A small, aching smile tugged at the corner of your mouth, even through the tightness in your chest.

“Bucky,” you whispered.

You climbed into his lap carefully, like you were afraid you’d spook him. You framed his face with your hands, your thumbs brushing along the curve of his cheekbones.

“You’re already everything I want and more,” you said, steady and sure. “But I need you to believe that.”

His breath hitched.

“And if you let me,” you continued, voice barely above a whisper now, “I’ll show you everything. I’ll go slow. I’ll take care of you.”

He didn’t answer right away.

His eyes searched yours. Guarded, hopeful. Terrified. Like part of him still thought this might not be real.

But then, slowly, almost imperceptibly, he nodded.

And when he did, something in you finally, quietly exhaled.

You don’t rush him.

After everything he’s said, every word laced with fear and heartbreak and hope, the last thing he needs is haste. Or pressure. Or you moving too fast for him to feel safe.

So you just breathe for a moment.

You stay in his lap, arms curled gently around his neck, your forehead resting against his. And you breathe.

His chest rises beneath yours, shaky and tight. His hands are still in his lap, fists curled like he doesn’t know what to do with them, like he doesn’t quite believe this is real, like one wrong move will send the whole thing crumbling to pieces.

So you start small.

You tilt your head and kiss the corner of his mouth. Once. Then again, slower this time, letting your lips linger against his skin.

His breath stutters. His lips part.

You kiss him properly next, slow, deep, but gentle, your mouth moving against his with no urgency, no push, just quiet devotion. Like he’s something sacred.

His hands twitch in his lap. He doesn’t lift them yet, but he doesn’t pull away either.

You murmur against his mouth, “Can I touch you?”

He swallows thickly. Nods.

You kiss him one more time, a promise, before you shift in his lap, your thighs bracketing his, and reach for the hem of his shirt.

The moment your fingers graze the fabric, he tenses.

You pause. You meet his eyes.

“I’ll stop any time you need me to,” you whisper, your voice soft but sure.

He holds your gaze. His throat bobs with a hard swallow. Then he nods again, slower this time. “I want you to.”

You offer a gentle smile. “Okay.”

You lift his shirt carefully, baring him inch by inch. You don’t rush. You kiss every strip of skin you uncover, the ridges of his ribs, the warm slope of his sternum, the sharp cut of his collarbone.

You take your time with it, as if mapping him out with your mouth, like you’re memorising every inch with intention.

When the shirt is high enough, he lifts his arms, stiffly, hesitantly and lets you pull it over his head. You toss it aside and look at him.

He’s bare from the waist up. All muscle and scar tissue, strength and survival. The room’s low light catches on the vibranium, glints over old wounds, highlights the long-healed lines across his chest and side.

You let your gaze roam.

He doesn’t meet your eyes. He looks away, jaw tight, breathing shallow.

You reach out, slow, deliberate, and place your palm against his chest. Right over his heart.

He flinches. Just a little. A twitch in his shoulder. A held breath.

But he doesn’t pull away. You lean in and kiss the skin just beside your hand.

“Is this okay?”

His voice is low and rough. “Yeah. Feels nice.”

You smile against his skin, then keep going.

Your mouth trails lower, painting a path down the plane of his chest. You kiss over his heart again, then rest your cheek there for a moment.

“Still beating,” you whisper, a soft marvel.

You feel it stutter beneath your lips.

Your hands slide lower, down his abdomen, his skin warm, twitching under your fingers. You follow the faint trail of hair that disappears beneath his waistband, fingertips brushing gently, not demanding. Just exploring.

He exhales shakily, stomach tensing, hips shifting just slightly.

“There’s not a single part of you I don’t want to touch,” you murmur, kissing along his ribs.

He turns his face, like he’s trying to hide, like the intimacy of your words is too much.

“Hey,” you say softly. You reach up, cupping his jaw, gently guiding his gaze back to yours. “Let me say it. Let me mean it.”

His lips part like he might argue, but he doesn’t.

You rest your forehead against his.

“You’re beautiful,” you whisper. “So strong, You’ve been through hell and still came of it.”

His eyes flutter shut. His breath catches.

Your lips brush his softly, like reassurance. Then again.

And this time, when your hands slide down to the waistband of his sweats, he doesn’t flinch.

You look up at him. “Can I take these off?”

His voice is strained. “Yeah.”

You move slowly, tugging them down inch by inch, watching his face the entire time. He lifts his hips to help, barely, and you kiss the inside of his knee as you go. Then the other.

By the time you’ve got them off, he’s flushed all over, from his chest to his ears to the very tips of his fingers. And trembling.

His cock is hard and leaking, resting against his stomach. Big. Heavy. Throbbing.

He tries to close his legs out of instinct. Reflex.

But you shift forward between them and place your hands gently on the outside of his thighs.

“You’re doing so good,” you say softly. “Are you okay?”

His nod is jerky. “Just—don’t look too long.”

You blink. “Why not?”

He swallows hard. “’Cause you’ll know I don’t have a damn clue what I’m doing.”

You smile, warm, never mocking.

“Baby,” you say gently, “I already know.”

You lean in, kissing the inside of his thigh, slowly, gently..

“But it’s not a problem,” you murmur, lips brushing his skin again. “It’s a privilege.”

His head drops back, his fists clench the blanket. You trail your mouth up his thigh, closer and closer, and then wrap your fingers around the base of his cock.

He jerks under your touch, breath catching sharp in his throat.

“Fuck—” His hips twitch. His mouth opens, like he’s trying to say something and can’t find the words.

You stroke him once, slow, deliberate, and his entire body shudders.

He’s flushed dark at the tip, leaking already.

“Nobody’s ever…” he starts, but doesn’t finish.

You look up. “Ever?”

He nods, barely. “Not like this.”

You smile. “Good.”

You stroke again, firmer now, and his jaw clenches, breath ragged.

Your thumb brushes over the tip, collecting the slick, and he whines, high, desperate, like he’s trying to hold everything in and failing miserably.

You kiss just below the head and he moans, low and broken.

“Holy shit—sweetheart, I’m not gonna—fuck, I’m not gonna last—”

You press a kiss to his hip. “That’s okay. That’s why we’ll take our time.”

You climb back into his lap, hand still wrapped around him, your other resting at his cheek to keep him grounded. He looks dazed, overwhelmed, like he doesn’t know whether to hold you or fall apart in your arms.

“Can I ride you?” you whisper.

His hands shoot to your hips like a lifeline. “Please,” he breathes. “I want you to. So bad.”

You guide him to your entrance, your slick soaking him already, and ease down, slow, careful, inch by inch — until he’s fully seated inside you.

Bucky’s head drops back, a strangled moan caught in his throat.

“F-fuck, baby—” he gasps. “Too much. Feels too—”

You don’t move.

You stay still in his lap, your hands on his chest, letting him feel you. Letting his body adjust. Letting the moment settle between you like something holy.

“You okay?” you whisper.

He nods, frantic. “Yeah. I—just give me a second.”

You wait. When his eyes open again, they’re soaked with emotion. Glassy and bare.

“You okay?” you ask.

“I think you’re killing me,” he says hoarsely. “But I don’t wanna stop.”

You smile.

Then you start to move.

Slow, gentle, rocking your hips, letting him feel everything, every squeeze, every inch, every slow drag of your walls around him.

His mouth falls open. He moans your name like a prayer.

“Feels too good,” he pants. “I’m not—fuck, I’m not gonna—”

You lean in, your forehead pressed to his.

“Then don’t,” you whisper. And he does.

With a choked cry, he spills inside you, body tensing, arms wrapping tight around you, hips bucking helplessly. His hands shake against your back as his breath catches in your hair.

He clings to you like he would fall apart without you.

And even after it’s over, even after he’s finished, breathless and wrecked, he doesn’t let go.

He just holds you. And for the first time in years, he lets himself be held, too.

He’s still trembling.

You don’t move. You don’t shift or speak right away. You just stay where you are, wrapped around him, your body cradling his, the last aftershocks of his orgasm still echoing in the taut lines of his body.

His cock is still inside you, softening slowly. The stretch of him, the heat of him, the slick, overwhelming closeness of it all—it makes your heart ache in the gentlest way.

Your fingers stroke through his hair, trailing through the sweat-damp strands at the nape of his neck. Then down his spine. Slow, comforting passes, like you’re coaxing his body back into itself.

He clutches you tighter.

His arms are around your waist, strong and firm—not bruising, not panicked. But desperate. Like he’s afraid that if he lets go, this will all vanish. Like maybe none of this was real, and holding on to you is the only thing keeping him grounded.

You don’t pull away.

You let him hold you. Let him shake. Let his breath shudder against your neck while your hand keeps moving slowly down his back.

His face is buried against your throat, and when he finally speaks, it’s muffled—barely audible. Raw.

“I didn’t mean to finish so fast.”

Your heart breaks for him a little, even as your lips tilt into a soft smile.

You press a kiss to his temple—tender, grounding.

“I know.”

His voice is barely there. “I just—fuck, I couldn’t stop it. You felt so good. I couldn’t think."

You hum softly, stroking his hair again. “That’s kind of the point, baby.”

He lifts his head, just a little, pulling back enough to meet your gaze. His eyes are wide, glassy, dazed, those perfect cerulean eyes soft and unguarded, boyish, almost.

His cheeks are flushed. His hair’s a mess. His lips are kiss-swollen.

He looks completely ruined. Completely beautiful. Yours.

“But you didn’t—” he starts, then hesitates. His gaze drops. “You didn’t finish.”

You don’t stop smiling. There’s no hurt in it, no impatience, just quiet warmth.

“I wasn’t trying to,” you whisper, brushing his damp hair from his forehead. “Tonight was about you.”

His brows pull together, like he doesn’t quite know how to process that.

“That’s not fair,” he mumbles. “I want to make you feel good too.”

“You already do,” you murmur, your nose brushing his. “But if you really want to keep going…”

You pause deliberately, shifting your hips slightly.

Just enough for him to feel the movement, just enough to tease.

He gasps, high and sharp, his body jolting.

“…we can.”

His hands flex at your waist. His eyes flutter. His lips part like he’s trying to speak but can’t form a single thought.

“I’m still—,” he whispers, like it’s a warning. But there’s no hesitation in his tone. Only want.

“But I want it,” he adds. “I want you.”

You kiss him again, slow and deep, and begin to move. Barely. Just a gentle roll of your hips, enough to stir friction between your bodies again.

He moans into your mouth, soft and aching.

You rock slowly, dragging your walls against his still-sensitive cock. He twitches inside you, starting to thicken again already. It’s slow, but unmistakable.

“Okay?” you whisper.

He nods frantically, hands gripping your waist like he’s drowning in sensation. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m okay. Just—shit. I’ve never… I didn’t know it could feel like this.”

You smile against his jaw. “You wanna come again for me?”

His moan is barely a sound. His eyes flutter shut.

“Yes,” he breathes. “Fuck, yes. Please—”

You tighten your thighs and roll your hips again, drawing a sharp gasp from him.

“Such good manners,” you whisper, kissing his throat. “So sweet for me.”

Your hand slides between your bodies, fingers finding your clit with practiced ease. You start to circle, slow, wet, just enough pressure to build your own heat.

He watches you.

Like you’re made of stars, like he’s never seen anything so beautiful.

“Touch me,” you murmur. “Please, Bucky. I want your hands on me.”

It’s the only encouragement he needs.

His hands move slowly, softly, trembling, sliding up your sides, grazing your ribs, cupping your breasts. His thumbs brush over your nipples, and you moan, arching into his touch.

The sound makes him groan, deep and wrecked.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs. “So fuckin’ perfect, baby—can’t believe I get to have you like this.”

His voice breaks on the last word.

You’re slick around him now, your arousal mixing with the mess from earlier. Every slow rock of your hips has him thickening more, twitching inside you, inch by inch.

His thighs are shaking. His jaw clenches.

“Feels so good,” he whines. “I don’t wanna stop. Don’t wanna come yet. Wanna feel you forever.”

You ride him harder now, the heat in your belly rising faster.

“You feel that?” you gasp. “How close I am?”

His hands tighten on your hips. His breath turns ragged.

“Please—please come around me, sweetheart—need to feel it—need to feel you—”

You bury your face in his neck. And let go.

Your whole body seizes around him, a white-hot wave crashing through you, stealing your breath, your balance, your thoughts. Your moan is broken, helpless, his name falling from your lips like a prayer.

Your walls clamp down hard around him.

And that’s all it takes.

He thrusts up once. Then again. Deep, desperate. A cry tearing from his throat as he comes again, shaking, gasping, flooding you with warmth.

His arms wrap tight around you.

He holds you close. Close enough to feel your heartbeat thunder against his. Close enough that the tremors in your bodies blur together, indistinguishable.

This time, his grip is softer. Still strong, but different.

Not desperate. Tender.

His hand strokes up your spine. His lips press to your temple, then your hair, then your jaw. Like he can’t get close enough.

You stay there, wrapped around each other, skin to skin, breath mingled and unsteady and you don’t rush to move.

Not yet.

“Jesus,” he whispers eventually, voice raw. “What the fuck just happened?”

You laugh softly, breathless, dazed. “That was called good sex,.”

He groans into your neck. “That was more than good. That was—fuck. That was divine.”

You smile, pressing a kiss to his hair.

You collapse gently against his chest, boneless and warm, and he doesn’t let go. His arms stay around you, wrapped like a shield, like a promise.

Neither of you move for a long time. There’s nothing left to prove. Nothing to say.

Just the slow hum of your heartbeats and the safe, sacred space you’ve made between the two of you.

And for the first time in a long, long time, Bucky feels wanted.

And safe. And home.

a/n: i hope you enjoyed it! if you did, drop a comment or a reblog! thank you my loves, your support means the world to me! <3333333

#bucky barnes #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes smut #fave

1K notes · View notes

castawaycreature · 6 days ago

Text

𝚃𝙷𝚄𝙽𝙳𝙴𝚁𝙱𝙾𝙻𝚃𝚂* (2025)

"I'm here. You're not alone."

779 notes · View notes

castawaycreature · 6 days ago

Text

Girl... GIRL!!!!! You are crazy!!!!

I mean... i love this. Truly.

The "Yes ma'am"???

The "Why don't you let me take my gratitude as i like it"????

Imprinted in my brain. Right away.

Please never stop writing or I'll off my self.

crush

pairing: frank castle x fem!reader

summary: you wanna show frank your gratitude for taking on a project for you, but he has other plans.

warnings: swearing, long haired bearded frank (yes that needs a warning), explicit sexual content (minors dni)

word count: 2k

a/n: the first time I listed to crush by ethel cain I immediately thought of frank, & then I saw tons of edits with him to this song, & this has been stuck in my head ever since. I just recently renovated my own kitchen, so naturally I thought about something like this the whole time I was doing it. anyway, this is primarily for @thyme-in-a-bubble & @castawaycreature but the rest of y'all are welcome to stay. as always, feedback is welcomed/appreciated!

he looks like he works with his hands, and smells like marlboro reds

All you’d done was offhandedly mention to Frank that you wanted to redo the kitchen. Some new paint, new cabinet handles, maybe spruce up the backsplash with different tiles. It wasn’t even a full blown project in your brain, more of an idea of a project for when you had the time and energy. But Frank being Frank took that and ran with it.

Needless to say, you were not at all prepared for the sight you came home to that evening.

As soon as you walked through the front door, you heard a loud mechanical whirring noise coming from the kitchen. Perplexity knit between your brows as you hung your keys up by the front door, following the familiar sound of power tools.

“Frank?”

Rounding the corner of the entryway, you stopped dead in your tracks and your breath hitched. The kitchen was in complete disarray. The cabinet doors had been taken completely off the hinges and were laid out in neat rows on top of a large canvas drop cloth that was spread out on the floor. There were sporadic piles of dark beige dust, evidence of the wood being sanded before it had been neatly painted that rich shade of green you’d been daydreaming about. There were open boxes of new tile and handles on the island, but your attention was immediately drawn away from the organized chaos and towards the source of it.

Frank was kneeling in front of the counter furthest from you, his jeans deliciously snug around his thighs, and the light grey tank top he wore had darkened in certain spots with sweat. There was a glistening sheen covering the exposed portion of his chest that made you want to drag your tongue over the tan skin, but what had heat blooming in your lower belly was the way his biceps bulged as he drilled holes through the drawer he was working on. You could see the clear definition in his arms and his back as he pushed the drillbit through the thick wood, his muscles flexing in a tantalizing way, and the droplets of sweat that cascaded down his veiny forearm were no match for the wetness that had begun to pool between your thighs.

He was so laser focused on the task at hand that he hadn’t noticed you, hadn’t even heard you call his name, which worked in your favor to be able to ogle him freely. There was rarely anything Frank did that you didn’t find attractive, but watching him work with his hands…that did something else entirely to you. Watching him do something so manly while looking so rugged with that grown out beard and that mess of unruly curls that were damp against his forehead…it made your mouth water.

When he set the drill down and reached for the pack of screws and one of the new handles, he finally caught sight of you out of the corner of his eye, and he turned his head in your direction. His stoic expression of pure concentration melted into something a little softer. He opened his mouth to say something, but then noticed the way you were staring at him. His dark brows quickly furrowed in confusion, mistaking the look on your face for something else.

“What? Said ya wanted to redo the kitchen.”

“I didn’t mean you had to do it all on your own, or right away.”

Frank pursed his lips slightly with a light scrunch of his nose and gave a faint shrug of his broad shoulders, slipping the screws through the holes he’d drilled and lining them up with the openings on the back of the handle.

“Had the day off.”

That almost made you laugh. It was such a Frank thing to say, and do. Of course he’d spent his whole day off doing something you’d mentioned in passing. Frank wasn’t a man of many words, but he was a man of action. He wasn’t always vocal or physical about his affection, but you never had to question how he felt. He showed you in how he treated you, and the things he did for you.

The sweet and thoughtful gesture combined with the way he looked right now had that flame of desire flickering in your lower belly turning into a full blown blaze. Walking over towards where he was still down on his knees, you reached out to push his messy damp curls away from his forehead, smoothing them back with your fingers, and lightly dragged your nails along his scalp in the process.

“Take a break.”

Frank abruptly paused, turning his head to look up at you with those warm brown eyes that could melt you into a puddle on the spot. He knew you like the back of his hand, and he recognized the barely concealed desire in your heated gaze, and heard the breathy need in your voice. He didn’t need to be told twice.

His gaze flickered down to your bare thighs that were right at his eye level before he looked up at you again, and he slowly set down the screwdriver on the floor. He reached for your ankle, lightly trailing his fingertips up your calf, along the back of your knee, before gliding his warm callused hand up your thigh and giving it a squeeze, his fingers teasingly dipping beneath the hem of your skirt.

“Yes ma’am.”

A soft shuddering breath left your lips as Frank held eye contact with you while leaning in to press a chaste kiss to your thigh. Letting out a breathy laugh, you carded your fingers through his hair again, giving it a gentle tug while looking down at him with a grin.

“I should be thanking you for doing all this. You gonna let me?”

Frank let out a quiet grunt when you tugged at his hair gently, and he gripped your hips to pull you directly in front of him just to press your back against the counter, his greedy hands already hiking your skirt up to your hips.

“Why don’t you let me take my gratitude how I want it, yeah?”

He didn’t give you a chance to protest before your panties were pooled around one of your ankles and one of your legs was pulled over his shoulder to open you up for him.

Your grip on his hair instantly tightened, the strands warm and damp against your fingers, unable to stop yourself from tugging him impossibly closer with a satisfied moan feeling that first swipe of his tongue. One of his large hands gripped your thigh that was on his shoulder, digging his blunt nails into your soft flesh, and his other had a tight grip on your hip to keep you steady as you leaned back against the counter and started to roll your hips against his face.

He didn’t stop you. He gave your hip a squeeze of encouragement and moved even closer on his knees, burying his face in your soaked cunt like he couldn’t get enough, and he usually couldn’t.

“Oh f-fuck…Frank…God right there-”

Your eyes nearly crossed when he sealed his lips around your clit and started suckling, and the edge of the counter dug into your back as you arched against it, tugging at his hair with both hands now as sensual moans and breathy pleas flew past your parted lips.

As much as you wanted to come on his pretty face, the desire you felt for him was so much stronger. Giving his hair a sharper tug, you practically had to beg him to relent, which was not a simple task.

“Frankie…please…I want you.”

He gave you only a moment of mercy to gruffly speak against your drenched pussy.

“You got me, baby.”

“I want more.”

Frank chuckled as he turned his head to kiss and nip at your inner thigh.

“Greedy little thing, ain’t ya?”

“Frank.”

Another deep chuckle rumbled in his chest at your desperate whine of his name, and he rubbed his rough hand over your soft skin soothingly.

“What is it, sweetheart? Tell me what ya want.”

“I want you to fuck me.”

Those seemed to be the magic words, and as soon as Frank rose to his full height, you grabbed the front of his tank top that was soaked with sweat and pulled him down for a messy kiss raw with hunger and need. Frank’s tongue parted the seam of your lips to tangle with your own while his large hands roamed down your body to grab your ass and squeeze firmly. His hardened cock was straining against the zipper of his jeans, pressing against your lower belly, begging to be freed. But the second you reached for his belt buckle, he grabbed your hips and swiftly spun you around to bend you over the counter.

The jingle of his belt being unbuckled and his zipper being tugged down were dull in comparison to your own blood pumping in your ears, your heartbeat as loud as raucous thunder. You’d been holding your breath in anticipation, but all the air in your lungs was quickly knocked out when he pushed his hips forward and his thick girth stretched out your snug walls in one swift thrust, nestling so deep you swore you could feel him in your lower stomach.

In an instant you slumped against the counter, and your eyes rolled while your jaw went slack, a choked moan echoing throughout the kitchen. Frank leaned over you, pressing his chest flush against your back, one of his hands gripping your hip while his other snaked around and reached up to wrap his hand around your throat, giving it a gentle squeeze.

He nuzzled his large nose against your neck, kissing and nipping at your heated skin, dragging his tongue along the shell of your ear, rocking his hips against your ass as he fucked you with slow deep strokes, even though everything in him wanted to fuck you with reckless abandon. Frank never rushed anything, but especially not pleasing you.

“Feel so fuckin’ good, sweetheart. This what you wanted, yeah?”

Blindly reaching behind you, your fingers grasped at whatever you could find to anchor yourself to, the fabric of his tank top clutched tightly in your fingers.

“Frank-”

“I know baby, I know.”

It was almost eerie how well he knew your body, oftentimes better than you did. He knew exactly what you liked, and exactly what you needed, when you needed it. He kept his hold on your throat, but he let go of your hip so he could slip his hand down between your thighs, strumming his fingers over your clit in rapid succession, making you writhe in the limited space you were trapped in between the counter and his large body.

He let out a grunt when he felt you clench around his cock, but he held out on his own pleasure, always making sure you were well satisfied before he even thought about letting go. He let out a quiet moan in your ear when he felt you come for him, felt the warm wetness of your pussy drowning his cock and soaking your inner thighs and the denim of his jeans.

His hips stuttered, and he let out a guttural groan in your ear as he pushed himself flush against you, gripping onto you tightly as he followed your climax. Your pulsing cunt milked his cock in a way that made his forehead drop against your shoulder, and the soft whimper it tore from him made your knees weak and made that desire burn even hotter.

Both of you were panting heavily, and Frank was peppering soft kisses along your neck and shoulder, giving your hip a gentle squeeze before he slowly started to pull out. But little did he know, you were far from finished.

Not even giving him a second to think, you straightened up on your wobbly legs and turned to face him, fisting the front of his tank top as you pushed him backwards and up against the island behind you. Frank looked down at you in bewilderment, his hands instinctively shooting out to grab your hips.

“What-”

“You got to take your gratitude how you want, now I get to say thank you how I want.”

Flashing him a devilish smirk, you kept your eyes locked on his as you sank down to your knees in front of him, and Frank’s confusion quickly transitioned into hunger, his softened cock already stirring once again with need.

“Well this is definitely fuckin’ worth all the goddamn splinters.”

#frank castle #frank castle x y/n #frank castle x you #frank castle smut #fave

609 notes · View notes

castawaycreature · 6 days ago

Text

That Was Mine

Title: That Was Mine

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Summary: You’ve held it together all day. The final straw? Someone stole your snack. Bucky makes sure you know you’re still allowed to fall apart - but only for him.

Word Count: 3k

Warnings: / Explicit Content /18+, Minors DNI, established relationship, comfort sex, soft dom!Bucky, oral (f receiving), praise kink, emotional softness, body worship, panties pushed aside, slow grind to ruin, smutty kitchen sex.

A/N: my entry for @avengers-assemble-bingo for Spring Bingo Sorry I'm late to start this! Will have them all up in June! :)

Square: A4 - Stolen Snacks

Card Number: AAS001

You stared at the empty space in the cupboard like it had personally betrayed you.

You’d held it together. Through the botched recon brief that ended with you getting shoulder-checked into a wall. The two-hour debrief with Fury that circled the same five points and still managed to assign you clean-up duty. Through training drills with Natasha that left your muscles screaming, a cracked tablet that shorted out mid-field report, and a stray pulse round from testing Tony’s gear that seared through your glove. Through trying to calm a panicking rookie in the med bay and brushing off Steve’s attempt to talk about team morale while your ribs throbbed from the fall no one noticed.

But this?

This was too much.

Your last chocolate bar. The one you’d shoved to the back of the shelf, behind the rice cooker like a goddamn dragon hoard, and even labelled.

Gone.

You felt the tears before they came. That tight, angry pressure in your throat. The prickle behind your eyes. It was more than frustration, it was the weight of everything you'd swallowed down all day finally pushing up from your chest. A battle cry turned into a whimper.

You hated it.

Hated crying over something so stupid, hated how this tiny, ridiculous moment had cracked the dam you’d patched together with stubbornness and caffeine.

Your breath hitched. The cabinet blurred. You clenched your fists tighter. Maybe if you stood still enough, quiet enough, you could push the feelings back down where they belonged. Somewhere deep. Somewhere no one could see.

That’s how Bucky found you. Still standing there like a statue in mourning, shoulders drawn tight, fists white-knuckled, eyes locked on that empty shelf like you could will the universe to give you one goddamn break. Just one.

“Doll?” His voice behind you was soft. Careful. Like he already knew something wasn’t right.

You blinked, throat tight and eyes burning. “Fine.” It came out too fast, too brittle.

He stepped closer, his footsteps quiet on the kitchen tile. “Sweetheart…”

“They took it,” you whispered, voice barely audible.

“Took what?”

You sniffed and gave a shaky little laugh that didn’t reach your eyes. “My chocolate.”

He paused, one long second where you could feel him processing that. Then, with a low, understanding note in his voice. “Oh.”

You still didn’t turn around. Couldn’t. The heat in your cheeks was too much, and the tears were already pushing harder. “I just wanted one fucking thing today,” you said, the words gaining a tremble. “One thing. And someone… I don’t even know who, but someone went in and…”

Your voice cracked. A tear fell before you could catch it. You scrubbed it away with the back of your hand, furious at yourself for crying over something so small, but it wasn’t just the chocolate. It never was.

His body pressed in close, not just touching but anchoring, like he was stitching you back together with every inch of contact. You felt the brush of his stubble as he dipped his head closer, his breath warm against your ear.

“I got you,” he murmured, voice low and sure like it was a promise. “I got you, baby. Just breathe.”

You turned into his chest, burying your face in his shirt as more tears spilled free. His arms wrapped around you without hesitation. No teasing. No judgment. Just strength. Steady, unshakable warmth. You could feel his heartbeat through the fabric, solid and calm, syncing with your own stuttering rhythm like it was trying to coax you back to yourself. He smelled like leather and soap and something uniquely his. That grounding, familiar scent that always made you feel like home was wherever he stood.

He didn’t rush you. Didn’t ask what was wrong or try to fix it yet. He just stayed there, solid as ever, letting you feel every heartbeat in his chest and the slow, steady rhythm of his breath like it could replace the storm in your own.

He held you there for a long moment, rubbing his hand up and down your back, pressing a kiss to the top of your head without needing to say anything more yet. Just being held like that made your chest ache in a different way, an ache that felt like the release you'd been holding back all day.

“You wanna yell?” he asked, finally, his voice light but sincere. “We’ll go down to the training floor- think most of them are there- you can scream at every single one of those snack thieves until you feel better.”

A wet laugh hiccupped out of your throat. It surprised you, but you didn’t fight it. “It was probably Peter.”

“I’ll drop-kick him. Promise.”

That earned another laugh, softer now, your fingers curling in the fabric of his shirt. You could feel his smile against your temple before you even looked up. And when you did, you caught the full picture- his brows drawn with worry, his jaw tight like it physically hurt him to see you upset, and his eyes so full of quiet love it made your knees go weak.

Every inch of his expression said it plain: You are safe. I’ve got you. I always will.

“You’ve had a hard day, huh?”

You nodded, swallowing back a fresh wave of emotion. Your lip trembled again, and this time you didn’t fight it. It felt like if you said even one word, everything would crack wide open again. Maybe you didn’t have the energy to pick the pieces up this time.

Bucky saw it. He always did. He didn’t push, didn’t fill the silence. Just stayed steady and warm at your side.

“Then let me fix it,” he said gently, brushing your hair behind your ear. His voice dropped even lower, like he was speaking to something raw in you. “Let me take care of my girl.”

You expected another hug. Maybe a kiss on the forehead. Maybe for him to lead you to the couch and tuck a blanket around your shoulders, like he sometimes did after a mission that ran too long or left you rattled. You expected soft words and gentler hands. The kind of quiet that didn’t ask anything from you.

But what you got was more. A presence that didn’t just hold you together, it reminded you that you didn’t have to be perfect to be loved. That your breaking point didn’t scare him away. That he’d carry it all if you let him.

You didn’t expect him to grip your hips and lift you onto the kitchen counter.

“Bucky- ” you gasped, palms braced against his chest, heat flushing up your neck. The cold countertop under your thighs only made his warmth feel more intense, more consuming. Like a fire had started under your skin and only he knew how to tend it.

But he was already stepping between your knees, lifting your skirt with slow, deliberate care. His fingers skimmed your thighs like they were something fragile, like he had all the time in the world to unwrap you, gaze locked on yours with a hunger that sent sparks straight through your core. Every brush of his knuckles sent goosebumps racing up your legs.

“You think you gotta hold it all in,” he murmured, lips grazing your jaw, his voice like velvet and smoke. “But you don’t. Not with me. You don’t have to be strong right now. You just have to be mine.”

He kissed the corner of your mouth, then lower along your jaw, down your throat- each press of his lips a quiet promise. You could feel the devotion in each one, like he was spelling out his love with his mouth, soothing away the hurt one kiss at a time. His hands moved under your underwear, warm and certain, fingers spreading you open with aching care, reverent like he was learning you all over again and loving every second of it.

“You’re tense,” he murmured, voice lower now, thumb brushing slow, perfect circles over your clit. “Let me take care of that. Let me make you feel good, baby. Just let go.”

“Bucky, someone could- ”

He dropped to his knees.

Right there- like it was the most natural thing in the world. His broad shoulders framed by the spread of your thighs, his blue eyes already locked onto your face with that look that always undid you. Soft hunger. Absolute focus. The kind of reverence that made you feel like a temple he’d worshiped at a thousand times before and still found holy.

He pushed his hair back from his face with one hand, jaw tense, a little smirk curling one corner of his mouth like he knew exactly what he was about to do to you. Like he was proud of it. Of you. Of how wrecked you were about to be.

“You didn’t get your chocolate,” he said, breath hot and heavy against your soaked folds. “So I’m giving you something sweeter.”

Then his mouth was on you.

Hot. Wet. Filthy.

His tongue dragged upward in one slow, claiming stroke that had your head knocking back against the cabinet. Then he did it again, circling your clit like he had all the time in the world, savoring every reaction. His lips wrapped around you and sucked with the perfect amount of pressure, after all, he’d memorized the way your body begged to be touched.

You gasped, legs trembling, one hand flying to the edge of the counter, gripping it for balance as your other dug into his hair. He groaned at the contact, the sound vibrating straight through your core. The smirk you’d seen moments ago returned against your skin, devilish and pleased with himself.

“God, look at you,” he murmured, pausing only long enough to drag his tongue flat over your slit. His lips brushed your clit again as he grinned. “I know you wanted chocolate, but fuck- you taste like candy.”

Then he dove back in.

He devoured you like it was his sole purpose in life. Like your pleasure was his mission and he had no intention of failing. His metal arm wrapped securely under your thigh, holding you wide and open for him, while his flesh hand slid up your stomach to your breast, fingers curling over it possessively as he groaned against your cunt.

Tears blurred your eyes again not from grief this time, but from how completely he meant it. From the way he worshipped you with his mouth, like this was his heaven. Like he needed this more than breath.

You couldn’t stop the sounds spilling from you, gasping cries, sharp breaths, needy little sounds you didn’t recognize as your own as his tongue worked you harder. Faster. Each stroke more precise, more demanding. Your hips tried to jerk away from the intensity, but he growled and tightened his grip, locking you down.

“Uh-uh,” he rasped against your swollen clit, slick with spit and need. “You take it. Take what you fucking need. Let go for me, baby.”

And you did.

You shattered for him; loud, messy, legs shaking as your orgasm tore through you, slick flooding over his mouth. He didn’t stop. He moaned like he was the one coming, mouth locked to you as he coaxed every last aftershock from your body.

Only when you sagged back, breathless and twitching, did he slow down. His lips softened their rhythm, moving with care now, peppering soft, open-mouthed kisses along your inner thighs, the kind that made you shiver from tenderness rather than urgency. He murmured praise between each kiss, like he couldn’t help it, like worship was the only language he knew.

“So fuckin’ sweet,” he whispered, licking his lips with a slow, satisfied drag of his tongue. His face glistened with you, and he wore it like a badge of honor.

He kissed your thighs again, then trailed up to your hips, stroking your sides with reverence. He nuzzled your skin like it was his safe place, his temple, murmuring against the shell of your hip, “Could stay here all day, baby. Right here, tasting how good you are. You don’t even know what you do to me.”

His hands never left your body- constantly caressing, grounding, reminding. His metal fingers curled around your thigh possessively while the other swept gently up and down your waist. You felt utterly surrounded by him, like there wasn’t a single part of you he hadn’t claimed.

He looked up at you then, pupils blown wide, lips swollen, his expression dazed with devotion. Like he hadn’t just eaten you alive but knelt at your altar and meant it.

“You’re mine,” he whispered, voice ragged and thick with love. “No one gets to take from you. Not while I’m here. Not ever.”

And you believed him. Because when Bucky touched you like this- held you like this- he didn’t just give you pleasure. He gave you proof.

Proof that someone saw you. Fought for you. Loved you enough to hold the pieces no one else knew were broken.

Because when everything else went wrong…Bucky always made sure you still felt right.

When you finally blinked through the haze, he was standing again, unzipping his pants with that same look in his eyes.

Oh- Bucky wasn't through yet.

He leaned over you, kissed you slow, then deeper, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. His cock pressed hot and heavy against your thigh, and when his hand gripped your jaw, his voice came low and reverent.

“Wanna fuck my sweet girl now. Gonna fill you up slow…make you feel everything, baby.”

Your breath caught as he guided himself between your thighs. Then he placed one firm hand on your ass and slid you forward across the counter, dragging you closer to the edge until your legs dangled more, your core perfectly aligned for him. The sensation of the heat of him pressing forward made your head spin.

And when he pushed inside, slow, stretching, claiming- you swore he moaned louder than you.

“That’s it,” he groaned, forehead to yours, hips rolling deep. “Just like that.”

He rocked into you with slow, sinuous thrusts, hips rolling in smooth, deliberate motion as if he had no interest in finishing quickly, just in working you open, keeping you full, keeping you right there on the edge. Each pass stroked that aching place deep inside- your thighs tightening, breath catching, every nerve singing like it had been tuned to his rhythm.

“Right there, yeah?” he rasped. “I feel it. You clench so good when I hit that spot.”

His hand smoothed up your spine, the other gripping your ass to keep you pinned just where he wanted you. He didn’t pound, he rolled, deep and deliberate. Deep and slow, hips pressing tight against yours with each drag of his cock, like he wanted to replace every ache and frustration you’d carried today with the stretch of him.

“You don’t need a sweet treat now do ya?” he murmured against your cheek, voice thick and low. “Not when I can get you high like this. Give you every endorphin your pretty little body’s been begging for.”

And when he pressed into that spot again- again- until you panted and quivered for him, you stopped caring who might walk in. Stopped caring about anything except the wet, slick sound of him inside you and the way he whispered, "Gonna wash all the bad day away, yeah? Gonna let me do that for ya, doll? Gonna let me take every ounce of tension and fuck it right outta you?"

The rhythm of him built gradually, rising like a wave pulling you under- his hips rolling, staying deep, making your breath stutter and your nails curl into the strong slope of his shoulders. Each drag of his cock pushed you higher, stretched you further, until all you could do was cling and shake and feel.

When he adjusted his angle, grinding down into that tender place inside that had you gasping every time, the one that made your legs twitch and your stomach tighten, dragging a helpless, high-pitched whine from the back of your throat- you broke. The orgasm crashed over you, hot and sudden, your body pulsing around him in tight, desperate waves.

Bucky swallowed your cries with his mouth on yours, kissing you through it, devouring every sound you made like it was his favorite dessert.

“Good girl,” he growled, voice shaking. “Just like that. Fuck- gonna give it to you, baby. Gonna fill you up nice and warm, yeah?”

Buck jerked, moaning into your mouth as his hips snapped once, twice, before he spilled into you, thick and deep and perfect. You both shook, breathless in the kitchen, bodies slick with sweat and love and everything unspoken.

His hand brushed your jaw as he whispered soft words against your lips. “So good for me. My perfect girl. Took all of it.”

Then he stepped back just enough to grab a paper towel, cleaning you up with gentle care.

You stayed on the counter, legs still trembling, smiling and a little fucked-out, watching as he fixed his pants with that stupidly smug grin like he’d just won something sacred and maybe he had.

“I’m sure I’ve got one of your snacks in my room,” he said, voice still husky but playful. “Let’s get you back there… we can shower and snuggle, and you can tell me everything- or we can just watch a movie. End the day right.”

He stepped in close and lifted you easily off the counter, one arm under your thighs, the other around your back like you weighed nothing. You curled instinctively into him, nuzzling into the warm crook of his neck, your breath still uneven, your heart still stuttering from everything he’d given you.

“Bucky Barnes,” you murmured, your lips brushing his skin as you smiled, “better than chocolate.”

He chuckled low, chest vibrating against yours. “Damn right I am.”

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes smut #fave

797 notes · View notes