marvelettesassemblenow - Tumblr blog

marvelettesassemblenow · 24 days ago

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I started reading it before work and couldn't get it out of my head so I had to finish it on my break 😍 my fav part was that everybody had already accepted that they would end up together!

spellbound

bucky barnes 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬 / 𝐭𝐰: nsfw (18+), explicit sexual content, MDNI, friends to lovers, lust spell teehee, soft Bucky, phone sex, fem reader, oral sex, unprotected sex, smut like the whole time, Mentions of overstimulation/physical discomfort, Slight dub-con but consent is still asked several times, fem!masturbation, Bucky is down bad bc that’s literally just how he is, reader is in HEAT

word count: 11k

Summary: You took the hit meant for Bucky—magic that curls under your skin like a fever, an ache that won’t ease no matter how many times you break. And the only thing that eases the fire is him.

But Bucky doesn’t know that. You try to hide it. You try to fight it. But one late-night phone call changes everything.

You come to the sound of his voice. He hears it. And he comes running.

notes: not proofread.

— reblogs comments & likes are appreciated

It started with a flash of violet light.

You’d moved without thinking—shielding Bucky the way you always did, even when he didn’t need it. Even when it meant taking a hit from a wild-eyed witch with runes etched into her skin and a smirk that promised chaos.

“Let’s see how he handles this,” she hissed, moments before you hit the ground.

Bucky didn’t hesitate. He took her down with a snarl and his knife pressed to her throat. The mission was over in seconds. Target neutralized and packed off to a top security prison. But your torment? That was just beginning.

It starts as a whisper in your blood.

Not a scream. Not a blaze. Just… a curl of warmth at the edge of your spine. A low, pulsing hum beneath your skin. You ignore it. You’ve trained to ignore discomfort. Trained to override every tremble and ache until the mission is done. But by the time Wanda drops you off at your apartment and the adrenaline fades, the whisper becomes a murmur—then a throb. An ache. A pull.

You shower. You scrub the sweat from your skin, the grit of combat, the smell of blood and magic and burnt leather. The water runs hot and clean down your back, but you’re already too warm.

You sleep without covers that night, sticky and restless, pressing your thighs together without thinking. And it doesn’t stop.

The next morning, the hunger is worse. It’s not pain— not yet. But it’s something unfamiliar.

It begins in small betrayals. You wake slowly, your sheets twisted around your legs, skin damp and flushed despite the cool air drifting in through the cracked window. There’s a weight low in your stomach, a thrum at the base of your spine—not pain, but something… coiled. Waiting.

You brush it off. Roll out of bed. Try to move like normal.

But the floor is cold under your bare feet, and still, your skin feels too warm. Over-sensitive. When your cotton shorts brush your thighs, your breath catches. The fabric is too much and not enough all at once.

You try to think about breakfast—maybe eggs, maybe toast—but instead your mind veers off-course. Not toward food, but toward heat. Mouths. Hands. Pressure. You blink, startled, as the image of someone pressing you into the mattress flashes behind your eyes. Of him. You shake it off as just being tired. Maybe a little lonely, not having had any physical affection in so long from anyone other than Wanda’s occasional hugs or Yelena’s random cuddles. Or maybe just unmoored from the mission.

You drag yourself toward your dresser and start to get dressed, planning to head to the Tower for a morning workout. The tank top you pull over your head clings to your chest like it’s painted on. The brush of fabric against your nipples makes you flinch, making them grow hard, leaving your breath stuttering. You check the thermostat—it’s not hot in your apartment. So why are you sweating?

Your leggings feel like a second skin—too tight, too suffocating. You try to roll the waistband down for air, but even that feels like friction in the wrong way. A pulse starts between your thighs. Low and subtle. But constant.

You strip again. Pace the room. Try to focus.

But even simple things feel off. You reach for your water bottle and your hand shakes. You bend to tie your shoe and the pressure in your belly shifts, flaring in a strange, slick ache. You stand too quickly and your head spins.

You glance at your phone—Bucky sent a text at 2 a.m., some sarcastic remark about Sam snoring—and your mouth goes dry. Just seeing his name makes something twist low inside you. A heat that makes no sense for the situation.

You close your eyes and inhale.

You should head to the gym. You need to sweat it out. But the idea of moving—of being around other people, especially Bucky—makes your skin crawl and your thighs clench. You feel like you’re vibrating out of your skin. Like something inside you is waking up and demanding to be touched.

You sit on the edge of the bed, heart thudding.

You try not to name it yet. You try not to think of the word spell.

But the whisper in your blood grows louder.

Hours later, you’re lying flat on your back and thinking about your own hands. About how little they’ve helped.

You try. Of course you do. You shove your fist under your pillow and ride it. Try to make the heat, the ache, go away. But the orgasm is fleeting, thin, unfulfilling. As soon as it peaks, it leaves you raw—edged. Empty. And then the ache returns, worse than before. It’s never satiated— a demanding presence.

You don’t want Bucky to see you like this.

So when he texts—

[you good? swingin by with takeout in 10.]

—you don’t answer. You don’t dare.

When he knocks, you stay frozen on the couch. The cool leather sticks to the backs of your thighs. Your fingers twitch. You’re sweating.

He lets himself in anyway with a key that you regret ever giving him.

“Hey,” he says like he always does. Like it’s not different now. Like your world isn’t quietly coming apart faster than your could spread your thighs. “You forget how to text me back?”

You don’t look at him. You can’t. Not when just hearing his voice sends your nipples tight against the inside of your tank top. Not when his scent—soap and cologne and whatever the hell else makes him smell like home—hits you like a drug.

Your reply is tight. Muted. “Didn’t sleep.”

He softens. Steps closer. “You hurt from that spell yesterday?”

You flinch. “No.”

That’s not a lie. It’s not hurt. It’s something else. A gnawing heat. A tension in your muscles that won’t let go.

His eyes scan your face. You know that look. The one he used to wear when you came back from field ops barely able to walk. The one he wore when you had the flu. The one he wore when someone so much as looked at you sideways in a briefing.

Protective. Focused. And far too perceptive.

“Wanda said you took the brunt of that hit and that she didn’t know what kind of magic it was,” he murmurs. “You sure you’re not—?”

“I’m fine,” you snap.

The silence stretches.

His brows twitch. But he lets it go.

For now.

By that night, it’s worse. And you have a sneaking suspicion it has to do with how close in proximity he was to you.

You lie in bed after he leaves, sweating through your sheets. You’ve tried everything. Toys. Fingers. Cold showers. Heating pads. Breathwork. You come again and again—softly, roughly, desperately—and it doesn’t help.

Each wave crests and crashes and leaves you more wrung out, more sore, more burning than the last.

And still, it lingers. That deep, low heat in your belly. That flutter in your chest. That unbearable throb between your legs that no orgasm can reach.

It’s not normal.

It’s not right.

By day three of avoiding your friends, avoiding leaving your apartment or responding to texts, you wake up crying. Not from sadness. But from want.

And then you crack. Not from the pain, but from the way your mind won’t stop conjuring him.

The sound of Bucky Barnes’ voice. The pressure of his vibranium hand at the small of your back. The way he once called you sweetheart when he thought you were sleeping.

It wasn’t sexual then.

But it is now.

Every touch he’s ever given you replays in your head like fuel to a fire you can’t control. The weight of his hand on your shoulder. The brush of his thigh against yours under the briefing room table. The way his fingers always lingered when he patched you up—rough but reverent.

You want him.

Okay.

You’ve always wanted him.

But not like this. Not when your body’s been cursed to crave him. Not when magic is what’s tipping you toward ruin.

Wanda comes on day four.

She doesn’t knock. Just appears in your living room like mist, her eyes glowing faintly red.

The moment she sees you—curled on the couch in one of Bucky’s old hoodies that you don’t think he knows you took, legs tucked up under you, trembling—her expression falls.

“Oh no,” she says.

You don’t answer. You can’t. Your voice is hoarse from moaning into your pillow the night before, just to try and quiet the ache.

Wanda kneels in front of you. “I should’ve come sooner.”

You laugh, but it’s not funny. It’s cracked. Sharp. A little unhinged. “That bitch cursed me, didn’t she?”

“I’ve been looking into it. She laced the spell with something old,” Wanda says gently. “Something primal. For whoever it hit, it was designed to mimic heat. Not just lust. Fertility. Desire. But with you? It’s the instinct to—”

“To be filled,” you finish bitterly.

She doesn’t deny it.

“But it doesn’t mess with your head,” she clarifies. “It doesn’t make you want someone you don’t already want. It’s not that kind of magic. What you’re feeling—what your body’s craving—is raw, biological instinct. But the who? That’s all you.”

You go still.

“I can break it,” she continues. “But it’s woven deep. It’ll take time. A few more days, maybe a week at most. Until then…”

“I just suffer?” you whisper.

Wanda exhales. “There’s another way, but you’re not going to like it. If someone finishes inside you—”

“No.”

“You could ask Bucky—”

“No,” you say again, firmer this time. Like it’s the only boundary left you can still enforce.

Wanda’s eyes narrow. “You’re already thinking about him. Don’t lie.”

You drop your gaze. Shame heats your cheeks—but not because she’s wrong. Because she’s right.

“The magic isn’t clouding your judgment,” she says softly. “She aimed it at him, sure. You stepped in, you took the hit. But your body’s not reacting to him because of the spell. It’s reacting because it knows. Because to you, it’s always been him.”

You swallow hard.

“I don’t want to be a fucking spell casualty,” you mutter. “I don’t want to be some needy mess crawling into his lap just because—”

“Then don’t,” Wanda says. “But at least be honest with yourself. You’re not considering anyone else. Not Steve. Not Sam. Not a single name, not a single option. Just him. And the only reason you’re not begging for him is because you’re terrified it might mean something more.”

You clench your jaw. “I won’t ask him.”

Wanda nods once.

Then, almost gently, she says, “You must not forget that the only person more stubborn than you is Bucky.”

And then she leaves you to the fire.

It’s evening when you finally, finally break.

The blinds are drawn. The apartment is dim, lit only by the flicker of the TV you’re not watching. You’re curled on the couch with your knees drawn up, a throw blanket pooled around your hips. But you’re not cold.

You haven’t been cold in days.

Your skin is dewy with sweat, flushed and hypersensitive. Every inch of you aches. Your body is too much—too heavy, too warm, too desperate. You can’t think. You can’t rest. You can’t take the edge off no matter how many times you try.

And you’ve continued to try. Your vibrator’s completely dead. Your fingers are sore. You’ve sobbed through orgasms that haven’t brought even a second of peace. And it’s so much worse now. The spell is tightening around your ribcage, your lungs, your throat. And the worst part? It’s not even just physical anymore.

It’s lonely.

You miss him.

And maybe that’s what finally pushes you over the edge.

Not the ache. Not the hunger that gnaws at you from the inside. Not the cruel, unbearable need to be filled. But the silence. The absence. The knowledge that while you’re avoiding him for dear life, Bucky Barnes is out there somewhere— maybe laughing with Sam, or holding Alpine on his chest while he relaxes against his couch cushions— probably doing just fine while you burn for a curse that was meant for him.

You need to hear his voice.

You don’t plan it. Don’t let yourself think it through. You just reach for your phone and call him. Before you can second-guess. Before you can stop yourself.

It rings twice.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he answers, warm and easy. That voice, like melted steel wrapped in velvet, like home. He doesn’t know you’re shaking. Doesn’t know you’re wrecked. He just says it like he always does—like he means it.

Your breath catches. It’s instant, the way your body reacts—your thighs clench, slickness blooming between them like you’ve been touched. All he’s done is speak. All he’s done is say hello.

“Hi,” you whisper.

You can hear noise behind him—other voices, dishes clattering, the low hum of a TV.

“You okay?” he asks, instantly attuned. “You sound a little—”

“Tired,” you cut in. “Just… tired.” You try to sound normal, but it comes out thinner than it should—fragile and tight, like you’re holding something back.

Because you are.

“You sound kind of off,” he murmurs, slower now. “But I won’t push it.”

“Thanks, Buck.” You whisper. You press your palm to your chest, trying to keep it together, trying not to let his concern unravel you. His voice shouldn’t sound this good. His care shouldn’t make you ache harder. But it does.

And he keeps going—gentle, teasing, unaware he’s pouring gasoline on a fire. “Missed your voice today. Thought you were ghosting me.”

You hum—half a sound, half a moan. It slips before you can catch it, but Bucky doesn’t seem to notice.

You close your eyes and inhale. You’re not ghosting him— you’re starving for him.

“Missed your voice,” you say before you can stop yourself. Your hand is already slipping beneath the blanket, already finding the edge of your sleep shorts. Your fingers are trembling.

You don’t want to be doing this.

But you have to.

There’s a pause on the other end of the line. Then a quiet chuckle. “Yeah?” His voice drops, just a little. “You’re being awfully honest tonight.”

You shiver. “Guess so.”

He sighs into the phone. You imagine him settling back, legs stretched out, maybe reclining in a chair with that lazy, boyish half-smile on his face. You can see it in your head. The way he cradles his phone in his metal hand. The way he leans his head back against the couch cushion when he talks to you.

“I can tell you’re skipping sleep just by your voice. You gotta stop doing that,” he murmurs. “You know I worry when you disappear.”

You bite your lip. Your hips roll, just a little, as you press your fingers to your clit. The pressure building between your legs has reached a new, unbearable level. And somehow, somehow, his voice is the only thing keeping you from breaking apart completely.

“You curled up on the couch right now?” he asks, still gently teasing.

You nod even though he can’t see it.

You can hear his grin. “Knew it. You better not be watching that cooking competition show without me again—”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” You say, voice a little wobbly.

He sighs—low and affectionate—and it wrecks you. You slip two fingers inside yourself, soft and slow. Slick. Aching.

“Miss you,” you add, voice barely audible.

There’s another pause—longer this time. You can hear him exhale through his nose, and when he speaks again, it’s quieter. Unsteady in a way you rarely hear.

“Yeah?” he says, rougher now. “You’re sayin’ a lot of things tonight. Are you sure you’re okay, angel?” The words shoot straight to your core.

You don’t answer.

You can’t.

Your fingers are moving inside your cunt now. Gentle, shaky thrusts. The stretch of it only makes you throb harder. Slick sounds quietly build beneath the blanket—barely audible, but not to him, you think.

“Bucky…” Your voice is barely a sound, and he catches it immediately.

“Sweetheart?” He’s more alert now. Like he’s sitting up, holding onto whatever is about to leave your lips.

And then—because of course—

Sam’s in the background.

“Who you on the phone with?” you hear faintly, followed by Bucky’s exasperated sigh.

“None of your damn business, Wilson.”

“You’re smiling like it is my business.”

You hear a scuffle. A dish being snatched. Bucky barking something about boundaries. Sam laughing.

“Your boundaries don’t change that you’re supposed to be makin’ popcorn.” You hear Sam shout.

Bucky groans. “You literally had two hours to do that yourself.” You slipped in another finger, hips canting at the sound of his groan. The tone of Bucky’s voice—normal, distracted, playful—makes you feel insane. He’s so close and so far. Your body is clenching around nothing. You imagine it’s his hand instead of yours. His voice in your ear, whispering the things you fantasize about him doing to you.

“I was in the zone, man. Movie night waits for no one.” You can hear the grin in Sam’s voice. There’s a pause. A rustle. Bucky covering the phone with his hand, probably glaring into the kitchen.

When Bucky speaks again, his voice is soft and low, just for you. Like Sam doesn’t even exist. “Sorry,” he says, quieter now. “You know Sam’s a menace.”

You breathe hard. “It’s okay.”

“You sure you’re alright?”

You swallow. Your slick fingers are working slow, barely enough. You can’t come. Not yet. Not until—

“Just…” You trail off, breath hitching. “Can you… talk to me for a while?”

Bucky stills. You don’t hear it, but you feel it. His attention sharpened again, just like it had before Sam interrupted. This is a dangerous game— you know it is. He’s a super soldier, meaning better senses, better reactions, better intuition. It’s only a matter of time before he hears exactly what you’re up to if he hasn’t already.

“You want me to talk you to sleep?” he asks, voice gentle.

You hum. “Just need your voice.”

His voice softens, all teasing stripped away. “I’d do anything for you, you know that.”

The words crack something open in you. You bite your lip hard. Your other hand clutches the pillow. You’re trying to keep quiet, but your breath is stuttering now, your thighs trembling. You speak before he can.

“Miss your hands,” you murmur, delirious and aching, fucking yourself harder. “Miss your arms. Miss how you always make me feel safe.”

He exhales, a little stunned. “You trying to kill me over the phone, doll?”

“Don’t make fun,” you plead, barely holding it together, hips snapping to meet your rhythm.

“I’m not,” he says quickly. “I’m not. I just… You sound like you need someone.”

You.

Your mind screams it. You need him.

But you can’t say it.

Your fingers move faster. The ache is peaking. His voice is all you have. And it’s perfect.

Soft. Low. Steady.

Like worship. Like he already knows what he’d say if he were inside you.

“Just breathe for me,” he murmurs suddenly. “You sound like you’re holding your breath.”

You gasp. “I’m not—”

“Yeah, you are. Breathe, sweetheart. Slow. Just like that.”

Your eyes flutter shut. Slow, you rock your hips like he said, just like that.

“That’s better,” he soothes. You let out a choked little laugh. “Soundin’ better already,” he says, and God—his tone is so fucking tender.

You almost come at that.

Your moan is soft, but it slips out you can stop it. Followed by another wet, slick sound as your fingers move faster now beneath the blanket.

And then—silence. His end of the line goes quiet.

“…Wait,” Bucky says slowly. “What are you doing?”

Your heart stops.

“Sweetheart?”

You try to catch your breath. Try to stop. But you can’t. You’re so close and it feel so good— so much better than everything you’ve done the past few days by yourself.

But he hears it. The wet glide. The tremble in your voice. The broken sighs you can’t smother anymore.

“Are you—” His voice falters. Drops low, so only you can hear. “Are you touching yourself right now?”

You freeze.

The silence stretches. Your chest rises and falls in shallow, frantic breaths. You can hear the exact moment he understands. The air shifts like a current between you. His tone turns rough—raw and wrecked and barely restrained.

“Jesus,” he breathes. “That’s what this is. That’s why you sound like that.”

You press your hand tighter between your legs, helpless, breath catching. You try to stop again. You should stop. Instead—

You arch.

The phone slips from your fingers and drops onto the couch, the line still open. You bury your face in the cushions, one hand over your mouth, the other working faster now—slipping through your slick, hips lifting, thighs shaking.

“(Y/N)?”

Then it hits.

White-hot and shattering.

Your orgasm tears through you with a muffled, broken moan—barely caught by the couch. Your body locks up, every nerve lit, your back bowing as you clench hard around nothing. You feel your fingers soaked, twitching, trembling, your lungs stuttering to keep up.

You come with his voice still in your ear, him still on the line.

And he hears it.

He hears the way your breath punches out of you. The cry you try to bite down. The slick sounds. The way you gasp his name like it hurts.

On the other end, there’s silence—then a sharp inhale.

His voice goes ragged. “…You just came.”

It’s not a question. Just a stunned, whispered truth.

“Oh my god,” he says softly. “You just came—and you didn’t say a word. You just—fuck.”

You reach for the phone, fingers still wet, hands shaking.

He’s still talking, barely coherent. “I should’ve known. I should’ve heard it. You were falling apart and I just kept talking. I—fuck, baby, why didn’t you tell me?”

You can’t breathe.

You’re too full of it—shame and heat and the unbearable emptiness that follows the high. It didn’t help. It never helps. Your body is still aching. Still burning. Still crying out for him in the echo of your release.

You press the phone to your ear.

“I thought maybe you were just tired,” he says, voice quieter now. Like he’s talking to himself. “But the way you said my name… the way you kept breathing like you were fighting something…”

You squeeze your eyes shut. Your whole body curls tighter.

You hang up. One simple movement. Your thumb presses the screen. The line goes dead and you throw the phone across the couch and curl in on yourself, mortified, aching, and trembling with the need to be filled that you haven’t finish chasing.

The silence after is deafening but all you can hear is his voice. That soft, reverent one.

The one that sounded like he’d use it while pushing into you.

The one that sounded like a prayer.

You hung up on him.

The click of the call dropping wasn’t loud, but it might as well have been a gunshot to the chest.

Bucky sat there frozen, the phone still pressed to his ear even as the line went dead. The quiet hum of the background faded into a kind of static silence, and for a moment, all he could hear was you.

The way your voice had trembled.

The little sighs.

The broken softness when you said you missed him. When you told him you missed his voice.

Jesus.

You had been touching yourself.

To him.

Bucky stared blankly across the room, the pieces falling into place like bricks in his gut. Your shaky breath. The way you whispered. The stuttering cadence in your voice, like you were trying not to be caught. And then—those sounds. The slick, wet ones. The ones had tried to ignore. The almost-silent moans you couldn’t fully smother.

You’d come for him. For the first time. With just his voice in your ear.

He’d thought about it for years. How he’d do it the first time. If it would be with his mouth. Or his hands. Maybe his thigh.

He didn’t breathe.

Didn’t blink.

But never like this. He’d made you fall apart and hadn’t even realized until it was over. You’d called him because you needed something—needed him—and he hadn’t understood.

Hadn’t done a damn thing to help you.

And now he was hard. Painfully hard. But the ache wasn’t just in his body—it was everywhere. It was under his ribs. In his throat. Wrapping tight around something sacred.

Because the worst part wasn’t that you’d touched yourself. It was that you were suffering. You missed him. You needed him so badly you couldn’t even pretend not to anymore. You’d called because you were unraveling. Because you trusted him enough to let it show—even if you couldn’t say it out loud.

And God help him, he wanted to be the only one you ever called like that again.

“Yo,” Sam called, stepping into the room with a half-empty bag of chips. “Everything good with your girl?”

Bucky blinked. “What?”

“You look like you just saw a ghost.”

Bucky slowly lowered the phone, thumb brushing over the screen. He should’ve called you back. Should’ve said something. But he hadn’t moved. “She called me,” he said quietly.

Sam looked amused. “She’s allowed to.”

“No,” Bucky murmured. “This was… different.”

“Different how?”

Bucky swallowed hard. Looked away. He couldn’t explain it—not fully. And he wasn’t letting anyone else know how you sounded falling apart— the way your voice had hitched just before you came. Not with the heat still pulsing in his blood or the reverence clawing at his chest.

“She sounded…” He shook his head. “Tired. Hoarse. Like she hadn’t been sleeping. But it was worse than that.

Sam pauses. “You think she’s hurt?”

“I think she’s been hiding whatever it is. For days.” He swallows hard. “She wouldn’t have called unless it was bad. Really bad.”

Sam crosses his arms, voice more serious now. “You know, now that you mention it, Wanda has been holed up with her books since that op you all just got back from. She didn’t give details—just said she was tracking a weird thread.”

Bucky stops breathing, his stomach dropping. “…What?”

Sam shrugs a little. “Like I said, she didn’t say much—just that whatever hit (Y/N) the other day was… weird. She’s been researching it since. Said it’s like some kind of residual aftereffect magic, but deep. Like nothing she’s seen in years.”

Bucky’s jaw tensed, his blood going cold.

Sam paused, brow furrowing. “You didn’t know?”

“No, I didn’t know. At least not all of that.” Bucky snaps. “That’s the problem.”

And now he’s moving. Pacing. Shoving his phone in his pocket, reaching for his jacket. Not toward you—not yet. He needs answers first.

“She didn’t even tell me,” he says, more to himself than to Sam. “She didn’t say a word.”

“She never does,” Sam says quietly. “Not when it’s about you.”

Bucky goes still. Because that’s what breaks him. Not the idea of danger. Not even the idea of magic. But the idea of you, curled up alone, body falling apart under the weight of something you didn’t choose. And still refusing to ask for help.

Still too afraid to ask him.

And so, Bucky stood. The phone slipped into his pocket.

“Where are you going?” Sam asked.

“To talk to Wanda,” Bucky said. His voice was tight. Rough. Already halfway out the door.

Because if there was even one chance that this was something done to you—something you were trying to fight off alone—then he was going to fix it.

Whatever it took.

—

The hallway outside Wanda’s quarters smells faintly of sage and scorched air.

Bucky doesn’t knock.

He pushes the door open like it’s muscle memory, like he’s been breaking through locked rooms for centuries—and finds her already standing in the center of the room, barefoot on a ring of cracked stone and wax.

She looks up the moment he enters, like she was waiting for him.

“I was wondering how long it would take,” Wanda says softly.

His hands curl into fists. “It’s a spell, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“From the mission.”

“Yes.”

“It hit her.”

Wanda nods once.

Bucky’s jaw ticks. He takes a step forward, then another. “You knew something was happening to her—and you didn’t tell me?”

“She didn’t want me to.”

He exhales, sharp and furious. “She’s suffering. Right now. Alone. Because of something that was meant for me.” He lets out a strangled laugh. “She’s mine, Wanda, and I can’t even help her.” The words fall out before he can stop them. Raw. Stupidly honest.

Wanda’s gaze softens. But she doesn’t apologize. Doesn’t argue. “(Y/N) took the hit before I could deflect it. It was cast by an old bloodline witch. Feral magic. Instinct-based. I’ve been trying to untangle it ever since.”

“What kind of magic?”

Wanda tilts her head. “You already know.”

Bucky’s breath catches.

Because he does.

The heat. The broken sighs. The way you’d whispered his name. The way his voice had made you come undone.

Wanda nods slowly, like she hears the realization pass through him. “It’s not just lust. You understand that, right?”

“I know,” Bucky says tightly. “I’ve seen magic like this once before. The Soviets tested something similar. On another soldier. Heat-based—designed to wear you down from the inside out.”

“Then you know why she didn’t want you to see her like that.”

He looks away. Jaw flexing. He does understand. The shame. The humiliation of being reduced to your body’s demands. He’s lived it. But it doesn’t make this easier.

Wanda’s expression is solemn when she speaks again. “It’s worse than what you’re describing, Bucky. It’s mimicking a biological heat cycle. Old fertility magic. And it’s dark—it taps into the most basic part of the body. The need to reproduce. But unless it’s consummated with a partner, it will only grow worse. And each time she tries to stop it herself, it’ll only hurt her more.”

Bucky flinches—more from helplessness than shock. “Jesus Christ.”

“I’ve been working on a way to break it,” Wanda adds. “But it’s not something that just lifts—not like I thought. It has to run its course, and I don’t know how long that will be unless—”

He already knows where this is going.

He shakes his head. “She wouldn’t ask me.”

“No,” Wanda says, eyes softening. “But she called you.”

His chest contracts. “You knew she would.”

“I hoped,” she replies. “Because the other way to end it? It requires the body to believe it’s been satisfied. That it’s safe. Desired. And full.”

Bucky looks like he might snap. “Don’t talk about her like that. Like she’s some fucking spell experiment—”

“She’s not,” Wanda interrupts, firm but gentle. “She’s your friend. Your partner. And right now, she’s burning alive from the inside out, trying not to tell you what she needs.”

Bucky presses both hands into his temples. “She didn’t ask. She didn’t say anything.”

“She was ashamed,” Wanda says. “Because even without the spell… it’s you, James. She’s been yours longer than either of you want to admit.”

He freezes. Swallows. Looks up slowly. “…It’s not just the spell,” he whispers, unsure if he’s asking for reassurance.

“No,” Wanda says, offering it anyway, like she read his mind. “That part? The part where she thought about you? That’s all her.”

Silence blooms—quiet, dense, knowing. “You still should’ve told me before now,” he mutters, running a hand through his hair.

“You’re not the only one who loves her.”

That shuts him up.

Wanda steps forward. “She’s trying to protect you,” she murmurs. “From the spell. From what it’s doing to her. From what it wants from her.”

Bucky closes his eyes. In his mind he hears it again—your voice. The desperation in it. The soft whimpers you tried to smother. The broken little sighs that had almost made him come in his goddamn pants just from listening.

Then, he nods. Once. Sharp. Decisive.

“Then tell me how to help her.”

Wanda’s lips curve upward. Just slightly. “You already know how.”

He does know how, and he wants to be gentle. Wants to hold you. Cradle you. Stroke your hair and murmur that it’s okay. That he’s here now. That you don’t have to be ashamed.

But all he can feel is fury. Not at you.

At himself.

At the fact that he hadn’t put the pieces together sooner.

Bucky’s hand curls around the doorframe, metal fingers flexing tight enough to dent it.

Wanda watches him for a beat. “Go to her,” she says softly.

A pause.

“Before someone else does.”

He doesn’t answer.

But his heart is already halfway out the door.

Your apartment is dark. Not blackout-dark—but dim, and quiet, and too still.

Bucky knocks once. Then again.

No answer.

He listens. Listens hard. Enhanced hearing trained on the other side of the door. No footsteps. No rustling. Just silence and the faint sound of something flickering—maybe a muted television. Maybe the dull hum of a lamp that never got turned off.

His jaw clenches. “(Y/N), it’s me.”

Still nothing.

All he can hear is your voice cracking when you said you missed him.

You gave him a key a long time ago—for emergencies, you’d said. For the nights when the world got too loud and he needed a place to crash. For when either of you needed help and didn’t want to say it.

Usually he used it when dropping off food. Or coming over to binge your tv shows that you watch together. He’s never used it like this before. Knowing what he’s planning to do once he’s through the threshold.

He slips the key from his pocket and turns the lock the way he’s done hundreds of times before. The door creaks open—and the moment he steps inside, he knows.

Something’s off.

The air is thick. Stifling. Warm in a way that makes his skin itch, like it’s been steeping in fever. The living room is dim, the curtains drawn, a low flicker of light from the TV throwing soft shadows across the walls.

“(Y/N)?” he calls, gentle now. “It’s me.”

No answer.

His stomach sinks.

He doesn’t storm in. Doesn’t charge through like it’s a raid. He moves soft. Careful. Like if he makes too much noise, the truth might shatter.

And then he sees you—curled on the couch, knees drawn in. A throw blanket twisted around your hips. The rest of you damp with sweat, top clinging to your chest, neck glistening. You look like you haven’t slept. Like you’ve been crying.

His heart cracks.

You’re asleep—but not peacefully.

You’re writhing.

Not dramatically. Not loud. Just subtle, needy little shifts of your hips. Soft whimpers. A crease between your brows like your dreams are made of agony and want.

He steps closer.

“(Y/N),” he says gently. “Hey—wake up.”

You stir. Breath catching.

Then, barely audible, you whisper, “Bucky…” His name from your lips is enough to make him ache. He kneels beside the couch, hand hovering just above your shoulder.

Your eyes flutter open. You blink, dazed and glassy-eyed. Your cheeks are flushed. Your tank top clings to your chest, damp with sweat, nipples peaked. And when you shift under the blanket, you gasp softly—like just the movement hurts.

And when you register that he’s really in front of you, your whole body tenses.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs. “You don’t have to say anything. I just—fuck.” He drags a hand through his hair. “Wanda told me.”

Your lashes are wet, lips trembling. Still, you remain silent. “I should’ve known earlier,” he says thickly. “I should’ve recognized it.”

Your gaze drops. Shame crashes through you as you look away. “You weren’t supposed to find out.”

“Oh, so I was just supposed to go on not knowing that the spell meant for me was tearing you apart?”

You shift on the couch. The movement makes you suck in a breath—you’re soaked. Your panties cling to you, your thighs sticky with slick.

“I was handling it,” you say, thoroughly humiliated.

“Bullshit.”

“I was,” you insist, even though your voice trembles. “I didn’t ask for help. I didn’t beg. I didn’t make it anyone else’s problem.”

“You called me.”

“That was—” You falter. “That was a moment of weakness.”

“You were touching yourself, and I—”

You squeeze your eyes shut. His words shouldn’t make you ache again. But they do. Your thighs clench. Your chest rises in shallow, desperate breaths.

“You wanted me to talk you through it, didn’t you?” he says, low and rough. “That’s why you called?”

Your breath stutters. He leans closer. “That wasn’t weakness. That was you calling the one person you needed. But then you hung up,” he says, softer now. “You were embarrassed. But you shouldn’t be.”

You open your mouth. Close it again. Because you are embarrassed. Your body is burning and raw and sensitive, and he was never supposed to know.

But he’s here. Still looking at you like you’re something he’d fight the world to protect.

His hand moves, brushing a lock of damp hair away from your cheek. He’s never touched you like this. Gentle. Tender. Almost devotional.

You shake your head, swallowing the lump in your throat. “I didn’t ask you for anything.”

“You said you missed my hands. My arms. My voice.”

“That doesn’t mean I wanted this.”

“Just let me help you,” he says with a huff.

You freeze as he leans in. Slower than slow. Letting you pull away if you want to.

You don’t.

“I know what it feels like,” he says. “When your body turns against you. When everything burns and you can’t think. I’ve been there.”

A choked breath escapes you. “It won’t stop,” you whisper.

“I know,” he says, soothing you. “But I can stop it for you.”

You stare at him. And you know—deep down—you’re not just best friends anymore. Not after this. Not after the phone call. Not after he came running.

“You can’t,” Not after the way he looks at you now, like you’re his.

“Why won't you let me help you?”

Your hands fist in the blanket. “Because it’s you, Bucky.”

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move. You look up, and finally let it spill—raw, messy, trembling.

“I can’t take advantage of you like that. We’re friends. Best fucking friends. I know you’d do anything for me, but I can’t let you do this because you feel like you have to.”

His eyes close for half a second. When they open again, he’s already moving—his hands cupping your face, gentle, reverent, trembling slightly.

“You think I would do something like this out of obligation?” His voice is low. Rough. Cracking under the weight of it. “You really think I wouldn’t want you?”

Your lips part. “I don’t know.”

He breathes hard through his nose, like he’s trying to hold himself together. Then he presses a kiss to your forehead. Your cheek. Your temple. Every inch but your mouth.

His voice is a rasp in your ear, heavy with restraint. His hands slide down your arms, fingers curling around your wrists like an anchor.

“I would’ve come to you the second you asked,” he says. “I would’ve broken the fucking sound barrier to get to you. Not because of some curse. Not because you needed release. But because—”

He swallows.

“Because I’m in love with you.”

You whimper—helpless and soft and aching.

His eyes search yours. “I’ve been in love with you for a long time,” he says. “And if this hadn’t happened, I probably wouldn’t have had the guts to say it. But I need you to understand—this isn’t about the spell. This is me.”

You blink. A tear slides hot down your cheek. You shake your head, not because you don’t believe him—but because it’s too much. Too much all at once.

“I didn’t call Sam,” you whisper. “I didn’t call Steve. I could have. Wanda told me anyone I trusted would work. But I didn’t.”

“Why?” he asks, voice barely audible.

Your breath shakes. “Because I didn’t want just anyone. I wanted you.”

He stills.

Your voice breaks. “And not just because of the spell. Because I’ve wanted you since before any of this. Since before I had any right to.”

His face crumples with something that looks like both devastation and relief.

You’re crying now—quiet, overwhelmed tears you can’t stop. “I love you,” you say. “And I didn’t want to use you. I didn’t want it to happen like this.”

His hands frame your face again, thumbs brushing away the wetness on your cheeks.

“Then let it happen like this,” he murmurs. “Because I love you too. And if this is what brings it out of both of us, then fine. I’m not letting you suffer through another second thinking you’re alone. So let me help.” His voice is firm, demanding in the softest way.

You meet his eyes—glass-blue, wild with restraint—and you shatter.

“Please,” you breathe. “Please, Bucky.”

And then—finally—he kisses you.

Not a soft, testing kiss. Not something uncertain.

It’s everything.

It’s the months of tension. The whispered dreams. The nights you held back. The trust you both clung to like a lifeline. It’s him showing you. That this is love. That he’s yours.

And it doesn’t feel like a breaking.

It feels like finally, finally falling into place.

His mouth claims yours—slow at first, like he’s afraid of breaking the moment. But the second your fingers slide into his hair and your lips part with a soft, pleading sound, something snaps.

The kiss deepens.

He was trying. Really. Hands trembling with restraint, breath held tight in his chest, mind racing to remember that you were suffering—delicate from the spell, barely holding on. He was going to be gentle. Patient.

His hands are everywhere but nowhere near enough—palming your cheeks, sliding down your sides, skimming the curve of your waist like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you. Like he doesn’t trust this is real.

Like if he doesn’t touch all of you, he’ll wake up and it’ll all be gone.

He pulls back just an inch, breathing hard against your lips. Your back hits the couch cushions, his weight bracketing yours in seconds. His heat wraps around you like a blanket—too much and not enough all at once. His metal hand cups the back of your neck, cool against feverish skin, and his flesh palm slides under your tank top, flattening over your ribs.

He moans into your mouth as you reach for him, curling your fingers around the hem of his shirt, tugging softly. He exhales like a prayer and nods—then brings his hand to yours, guiding it, helping you pull the fabric over his head. He tosses it aside without looking.

You stare.

God.

You’ve seen him shirtless before. In training. On missions. The beach. The Tower.

But never like this.

Not with his chest rising like he’s holding back a storm. Not with the heat of his skin practically radiating off him. Not with his pupils blown wide and his lips pink from kissing you.

Your hips buck. You’re soaked. Still throbbing. Still aching. But it’s different now—sharper, hotter, charged by every inch of his body pressing into yours.

“God, baby,” he groans, pulling back just an inch, lips brushing your jaw. “You’re burning up.”

“You’re not exactly cold,” you manage, breathless. He huffs a laugh against your neck, but it dies quick. He’s too focused—senses flared out like a net, catching every tremble of your body, every gasp, every pound of your heart. He can smell your arousal—his senses are drenched in it. He can hear your pulse fluttering under your skin. Your pupils are blown. Your body’s writhing and his cock is rock hard in his jeans.

“Take this off,” he murmurs, voice wrecked, fingers grazing the hem of your tank top.

You nod and try to lift it, but your hands shake.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers, sliding it up with agonizing care. His knuckles graze your ribs, the underswell of your breasts, the valley of your spine as he peels the sweat-damp fabric away.

Your chest is bare.

His breath hitches. “Jesus,” he says softly, reverently, like he’s witnessing something holy. “My beautiful fucking girl.”

Your heart pounds. Your body burns. But his touch is slow. Steady. Not rushed.

He drags the blanket down next, inch by inch, revealing the rest of you—your soaked panties, your trembling thighs. His metal hand is cool where it brushes your hip. The other, warm and wide, settles just above your knee.

You bite your lip, hips shifting, eyes fluttering open to meet his. “Bucky—”

“You’ve been like this for days?” He asks, voice ragged.

You nod, ashamed. “It won’t stop. I try, but—”

“Don’t,” he interrupts gently. “Don’t apologize. Not when I’ve got you now.” He kisses you again, slower this time. Deep. Lingering.

His mouth tastes like the end of every bad dream you’ve ever had. Like the answer to the ache that’s been devouring you for days. He doesn’t kiss like someone trying to take—he kisses like someone who’s been starving to give.

His tongue traces the seam of your lips and you open to him, moaning when he deepens it. His hand on your ribs slides higher—over the swell of your breast. His thumb flicks over your nipple and you whimper, arching into him.

His hand smooths up your thigh. He watches the way your body shudders under him, the way you arch instinctively into his touch. His voice lowers, deep and full of awe. “You should’ve called me,” he murmurs into your mouth. “First night. I’d have been here in seconds.”

“I didn’t want anyone else. Just you. Even if I wasn’t supposed to.”

Bucky’s jaw tenses. “Don’t ever think you’re not supposed to want me,” he growls, brushing his nose down the column of your neck. “I ache for you. I’ve wanted you in ways I can’t say out loud. I dream about you. I wake up hard just from hearing your voice in my head.”

You gasp—quiet, desperate.

“I think about how soft you’d feel,” he whispers, “how you’d sound when I finally touched you right. How you’d look with your thighs spread and my name on your tongue.”

Your back arches. His hand skims over your center through the soaked cotton. You keen.

“Oh, baby,” he groans. “You’re soaked.”

“It won’t stop,” you sob. “I can’t—I need—”

“I know,” he whispers, and presses a kiss just above your heart. “I’ve got you.”

Then—slowly, reverently—he hooks his fingers into the band of your panties.

“Can I take these off?”

You nod.

He doesn’t rush.

He slides them down with shaking hands, like he’s unwrapping something sacred. The moment you’re bare to him—truly bare—he stills. Just for a second.

Soaking you in.

Burning it into his memory.

Then he moves, kissing your hip, the inside of your thigh. His mouth reverent. His hands hungry. His voice a wrecked, broken whisper against your skin.

“You’re not just my best friend,” he says, brushing his lips across your belly. “You’re my everything. And I’m gonna take care of you.”

You whimper, eyes glassy, chest rising and falling in short, frantic bursts.

“Say it again,” you plead.

He looks up, mouth hovering just below your navel. “What?”

“That you love me.”

His eyes burn.

“I love you,” he says. “I love you, I love you, I love you. I’ve loved you since the first time you patched me up and called me an idiot for bleeding on your floor.”

You choke on a laugh. Then a sob. Then a moan as his mouth dips lower—hot, hungry. His tongue drags up your folds, flicking over your clit with slow, devastating precision. You cry out, hips lifting.

“Easy, doll,” he murmurs, voice like honey between your thighs. “Let me take my time.”

You whimper, fingers fisting the sheets as he anchors himself between your legs like he’s not moving until you break. His hands slide under your thighs, spreading you open further, holding you down. Holding you together.

Or maybe apart.

He groans as he noses deeper, tongue dragging slow, wet circles through your slick. He moans at the taste—deep, guttural—and does it again. And again. Until your legs start to tremble.

Until your body forgets what shame feels like.

Until all you know is him.

“You’re so sweet,” he groans. “So fucking wet. You’ve been aching for days and you still taste this good?”

Your hips jerk. He smiles against you. Then his mouth opens fully—sucking your clit into the heat of him, tongue laving back and forth with maddening control. He groans like he’s starving, and you realize suddenly—

He is.

He’s devouring you. Savoring you.

And he’s not stopping.

You gasp, the sound ragged. One of your hands finds his hair, tugging hard as your thighs try to close around his head, but he just growls—low and dangerous—and spreads them wider with his shoulders.

“Bucky,” you moan. “Fuck—Bucky, I can’t—”

“You can,” he says, licking a stripe from your entrance to your clit. “You’re gonna come for me, baby. You’re gonna come until it stops hurting.”

Your body convulses beneath him as he dips his tongue inside you, slow and deep, fucking you with his mouth, his nose brushing your clit every time. You sob out something incoherent. He keeps going. Keeps drinking from you like you’re the only thing that’s ever quenched him.

You’re writhing now. Legs shaking. Lips parted in a constant stream of moans. Every pass of his tongue sends you spiraling higher.

He pulls back just long enough to whisper, “Give it to me, sweetheart. Let go.”

Then his mouth wraps around your clit again—hot, slick, greedy—and that’s it.

You shatter.

Your whole body arches off the couch, your hands flying to his shoulders as you scream his name. Your climax crashes over you like a storm, wave after wave, your thighs clenching around his head. He groans against you, sucking you through it, tongue relentless, lips tender.

You’re still shaking when the aftershocks hit. He gentles his pace but doesn’t stop—licking you slow and soft, almost reverent now, tasting every bit of your release. Like it’s an offering. Like he’s worshiping at the altar of your body.

And then—another whimper escapes you.

Because you’re still aching. Still burning. Still not full.

“Bucky,” you cry, fat tears rolling down your cheeks. “Please.”

You’re still shaking when he lifts his head, mouth slick with you, lips flushed, breathing ragged. His eyes meet yours—and they’re dark. Wild. But beneath the hunger is something wrecked. Something sacred.

“I should’ve known. Should’ve come sooner. Should’ve—” He cuts himself off, bending to kiss your sternum, your shoulder, your neck. “I’m here now. Not going anywhere. Not leaving you like this again.” His mouth works up, licks a strip from your jaw up your cheek, swiping away your tears.

Then his hands are under you—gentle, steady—and he picks you up like you weigh nothing. You gasp, arms wrapping around his neck, your body still fluttering from the orgasm he just gave you, still soaked, still desperate.

He carries you through the apartment like a soldier carrying his girl off the battlefield—careful, urgent, possessed. You bury your face in his neck, but he can feel the heat of you against his skin. You’re still pulsing. Still aching. Still slick and wanting.

“Bedroom,” he murmurs, voice raw with restraint. “Gotta get you comfortable before I take my time with you.”

Your thighs squeeze around his waist at that, and he groans—deep, helpless. “You like that?” he mutters, half-laughing against your temple. “Of course you do. You’ve been holding all this in. Suffering. Needing me.”

His mouth presses to your cheek, your jaw, your ear.

“I’m gonna give you everything,” he swears, like it’s a vow. “Gonna take care of my sweet girl.”

Your breath hitches.

He lays you down gently on the bed—like you’re something fragile, even though every part of him is dying to be rough. To claim. But when you reach for him again, the hunger behind your eyes makes his hands tremble.

You’re shaking beneath him. Not with fear. With need.

He kisses you deep and slow, tongue stroking yours like it’s an apology and a promise. His hands roam your body—your hips, your waist, your ribs—like he’s mapping every inch, every breath, every curse-marked plea. He palms your breasts, mouth dragging down to kiss them, to taste sweat and skin and desperation.

“You’re still burning,” he murmurs against your chest. “Still so fucking hot.”

You nod, breathless. “It hurts.”

“I know, baby.” He looks up at you, gaze filled with guilt and devotion. “But not for much longer.”

His hand slides between your thighs again—just to feel. Just to make you shiver.

“You’re soaked,” he groans. “So fucking ready for me.”

And still—he waits.

He leans up. His forehead rests against yours.

“I need you to tell me,” he murmurs. “No spell. No instinct. Just you. Do you want this?”

You don’t even hesitate.

“I want you,” you whisper. “I need you, Bucky.”

He kisses you again—hot and open, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. You’re grinding up into him, your body screaming for more.

You feel the thick press of him through his jeans again, and your mouth waters.

“Take them off,” you plead. He strips in seconds, and then he’s above you—naked, hard, huge. Your eyes go wide.

“You’re—”

“Big,” he finishes with that boyish, crooked grin that makes your heart flutter. “Yeah.”

Your thighs part instinctively, you swallow hard. “I can take it.”

“You will,” he kisses your temple. “You’re my good girl, afterall.” His cock is thick and flushed and so hard, resting against your slick folds as he grinds once—slow, teasing. You moan, body arching, craving more.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers. “Gonna take it slow. Let you feel all of me.”

And then—

He lines himself up. Presses in.

The first inch is unbearable. Bucky groans—loud, guttural—as the tip pushes past your entrance. You’re so wet he slides easily—but you’re tight, still fluttering from the spell, from your orgasm, from the hours—days—of arousal left unfulfilled.

“You’re so ready for me,” he groans out. “So fucking wet. You’re taking me so well, baby.” You nod, eyes wide, gripping his shoulders.

You gasp, the stretch bordering on too much—but it’s everything you need. Full. Thick. Deep.

He pushes in another inch. Then another.

“F-fuck,” he chokes, clutching your hips. “You feel like you were made for me,” he pants, voice wrecked.

You dig your nails into his back. “Please. More.”

He slides deeper. And deeper.

And finally—finally—he’s fully sheathed inside you, cock buried to the hilt, your walls fluttering around him like your body knows what this is.

Like your body recognizes him.

You cry out, overwhelmed.

He holds still.

“Breathe, sweetheart,” he whispers, mouth at your temple. “I’m going to make it better now.”

And as you clutch him—arms wrapped around his back, mouth pressed to his neck—you realize the spell was never the most dangerous thing.

It was him.

His love. His mouth. His voice. His cock, buried so deep it feels like he’s in your soul.

And the fact that you’re not sure you’ll ever want to be without it again.

You’re still gasping around him, still adjusting to the fullness when he shifts—just barely—rocking his hips in the smallest, slowest motion.

Your breath hitches. Your fingers grip his arms like a lifeline.

“Too much?” he whispers, lips ghosting your cheek.

“No,” you breathe, eyes fluttering open. “No, it’s—please. Don’t stop.”

He exhales like he’s been punched in the ribs. His forehead presses to yours again. And then—

He moves.

A slow, deep pull back. Almost all the way out. And then a roll forward, sinking back into your heat like it’s the only thing that’s ever felt right. Your body welcomes him—hungry, desperate, clenching around him like your body’s known his for years.

Bucky groans and presses in deep again, grinds his hips once—slow and thick and so achingly full it nearly splits you open—and then stops. Watches your face. Studies every twitch of your lips, every flutter of your lashes, every little moan you try to hold back.

You whimper. He hums low, eyes heavy with need. “Breathe for me,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb along your cheek. “You’re holding it again.”

You drag in a breath, shaky and desperate.

“There you go,” he whispers. “Just like that. Let me take care of it.”

And then he moves again.

Not rough. Not fast. But deep. Devastatingly deep.

Each stroke rolls through you like a vow. Your body welcomes him again and again—greedy, starving—and he feeds it. Feeds you.

“Spell or not,” he rasps, kissing the corner of your mouth, “I was always gonna end up here. Inside you. Making you mine.”

Your whole body jolts with it. The way he says mine. Like a prayer. Like a curse. Like the truth he’s been carrying for years.

He pulls back slowly, dragging every inch of his cock against your trembling walls before sinking in again. Your mouth falls open in a moan.

Your arms wrap tighter around his shoulders. Your legs pull him closer. You’re trying to hold him, keep him, anchor him inside you.

His forehead drops to yours.

“You trust me, don’t you?”

You nod.

“Then give it to me,” he whispers. “Give me everything.”

You do.

You open up for him—emotionally, physically, all of it. You let go. Let him take it. Let him have you.

His hand snakes between your bodies, thumb finding your clit with practiced ease, rubbing soft, coaxing circles. “You don’t have to think,” he murmurs, “Just feel. I’ve got you.”

You sob out a moan. Your body is unraveling, and he knows it—feels it.

But he won’t let you go yet.

“Open your eyes,” he whispers, slowing his thrusts again. “I want you looking at me when I make you come.”

You blink up at him. Wet lashes. Wide eyes. Lips parted.

Bucky looks wrecked. His mouth is pink from kissing you. His jaw flexes with restraint. His body trembles from holding back.

“I haven’t had anyone like this,” he rasps. “Not where it meant something. Not where it felt like coming home.”

You blink. Tears well. He kisses one from your cheek, then thrusts slow and deep again—pressing his body to yours, burying his cock inside you until you swear you can’t take more. “But you,” he breathes, kissing your chin, your mouth, your neck, “You feel like my first.”

Your heart splits in your chest.

Your body tightens.

Your orgasm hits like a tidal wave, and you cry out—loud and desperate and shaking.

Bucky groans, holding you close, still grinding against that oversensitive spot inside you. “That’s it,” he whispers, “That’s my girl.”

You’re still trembling, barely able to catch your breath, when he cups your hips in both hands and finally lets go.

“Gonna fill you up now,” he says, voice deeper than you’ve ever heard, needier. “Need you to keep my cum inside, okay baby? Don’t let it go to waste.”

You gasp, the spell still humming under your skin, needing it.

“I wanna see you round and soft with me,” he groans, fucking you deeper, chasing his own release. “Wanna see what I put there.”

You can barely speak. Barely breathe.

But he knows.

He knows you want it. Need it.

And with a guttural moan and one final, devastating thrust—he spills inside you, hot and thick, cock buried to the hilt as he groans your name like it’s the only word that’s ever mattered.

And the moment it happens—the spell breaks.

The air shifts. It’s subtle—but unmistakable. The second he finishes inside you, the pressure lifts. The curse, the ache, the burning edge that had tormented every nerve—gone.

You feel it leave like smoke through a window. Like a fever finally breaking. Your whole body sags in relief, trembling under the weight of release. Breath hitching. Vision swimming.

Bucky doesn’t move.

Not at first.

He stays inside you, cradling your face between both hands, lips brushing your cheek as his own chest heaves. His heart is pounding. His skin is slick. He feels ruined—in the best way.

You blink up at him, dazed. “It’s gone,” you whisper. “I can breathe again.”

He exhales slowly, forehead still pressed to yours. “Good,” he murmurs. “That’s good, sweetheart.”

His thumb strokes beneath your eye. Soft. Reverent. Like he can’t quite believe you’re real.

You shift slightly under him and let out a soft sound—he’s still inside you, and the stretch is no less overwhelming now that the magic is gone. But it’s different. Less urgent. Less sharp.

More… tender.

He kisses the corner of your mouth. “Still okay?”

You nod, voice barely audible. “You didn’t let me go.”

“Never,” he murmurs. His arms wrap around you tighter. He rolls onto his side slowly, bringing you with him—keeping you close, keeping himself inside you. Your legs tangle. The blanket slips. His dog tags rest against your throat.

And he just holds you there like something sacred.

Neither of you speak for a long minute. Just breath and heartbeat and warmth. His palm skims your back, up and down, up and down. Calming you. Centering himself.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper at last.

Bucky freezes.

“For not telling you,” you clarify. “For trying to do this alone.”

He doesn’t respond with words—he just holds you closer. Lets your head rest in the curve of his neck. Kisses your temple. Your hair. Your cheek.

“I don’t want to be alone anymore,” you say softly.

“You’re not,” he promises. “You’ve got me. You always have.” A quiet sniffle escapes you.

And then he shifts his hips, almost without thinking—and you both feel it. The twitch of him, still thick and inside, still so deep in your softest places.

Your breath catches.

And Bucky groans low in your ear. “Fuck.”

“Are you…” you start.

He smirks faintly. “Baby, I haven’t had anything that good in over eighty years. My body doesn’t know what to do with itself.”

You laugh—half-shaky, half-wrecked. “You’re serious?”

“You’re still squeezing me,” he groans, voice low and frayed. “Fuckin’ perfect. Like you were made to keep me inside.”

You shiver.

He kisses your jaw, moving slow. Gentle. But not letting you go. “I need you again,” he murmurs. “Not like before. Not because of some spell.”

His lips drag down your throat. His voice deepens. “I wanna feel you now that you’re mine.”

You moan. Your hips shift instinctively, and he thrusts—just once.

It’s slower. Deeper. Hotter.

No magic now.

Just you.

Just him.

And this time, when he starts to move inside you again—every slow grind of his hips is a vow.

You’re his.

And he’s never letting go.

Sunlight slants through the blinds, casting sleepy stripes across the hardwood floor.

You’re perched on the counter in Bucky’s actual t-shirt—faded, soft, too big, and still warm from his body—and nothing else. Your legs dangle idly as you sip your coffee, hips aching, thighs sticky, your voice still wrecked from hours of crying out his name into the pillow… and then the mattress… and eventually his chest.

Bucky moves through the kitchen barefoot, shirtless, boxers slung low on his hips. Damp hair curling slightly from the shower he insisted you take together.

You feel the faint sting of overuse. The tenderness where his hands had gripped your hips. The low, steady ache deep inside where he stayed buried for what felt like hours—moving slow, whispering confessions into your skin like he meant to leave them there forever.

He hasn’t stopped touching you since.

Not possessive.

Just connected.

His hand brushes your knee when he passes. Fingers drift across your thigh, grazing the edge of the t-shirt you’re barely wearing. He kisses your temple when he thinks you’re not paying attention—and growls if you shift just enough to open your legs and make the shirt ride up.

“Behave,” he murmurs darkly as he passes, pausing just long enough to brush his lips along your shoulder. “You’re not seducing me before breakfast.”

You sip your coffee with a lazy smirk. “Why not?”

His eyes flick to your legs—bare, dangling, parted just slightly—and then to the curve of your mouth. “Because if I get between those thighs again, we’re not leaving the apartment until tomorrow.”

You hum thoughtfully. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“It is,” he mutters, turning back to the stove with a clenched jaw and tense forearms.

You swing your legs a little, just to test him. He turns then, spatula in hand, assessing you with that signature slow-lidded look.

Something sparks behind his eyes—dark and warm and deeply, dangerously satisfied.

He tries to hide it behind a sip of his own coffee, but you catch it.

“Don’t,” you warn.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You thought it.”

His mouth twitches. “You can’t try to seduce me while limping.”

You shoot him a look over the rim of your mug. “You’re enjoying this too much.”

“Not too much,” he says seriously. “Just enough.”

You glare. He grins. Then he leans in and presses a kiss to your cheek. Your temple. Your lips.

“I meant what I said last night,” he whispers, voice brushing warm over your skin. “Spell or not—I was always gonna end up here. Making you mine.”

Your stomach flips. And you feel it again—that stupid, giddy, gut-deep ache for him that has nothing to do with magic.

He turns back to the stove, humming under his breath. His metal arm scrapes gently against the pan, eggs sizzling, toast popping. He’s domesticity incarnate—barefoot, flushed, sleepy-eyed—and the world has no business letting a man this sinful make breakfast like he didn’t fuck the spell out of you last night.

Like he didn’t split you open with slow, reverent thrusts while whispering, “Need you to keep my cum inside, okay baby? Don’t let it go to waste…”

You watch him in quiet awe for a moment, sipping your coffee. Then you sigh dramatically.

“So this is it, huh?”

He glances back at you. “This is what?”

“This is how I die. Legs too sore to walk. Drenched in sweat. Wearing your shirt. Watching my newly acquired boyfriend make me eggs like he didn’t spend all night treating me like his own personal prayer.”

Bucky snorts. “You’re so dramatic.”

You swing your legs. “I’m just saying—if I start cleaning up around here and folding your laundry, it’s not because I’m being helpful. It’s because I’m nesting.”

That gets him. He huffs a laugh but doesn’t turn around.

You keep going. “I mean, this has all the signs. Mind-blowing sex. Shared shower. Domestic morning-after. You kissed my forehead and made me breakfast. We skipped like eight stages. If this were a sitcom, the next episode would be a wedding.”

You pause. Then, innocent and teasing, you ask, “Are we married, Barnes? Did I skip a few episodes?”

Now he turns. One brow raised, spatula hovering mid-air. “You want a ring?”

You tilt your head, still teasing. “Don’t you?”

He stills—just for a moment. His expression shifts. Something flickers behind his eyes, too real to be a joke.

Then he sets the spatula down.

“I already bought one.”

Your breath catches. “…What?”

He shrugs—casual, devastating—but his ears are turning pink.

“A while ago,” he mutters. “Kept it in my pocket like a damn fool for months before finally putting it somewhere safe. You were still just my best friend, and I—”

He exhales, the rest catching in his throat. “Didn’t matter. I already knew what I wanted. I was just… waiting. Hoping maybe one day you’d want it too.”

You go still.

Your heart climbs into your throat.

“You bought a ring… before we were even together?”

He glances over. The faintest smile tugs at his lips, soft and sure. “I wasn’t gonna give it to you then. I’m not that unhinged.” He takes a breath. “Just figured… if we ever ended up here, I’d be ready.”

You blink at him. His words from earlier— “I was always gonna end up here,” replaying in your mind. You were speechless as you stared at this decreasingly handsome, scheming man. Something cracks open in your chest. The laughter dies on your tongue, but it’s not fear. It’s not panic.

It’s awe.

“…Do you have it now?” you breathe.

He smirks, and it’s all trouble and tenderness, as he leans a hip against the counter like the world isn’t tilting. “Don’t worry about it”

“Can I see it?” You ask, grinning.

“Finish your coffee.”

“James Buchanan Barnes—”

“I’ll wait,” he says, quiet and certain, brushing a kiss to your temple. His thumb grazes your jaw, soft and steady, like a vow he’s already made a hundred times.

#bucky x reader

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marvelettesassemblenow · 29 days ago

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Thank you so much! I'm so happy you enjoyed this!! 💙

Losing Composure

Pairing: Steve x Femal Avenger Reader

Summary: Losing a bet with Bucky you had to wear a USO girl costume to deliver something to Steve. Steve lost his composure and suddenly things went awkward

Word Count: ~3.3k

Warnings: the media isn’t nice to reader, anxiety on Bucky’s part, blood and detailed description of nose bleeding, kiss cam, emotional exhaustion

A/N: I’m currently writing on a modern AU Bucky mini series and while I really like my Steve there (it’s Steve, I will ALWAYS like him) it reminded me that I had started this piece and I finally finished it. I’m sorry, Steve!

“I hate you so much, Barnes,” you mumbled and tried to pull the dress a little bit more down before you entered the communal kitchen where you knew you target would be. You didn’t dare to look up until you stood in front of him and tipped his shoulder and tried to ignore the other people in the room.

“I have a special delivery for our savior Captain America,” you said in a not so enthusiastic voice and put your hand on your forehead in a salute. Nothing could’ve prepared you what happened next. If someone would have told you that Steve Rogers aka Captain America would spat water in your face you would have laughed it off. But now you stood in front of him, your hand still in the ridiculous pose while you had a folder in your other hand and as you blinked water started to drip from your eyelashes to your face and onto the folder.

While you stood there still in shock as did the person in front of you, you heard loud laughter. “This was better than anything I’ve imagined,” you could hear Bucky's voice.

Steve suddenly grabbed a towel and started to wipe your face with it and held it out to you when he noticed your décolleté would have been next and even in shock Steve was still a gentleman. You took the towel from him and pushed the folder onto his chest. “I’m so sorry, I don’t know... I would have never,” his glance flew over your outfit. “What are you wearing? Not that you aren’t allowed to wear what you want, but...” Steve started to ramble and was afraid he had dug his own hole.

“Ugh this stupid bet I had with Bucky,” you mumbled while you still tried to get rid of the wetness.

“Hey, do you know how long it took me to find an USO girl costume?” Bucky chimed in with laughter still in his voice.

“Not long, because the texture is awful,” you rebutted and he admitted that it didn’t take him five minutes. “If you excuse me, I still have some deliveries to do,” you turned around and walked out of the kitchen. Steve stared after you until he remembered the folder in his hand. On it was a big print that said confidential and when he opened it he saw only one piece of paper which said “you’re welcome, punk”. He turned to Bucky who just winked at him.

“Well, you could have handled that smoother,” he said and Steve slapped the back of his friend's head before he left the room. He didn’t know where to go, the only thing he knew was that he couldn’t handle Bucky's comments right now.

“Are you sure you are okay?” Steve heard you asking Bucky for probably the fourth time since you had started your trip.

“I'm okay, you can stop your mother hen mode now,” Bucky assured you and while Steve knew Bucky was annoyed, he also knew that he wasn’t really bothered. And he couldn’t help the warm feeling that was spreading through him. Your caring self was one of the things he loved most about you. And it wasn’t even that you were on your way to a mission or anything like that, you were just making a trip to town, but you knew that Bucky got quickly overwhelmed by the amount of people around him.

“Here, hold my hand and squeeze if it gets too much,” you offered and Steve noticed the quick glance Bucky sent his way before he grabbed your offered hand.

“You have a second hand, can I hold it? Or would you rather like it, if Steve would step in?” Sam said and wiggled his eyebrows.

“Or I could use my free hand to punch you in the face, what about that?” you said coolly and Bucky chuckled.

“Nah, I don’t think you will,” Sam said confidentially, but Steve noticed that he left some space next to you.

Maybe your reaction was a little harsh, but the teasing you had to endured since your lost bet was immense. The video of Steve spitting water over you had been going around a lot and you wanted to punch whoever had shown Bucky how to make a meme. You though it had been Sam so the punch would serve for two purposes.

But if you were embarrassed it was nothing close to how Steve felt! He was the one who had lost control over his body. A mission with too many opponents to count? No problem. Jumping from a plane without a parachute? His heart would beat a little faster but that would be it. But seeing you in that outfit had caused his body to start sweating, his heart to beat faster and his brain to turn off for a second, hence the embarrassing moment.

Steve was actually glad that the teasing had turned down this day and was replaced with excitement for the baseball game you were about to watch. He just wanted to enjoy this little trip with his childhood friend, his new found friend and of course you.

You and Bucky were in front with Sam and Steve trailing behind. After the security check you split up, while you and Sam decided to use the bathroom before the game him and Bucky would get snacks and drinks. Steve had problems holding everything in his arms and avoiding a collision with other fans while he waited for the two of you.

You almost walked into him when you tried to avoid a very enthusiastic fan, but luckily Sam caught the cup which was about to fall from Steves arm. “Oh no, we don’t want you spilling your drink over her again, right?” he smirked and took a sip from the cup while you groaned and Steves face changed its color.

The four of you managed to get to your seats without much trouble. You had told the three guys they were looking stupid with their disguise as they were all wearing caps and now that you sat on your actual place between Steve and Bucky, you saw that a lot of people had caps on their heads. You squinted your eyes when the sun shone directly in your face. Steve noticed your distress and placed his cap on your head.

“Thank you,” you said with a bright smile and looked in his direction. Steve who was busy looking at you and replied with a “it isn’t a problem, honey” didn’t saw Bucky and Sam looking at each other with raised brows. They too noticed that the nickname was new.

“I have no clue about baseball,” you admitted just a little bit before the game started.

“Why did you come then?” Sam asked with his mouth full of food and you handed a napkin over Bucky towards him, but he didn’t get the hint.

“Because I also wanted to go out and wanted to have a nice afternoon,” you defended yourself and you left the part out that you joined because you knew how big of a baseball fan Steve was.

“Don’t worry, I’ll explain everything to you,” Steve offered immediately and took you out of the spotlight.

Steve stayed true to his word (as if you had expected anything less) and you had to admit that you enjoyed it. You didn’t know if it was the sport or if it was Steve’s enthusiasm while explaining that swept over to you. Bucky chimed in here and there and before you knew it the break was there.

“Oh, the Kiss Cam,” you laughed and took the last sip of your now warm drink.

“Just to make it clear, if it lands on us I’m not kissing Bucky. I can already imagine the headlines,” Sam was munching on a pretzel now that he had managed to get.

“Did you also noticed that his only problem is the headline and nothing about the kiss,” you whispered to Steve and he let out a light chuckle. And as if Sam had provoked it the cam landed on the four of you and the commentator announced that some of the avengers were at the games. Steve waved awkwardly at the camera.

“Oh that’s not what a kiss cam is for,” Sam announced and started to crawl over Bucky, who started to complain. He kissed your cheek and went back to his place. “Told you I wouldn’t kiss Barnes. This is how you do it, Rogers,” he said and went back to eating his snack. You were about to turn towards Steve but were surprised when suddenly lips landed on the cheek that Sam had just kissed. Before you could comprehend that Bucky had just kissed you publicly (and grabbed your hand afterward, probably because he only felt overwhelmed when he noticed how many people were watching him then) another pair of lips were pressed onto the other side of your cheek, dangerously close to your lips.

The skin there started to tingle and before you could comment on anything that had just happened fans stood in front of you asking for a picture with Captain America. Soon enough you were taking photos for fans and when someone asked for a photo with the four of you and Steve threw one long arm around your shoulder you couldn’t help to feel like there were butterflies flying in your stomach.

You weren’t a fan of press conferences, never were, but after an accident a few months back you didn’t attend them anymore. You knew that it had to be done, but standing in the spotlight and having to explain why you acted a certain way was not your idea of fun. But when one reporter started to ask you questions about your suit and underwear you weren’t sure if you should become angry or if you shouldn’t say anything at all.

Before you could even say anything about it Steve had exploded. Calm, collected Captain America stood in front of the press and gave them a piece of their mind how they dared to be so disrespectful. It had shocked not only the reporters, but also you and some of the other team members attending. Steve had ended the press conference then and stormed off the stage.

So he was more than surprised when he stood dressed in a black suit in front of many cameras and the door flew open with you sprinting towards him, his shield and stealth suit in your arms. “You have to change, we have a situation right now,” you said once you were in a hearing range. He took the suit from your arms and left the shield where it was, turned around and followed a guy pointing towards a room.

It didn’t take long for him to change into his other suit, he had slipped it on more than he could count. You were waiting outside in one hand the shield in the other his helmet. “What are we up against?” he asked once he stepped out of the room and strapped his helmet on.

“Inhuman activity in the city. Sam, Tony, Vision and Rhodey are already on their way, the rest of us is picking you up. We weren’t quite sure what we were facing so we decided we should be all on board,” you informed him while walking next to him and gave him his shield.

“Thanks,” he said once he secured it and followed you to the jet.

In hindsight it was good that you had picked up Steve. There were no big injuries in the team, but the buildings had taken a lot of damage. And the super soldiers came kind of handy to pick up the rumbles and free the civilians. It was exhausting: first the fight, then the rescuing and the emotional side finally caught up with you. You sat down on a staircase after calming down a kid and bringing him back to his mother.

“Are you okay?” Steves voice caused you to raise your head from your hands.

“Yeah, I just needed a moment to breathe,” you admitted. He sat down on the step next to you and placed the shield in front of you. “I feel like the people forget it isn’t only the fight against what comes our way. There are always casualties and it’s not like you can shrug and say ‘well I can’t change a thing now’. There are always the thoughts late at night if I could have been faster could something like that be avoided and it’s just... it’s draining, Steve,” you admitted.

“I know,” Steve put an arm around your shoulder and you pressed your head against his chest. “But you can’t forget the other side. What about the ones that we rescued?”

“Yeah, I know. Let’s just stay like this for a minute, okay?” Steve nodded and you felt the movement and then he placed his head on yours. His hand still caressing your arm. He waited for you to let go of the hug first. “Okay, let’s get back to work,” you said and held out your hand for him to take and to help him up, although you both knew he didn’t need it. He took it anyway.

The next Mrs. America?

We don’t know much about the private life's of the Avengers, especially Steve Rogers aka Captain America isn’t known for being very open about his personal life. But is there a woman by his side that we all know? Pictures speak louder than words. As you can see on the picture shown above the Captain has thrown his arm around his fellow Avenger after the battle on last Tuesday and they look very intimate. The shield the government has him provided is lying carelessly on the ground.

Before that a press conference with Captain America was interrupted by said woman who walked in holding his shield. Have we ever seen the shield in the hand of anybody else than him? No. So there must be a deeper connection between them. Also we can’t forget about the fact when he lost his calm facade the last time she was asked a question at a press conference which was ended by him afterwards.

We can’t wait to see what happens next and hope that Captain America won’t forget about his country because of a woman.

“This is bullshit,” you exclaimed when you put away your tablet. You couldn’t bring yourself to read the rest of the article.

“I’ve carried and used the shield in a battle,” Natasha said.

“It also wasn’t the government who gave it to him,” Tony scoffed.

“And I’m not the next Mrs. America,” you put in.

“Well you could be,” Bucky said from the side.

“What?” You turned around to look at him.

“I don’t think Steve is opposed to the idea,” Bucky shrugged.

“Steve would also never forget about his country and I hope he never has to read this bullshit.” You were glad that he was currently on a mission with Sam.

“The picture is cute, though,” Nat said. Well, she was right, but you wouldn’t admit that out loud.

After the article dropped you distanced yourself from Steve a little bit more and completely when you were in public. Of course Steve had seen the article, but the two of you didn’t discuss it.

So when you were at the next charity event you still kept your distance. It was a volleyball match and the Avengers had their own team. To make it fair it only consisted of people without super strength that meant Steve and Bucky were sitting on a bank as moral support while you, Sam, Nat, Tony and Wanda made your way over to the field.

“This is getting ridiculous, Steve! How long will you avoid her?” Bucky asked when the team was out of earshot and it was only him and his friend.

“It’s just this stupid article. It really hurt her feelings and it wasn’t professional from me to explode and,” he started but Bucky interrupted him.

“Stop it. The article was bullshit. And it was absolutely disgusting that they asked her that question. You’re just human and wanted to protect her, I get it. But stop avoiding her. You were the one telling me that I shouldn’t give any fuck,” he got a gaze from Steve that told him he should watch his language, “about any articles about me. Maybe you should listen to yourself.”

Bucky turned around and watched the players now who greeted each other. It was a mix of people that neither Steve or Bucky really knew. Some kid was a singer or something like that and was a bit starstruck to meet Black Widow. The game started and as neither of the teams were professional volleyball players it looked that way. But the Avengers were competitive people – especially Natasha and Tony and so it wasn’t really a surprise that you won the first game.

The second round was a bit harder and when you were two minutes into the game you didn’t see the ball coming your way as the sun was blinding you. Your head was pushed backwards when the ball connected with your face and a second later you were on the ground. When you weren’t up again a few seconds later Steve was up his feet and made his way to you. Natasha was already kneeling next to you and he kneeled on the other side of you. Blood was gushing out of your nose and you looked a bit dazed.

A medic was approaching but Natasha and Steve blocked her way to you and she was a bit intimidated when none of them made a move to leave your side. She held out a piece of bandage that the spy took from her and pressed it under your nose while Steve took a cooling pack and pressed it in your neck. “Are you dizzy? Do you need to throw up?” he asked you.

When they made sure you just needed to sit down for a while Steve picked you up and carried you to the benches where Bucky was waiting. He stepped in for you and he shared a gaze with Steve that didn’t slip your attention. “It wasn’t his fault Bucky,” you said while you still pressed the bandage under your nose.

“’Course,” Bucky replied and made his way on the field. Steve didn’t want to let go of you and you both didn’t fit on the bench so he sat the both of you down on the floor, him behind you and you between his legs while he still held the cooling pack and put the other arm around your torso.

“You feel better?” he asked after a while.

You hummed, too content to form a full sentence. The bleeding had stopped and you breathed through your mouth, but Steve’s one arm that radiated warmth felt too good around you. “I miss you,” you admitted then. If it was the blood loss or maybe finally being near Steve again you didn’t know what caused the admission.

And Steve didn’t know what cause it, maybe it was having you relaxed near him after such a long time, but he admitted that he missed you too. “You wanna get dinner with me tonight?” he surprised you and him.

“Just you and me?”

“Yeah, just us,” Steve whispered in your ear and his breath caressed you sweaty skin. But when it came to Steve you never felt uncomfortable even if you were covered in sweat.

“I’d really like that.” Your breath hitched when Steve lips connect softly with your skin and just then you looked at Bucky who smirked. You weren’t sure if it was because he just witnessed the kiss or if it was because he had pushed the ball into the face of the man who had hit you. But he yelled a “sorry,” over the field and winked at you.

Masterlist

divider by @fireflygraphics

#tati replies #comment reblog #thank you so much for reading and reblogging!

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marvelettesassemblenow · 29 days ago

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I know of at least one more that you haven't read yet, but we'll keep that for another day to surprise you 😂 you're right, poor Steve had to endure a lot of teasing! But I'm glad that you enjoyed that one! 🩷