surprised-penguin

[surprised-penguin]

hungry like a wolf

pairing: lumberjack!bucky barnes x female reader

summary: your morning gets derailed when you dare to get out of bed without waking your lumberjack; it turns into him chasing you down—and mounting you.

warnings: 18+ content (minors dni!!!), smut, pwp, piv sex, unprotected sex, possessive sex, creampie, predator and prey kink/primal play kink/chase kink, choking, biting, some breath play, bit of dumbification, very brief overstimulation, dirty talk, daddy kink, praise kink, pet names (bunny, baby), aftercare, established relationship

word count: 3.3k

a/n: here's my week 4 entry in @buckybarnesevents's Hot Bucky Summer event!! y'all voted for lumberjack!Bucky chasing and mounting reader, and i'm very happy to deliver this fic. it's just a fun bit of smut, i don't even have much to say about it except i really enjoyed writing lumberjack!Bucky 🤭 he's just so big and beefy in my head!! anyway, i hope y'all enjoy!! ♡

prompt: FREE WEEK | [Optional prompts: “A” - Auto-fellatio, Aftercare, Aphrodisiac, Anal Play, Ass-to-mouth, Ahegao]

Hot Bucky Summer 2025 masterlist

You slipped from beneath the warm blankets just as the sun was beginning to peak out from between the nearby mountains. Pale, pearly light crept across the cabin’s wooden floorboards, which were cool beneath your toes, the chill of night still clinging to the corners of the bedroom.

Lingering at the edge of the bed, you glanced back at the small mountain of blankets, knowing your lumberjack, Bucky Barnes, was buried beneath it. You could hear his soft, rumbling snores, and could easily imagine the comforting weight of his arms wrapped around your waist, his nose buried in the back of your neck.

It was tempting to get back into bed and snuggle up to your beefy lumberjack, but you knew it was time to start the day. So you pushed up from the mattress and padded across the room on silent feet.

Although it was the start of summer, it still got cold at night up in the mountains, and it seemed to be chilliest just after dawn. So, as much as you knew Bucky would love to find you in the kitchen without a stitch of clothing on, you needed to grab something to ward off the chill.

One of Bucky’s flannels was draped over the arm of a chair in the corner by the dresser, and a smile tugged at the corners of your mouth when you recognized it as the shirt he’d worn the day before. You knew it would smell like him, and you couldn’t stop yourself from snatching it off the chair.

You probably should’ve tugged on some leggings and a sweater, and gotten dressed for the day in your own clothes. But as you slid your arms into the sleeves of the flannel shirt, Bucky’s scent filled your senses—like woodsmoke and oakmoss—and you couldn’t imagine wearing anything else. 

Especially since you knew how Bucky would react when he eventually followed you out of bed and saw what you were wearing. Your lumberjack always loved seeing you in his clothes, and you knew that morning would be no different.

The worn wool of the flannel shirt was warm against your bare skin, and you closed your eyes, savoring the feeling of it as you swiftly did up the buttons. Before you left the bedroom, you tucked your nose into the collar and breathed deep, letting Bucky’s scent calm you before you started your day.

Not wanting to wake your lumberjack, you moved quietly through the rustic, cozy cabin he’d built. The floorboards were smooth and clean beneath your feet as you padded down the stairs from the lofted bedroom, and made your way to the kitchen.

With perfect, practiced movements, you set about making coffee, snacking on some leftover strawberry rhubarb pie you’d made earlier that week. While the coffee brewed, you stood at the sink, watching the sunlight creep across the yard, illuminating the stack of wood that fed the cabin’s furnace, and the dense forest beyond.

It wasn’t until after the coffee was brewed and you were nearly done sipping on a warm mug, still watching the growing light of day, that you heard Bucky’s lumbering gate crossing the bedroom above you. 

He’d no doubt risen when he’d discovered you were no longer in bed with him, and you tracked his movements as he followed you to the kitchen.

Thick, burly arms wrapped around your waist from behind and his broad chest pressed to your back, his big body curling around your smaller form. His chin rested on your shoulder, his scruffy cheek brushing against your soft skin enough to make you giggle softly.

“G’morning, bunny,” Bucky rumbled in a deep, sleep-roughed voice that sent gentle sparks darting down between your thighs. 

Already, your body was responding to the closeness of your lumberjack, a warmth blooming in your core as your desire unfurled like the petals of a flower searching for the sun. 

With a little hum of delight, you rose up on your tiptoes until you felt the bulge in Bucky’s sweatpants, a smile teasing your lips when the hard length wedged between the curves of your ass. Turning your head to the side, you caught his eye over your shoulder.

“Good morning, Buck,” you murmured, reaching up, your nails scraping teasingly through the scruff on his jaw. You dug in, pulling his face close enough to press a kiss against the corner of his mouth over your shoulder. “Did you sleep well?”

There was a teasing lilt to your tone, and you weren’t surprised when a playful growl rumbled in your lumberjack’s chest. After all, you’d been the one to keep him up late into the night, riding his cock until you were both too exhausted to move.

“I slept great,” Bucky rasped, pressing his face into your neck and brushing a kiss to your pulse point. Then without warning, he nipped that same sensitive spot and your breath hitched in your throat. “Until I woke up in a cold bed when I should’ve had a sweet bunny warming my cock.”

You hummed not-so-sympathetically and took another sip of your coffee before putting it in the sink. You were trying your damndest not to let your lumberjack know just how tempting his words were. 

But when he hugged you more tightly in his arms, pinning your hips against the counter and grinding his cock deeper into your ass, it was all you could do to bite back a moan.

“You look good in my shirt,” Bucky purred in your ear before nipping the fleshy part. His bite was sharp enough to make you gasp, your spine arching and pressing your ass harder against his bulge.

You knew Bucky well enough to know what he was doing—trying to delay the start of the day by working you up with his cock and his mouth until you were a whimpering mess begging him to fuck you.

Well, two could play that game. You didn’t want to go to work anymore than he did.

Turning in Bucky’s hold, you wrapped your arms around your lumberjack’s broad shoulders and dragged him closer, until his bulge was throbbing against your belly. You gave him your most innocent smile, and said, in your sweetest voice, “Thank you, daddy.”

The playful smirk slid off Bucky’s face, replaced by a hungry snarl. As you watched, his eyes darkened, growing hungry like a wolf’s after a hard winter. Between your bodies, his cock twitched with an impatience you knew all too well. 

“I see you’re choosing violence first thing in the morning, huh, baby?” Bucky asked, his hands grabbing your hips and holding you pinned against his broad, muscular body. 

His bulge was digging into your soft belly so deliciously that you wanted to lift your leg and hook it over your lumberjack’s hip. You wanted the thick, hard length of his cock grinding against your pussy, making you both desperate until he’d had enough and took you right there in the kitchen.

But instead, you gave an insolent shrug.

“It’s not first thing in the morning for me, daddy,” you said sweetly, putting extra emphasis on the dirty pet name that drove Bucky wild. “I’ve been up for a little while now.”

Another growl rumbled in Bucky’s chest, this one low and menacing. His blue eyes were dark with lust as he stared down at you, and his hands were hungry in the way they groped your hips roughly. 

It took every bit of your self-control to suppress a victorious grin, knowing you’d won by getting Bucky all riled up before he could do the same to you. You held your breath, waiting with breathless anticipation to see how he’d respond to your teasing provocation. 

“You better run, bunny,” Bucky warned in a deep, rumbling tone, giving your hips one last squeeze before he began easing away. “Because when I catch you, I’ll make you scream for daddy.” With a sharp, encouraging swat to your ass, Bucky stepped back, giving you room to flee. 

For one long, delicious moment, you stared into Bucky’s eyes, reveling in the tension crackling between the two of you. This was one of your favorite games to play, and Bucky knew it. He knew how much you enjoyed being chased, being caught, being fucked with your body pinned beneath his beefy form.

All thoughts about going to work and how you should’ve started getting ready for the day were completely abandoned by the time the moment ended—and you took off like a shot.

Scampering through the lower level of the cabin, you bounded up the stairs to the second floor as fast as you could, your feet pounding on the wood. Your heart was racing in your chest, your blood pumping in your ears, and yet you could still feel the heavy, thumping footfalls of Bucky giving chase. 

He’d given you a few seconds head-start, but you knew it was an inevitability that he’d catch you. And that was exactly what you wanted. 

You wanted him to snatch you off your feet, bend you over the nearest surface and fuck you like a beast staking a claim on your cunt. He was the wolf and you were his prey—his bunny. 

You could feel your heartbeat hammering against your ribs and thrumming between your thighs, you pussy growing more and more damp with every desperate step you took. You knew Bucky was hot on your heels, and you anticipated the moment he’d grab you even as you raced across the loft to escape him for just another second. 

The hungry lumberjack caught you at the edge of the bed, tackling you onto the soft blankets. His arms wrapped protectively around your body, one big hand tucking your head beneath his chin to ensure you weren’t hurt while he took you down to the mattress.

Before you could even gasp for breath, Bucky rolled you under him, your back to his front, his cock brushing your ass through his sweatpants. He yanked you up onto your knees, kneeling behind you while his hands groped your hips and thighs hard enough to leave marks.

Bucky’s big body curled around yours, and he was everywhere—surrounding you, overwhelming you. His hands snuck under your soft flannel shirt, groping your tits and pinching your nipples while you gasped and squirmed beneath him. 

When he dragged his blunt teeth down the curve of your neck, you shuddered. Instinctively, you melted into the bed, your body going pliant in your lumberjack’s hands as you submitted to his delicious torture. 

“Gotcha,” he growled into your skin before sinking his teeth mercilessly into the base of your throat, where your neck met your shoulder. 

“Ah!” you cried, trembling from the exquisite edge of pain and pleasure. Already, you were dripping down your thighs, and you pushed your ass back into Bucky’s bulge, a whine rising in your throat as you tipped your head to the side in a show of submission.

“That’s my good bunny,” Bucky rumbled, his hands kneading roughly at your tits, rolling your nipples between his fingers and dragging needy whines from your lips. “Such pretty, perfect prey for daddy, yeah?” 

There was a slight breathlessness to Bucky’s voice, like he was still catching his breath from the chase you’d led him on, and it made pride surge in your heart. A dazed smile curled the edges of your mouth and your eyes were glazed over, but you nodded slightly. 

“Yeah, daddy, your prey,” you mumbled, barely knowing what you were saying. 

Bucky pressed his grin into your cheek, growling, “Good girl,” before he caught your lips in a fierce kiss. You moaned at the taste of him, and he licked the sound from your mouth, his lips hungry as they devoured yours. 

All too soon, Bucky pulled away, leaving you gasping. But then you felt him pushing down his sweatpants, one arm still curled around your waist to hold you in place.

His thick cock bounced between your legs, and you moaned obscenely, your cheek pressed to the blankets as you pushed your hips back, squeezing your soft thighs around his stiff length. You could feel him slipping through the desire coating your skin, but he wasn’t inside you, which was what you really needed.

Before you had a chance to beg Bucky to fuck you, he was lining up the tip of his cock with your entrance, dragging the head teasingly between your folds. Then, with a vicious grunt, Bucky shoved inside, burying his cock deep in your cunt with one thrust.

“Bucky,” you choked out, pleasure slicing through you like a winter wind through the trees, stealing your breath and leaving you trembling. Your eyes rolled back in your head as you let the pleasure overwhelm you, turning you into a babbling mess. “Oh god, it’s s’good, s’full—daddy.”

Your lumberjack chuckled huskily against your neck, clearly delighted that he’d already made you mindless with his cock. 

Then he was wrapping you up in his big, burly arms, one strong hand going around your throat while the other curved around your shoulder from the front. 

In seconds, he had you pinned so securely to his chest, you couldn’t move. Something about his hold settled you, and you relaxed in his arms, giving your body over to his. 

He’d won the chase, he’d caught you, and you wanted him to do whatever he wanted with you.

“If you think that’s good, baby,” Bucky began, grinding his hips into your ass, making you feel every inch of his cock where it was buried to the hilt inside you. “Just wait till daddy fucks your sweet cunt so hard you’ll be screaming my name.” He squeezed your throat lightly. “You’re my prey, bunny, now be a good girl and take my fucking cock.”

Even if you’d had anything to say to Bucky’s filthy words, even if you’d managed to formulate a tart response to sass your lumberjack, you wouldn’t have been able to voice it. Because just then, Bucky started fucking you—hard and fast and so deep, you swore you could feel him in your guts.

Bucky rutted into you like a man possessed, pounding his cock into your cunt as if he was intent on making you feel him for every minute of that long summer day while you were apart from each other. His hips clapped against your ass with every brutal thrust, his balls swinging between your thighs to smack against your clit.

And all the while, he held your throat in his strong grasp, squeezing you firmly, possessively. His hand collaring your throat was a constant reminder that you were his while he claimed your body in the most primal way possible.

Your lumberjack fucked you so thoroughly, all you could do was moan and take it, so that’s what you did. You took his cock happily, eagerly. Your lips were parted in an endless stream of obscene sounds, your pleasure spilling from your mouth so Bucky knew how much you were enjoying him using your body.

He held you so securely, that there was nothing for you to do as he pulled you back and forth to meet his cock with every thrust. Your hands fisted in the blankets of the bed, nails digging into the soft fabric as you sobbed and moaned in pleasure, heading toward a decimating release.

You were helpless to the bliss Bucky wrought on your body. All you could do was feel, and it felt so. Fucking. Good. Heady, prickling pleasure swirled through your body, gathering like a thunderstorm intent on breaking the heat and tension coiling tight in your belly.

Your lumberjack must’ve recognized the signs of your body hovering on the edge—the way your voice went higher-pitched and needier, the way your pussy fluttered around his pounding cock—because he started fucking you harder and faster, his harsh breaths filling your ears. 

“Come for me, baby, come on daddy’s cock like my perfect little bunny,” Bucky commanded in a gruff voice, his scruffy cheek jaw over your cheek. “C’mon, let me feel that cunt milking my cock, baby—come for me.”

Bucky’s fingers dug into the sides of your throat, choking you enough that your head went a little fuzzy and your sounds of pleasure turned to rasping whimpers and desperate mewls. At the same time, his other hand slipped between your thighs and rubbed your clit, and it was exactly what you needed to push you over the edge.

“BUCKY!” you screamed your lumberjack’s name as you shattered apart. The storm broke and the tension in your body snapped, giving way to a torrent of pleasure that swept over you and carried you away. 

Distantly, you were aware of Bucky grunting viciously when he felt the tight clench of your pussy, and he fought against the rhythmic pulsing of your body to fuck you harder. His thrusts turned wild as he chased his own pleasure in your squeezing cunt.

A moment later, he gave a deafening roar and spilled inside you, his cock twitching and dragging a mindless moan from your lips as he filled you up with his come. His hands tightened on your body while his hips worked, fucking his come deeper and deeper into your hot cunt as he shot rope after rope inside you. 

You gave a weak whimper, your pussy throbbing around his thick cock as he dragged out your pleasure. But Bucky wasn’t done—he kept fucking you until you were both trembling from the overstimulation. Then, he finally relented. 

The two of you collapsed into the blankets of the bed, Bucky rolling onto his side and turning you to face him. The movement caused his cock to slip from your well-used pussy, and his come spilled down your thighs, making a mess.

Neither of you cared, though, as you caught your breath together, tangled up in each other’s arms. You placed a hand gently over the center of Bucky’s chest, feeling the power of his racing heart beneath his skin. He pressed a kiss to your forehead, holding you tight in his strong arms.

“Now that is how you have a good morning,” you joked, your voice still a little breathless. With a smile, you tipped your head back, your mouth searching for Bucky’s.

When he ducked his head, his lips meeting yours, you shared a slow, sweet good morning kiss with your lumberjack, the both of you basking in the afterglow of your pleasure. The growing sunlight was streaking across the bedroom, teasing your bare feet with its warmth, but you couldn’t be bothered to pull away from Bucky just yet.

“I always have a good morning with you, baby,” Bucky rumbled, his tone steeped in so much affection and warmth, it nearly took your breath away. Then he nipped gently at your lower lip, catching it between his teeth in a teasing bite. “Even if sometimes I have to chase you down to get it.”

Your lumberjack’s taunting words had a laugh bubbling up your throat and spilling from your lips. Before he could rub it in any more that he’d caught you, you dragged him back in for a longer, deeper kiss. Soon, your hands began to wander over his broad shoulders and down his beefy, burly chest.

By the time you and Bucky dragged yourselves from bed and actually started your days, morning was half over and the coffee in the pot had long since burned. Still, you took your time getting dressed, making more coffee and sharing kisses in between, both of you getting to work late. 

But you wouldn’t have traded your morning for anything. You loved every minute you spent with your lumberjack, Bucky Barnes—and you couldn’t wait for the weekend when you got to have him all to yourself. Then the two of you would really have some fun.

thanks for reading!! comments and reblogs are always appreciated ♡

Hot Bucky Summer 2025 masterlist

[surprised-penguin]

Promise Without Ceremony | Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: Bucky Barnes gave up on marriage a long time ago. But then, somewhere deep in a storm-soaked safe house, he pulls a bullet from your leg and accidentally proposes in the process.

MCU Timeline Placement: Post TFATWS

Master List: Find my other stuff here!

Warnings: blood loss, injury, bullet wound, field medicine, pain, mild medical trauma, emotional vulnerability, war references, ptsd mentions, marriage talk, soft angst, accidental proposal

Word Count: 3.9k

Author’s Note: i am once again asking bucky barnes to know peace (he will not). anyway i cleaned my kitchen at 1am and now i’m emotionally compromised about fictional men again. if you need me i’ll be lying facedown on the floor, thinking about laundry and commitment.

The idea of marriage had died sometime in the ice.

Not all at once. Not dramatically, like a final gasp of a man slipping into the Atlantic with a ring still in his coat pocket. No, it had been slower than that. Eaten away in inches. First by frostbite. Then by fire. Then by the sound of screaming that wasn’t his own but came from his own mouth anyway.

It used to mean something to him. Marriage. A porch swing. Warm soup. A house with windows that didn’t rattle in the wind. The kind of thing you promised a girl in church shoes, hands clasped over the Sunday paper. 

James Buchanan Barnes had once thought he’d get that life. That he’d earn it. If he fought hard enough, if he came home in one piece, if he smiled the right way when he walked her back to her door.

Then war had cracked the world open like a rotten egg, and everything inside had spilled black.

There were no porches where Hydra took him. No rings. Just cold steel and code phrases. Needles and electrodes. Years swallowed by fog. And when he remembered again, when he started to remember, he couldn’t even picture a wedding band without wondering how deep it would slice if it caught against bone.

So no, marriage hadn’t crossed his mind in years.

Not until you.

Not even with you, not in the usual sense. You hadn’t crawled into his life and started naming curtains or pointing out flower arrangements like a threat. You’d just…stayed. Through the Accords. Through the fallout. Through Wakanda and the long, sterile quiet of the recovery halls. You never flinched when he woke up screaming. You never tiptoed around the word past like it might set off a bomb.

You were there during the repairs. The recalibrations. You’d worked with Shuri on something far above his understanding, fingers stained with grease and ink, hair always pinned messily away from your eyes. You’d curse under your breath in three different languages. You argued with Ayo. You laughed loudly.

By the time he was sent back into the field—once he had left the mountains, left the quiet—he expected the connection to die out. Most things did. The world had taught him that. You could try to keep something alive outside the place it was born, but roots snapped when you pulled too hard.

And it had. He had left you. Not by choice, not really. One blink and he was gone. Another blink, and you’d aged five years without him.

But then he saw you again. In D.C. In New York. Even in Louisiana. Out of nowhere, standing in a pair of sunglasses too big for your face, grinning like it hadn’t been years for you.

“Miss me, Barnes?”

And damn him, he had.

You’d joined the mission against the Flag Smashers. Temporarily, at first. That’s what you both said. Just this op. Just this briefing. Just this one joint task force run with Sam. 

And then it wasn’t temporary anymore. And then there was a room in the same safe house that you’d claimed. A bunk on the same floor. Your stuff beside his. And his toothbrush in your travel kit, and he had no idea how or when that had happened.

There were no conversations. No declarations. Just a slow merging.

He liked your laugh. The dry, cut-glass one you used when Joaquin said something stupid. The low, real one that came out when you let your guard down, when the weight on your shoulders slipped just enough to let joy through.

You liked to touch him. Not in the way that made him flinch. In the way that made the back of his neck burn. A casual hand on his spine when passing behind him. Fingers brushing his sleeve. A nudge with your elbow when he got too serious. You were constant.

You grounded him.

And he didn’t know how to name that. He wasn’t good at words anymore. Hadn’t been in decades. But he knew how it felt when you were hurt. When you bled. When someone touched you too rough during an extraction and he saw red before he even registered why.

He had never said “I love you.” Not outright. Neither had you.

But there were nights you fell asleep on his chest, breathing slow against the metal plates, and he’d whisper it in your hair like a secret. Like a curse.

Because he did love you.

And it terrified him.

Not because he thought you’d leave, though that was always a part of it.

But because he didn’t believe in the future. Not really. Hydra had broken that part of him, rewired him to think in terms of seconds, triggers, threats. Even now, after all this time, after all this healing, the idea of forever felt…dangerous. Unrealistic. Like planning for spring in the middle of a war zone.

But the truth was: he wanted to grow old with you.

He didn’t say it. But he wanted it.

The thought came loudest during quiet missions. When your hand found his under the table. When you scolded Sam like a sitcom wife. When you kissed him before leaving in a rush and forgot your ID badge, and he chased after you just to hear you laugh when he caught up.

That was what marriage looked like to him now.

Not churches or tuxedos. Not parties or speeches. Just this. Just you.

It was raining now. Somewhere deep in the woods outside of Vienna, a safe house blinked on like a dying star. One generator. One flickering lamp. One bullet in your leg, and his hands slick with blood that wasn’t his.

You hissed as he dug the tweezers in.

“I told you,” he said, voice low, steady even as his gut churned, “you were too exposed on the ridge. You shouldn’t have gone up alone.”

You shot him a look. “Wasn’t alone. You were covering me.”

“I was supposed to be covering you,” he muttered, breath tight. “Didn’t exactly do a great job, did I?”

You didn’t answer.

He hated this part. The way the pain made your voice tighten, the way you bit your lip hard enough to bleed rather than make a sound. It reminded him too much of everything he couldn’t fix. Of every mission where he hadn’t been fast enough. Every loss that had turned to ash in his mouth.

You were trembling now, sweat slicking your brow. The bullet was lodged deep. He could feel it with the tip of the tweezers, but it wouldn’t come clean.

His jaw clenched.

“Bucky.”

“Almost got it.”

“Bucky.”

He angled the tweezers just slightly, catching the edge of the casing with a surgeon’s precision, eyes fixed on the wound like it was the only thing keeping him tethered. You were trying to steady him. He knew that. Heard it in your voice. But he couldn’t afford to believe you were okay. Not yet. Not until the metal was out and you were still breathing.

“James.”

He looked up at that. Your eyes were glassy, lips pale. And yet, somehow, you smiled.

“You smile too much when you’re in pain,” he muttered, tweezers angled again.

“Maybe you just give me a lot to smile about.”

“Yeah?” His voice came quieter, almost bitter. “Like what?”

“Like this charming bedside manner,” you rasped. “And your tendency to monologue when 

you’re worried.”

“I’m not—”

“You are.”

The bullet shifted. Your body jerked, a hoarse cry caught in your throat.

“Shit—sorry,” he said instantly, his free hand anchoring you at the hip. His palm was warm. Steady. “You okay?”

“Peachy,” you breathed.

And then, silence.

Heavy. Close. Pressed between bodies that had seen too many battlefields, too many exits. The only sound was the storm outside, ticking against the roof like bones, and your ragged, uneven breath.

He bent closer, eyes narrowed on the wound.

“You need to hold still,” he said softly. “If I nick your femoral, it’s over.”

“I know.”

“I mean it. It’s deep. If I miss this—”

“You won’t.”

“I might.”

“You won’t.”

Another silence.

He couldn’t look at you. Not now. Not with the bullet half-extracted and your skin flushed with shock and fever and trust. Trust he hadn’t earned. Trust that felt too close to faith. 

And he was always bad at faith.

He adjusted the angle of the tweezers again, fingers tight with precision, breath shallow. If he moved just a millimeter too far to the left, he'd sever an artery. Too far right, and he'd leave metal behind. His mind kept listing the options like a file folder: all the ways he could fail you. All the ways he could lose you. 

“Keep talkin’ to me,” he said roughly, not looking at you. “You pass out, I’m gonna be pissed.”

“What, no pressure or anything,” you slurred, but he caught the strain in it. The thin layer of humor barely stretched over real pain.

The tweezers hit resistance. He felt it in his bones.

“You’re doing good,” he muttered. “You’re—fuck. Just hang on. Almost there.”

“Bucky.”

“I said keep talking.”

You let out a ragged breath. “You want a story or a monologue?”

“Dealer’s choice.”

Your voice wavered. “One time I saw Sam fall off a boat trying to impress a group of kids with his balance—”

“Not funny enough.”

“He hit his head.”

“That’s better.”

Silence ticked between your words. His grip steadied. He’d have to go in again. Just a little deeper.

You winced as the metal tip shifted.

“Fuck,” you whispered. “You know, I thought this would be the day we got pizza. Not playing Operation.”

“We’ll still get pizza,” he muttered.

“Oh yeah? You cooking?”

“I’m not cooking. I’m buying.”

You didn’t reply. And when he glanced up, your eyes were fluttering, breath shallower.

“Hey,” he barked. “C’mon. Eyes open.”

“M’tired.”

“I don’t give a shit.”

You laughed faintly again, breathe hitching, and it cracked something in him.

“Do me a favor?” You asked.

He hummed.

“If I lose consciousness…don’t let someone else try to patch me up.”

“Not a chance.”

“And if I die…”

“You’re not gonna die.”

“If I did. Hypothetically.”

His jaw ticked.

“If you did,” he said slowly, “then I’d kill whoever touched you. Then myself, probably.”

You let out a hoarse huff. “Jesus. That’s grim.”

“It’s honest.”

And it was.

Because he would. That was the part that terrified him. He would level cities for you. Not because it was right. Not because he’d made a vow. But because he couldn’t breathe without you anymore and he didn’t know when that had happened.

He leaned in. Flashlight shifting under his elbow. Blood soaked the makeshift cloth beneath you. The bullet was lodged against something slick and resistant. He knew the second he twisted, you’d scream.

He swallowed. Adjusted his grip.

“If this fucks up, it’s gonna hurt like hell,” he muttered. “So you need to stay with me, alright?”

You made a noise. Not quite a word. Not quite a yes.

He couldn’t stop now.

“Just keep talkin’, sweetheart. Anything. Tell me what kind of pizza we’re getting. Tell me a lie. Tell me where you see yourself in five years—”

“I’m bleeding out on a rotting cot in the woods, Buck,” you rasped. “Not interviewing for my dream job.”

“Doesn’t mean I don’t wanna hear it.”

You blinked slow. “You first, then.”

He didn’t think. Couldn’t. The panic had tunneled too deep. He started speaking before he meant to.

“Five years from now,” voice low, working the metal free inch by inch, “we’re retired. You hate the house I picked but only complain about the goddamn mugs. You make fun of me for how I fold laundry. You still steal all the blankets. And some poor bastard down the road asks what it’s like being married to the grumpiest man alive and you tell them I’ve always been soft on you.”

His fingers adjusted instinctively, and there it was, the clean edge of the casing caught between the tips. A perfect hold. He didn’t breathe. Didn’t blink. Just braced himself, every nerve wound tight as wire.

He cleared his throat. “Got it. On three.”

You didn’t speak.

“Three.”

He yanked.

A scream ripped from your throat, half-swallowed into his shoulder as you surged forward, clutching at his arm. Blood poured hot and fast, but the bullet clinked into the basin beside the cot.

He dropped the tweezers. Hands went to pressure. To cloth. To you.

“You’re okay,” he murmured. “You’re okay. Just keep breathing.”

You nodded faintly, head lolling back against the pillow.

He didn’t realize how close his face was to yours until the storm flash lit up the room—and he saw the way your eyes were fixed on him. 

“Did you mean that?” 

He blinked.

“What?”

Your lashes were heavy, lips pale, but there was no mistaking the way your gaze held him now. Steady. Anchored. Like you’d come back to yourself just enough to feel it. The weight of what he’d said, the shape it had taken, the shape it could still take if either of you were stupid enough to say it again.

“You said we’d be married,” you whispered.

His jaw ticked. “You were going into shock.”

“I wasn’t hearing things.”

“You were half-conscious.”

“And you still said it.”

He exhaled through his nose, sharp and shallow, dragging the blood-soaked cloth tighter around your thigh with more care than force. His hands didn’t match the way his mouth tensed.

“It was nothing. Just words.”

You didn’t believe that. He could see you didn’t. And that was worse. You weren’t teasing. You weren’t cornering him. You were just looking at him. Like maybe you’d known this was in him before he did. Like maybe you’d been waiting for it to slip out.

And god, he wanted to run.

Not because he didn’t mean it. But because he did. Too much. Too fast. In ways he couldn’t survive.

He pressed the cloth harder against your leg, then grabbed another strip of cloth from the field kit, wrapping it tight, methodical, just above the wound. Tourniquet style. Not too high and not too tight, just enough to slow the bleed. 

His hands moved on instinct, the muscle memory of field medicine kicking in even as his mind spun. He checked your pulse. Inner thigh. Faint, but steady. He exhaled. Forced himself not to shake.

“I wouldn’t mind,” you said softly, “being a Mrs. Barnes one day.”

He stilled.

For a second, you thought maybe he didn’t hear you right. Or maybe he’d frozen, like his mind shorted out and hadn’t rebooted yet.

His heart flipped. Fucked off entirely, probably.

You shifted slightly, voice smaller. “But only if you keep folding laundry the wrong way. And keep picking ugly mugs.”

His laugh cracked at the edges. Like old bark. Like something split down the middle.

“You hate those mugs.”

“Yeah,” you murmured. “But you love them. And I love you.”

His breath caught. Chest tight. No armor. No dodge. No shield left between the two of you now.

“You’re not allowed to say that,” he said hoarsely. “Not when you’re this fucked up.”

“I’m lucid enough,” you whispered. “Don’t make me take it back.”

He didn’t.

He looked at your hand, still curled near his arm. Blood beneath your nails. Pulse stuttering in your wrist.

“I don’t even have a ring,” he said before he could stop himself.

You laughed. Soft. Breathless. Real.

“That’s okay. You’ve got gauze.”

He swallowed.

“I’d want to do it right,” he said, more to the floor than to you.

You reached up, brushed your knuckles against his cheek. Just barely there.

“Right now,” you whispered, “you just pulled a bullet out of my leg and said you’d kill the world for me. I think that counts.”

He leaned into your touch. Just for a second. Just long enough to let the part of him that still believed in things like vows and porches and soft lives feel it.

“Mrs. Barnes,” he murmured, testing it, letting the sound break in his mouth. “You sure about that?”

Your lips barely moved. “Why don’t you ask me?”

His head lifted just slightly, eyes catching yours through the stormlight. And it hit him like a second shot to the chest—cleaner than the first, but just as deep.

Why don’t you ask me?

So simple. So fucking impossible.

Because it was too big. Because it wasn’t a joke anymore. Because the second he said the words, really said them, he couldn’t take them back. Not like all the other things he’d lost to time. Not like the names they’d stripped from him or the missions they’d made him forget. This one, he’d remember.

He looked down at your leg, at the blood still leaking through cloth. His hands had steadied. His breathing hadn’t.

Why don’t you ask me?

Because what if you said yes just because you were scared. Because you thought you were dying. Because he looked like a man who needed saving and you were always the type to offer your hands even when yours were already shaking.

He looked at you, chest tight, and thought you don’t know what you’re saying. Not really. Not now. Not like this.

But then your thumb moved. Just once. Across the hinge of his jaw. And the quiet in your eyes told him yes, you did know. You always had.

He dropped his gaze, voice rough. “It’s just…”

He let it sit there. Let it ache.

“It’s not supposed to be this way,” he murmured, eyes flicking to the bloodied gauze still pressed to your leg. “I was supposed to have flowers. A ring. I was supposed to have something better for you than a leaking roof and a med kit that expired in 2015.”

His throat worked. His jaw locked.

He should’ve said it right then. Should’ve just spoken.

But instead—

“I didn’t think I was allowed to want this,” he said, voice low, uneven. “Not after everything I did. Not after everything that was done to me.”

You didn’t interrupt.

He swallowed. Continued.

“I used to think if I ever got out, I’d live quiet. Alone. Keep to myself. Go somewhere cold. Make peace with the fact that I’d never get to be anyone real again.”

His hand twitched where it held yours.

“And then you showed up. Like some pain-in-the-ass fever dream with too many opinions and terrible taste in music. You just—you didn’t leave. You stayed. You made fun of my shirts. You memorized my nightmares. You never once flinched at what I used to be.”

He looked up, then. Just barely. Just enough to meet your gaze.

“You made me want things again.”

You blinked. He could see the tears gathering now, not falling yet, just clinging to the edges like dew. Shaking. Waiting.

He shifted, exhaled through his nose, then slowly reached toward the chain tucked under his shirt. The tags clicked quietly against one another as he drew them out—worn, scraped, edges dulled. He hesitated. Thumb running along the groove of his name.

Barnes, James B.

Property of the U.S. Army.

And below that werenumbers. Codes. The echo of orders that used to own him.

They were the only thing he’d ever been given back when he’d stopped being a person. They were the last thing that made him his.

He huffed a breath. Shaky. Wet around the edges.

“And I don’t know how long I’ve been in love with you. I think maybe it was the first time you told Sam to shut up without looking up from your lunch when you knew it was a bad day. Or maybe it was the time you stayed up with me for four hours just so I could get ten minutes of sleep without a nightmare.”

His mouth quirked, not a smile, just a break in the grief.

“I’d want to give you more than this. Not a safehouse or some half-muttered promise with your blood on my hands. I’d want to give you everything.”

He looked at you now. Really looked.

“But I can’t.”

Your breath hitched. “Bucky—”

“All I’ve got is this.”

His voice was rough, worn down to its bones. He lifted the tags where they rested, cold and inert against his chest, like they hadn't once hung heavy with every name he’d buried, every order he’d followed. He hadn’t taken them off in years. Not since Wakanda. Not since they rewired the storm in his head and called it healing. Not since he’d started remembering how to breathe without a trigger warning stitched into his ribs.

But now?

Now he held them in his palm like they were something fragile. Like they might mean more in yours.

“I know it’s not a ring,” he muttered. “I just... I didn’t want to wait.”

His heart was punching up into his throat, each beat louder than the last. He wasn’t sure when he’d started shaking. Just that it was everywhere—under his skin, in his voice, in the ghost of a life he’d never thought he’d want back until you gave it shape.

He didn’t look away. Couldn’t. You were still bleeding. Still half-broken in his arms. But you were there. And alive. And looking at him like maybe he wasn’t a ruin of a man. Like maybe, even now, there was something left in him worth holding onto.

So he asked.

“Will you marry me?”

It didn’t sound the way it had in his head. It wasn’t confident. Wasn’t clean. It cracked at the center, frayed at the edges, barely held together by the breath it rode in on. Wrecked and unguarded and true in the way only something broken and rebuilt could be.

But it was his. And it was real.

You didn’t answer at first. Just stared at him—wide-eyed, wrecked, like the question had hollowed you out from the inside. And maybe it had. Maybe this was a bad time. Maybe he was a goddamn idiot for doing it now, here, with blood on his hands and guilt in his lungs and everything still burning in the corners of the room.

But then you nodded. Once. Then again. And again.

“Yes.” A whisper. Broken glass and salt. You swallowed hard, voice splitting again as you said it louder. “Yes. Of course I will.”

The sob hit him sideways. He didn’t mean to. Didn’t plan it. It just caught in his throat and stayed there, and suddenly your hands were on his face, and he was leaning in, and—

He kissed you.

It was desperate. Salty. A little off-center. His lip caught on yours, and your nose bumped his, and neither of you could breathe right but it didn’t matter. It was messy and clumsy and wet with tears and still somehow perfect.

His hand cradled the back of your head like he thought you might slip away, like if he didn’t hold on, the whole world might tilt again. And yours fisted into his jacket like you’d forgotten how to let go.

You were both shaking.

You pulled apart only because you had to. Because the world hadn’t stopped spinning even if it felt like it had. And then, quiet again, he moved.

He brought the tags forward.

Didn’t rush.

Didn’t speak.

He waited until you nodded, slow, sure, already teary again, and only then did he lift the chain and slide it over your head. Careful. Reverent. Like it mattered.

The tags settled on your chest, clinking softly as they touched your skin. They were cold. Real. Still streaked faintly with red.

But they were yours now.

His breath caught again, sharper this time. Not because it hurt. But because it didn’t. Because maybe this was what hope felt like when it didn’t come with a body count.

He pressed his forehead to yours and closed his eyes.

Mine, he thought. Not the government’s. Not the ghost’s. Not the weapon’s.

Yours.

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[surprised-penguin]

Trial and Error (8)

Pairing: Azriel x Reader

Summary: You came to Velaris under duress five years ago—pregnant, alone, and in hiding from something, or someone, too dangerous to even speak aloud. When your daughter begged you to go to school years after settling down in the apartment above a worn-down apothecary, you obliged her. But things still didn't feel safe. Azriel was going to do everything in his power to give you that safety. At least, he would try. 

Word count: 3k

Warnings: Angst, references to an abusive family

a/n: Here is part 8!! yayy!! (and also sorry hehe oops)

Series Masterlist (all parts)

Main Masterlist ♡

~~

Within the echo of your hurried footsteps on the creaking apothecary floor, your labored breaths were plentiful and difficult to quell. You had sent Melanie upstairs the moment you unlocked the door, a feigned smile creating the guise that she needed to hurry and pack her things for her sleepover later. That’s why you had rushed away from the school. Not because you feared for… several things at the meeting of the General of the Night Court. 

Melanie believed you, too distracted by her excitement to remain fixated on her confusion.

That was good. 

She was fine. You were fine. 

Would you stay fine? 

Cassian was not dangerous, according to Azriel, but Cassian was loyal to the Night Court. Azriel had assured you that his family would never put you or your daughter in harm's way, but that had never been what made you feel safest around him. 

“It has been carved into my chest from the moment we locked eyes.”

“I have waited for my mate for centuries. I have dreamed of you and wanted you, and I don’t know if that scares you, but I hope it can be some consolation.”

“I want to be all in with the two of you. My life has… it’s changed. It’s different now, because of you.”

It was Azriel himself that made you feel safe—that made you trust. And even though you knew you could trust his words, you couldn’t trust Cassian. You didn’t know Cassian, and even worse, Azriel had told you one too many times how much of a loudmouth he was. He wouldn’t tell the High Lord about you in a malicious way, but it would end poorly. This would all end poorly. You should leave. You should—

The door to the apothecary swung open with a force, the knob smacking into the wall on its way. You turned in anticipatory fear, hand over your heart, but much of that melted away when it was Azriel alone walking through the entryway. 

He seemed to take stock of you first, looking for something by your feet that he did not find before moving to your hands, your shoulders, and behind you on the counter. When he completed his search, his shoulders dropped an inch, wings perking up from their drooped position. 

“Melanie?” he asked, feet rooted to the floor across the room.

You brought your hand up to clasp your forearm, the position protecting you from nothing. “She’s upstairs packing.” 

Azriel’s expression fractured. “Packing?” he croaked. The single word was almost unintelligible; it cracked and got lost in the deep timbre of his voice. 

“For her sleepover. She’s still going to—” 

You were interrupted by his boots closing the space between you. You felt him before you could catch up with his movements, his shadows slurring against your skin and into your hair. His forehead pressed against yours next, but when you went to search his expression, his eyes squeezed shut.

“I thought—” he began, brows furrowing and creating yet another crease on his face. “I thought I would find you leaving. I thought I scared you away this time.” 

Your chest cracked open, heart pounding against your ribs until it hurt. You wouldn’t tell him that your thoughts had gone to that. You wouldn’t share that just moments before he burst in, your fingers had twitched as you thought about the one trunk you kept in the back of the closet upstairs. 

You were used to running. 

Running felt safe. 

Azriel was the only thing that felt safer. 

Your tongue darted out to wet your drying lips as you replied, “No. No, Azriel. Mel is just packing for the night.” 

You had decided that the second he walked—or, rather, stormed—into the apothecary. You had decided that without the thought even materializing in your mind. 

Azriel’s hands, which had made a home along the back of your neck, slid up to cup your jaw. His eyes fluttered open, eager to meet yours, and a bittersweet smile lit them up in a devastating way. “Okay,” he seemed to say to himself. “Okay, good. I’m—I’m sorry. About Cassian. He’s agreed to keep his meeting you quiet.” 

There was something he was leaving out. The words were there, lingering in the dark parts of your mind. So you spoke them. 

“For now,” you nodded, clasping his wrists. “Quiet for now, you mean.” 

“No, he’s agreed—” 

“Az, we both know that there are too many moving parts here. Cassian may have agreed or promised or have good intentions, but there are also two five-year-olds in the mix and, eventually, you will have to explain why you keep disappearing from family events. Like Cassian said—” 

“I don’t care what Cassian said.” 

“I know,” you whispered. He was scared. You could tell by the way his hands trembled against you. You weren’t sure what else scared the Shadowsinger, but you hated that you were part of something he feared. 

“I have waited for my mate for centuries. I have dreamed of you and wanted you.” 

“I can—”

“Aziel, stop,” you softly commanded. “It’s inevitable.” 

“Tell me who you’re hiding from,” he practically begged. His wings stretched forward like shadows at your sides, protecting you from nothing. “I can fix it. I—You and Mel would be safer if—” 

You pressed forward on your toes, and you kissed him. 

He paused for a moment, his mouth stiff in shock against yours, but it only took a single breath for him to snap back to the present. Weeks of built-up tension and pressing truths and want poured into the way his lips reverently moved against yours. His touch, still a slight tremor lingering in the joints, moved up until his fingers found the base of your hair. He stepped forward twice, and your back met the front counter. 

He only kissed you harder as your right hand left his wrist to steady yourself on the counter. He kissed you harder and he brought his arm around your back to take the responsibility on himself. His hand in your hair bunched at the roots but didn’t tug or pull—it was like he couldn’t help it, like the want to bring you closer resulted in stiff limbs and clenching fists. 

You could have kissed him forever. He was keeping you safe here, his wings closing in even more if the light meeting your closed lids told you anything. His shadows brushed your skin, keeping you distracted enough for him to be in control of the kiss, but that wasn’t true; you knew in the small moments of hesitance that he would let you do anything—control anything. 

When you broke apart, chest heaving and lashes fluttering, Azriel trailed a few lingering kisses to your cheeks and at your temple. Those were familiar places, territories he’d allowed himself before you’d given such express permission as you had right now. His own breath was somewhat labored, but he wouldn’t stop touching you, wouldn’t fully pull away. 

“When I said it was inevitable—” you breathed out, bringing both hands to rest on the plane of his chest. “—I meant it was inevitable that I would have to meet your family. That they would know of me and… and Mel. I didn’t mean that I was going to leave.” 

Azriel’s nose nudged against your cheek. A beat of silence followed your words. He pulled back a few inches, tucked your hair behind your ears, and let his eyes trace each of your features. 

“You don’t have to. I don’t want you to feel forced just because of Cassian. I could make an excuse.”

He was giving you an out. You weren’t sure how he would possibly swing it, but Azriel was offering you more hiding. More secrets. The ability to have him without being tied down by his family and the role in the court that you so obviously feared. So many implications came with his offer. So many sacrifices he would have to make. 

The scales were tipping. Things were changing. Maybe they could know you and be none the wiser. Maybe… 

“I—I want to, Azriel. Melanie doesn’t deserve to be living in fear. Even if she doesn’t understand it right now.” 

Azriel looked down towards your mouth, expression pained in a lingering wince. He continued brushing your hair back—a nervous habit, maybe, one flourishing since you’d allowed him to really touch you. 

“And maybe I could explain things to you tonight. Fully. That way you can know what you might be bringing to your family before—”

“You are my family,” Azriel breathed out, the words not even in the air for a second before his mouth was on yours again. 

This kiss was slower, more purposeful, holding more meaning. 

It was cut short by stomps down the stairs. Azriel tore himself away from you, brushing his thumb over your bottom lip once before pulling his wing back to reveal Melanie with an overfilled bag dragging behind her. Stuffed animals and at least four pairs of socks peeked out from the top, and you were quickly reminded why you never let her pack her anything. 

“What the heck are you guys doing?” Melanie questioned, frustration her primary emotion. “No one even came to help me! Mr. Azriel, only one of your shadows was hanging out with me, and I didn’t get my after-school snack.” 

Azriel took half a step back from you and schooled his face into a more managed calm, sincerity evident in his palm over his chest. “I apologize, Melanie. How rude of me. How about I come up and make your snack while you and your mom sort out the bag for your sleepover?” 

“I already packed it,” she drawled as if Azriel were blind, shaking the strap in her hand. “But I guess I would like a snack.” 

You pressed your fingers over your mouth to stop the laugh from tumbling out. Azriel shot you a playful side eye and squeezed your hip before meeting Melanie at the base of the stairs. 

“Oh, I can see that. But you can barely close it, Mel.” He gently took the bag from her, hauling it over his shoulder before lifting her to rest on his hip. “Anyways. Cheese and apples or the crackers I brought from my friend Sevenda?”

~~

Nervous energy permeated the room, the majority of it coming from you in droves. Some trickled from Azriel, but he hid it well within his constant movements. 

Melanie was next door. You had eaten dinner together. You were cleaning the kitchen now, a mundane task that could have been done later, but you were clearly using it as a way to bide time. Azriel was allowing it—he would always let you do this at your own pace. 

The more you dwelt on your previous plan of only telling Azriel who Melanie’s father was, the more it made no sense to you. If you only told him that piece of the story, he would still fail to understand why you’d run. He would know the name and position of one man and nothing else. 

It had to be everything. 

You chewed on the inside of your lip as the cleaning came to an end. Azriel made a show of hanging up the small towel by the basin and rubbing his hands together in finality. More time he was allowing. 

“The fire?” you asked, motioning to the sitting room. Azriel offered you a small smile and pressed his hand to your back, guiding you to the loveseat there. 

Your stomach was turning. He made no motion to urge you, mirroring you as you sat turned to face your mate. 

Your mate and you still hadn’t felt the bond. 

You picked at your fingers as they lay in your lap. 

It didn’t take Azriel long to cover your hands with one of his. “You don’t have to do this. I don’t need to know if you aren’t ready.” 

“I am ready,” you emphasized. “I trust you. Completely.” 

Azriel leaned down. “Then what’s wrong?” 

He would judge you. He would hate where you came from. He would turn you away. 

Before, it had been about safety—about protecting Melanie. If anyone knew who you were or who she was, they would turn you in. The reward for doing so was hefty and money was always a driving force. While Azriel may not have been swayed by money, a bargaining chip between rival courts was also nothing to bat an eye at. 

But he wouldn’t do that. You were sure of it. 

Now your fear lay in his reaction to the truth. 

“Nothing,” you assured, your smile tight and wrong as you looked up at him. “Just nervous, I guess.” 

He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to your temple, but he did not remain there. Azriel gave you space, not touching you, but leaving his hands within reach if you needed them. You would tell this story alone.

“I won’t interrupt,” he said, voice carrying a regalness you hadn’t heard from him. 

A deep breath. “I’m from Autumn, but you knew that. Melanie’s father is also from Autumn. He doesn’t know about her, though I think he might suspect since I ran with no contact after we…” You looked down at your hands. “We weren’t together. I’ve never been in a relationship. Never been allowed to.” You tilted your head to the side. “I grew up as a court lady. Trained to be one, anyway. My marriage was not planned at birth, but it was very carefully calculated by Beron.” 

You felt Azriel shift on the loveseat, the cushions jostling you. When you looked up, his brows had lowered in concentration or confusion, you couldn’t tell. True to his word, he did not interrupt. 

“When it was finally decided, I knew I couldn’t go through with it. The man they chose was a high-ranking noble from Spring, and he was—well, he was vile. About 3 centuries older than me, with a propensity for violence against women and multiple deceased wives. If you can connect the dots there,” you spit out. “But it’s not as if Beron or my… my father cared about that. They only wanted what would come from the union. Spring and Autumn finally chained together when High Lord Tamlin was at his weakest. They tried to force the union with Tamlin himself, but he’s been too much of a wreck to agree to much of anything.” 

Azriel let out a breath as if he had gone to speak and thought better of it. You looked up at him with a searching gaze, but he only shook his head slightly and motioned for you to continue.

“Sorry,” you mumbled. “I’m telling this out of order. It’s difficult to gather my thoughts, but all of that is to say I had an arranged marriage I couldn’t go through with. My… brothers were all for it as well. There was going to be an announcement across Pyrithian and Beron was practically foaming at the mouth to have it all finalized. So, I ruined it. 

“Gods, I had no idea what I was doing, just that there was only one way that awful man wouldn’t want me anymore. He had made it quite clear that my virtue was of utmost importance to him, which was exactly why I was hidden away for most of my life. That, and they were all waiting until I was most useful.” 

You were starting to get angry now, and that inevitably led to you getting choked up. Your throat constricted and you twisted your mouth to the side when your nose started to burn. It was infuriating that after all this time, this still affected you this way. You bit your cheek and took a deep breath. It helped a little. 

“Do you want a break?” Azriel softly asked, rubbing his thumb along your cheekbone. 

“No.” You let out a wet laugh and palmed at the wetness under your eye. “I’ve only been talking for a few minutes. I just get angry, I’m fine.” 

You paused after that, collecting yourself, but also getting lost in your head. Memories swirled together and assaulted your thoughts, reminding you of how terrible everything was and could be if this went poorly. Anxiety then came. And regret and confusion and hurt. 

You were too far off track to get back on the rails, so Azriel broke his own rule. “Why would you be useful, angel?” he asked, tracing his hand down to hold yours in your lap. 

“Oh,” you sighed, “Because I’m Beron’s daughter.”

[surprised-penguin]

who did this to you? 𐙚 b.b

pairing: new avenger!bucky barnes x abused!reader

warnings: mentions of abuse, domestic violence (not committed by bucky!) mentions of trauma, themes of fear and recovery (please read the warnings)

summary: bucky notices the bruises before you ever say a word. as the truth unravels, he steps in—not just to protect you, he makes sure you're never hurt again.

word count: 5.3k (i went a little overboard)

author's note: i have been wanting to write this for quite a while, and i'm glad i did. enjoy my loves, your feedback and thoughts are always appreciated!

It started small.

A shift in the way you smiled—no longer bright and easy, but tight-lipped and fleeting, like you were trying to convince yourself it still came naturally. A hesitation in your laughter, once the sweetest sound in the Watchtower’s echoing corridors, now muffled, forced, or absent altogether.

The others chalked it up to stress. Missions have been tense lately. The team didn’t exactly operate in peacetime.

But Bucky…Bucky saw more.

You were the team’s secretary. The one constant in a whirlwind of chaos. Efficient, organised, always one step ahead of everyone else. You had memorised every operative’s dietary needs before the kitchen staff had.

You knew how to read between lines of mission reports, handle fallouts with the media, and you were the only person Yelena trusted to refill her coffee exactly right. Your desk, tucked near the central hub, was where people came to decompress, vent, even smile.

You made things work. You made the team work.

You were the light that steadied them all.

But lately… that light had gone out.

Bucky noticed first. He always did. Watching people wasn’t just habit—it was an instinct. A soldier’s reflex, sharpened by a lifetime of reading danger in the twitch of a hand or the flicker of a glance.

He noticed how your shoulders curled inward like you were trying to disappear into yourself, or how your arms folded across your stomach, elbows tucked in tight as if they were armour.

You flinched when anyone passed too closely behind your chair. You stopped walking through the halls with your usual spring—started hugging the walls, choosing longer routes that avoided high-traffic zones.

When Yelena clapped a hand to your shoulder in greeting, a simple, affectionate gesture—your entire body jolted like you’d been hit. Not just startled. 

Terrified.

The room had gone quiet at that moment. Even Alexei paused, a half-eaten sandwich frozen in his hand. Ava had gone still beside the mission board, her eyes narrowing slightly.

You recovered too quickly. Smiled too fast. “Sorry, nerves,” you’d said, brushing it off, grabbing the nearest file and practically sprinting from the room. But Bucky had already seen too much.

And then the bruises.

They started subtly. Shadows beneath the cuff of your blouse that could be passed off as bad sleep, maybe a knock against a desk corner.

You were clumsy sometimes—everyone knew that. A walking hurricane in heels, Yelena liked to tease. You once tripped over your own shoelaces in front of Val, and no one had let you live it down for a week.

But these weren’t accidents.

There was a splotch of purple just visible beneath your collarbone, dark and irregular. Faint, yellowing fingerprints on your wrist that looked like they were trying to fade, but kept stubbornly coming back.

A raw, angry mark that peeked out from your hairline one morning, like someone had gripped your jaw too hard—someone tall enough, big enough to loom over you, strong enough to leave a handprint in their wake.

Bucky saw that one when you bent down to pick up a report you’d dropped. Your blouse’s collar dipped slightly, just enough to reveal a line of bruising that trailed from your neck toward your shoulder like a hand had wrapped around you and squeezed.

His hand clenched into a fist on instinct.

He didn’t say anything right away. He knew better. But he watched. Quietly, intensely. Not just because he cared, but because something inside him roared with the need to protect you, something deep and territorial and dangerous.

The same thing that made him stare holes into the security cameras when you left the compound for lunch, or that made him scan every incoming message with a new, sharpened edge.

He began checking your schedule.

Not overtly. Just… looking. Noting when you left the compound. Who signed you out. When you came back, and what your face looked like afterward.

You used to return from errands with little smiles and tiny stories—“The deli guy gave me an extra pickle today,” or “Some lady on the street said I had pretty earrings.” But lately, you came back quieter. Shoulders tighter. And you always avoided his eyes.

One afternoon, he asked you if you were okay.

You smiled—again, that damn smile. So polite, so practiced. 

“Yeah. Just tired. Thanks for asking Bucky”

But being tired didn’t leave marks on someone’s throat.

And when you walked away, Bucky watched you disappear down the hallway and felt something cold curl in his gut. Something he hadn’t felt in years.

He knew pain. He’d lived it. Breathed it. Worn it like a second skin. But there was something worse about watching you endure it.

Something far more dangerous.

And whoever had hurt you?

They’d just reminded him exactly what he was willing to protect.

Still, Bucky didn’t act rashly. He waited. Watched. Gathered more than just bruises and broken glances. He needed to be sure—of what you were dealing with, of who was doing this to you, of how to approach without sending you further into yourself.

The wrong move could make you shut down entirely. He knew trauma didn’t unravel with questions—it needed patience. 

Stillness. Safety.

So he waited until the Watchtower cleared out for the evening.

The others had trickled out one by one—Yelena dragging Alexei into a sparring match he didn’t ask for, Ava and John disappearing into the training room, Val locked in her office for a late-night debrief.

The corridors fell quiet, fluorescent lights humming low overhead. Bucky lingered near your office, watching the shadows stretch along the floor, the door slightly ajar with the warm glow of your desk lamp spilling out into the hall.

You were still there. Of course you were.

You always stay late now.

“Hey,” he said softly, stepping into your office once the others had gone.

You didn’t jump—but he saw the way your shoulders stiffened. How your fingers paused on the keyboard, curling slightly as if preparing for something.

Your eyes stayed locked on the screen for a moment too long, and when you did glance up, they were wide and glassy with that familiar, haunted look.

The one he recognised too well.

The one he used to see in the mirror.

“Can I talk to you?” His voice stayed quiet, gentle—like coaxing a wounded animal out of hiding. He stood just inside the door, hands in the pockets of his black jacket, posture non-threatening but steady. He wouldn’t crowd you. He wouldn’t touch you. But the one thing he wouldn’t do is walk away.

You swallowed, throat tight, and gave a small nod.

“Sure.”

But the word was fragile. Like it had been stitched together with effort.

He crossed the room slowly, pulling the door shut behind him—not all the way, just enough to give the illusion of privacy without making you feel trapped. Then he moved to the chair across from your desk and sat, leaving space between you. Letting you decide what came next.

You glanced back at your screen, like you were searching for a reason to stay distracted. Like if you just kept typing, none of this would be real. But your hands didn’t move.

He waited a beat, then spoke, low and careful. “I’ve been noticing some things.”

You didn’t answer.

“I don’t mean to scare you,” he added. “I just… I’m worried about you doll”

Your shoulders tensed again. That flinch. That tell. He saw it before you could mask it. And when your arms folded across your stomach, hiding your bruised wrist, he knew.

You were protecting yourself from more than just a conversation.

“I know something’s going on,” he said. “And I don’t need the details if you’re not ready. But I need you to know that… you don’t have to do this alone.”

Still, silence. But your eyes were starting to shine, tears gathering at the corners as you stared down at your keyboard like it held all the answers.

“You’ve been flinching at every touch,” he went on, his voice nearly breaking. “You don’t smile anymore. You avoid everyone like they’re gonna hurt you. And those bruises—”

“Don’t.” Your voice cracked as the word came out, sharp and desperate.

Bucky’s breath caught. But he didn’t move. “Okay,” he said immediately. “I won’t push. I swear.”

The silence that followed was thick—trembling between confession and collapse.

And then your lip quivered. You shook your head once. “I didn’t mean for anyone to notice,” you whispered, voice so soft it almost didn’t reach him. 

“I thought I could handle it.”

Bucky leaned forward, slowly, carefully. “You shouldn’t have to handle it.”

Your chin trembled. “I didn’t want to be a burden. Everyone’s got their shit. Missions. Scars. Who wants to hear about the secretary who made the mistake of falling for the wrong guy?”

His jaw clenched so tightly he thought he might crack a molar. “Who did this to you?”

You didn’t answer.

But your silence was answer enough.

His tone darkened, low and steady like steel cooled in ice. “Tell me who put their hands on you.”

You shook your head again, fast this time, panic blooming across your features. “Bucky—don’t. Please. It’ll just make it worse.”

He stood up, jaw rigid, fists clenched at his sides. The chair scraped quietly behind him, but he didn’t move toward you. Didn’t crowd. Just stood there, vibrating with barely contained rage.

But it wasn’t at you.

“I would never let anyone hurt you again,” he said, his voice rough now, fighting to stay gentle. “But you have to let me help.”

Your eyes met his cerulean irises then. And something inside you cracked.

Because he didn’t look at you with pity.

He looked at you like you mattered. Like your pain mattered. Like he saw you—really saw you—and it didn’t make him walk away.

And something about the way he said it, like a lifeline broke you.

You told him everything.

From the first time it happened, when your ex shoved you against a wall during an argument over a text message. To the second time, when he slapped you so hard your lip split open. The cycle became normal. You had started covering up bruises like second nature, lying to your friends, flinching at shadows.

Two nights ago, he’d come home drunk, angry. He dragged you by your hair into the bedroom, wrapped a hand too tight around your neck, and left purple thumbprints beneath your jaw.

You had to call in sick the next day. Told Val it was the flu. She didn’t question it.

Tears streamed silently down your cheeks, but Bucky never looked away. His face was tight with rage, his jaw clenched so hard you thought he might break a tooth. His metal hand had curled into a fist again, knuckles whitening where they met synthetic plating.

“I'm gonna kill him,” he said, barely above a whisper.

“No,” you croaked, your hand reaching to grip his wrist. “Just… just get me out of there.”

“You don’t have to ask,” he said.

He helped you out of the office, holding your arm with such care, like you might shatter if he used too much strength. He led you to his motorcycle, the matte black vehicle parked beside the Watchtower’s bay doors.

You hesitated. “I don’t—”

He handed you his helmet and said, “You’re safe with me.”

And you believed him.

The wind was sharp against your face, your arms clinging around his waist as he drove through the dusky streets toward your apartment. Your heart thundered the entire ride—not from fear of falling, but from the feeling of escape.

At your place, you let Bucky in and stood frozen in the doorway. Your keys shaking in your hands.

“Tell me what you need,” he said.

You walked numbly toward your bedroom and began pulling a small duffel from the closet. Bucky followed, surveying the apartment with quiet calculation.

The broken picture frame on the floor. The hole punched in the hallway drywall. The cracked phone screen beside your bed.

You gathered clothes, toiletries, your journal, a worn copy of Pride and Prejudice. Bucky packed in silence, folding your shirts neatly, rolling your socks with care.

When you turned to get your toothbrush, your hands were trembling too badly to hold it.

“I can’t…” you whispered, finally falling apart.

Bucky was there in an instant, arms wrapping around you, pulling you into the solid warmth of his chest.

“It’s over,” he murmured into your hair. “You’re not going back there. I won’t let you.”

You sobbed into his shoulder, your body wracked with grief and relief all at once. For the first time in years, you believed it. 

You were leaving.

Bucky had decided to take you to his apartment, given how late it was—and how you didn’t want the rest of the team knowing about any of this. You couldn’t bear their questions or the way they might look at you differently if they knew the truth. What you needed right now wasn’t a spotlight—it was safety.

And Bucky, somehow, had understood that without you ever having to say a word.

Tucked away in a quiet corner of Brooklyn, it felt like a sanctuary: minimalistic but lived-in, with dark wood furniture, shelves lined with old books, framed black-and-white photos, a few of them being Steve's, and soft lighting that bathed the space in warm, golden hues.

There were blankets folded over the back of his couch, plants that looked surprisingly healthy, and a record player in the corner with a small stack of vinyls beside it. The scent of sandalwood lingered in the air—warm, masculine, grounding.

“Bathroom’s through there,” Bucky said gently, “and the guest room’s yours for as long as you want it.”

You nodded, wiping your face with your sleeve.

He handed you a folded pile of clothes—one of his blue Henley shirts and a pair of grey boxer briefs that would sit loosely on your frame.

“You can sleep in these,” he said. “I’ll set up fresh towels, and if you need anything—anything—you come get me.”

You changed in the bathroom, staring at yourself in the mirror. The bruises on your neck looked even more vibrant in the soft light. You touched them lightly, then pulled Bucky’s shirt over your head. It was warm from his hands, and it smelled like cedar and something unmistakably him.

You sank into the bed that night with clean sheets, the window cracked open just enough to let in the cool night air. Bucky’s home felt quiet in a way yours never had. Not silent from tension—but peaceful. The kind of quiet that comes with safety.

You curled into the soft mattress, wrapped in a blanket that smelled faintly like him, and for the first time in two years, you slept without fear.

Safe. Protected. Free.

You woke up with a gasp.

The remnants of the nightmare clung to you like cobwebs—suffocating and sticky. Flashes of fists in the dark. That voice slithering in your ear, venomous and cruel. The oppressive weight on your chest, the cold dread of being trapped with no way out.

Your heart thundered, breath tearing in and out of your lungs like you were still running, still being chased. Your skin was damp with sweat, your hands shaking uncontrollably as you pushed the covers away and bolted upright in bed.

The room swam around you—familiar and unfamiliar all at once. Dimly lit by the glow of a streetlamp outside, walls painted in shadow. The silence rang too loud.

You couldn’t stay.

Before you even registered the movement, your bare feet found the cool hardwood floor, each step down the hallway echoing softly. You didn’t knock. You didn’t need to.

Bucky’s door was cracked open.

He was awake. Sitting at the edge of his bed, elbows braced on his knees, his metal hand cradling the back of his neck like it ached. He looked like he hadn’t slept at all. The soft light from the city cast silver lines across the sharp angles of his face, tracing the tension in his jaw, the furrow of his brow.

Your voice trembled, more breath than sound. “I had a nightmare.”

His head snapped up immediately, eyes locking onto yours. The shift was instant—soldier to protector. In two strides, he was in front of you.

“Hey,” he murmured, voice low and soothing. “You’re okay. I’m right here.”

His hands came to your shoulders—not forceful, just present. Anchoring. His touch was warm and steady, and it sent a tremor through you that wasn’t from fear this time, but release. Like your body finally allowed itself to feel how shaken you were.

Your lip quivered. “Can I stay?”

He nodded before you even finished the question. “Always.”

You didn’t hesitate. The bed welcomed you like a long-lost memory—soft sheets, a comforting dip in the mattress, the faint scent of his soap clinging to the pillow.

You curled into the center of it, small and tentative, feeling like a ghost of yourself. Like you might disappear if the shadows swallowed you up again.

Bucky moved with care. He didn’t rush. He pulled the blanket up over your trembling frame, tucking it gently around your shoulders. Then he slid into the bed behind you, close but not suffocating, the heat of him already beginning to thaw something frozen inside you.

His arm hovered behind you for a moment. He didn’t assume. Didn’t take. Just waited.

When you shifted ever so slightly—just enough for your back to press lightly against his chest, his arm came around you. A quiet, protective barrier. His metal fingers splayed carefully against your stomach, grounding you in the here and now.

You exhaled a shaky breath, your eyes slipping shut for the first time all night. The tension in your body began to unwind, thread by thread. His scent, clean and faintly earthy filled your nose, mingling with the sound of his heartbeat against your spine and the steady rhythm of his breathing.

And then he whispered it, his voice barely brushing your ear, soft and sure and steady.

“I’ve got you.”

The words sank into your skin like warmth, like truth. No promises he couldn’t keep. No hollow reassurances. Just a vow, solid and unspoken, in the way he held you like you were something worth protecting.

You blinked slowly, a tear slipping free and soaking silently into the pillow.

For the first time in as long as you could remember, you believed it.

You were safe.

Not because the nightmares were gone—but because Bucky was here when they came.

The morning sun filtered gently through the blinds of Bucky’s apartment, casting warm strips of gold across the hardwood floors.

For the first time in over a year, you hadn’t woken up with your heart pounding in fear. No yelling, no slamming doors. Just the subtle hum of city life beyond the window, and the distant sizzle of bacon in a skillet.

You padded out of the bedroom in Bucky’s oversized shirt and boxers, clutching the sleeves around your palms. The faint scent of him lingered in the fabric—cedar-wood, leather, and something warm, like late summer.

Bucky stood by the stove, his hair damp from a quick shower, grey T-shirt clinging to the breadth of his shoulders. When he heard your footsteps, he turned slightly and gave you a soft smile.

“Hey, sweetheart” he murmured, voice low and scratchy from sleep. “Hope you’re hungry.”

You nodded, grateful, eyes stinging. It was in the little things—the way he slid a cup of coffee toward you without asking how you liked it, because he already remembered. 

Later that day, the team found out.

Yelena had noticed first. She cornered Bucky in the Watchtower’s armoury after morning briefings. “What’s going on with (y/n)?” she demanded, arms crossed, eyes sharp. “She barely said five words. She jumped when Alexei dropped his water bottle. I know bruises when I see them.”

Bucky hesitated, jaw tightening. But when Yelena added, softer this time, “I care about her too,” he gave her the truth.

Word spread in a ripple. Quiet, but powerful. By the end of the day, the team was different.

It started with your phone. You were sorting through mission reports in the comms room when it buzzed beside you, and you flinched hard enough to drop a pen because without looking, you already knew who it was. Him.

John, usually, cocky caught the look on your face and immediately picked the phone up himself.

“Give me your passcode,” he said steadily.

You hesitated. “Why?”

“Because if this asshole’s still texting you, I’m blocking him. And if he’s tracking you, we’re disabling it right now.”

You blinked at him, lip trembling. John just held your gaze, patient. Protective.

“Okay,” you whispered.

Ten minutes later, your ex was blocked. His number, email—gone. John handed the phone back like it weighed nothing, but you knew it had been a thousand-pound chain.

Bob, quiet and sweet, began programming something on the side—a digital firewall. One you didn't even ask for, but he gave it to you anyway.

“If he tries anything online, you’ll be notified. But he won’t get through. I made sure of it.”

You could’ve cried.

Ava began walking with you more often. No words. Just always there—on your way to the labs, when you stopped by the kitchen, even when you headed out to grab lunch across the street.

“I know what it’s like,” she said one day while the two of you sat on a park bench eating sandwiches. “To feel hunted.”

You looked at her, stunned. Her face was unreadable, but her hand brushed yours for a moment, just enough to remind you that you weren’t alone.

Then there was Alexei. Loud, boisterous, intimidating. He walked into the common area one afternoon with three grocery bags in hand and plopped them dramatically onto the table.

“You like those little orange cracker fish?” he boomed showing you the goldfish crackers he had gotten. “I bought five bags. And some juice. Juice is important.”

You stared at him, stunned.

“I don’t—”

“Shush little one,” he said, winking. “You part of us. Thunderbolts always feed Thunderbolts.”

Your laugh broke out before you could stop it. It felt foreign. Strange. 

But real.

Alexei beamed like he’d won a medal.

Slowly but surely, the team wrapped you in something new. Something stronger than fear. Stronger than pain.

When you needed to go to the mall for more clothes—things that weren’t tainted with memories—Yelena and Bob went with you.

Yelena stuck close to your side, pretending to be indifferent but always scanning the crowd. Bob carried all the bags with a goofy grin. He even helped pick out a new hoodie. It was soft and warm and maroon.

“You should feel safe in your skin,” Yelena said simply, handing you a matching beanie. “Even if you’re still growing into it.”

Back at the Watchtower, life began to feel... lighter.

You started laughing again. At Alexei's terrible jokes, at Yelena’s savage sarcasm, at Bob’s quiet mutterings when tech didn’t work. Even John, in all his arrogance, could make you smile.

There was a movie night every Friday now and Bucky always sat next to you, sometimes with a pillow between you both to give space, other times with his shoulder a solid warmth at your side. You’d found yourself leaning into him more. Not because you had to. But because it felt right.

And he never pushed. Never demanded. Just let you exist next to him. Sometimes he’d hand you a blanket without saying a word. Sometimes he’d offer half his popcorn. Sometimes, his fingers would brush yours, warm and careful, and linger just a second longer than necessary.

You slept more. Ate more. Laughed more.

One day, Ava caught you humming in the hallway, arms full of supplies. She stopped in her tracks.

“What?” you asked.

“You’re glowing,” she said quietly.

You blinked. “I—I am?”

She gave a rare, small smile. “Like someone who remembers what sunlight feels like.”

One night, after Yelena dropped you off, you returned to the apartment Bucky always insisted was open to you. You let yourself in with the spare key. It was late, and he was half-asleep on the couch with a book in his lap. He stirred when you closed the door.

“You okay sweetheart?” he mumbled.

“Yeah,” you said.

He nodded, eyes drifting shut again.

You sat beside him, curling your legs up, and rested your head against his shoulder.

He didn’t move. Didn’t ask. Just reached for the blanket draped over the armrest and pulled it gently over you both.

It was the safest you’d ever felt.

It had started out as a good night.

One of those rare moments where the city lights felt warm rather than harsh, where laughter didn’t feel like something you had to fake.

The team had dragged you out—gently, persistently, lovingly.

“C’mon,” Yelena had said, slinging her arm over your shoulder. “Burgers, milkshakes, greasy fries. We deserve it. You deserve it.”

You hesitated. It had been a while since you went to any public diner. Too many memories. Too many shadows. Too much risk of seeing him.

But tonight? You nodded. Just once. Just enough.

The diner was loud with neon buzz and the clatter of plates, the kind of classic joint with red booths and checkered floors. Bucky slid into the booth beside you while Yelena and John sat across. Bob and Ava took the seats at the edge, Alexei immediately requesting the biggest burger they had.

Jokes flew easily. John was ranting about ketchup crimes. Yelena argued that mayonnaise was the superior condiment. Bob kept trying to order fries but the waitress only seemed to hear Alexei’s booming voice.

You were laughing. Honest, soft laughter that made your chest ache.

Then the door jingled. And just like that, the warmth bled from the room. Laughter dimmed. The sizzle of the grill and clatter of dishes became distant, muffled by the sudden roar of blood in your ears.

Bucky stilled beside you.

Your ex stood in the doorway, flanked by two men you didn’t recognise—thick-necked, sneering types with clenched fists and hooded eyes. But it was him you saw. Him, with that awful smirk, like nothing had changed.

Like he still owned the air you breathed.

Bucky noticed the way your body tensed, your fingers gripping the edge of the table. “Hey—”

Your ex’s eyes landed on you, and he stepped forward, raising his voice.

“Well, look who it is. Didn’t think you’d crawl this far downtown. Guess word spreads when you’re spreading your legs for every man in New York now, huh?”

The sound of the booth creaking was the only warning before Bucky stood.

Yelena’s fork clattered onto her plate.

John was on his feet in seconds, positioning himself directly between you and your ex.

“Take that back,” Bucky growled.

Your ex only sneered, moving closer. “What, you gonna fight me in front of your new playgroup? Cute. Didn’t think the Winter Soldier was into charity cases.”

You flinched.

Bucky didn’t.

“I know what you did to her,” Bucky said, low and lethal.

Your ex chuckled, but there was unease in his posture now. “What? You mean the bruises? Bitch liked it rough. Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed.”

Yelena stood up behind John, her face carved in steel. “The next time you touch her,” she said flatly, “will be the last time you have hands.”

Your ex stepped forward as if to challenge, but John didn’t move an inch. “Try it,” he warned. “Give me a reason.”

You saw it—the twitch in your ex’s jaw, the way he coiled his fist. He swung at Bucky.

But Bucky didn’t just dodge. He caught the punch mid-air.

With his metal hand.

The crunch of bone was audible and a gasp ran through the diner.

Before anyone could react, Bucky gripped your ex by the front of his jacket, lifting him clean off the floor. The metal arm locked around his throat with frightening precision. The air stilled. Your ex's feet dangled.

“If you ever look at her again,” Bucky snarled, voice sharp and shaking with rage, “if you so much as breathe in her goddamn direction—I will rip your spine out and hang it from the Watchtower gates.”

His voice didn’t rise. It didn’t need to. It was full of restrained fury. Of violence barely held back. His eyes had darkened, steel-gray and burning.

Your ex gurgled, his hands clawing at Bucky’s grip.

“Do you understand me?”

A choked nod.

Bucky dropped him like trash.

Alexei stepped forward then, looming over the two henchmen. “You want to try luck?” he asked them casually. “I haven’t punch anything in weeks.”

The men looked at each other, then down at your ex, now coughing on the floor. They backed away.

“You’re not worth it,” one muttered, and the other practically dragged your ex toward the exit.

Your heart was thundering. Your breath short.

Bob slipped into the seat beside you. Ava stood near the door, eyes scanning the street for any lingering threat.

Bucky turned to you, jaw tight, shoulders still trembling with adrenaline. But when he looked at you, his expression softened immediately.

He crouched in front of you, hands open. “You okay?”

You nodded shakily, tears welling.

Yelena handed you a napkin. “He’s gone,” she said quietly. “He’s never coming near you again.”

John was still standing like a human shield, arms crossed.

And Bucky... Bucky cupped your cheek with his hand. It was warm, comforting, his thumb brushing away the tear that escaped.

“He doesn’t get to touch you. Not now. Not ever again.”

You leaned into him, trembling.

“I was so scared,” you whispered, barely audible.

Bucky pressed his forehead to yours. “I know, sweetheart. But it’s over. He can’t hurt you anymore. Not while I’m breathing.”

And for a moment, even in the shattered remains of what should have been a peaceful night, you were wrapped in a shield stronger than steel.

You had them.

You had him.

You were safe.

You didn’t speak on the way home.

No one made you.

Bucky drove, one hand on the wheel, the other occasionally brushing against your thigh—anchoring, grounding. The rest of the team took a second vehicle, giving you space. After what happened, you needed it.

You stared out the window, watching the neon blur into streaks of yellow and red, feeling like you were floating somewhere outside yourself. Somewhere between fear and relief.

The silence between you and Bucky wasn’t heavy—it was steady. Like the calm after a storm. Like quiet waves still curling back from the shore.

When he parked outside the compound, he turned to you slowly.

“Do you want to be alone?”

You shook your head.

He didn’t ask again. Just took your hand gently, led you through the compound, through the hallways, up the stairs. When you reached your room, he hesitated at the door.

“Can I stay?”

You nodded.

Inside, the room felt untouched by the chaos of earlier. Soft lamplight, a rumpled blanket on your bed. Familiar, safe.

You kicked your shoes off and sat on the edge of the bed, fingers twisting in your lap. Bucky crouched in front of you again, like at the diner, his hands resting on your knees.

“You’re not weak for being scared,” he said. “You know that, right?”

Your throat tightened. You nodded.

“But he’s never going to get to you again. I won’t let him. None of us will.”

You looked at him. The way his eyes held yours, soft but strong. The way his presence wrapped around you like armor. The way his touch was always careful, like you were something breakable but worth protecting.

And then you whispered, “I don’t know how to stop being afraid.”

Bucky leaned forward. Pressed his forehead gently to yours.

“You don’t have to. Not right away. But you’re not alone anymore. We’ll fight it together.”

You closed your eyes.

And when he climbed into bed beside you, when his arms wrapped around you and pulled you against the steady thump of his heart, you believed him.

Not because the fear was gone.

But because for the first time in so long, you weren’t carrying it alone.

He pressed a kiss to your temple. Whispered something you didn’t catch—but it didn’t matter.

It sounded like safety.

It felt like home.

a/n: this fic is one i hold close, because i have experienced abuse/dv in my previous relationship, and i had no idea how to leave, and writing this helped, a lot. i do hope that every person that is trapped in this cycle will find their bucky—someone who makes them feel safe and loved. i am grateful i found mine. if you're a victim or know someone who is struggling, please don't be afraid to seek for help. i promise it does get better once you leave. (google dv helpline, your country's hotline should appear)

[surprised-penguin]

You’re enough for me - Part 3

The clock read 2:47 AM when you turned over in bed again, the thin sheet tangling around your legs.

Your body ached from exhaustion, but your mind wouldn’t shut off.

Too loud. Too raw.

Every time you closed your eyes, you saw him.

On that pier.

With that look.

After five more minutes of staring at the ceiling, you huffed out a breath and sat up.

Your throat felt dry, and your chest was tight — familiar signs that you weren’t getting any sleep tonight.

You padded quietly across the room, your bare feet cool against the wooden floor, and cracked open the door.

The house was dark, save for the faint glow of the kitchen nightlight.

But you knew.

You knew that to get to the fridge, you’d have to pass the living room.

Where he was.

Where Bucky had claimed the couch for the night.

You stood frozen in the hallway for a beat, debating if it was worth it.

But your throat burned, and that little voice in your head whispered: It’s just milk. Just go.

So you did.

Step by quiet step.

When you reached the bottom of the stairs, you glanced to your right — and there he was.

Bucky.

Lying on the couch, shirt rumpled, one arm folded under his head.

His face was turned slightly toward you, bathed in the soft light from the TV screen, which was still playing some old black-and-white movie on mute.

For a second, you thought he was asleep.

And your chest clenched tight.

You tiptoed the rest of the way to the kitchen, quietly grabbing a glass and filling it with milk, the cool liquid soothing your dry throat even before you took a sip.

But then—

“Couldn’t sleep?”

His voice.

Low. Rough from disuse.

But very much awake.

You jumped, nearly sloshing milk onto the counter.

“Jesus— Bucky, you scared me.”

He shifted on the couch, sitting up a little, his eyes never leaving you.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to. Wasn’t sleeping anyway.”

He rubbed a hand down his face.

“Just had my eyes closed.”

You gripped your glass tighter, heart pounding.

“Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t.”

His eyes flickered to the glass in your hand.

“And I know you. You only drink milk in the middle of the night when something’s wrong.”

You let out a breath and rolled your eyes, leaning back against the counter.

“Nothing’s wrong. I just—can’t sleep.”

Bucky huffed, a small sound that wasn’t quite a laugh.

His lips quirked into a half smile, sad but soft.

“I know you better than that.”

Your throat went tight again, but this time it wasn’t from thirst.

Your fingers curled tighter around the glass as you looked away.

Of course he knew.

Because for a long time, he had known everything about you.

When you finally glanced back at him, he was watching you in that way that made your chest ache — like you were something fragile he didn’t know how to hold anymore.

And then, without a word, he shifted the blanket off his lap and opened it.

An invitation.

Silent, but clear.

You blinked.

Your heart stuttered.

But then your body moved before your mind could catch up — setting the glass down and walking toward him on autopilot.

When you reached the couch, you hesitated.

Just for a second.

But his arms stayed open, and that soft little smile was still there, even if his eyes looked a little too shiny in the dim light.

So you slid in.

Under the blanket.

Right next to him.

And when his arm came around you, pulling you gently against his chest, your body melted.

It was stupid, really.

How fast your heart settled just from being here again.

Like it hadn’t been shattered just weeks before.

For a few minutes, neither of you spoke.

You just listened to his heartbeat — steady, solid — and let your fingers curl lightly into the fabric of his shirt.

It was Bucky who broke the silence.

His voice was rough, but quieter this time.

“I didn’t leave because I stopped loving you.”

Your breath hitched.

Your whole body tensed.

His hand on your back rubbed slow, soothing circles as he went on, his words tumbling out like they’d been trapped inside too long.

“I left because I was scared. Of myself. Of what I might become. I kept thinking… if I stayed, I’d end up hurting you somehow. That you’d wake up one day and realize you deserve better.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, tears stinging.

“Bucky—”

“I thought I was protecting you,” he whispered, voice cracking now.

“But all I did was break both of us.”

A tear slipped free, hot against your cheek, and you buried your face against his chest as a quiet sob shuddered out of you.

He felt it.

And his arms tightened around you.

His metal hand — usually so cold — was warm as it came up to gently wipe the tears from your cheek.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, voice thick.

“I’m so damn sorry.”

You hiccupped a breath, pulling back just enough to look at him.

His face was open now, raw and vulnerable in a way he never let anyone see.

His thumb brushed another tear away, slow and careful like he thought you might break if he touched too hard.

And in that fragile, broken silence, you both just breathed — tangled up in each other and all the things you weren’t ready to say yet.

But for the first time in weeks, it didn’t feel like the world was ending.

Not here.

Not wrapped in his arms again.

Your breath hitched again, chest tight as your fingers curled into his shirt like you were afraid he might disappear if you let go.

Bucky’s eyes stayed on you — blue and stormy and shining in the low light.

His thumb traced the curve of your cheekbone again, slower this time, like he didn’t want to stop touching you now that he finally had permission again.

The words pressed hot against your throat before you could stop them.

“You broke me.”

His face crumpled.

Not dramatically.

Just the tiniest flinch — like your words were a knife twisting in his chest.

“I know.” His voice was gravel.

“I know I did. And I hate myself for it.”

You sucked in a shaky breath, blinking through more tears that blurred his face.

“I begged you not to go. I begged you, Bucky, and you just—” Your voice cracked. “You just looked at me like I wasn’t enough. Like all the love I gave you wasn’t enough to make you stay.”

His hand fell away, and his jaw clenched so hard you could see the muscle jump.

“That’s not what it was,” he rasped.

“I left because I thought I wasn’t enough. For you. I thought… if I stayed, you’d get dragged down with me.”

Your chest heaved, torn between sobbing and screaming.

“You don’t get to make that choice for me.”

Your voice broke at the edges.

“I would’ve stayed. I would’ve fought for us. But you didn’t even let me try. You just—”

You swallowed hard.

“You just gave up.”

Bucky’s hands fisted in the blanket now, knuckles white. His whole body was trembling.

“I gave up because I thought it was the only way to protect you.”

His voice was raw now, so broken it made something inside you shatter even more.

“I’ve spent my whole life hurting people, and I couldn’t live with the idea of doing that to you.”

Your tears came faster now, hot and heavy down your cheeks as you shook your head.

“You already hurt me, Bucky. You ripped my heart out the second you walked away.”

Your chest ached so badly it felt like you couldn’t breathe.

“And I hate you for it. And I love you. And I don’t know how to do both at the same time.”

His face crumpled like he couldn’t hold it together anymore.

“Doll—”

You let out a sound that was somewhere between a sob and a broken laugh.

“Don’t call me that. You lost the right.”

His whole body flinched like you’d slapped him.

For a long beat, it was just the sound of your uneven breathing and the distant hum of the fridge.

Then Bucky whispered, voice barely there,

“I never stopped loving you.”

It punched the air right out of your lungs.

Your body folded in on itself, shoulders shaking as you pressed your hands to your face and let the sobs tear out of you.

You didn’t want to hear that.

You did.

You hated him for saying it now — after all the damage was done — and yet some broken, hopeful part of you clung to those words like they were oxygen.

You felt him shift, heard the blanket rustle, and then his hands — big and rough and trembling — gently pried your hands away from your face.

His thumb brushed over your tear-streaked skin again, soft as a whisper.

“I swear to you, I never stopped. Even when I was too much of a coward to stay.”

You hiccupped, tears still falling, but your eyes locked with his — and for the first time in three weeks, you saw him.

Not the guarded, cold version that left.

But Bucky.

Yours.

Broken and bleeding and begging without words.

Your voice cracked on a whisper.

“Then why did you make me feel like I wasn’t enough?”

His face twisted like it physically hurt him.

“Because I didn’t think I deserved you.”

His breath shuddered out.

“I didn’t think I ever could.”

Your hands curled weakly into his shirt again, knuckles white.

“I would’ve stayed, Buck. I would’ve stayed if you just let me.”

His eyes shone with unshed tears now too.

And for a breathless second, you both just sat there — two broken halves that didn’t know how to fit together anymore but still aching for each other.

His forehead dropped against yours, and his voice cracked open.

“I don’t know how to fix this.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, another tear slipping free.

“Me neither.”

But neither of you pulled away.

Not this time.

Your breath stuttered against his, your foreheads still pressed together like if either of you moved, everything would shatter all over again.

You could feel how hard he was breathing, chest rising and falling unevenly, and you hated that even now — even after all of this — you still wanted to melt into him.

“Say something,” you whispered, voice cracked and raw.

You didn’t even know what you wanted to hear. Just something. Anything to keep this from slipping back into silence.

Bucky’s hands came up, framing your face so gently it made you want to sob again.

His thumb caught a fresh tear before it could fall.

“I’m sorry,” he rasped.

His voice broke right down the middle.

“For everything. For leaving. For hurting you. For making you feel like you weren’t enough when you were the only thing that ever made me feel like I was.”

Your lips trembled.

“Stop—”

Your hands balled into fists against his chest, pushing weakly at him like you couldn’t bear to hear it, but couldn’t stop listening either.

“Stop saying the right things now. You should’ve said them then—”

“I know.”

His voice cracked.

“I know, doll. I know. And I hate myself every goddamn second for it.”

Your fists uncurled, helpless, and your hands just clung to him now, because even as every word ripped you open, some broken, bleeding part of you didn’t want to let go.

“I needed you,” you whispered.

Your chest heaved.

“I needed you and you weren’t there. I was drowning and you— you just walked away.”

His hands shook against your face now, and you saw the tears spill down his cheeks — silent and steady and awful.

“I thought I was protecting you.”

His voice was hoarse and ragged.

“I didn’t know how to stay without hurting you. I didn’t know how to let you love someone so fucked up—”

Your hands shot up and grabbed his shirt again, dragging him closer until your noses brushed, tears hot on both your faces.

“I didn’t want perfect, Bucky. I just wanted you.”

Something snapped.

You felt it — like the air between you broke wide open.

And then his mouth was on yours.

It wasn’t soft.

It wasn’t sweet.

It was desperate. Raw. Like he was trying to crawl inside your chest and put every shattered piece back together with his lips.

His hands cradled your face like you were fragile, even as the kiss was messy and tear-streaked and real.

You sobbed into his mouth, and he caught it with a broken sound of his own, kissing you harder, like he couldn’t get close enough.

His tears mixed with yours, and it was ugly and imperfect and everything you’d both been choking on for weeks.

When you finally broke apart, gasping, your hands stayed tangled in his shirt, and his forehead dropped against yours again — both of you shaking, both of you ruined.

His voice was a whisper, wrecked and trembling.

“I love you.”

His breath hitched.

“I love you so much it scares the hell out of me.”

You let out a choked laugh that cracked wide open into another sob.

“I hate you. I love you. I can’t—”

Your shoulders shook as you buried your face against his chest.

“I can’t do this again unless you mean it. I can’t survive it again, Bucky.”

His arms crushed you against him like he was afraid you’d disappear.

“I mean it. I swear to you, doll. I swear on everything. I’m not leaving again.”

Your body shook against him, and he kissed your temple over and over like he could press the promise into your skin.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered.

Over and over.

“I’ve got you. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

And for the first time in weeks, you let yourself believe it.

Just a little.

Just enough to let yourself fall into him.

Even if you were both still bleeding.

Because maybe this was how you started stitching each other back together.

****

The morning light was pale and golden, filtering in through the open slats of the windows. It warmed your skin before you were even fully awake, and the first thing you became aware of was the steady rise and fall of a chest pressed against your back.

Bucky.

His arm was slung heavy around your waist, pulling you in close like his body refused to let go even in sleep. His face was buried against the crook of your neck, breath warm and slow against your skin.

His legs tangled with yours like they’d always been meant to fit there.

For a long, still moment, you just laid there, letting yourself feel it.

The weight of him.

The safety of him.

His heart beating slow and steady against your spine.

After weeks of sleepless nights and tear-stained pillows, the comfort was so fragile you were almost afraid to move.

But then —

“About damn time,” came Sam’s voice, cutting through the morning stillness.

You tensed.

Bucky’s arm instinctively tightened around you, pulling you even closer as his breath hitched awake.

“Jesus, Sam—” you groaned, voice thick with sleep and embarrassment.

Bucky shifted behind you, head lifting just enough for you to feel the stubble on your neck as he mumbled, “What the hell—”

His voice was rough and low, like gravel in the early light.

Sam’s footsteps padded closer.

You didn’t have to look to know he was standing there, arms crossed, probably with that smug grin plastered across his face.

“Woke up to get some coffee and find this,” Sam drawled.

His voice was warm though — not mocking, not mean.

More like an older brother who’d been waiting for you both to get your heads out of your asses.

“About damn time you two made up.”

You groaned again and buried your face in the couch cushion, mortified.

Bucky let out a low grumble behind you, but his arm didn’t move from around your waist. If anything, he curled in closer, like he didn’t care who saw now.

Sam laughed.

“Relax, lovebirds. No one else is up yet. But just a heads up — Sarah’s gonna clock it the second she sees you two all tangled up like that.”

You felt Bucky’s chest rumble against your back, a soft sound that wasn’t quite a laugh but wasn’t the cold silence you’d lived with these past few weeks either.

Progress.

Tiny and fragile.

But real.

Sam sighed dramatically.

“Alright, I’ll leave you two to your post-breakup cuddle fest. Coffee’s on. Don’t make it weird at breakfast.”

His footsteps faded away, leaving you and Bucky alone again in the golden quiet.

You shifted just enough to turn your head and glance back at him.

His eyes were open now — sleepy and soft, no walls, no armor.

His face was close, closer than you’d let it be in weeks.

His hair was a mess, his cheeks still streaked faintly from dried tears, but his gaze…

His gaze looked at you like you were the only thing that mattered.

“Sorry,” you whispered, voice still rough from crying and sleep. “Sam’s right. This is kinda—”

“I don’t care,” Bucky murmured, voice hoarse but sure.

His arm flexed around you again, like he meant it.

“I’m not letting go. Not this time.”

Your throat tightened, but this time it wasn’t from pain.

It was from the soft, tentative thing blooming in your chest — fragile, but alive.

You nodded, swallowing hard.

“Okay.”

Bucky’s lips brushed against the side of your head in a ghost of a kiss.

Not asking for more.

Not rushing.

Just there.

The weight of him wrapped around you.

The morning light.

The smell of coffee brewing in the kitchen.

And for the first time in a long time, you let yourself breathe.

Really breathe.

Because maybe — just maybe — this was your new beginning.

Messy.

Slow.

But real.

And with Bucky’s arms around you, warm and solid, you started to believe that you could put all the broken pieces back together.

One sunrise at a time.

[surprised-penguin]

need bucky to be fucking you while in missionary and your knees are pressed as far as they can go towards your chest and his giving him support by holding onto the headboard — his flesh hand holding the back of your head and tipping it down, making you watch his cock slowly pump in and out.

“look how your pussy stretches for my cock — like she was made for me.” he purrs, his eyes never leaving the way your cream covers his shaft with each stroke, your heavy breathing and whining when his tip kisses that sweet spot deep in you from a long stroke.

“love fillin’ her up, hearin’ how fuckin’ wet she gets with daddy’s dick,” he grunts, as his cock twitches, your hands gripping any part of him that you can get. he chuckles, “wrap your legs ‘round me, doll.” and you do as he says, pulling him in closer by the waist.

“atta’ girl.” he praises, while he cock pumps deeper into you, his flesh hand letting go of your chin and to press on the bottom of your tummy where his cock pokes under your stomach.

“daddy…” you can only mewl, head resting back on the pillows as your arms come to his shoulders. he grins wickedly, before moving that same flesh hand down further to thumb your clit

“what is it, pretty baby? what do you need? daddy’s dick not good enough?” he fake pouts as his thumb presses harder on your clit and you try to shake your head ‘no’ but you’re cumming on his cock in a second without even realizing it.

you were that deep in subspace.

“that’s right, good fuckin’ girl. didn’t even know you were gonna cum, did you doll? no, i know you didn’t. little slut.” he growls, letting go of your clit and pulling out, before flipping you on your stomach and pulling your hips up enough for a pillow to be shoved under neath

“since my little cocksleeve already came,” he said, before spreading your asscheeks and teasing pussy with the tip of his cock. “i’m gonna fuck this pretty cunt until i’m done cumming. and you know i don’t get tired, sweetheart.”

he bends over you as his cock slides in, moans leaving your mouths as his lips ghost the shell of your ear.

“buckle up, baby, daddy’s gonna fuck a baby into you.”

“please, daddy…oh please…” those were the only pleas that left your lips that night.

[surprised-penguin]

Weakness

Pairing: Avenger!Bucky x Avenger!Reader

Summary: You use Bucky’s only weakness to your advantage until it bites you in the ass.

Word Count: 7.2k

Warnings: feigning injuries; a sprained ankle; bruises; hiding injuries; combat fighting training; sparring sessions; mutual pining; Bucky being a doting sweetheart; Bucky being smug; Bucky being worried

Author’s Notes: This idea has been sitting in my drafts as a rough outline for months lol and I finally got the inspiration to make something out of it. I hope you will enjoy this! ♡

Masterlist

You love sparring with Bucky.

Maybe because you love the man.

But there is so much more to that, honestly.

You have basically sparred with anyone out of the team.

Steve is methodical. Always a teacher, always Captain. He calls out corrections in a way he does orders, his patience long-practiced. His strikes are accurate, economical, as if he calculates the exact amount of force necessary to bring you down and delivers it precisely, nothing wasted. But you always know he is holding back. He does not say it but you feel it in the way he controls every movement, never quite giving you the full weight of his strength. You learn from him, but there is always a ceiling to what he will allow you to take from the fight.

Natasha is sharp. She doesn’t coach you, doesn’t slow down, doesn’t hold back. She fights you like she fights anyone. You feel the sting of a bruise blooming before you even realize she struck you. And yet, when you get a hit in, when you shift fast enough to slip past her guard, her smirk is quicksilver - pleased, challenging, like she has just discovered something worth sinking her teeth into.

Wanda fights like she plays. Some days, she keeps her powers at bay, working only with what her body allows, light on her feet, swaying rather than striking. But she is not used to this. Not using her powers in a fight. So most of the time, she teases, powers tugging at your wrist mid-swing, a flicker of scarlett at the edge of your vision before she is suddenly behind you.

Sam is solid. He fights with his whole body, never wasting energy on anything that doesn’t serve his goal. He takes up space, keeps you on the defenses, his moves seamless. But he is generous too, throwing you a verbal lifeline mid-fight - “too slow, come on,” - challenging you in encouraging you. And when you get him down, he grins, bright and wide, like he wants you to win.

Clint fights like someone who doesn’t need to win, just needs to keep moving. He is slippery, dodging rather than blocking, grinning rather than growling. He makes a game of it, laughing at your frustration, forcing you to loosen up, to adapt, to try something unorthodox. He doesn’t spar to overpower. He spars to frustrate, to outlast, to make you think three steps ahead.

But Bucky.

Bucky watches you. Always. Even when he isn’t facing you directly, even when he’s standing in the shadows at the edge of the gym, you have his attention. It is something you have learned to steady yourself beneath. Because it never really seems to waver.

He is mindful. Of your form. Of your tells. Of how far he can push you. He does not go easy on you. Despite the obvious differences in height and weight and him being a super soldier. But he fights you like an opponent worth fighting. He fights you like himself. Precise. Controlled. Thoughtful. When he corrects you, it is not instruction, just a simple adjustment with the brush of his metal fingers nudging your wrist into a better angle, a small nod when you adapt.

And when you take him down - when you surprise him, when you shift your weight at the last moment and send him to the mat - there is that laugh breaking out. He is not stunned at the way you overpowered him. Not disbelieving. He merely laughs. A short burst of warmth, rare and genuine, something boyish in the way it escapes.

You live for that laugh.

Because Bucky knows your competence. He does not gift you victories because he knows you don’t need them in the first place. He expects you to win. He knows you can. And will. He does not say it outright, but you learned to read the subtle body language in the years of knowing him - the glimmer of something pleased in his eyes, the upturn at the corner of his mouth.

And when he helps you up - fingers gently curling around your wrist to pull you to your feet - he lingers just a little too long.

So yes, you love sparring with Bucky.

Basically, on the first day as an Avenger it was drilled into you that knowing your enemy is everything - know what you are up against, who you are fighting, how they move, what makes them weak.

You are good at this. At observing. You know how to study people, how to pick out patterns, how to find the smallest crack in an otherwise impenetrable wall and press until it splits wide open.

Still, Bucky Barnes is not an easy person to read.

But perhaps it was just a little too much fun figuring out what exactly his weaknesses are.

He doesn’t have many. His body is conditioned for war, his mind sharpened, his instincts too honed to give much away. If he has vulnerabilities, they are subtle. Nearly imperceptible to anyone who isn’t looking closely enough.

But you have been looking closely. For the better part of a year.

And then, about five months ago, something clicked.

Bucky Barnes does have a weakness.

A glaring one, in fact.

One so obvious you nearly laughed out loud when you finally pieced it together.

It’s you.

You are his weakness.

Bucky is a creature of routines.

The kind that keep him grounded in a world that still feels like shifting sand beneath his feet. And somehow, you have become part of them.

You don’t remember when it started, exactly. But you know that when you stumble into the kitchen in the morning, still half-asleep, Bucky is already there. Always. Sometimes with coffee already poured for you, sometimes just sitting at the counter like he’s lost, waiting like he’s been expecting something. You.

You tested it, once. You woke up later than usual, wanting to see if he still lingered. And sure enough, when you finally stepped into the kitchen, he was there, nursing a long-gone cup of coffee that was somehow still halfway filled, gaze fixed on the entryway even before you entered. Like he hadn’t been planning on leaving until he saw you. It’s when he loosened his grip on the poor mug. Flexing his fingers, as if he was close to shattering it.

Bucky is not a fan of crowded spaces.

He likes corners, walls at his back, exits in view. He keeps a respectable distance from most people, moving on silent feet, always aware of what’s around him.

Except when it comes to you.

You began to notice that in the common room. How he lets you sit closer than he does with anyone else, how he doesn’t shift away when his knee bumps his. How, when you walk side by side, he moves to make space for you without thinking. How he stops standing near the door when you are in a room, like some unconscious part of him doesn’t feel the need to watch his six when you are there.

And then there are the small things.

The way his arm comes up instinctively when you reach past him for something, like he is preparing to steady you or get it down for you if it is something you can’t reach. The way he steps in front of you if something startled him, body moving before anything else.

Little things. Automatic things.

And the most endearing part is, that he genuinely does not seem like he knows he is doing all that.

Bucky is strategic on missions.

He follows the plan without a hitch, keeps his cool and executes flawlessly.

Until you are in danger.

Then he gets frantic. He even tends to snap at Steve. He gets tighter, sharper, more lethal. It seems like instinct.

Just last month, you got cut along your thigh that you managed to patch up before the mission was even completely over. But Bucky was stoic and brooding. Frown on his face the whole time. He saw the blood, saw the way you had a limp in your step and something utterly cold settled in his eyes.

Sam later mentioned to you with a weird wiggle of his eyebrow that the man whose knife slashed you never had the chance to land another hit on anyone.

You started testing him in small ways. Seeing if he moves when you move. If he adjusts his strategy to keep you in his line of sight. If he listens to your voice above all others in a debriefing, even when Steve is talking.

And he does. Every time.

Bucky got mad at Clint once because he ate the last donut that was meant for you. Clint was genuinely terrified. He even went out to get you new ones.

Bucky picks up stuff from the common room he knows belong to you and takes it to your room.

Just yesterday, there was a book on your nightstand. One you had mentioned offhand in conversation weeks ago, something you said you wanted to read someday. And you know for a fact that Bucky got dragged into the city by Sam and Steve the day before.

After years as an Avenger, you learn to fool people.

You know how to smile when you need to, how to shake things off, how to deal with missions gone wrong or people unsaved.

But you can’t fool Bucky.

He just knows when something is off. He notices the way your voice shifts, the way your shoulders carry tension differently. You don’t have to say anything. He just knows.

And he never pushes. He lingers. He makes himself available. He sits beside you in silence when you don’t feel like talking. He glares at everyone who wants something unnecessary from you in times like those.

And then he would just go, come on, let’s go do something.

It is basically just watching a movie or cooking a dinner or baking cookies, but everything is more fun with him, and soon enough your smile touches your eyes again.

Bucky does not share.

He does not share his food. He does not share his belongings.

But he does with you.

When you are out and freezing, he shrugs off his jacket and tosses it over your shoulders without a word.

He lets you take fries off his plate and lets you drink from his cup, much to Sam’s surprise and disgruntlement.

Bucky does not talk about his nightmares.

Not to anyone.

But on certain nights, when sleep refuses to hold him and his mind is drowning in things long past but never gone, he finds you.

You were in the common room when it first started. Months ago. Nursing a mug of tea, when he wandered in, looking lost and exhausted.

With a single glance at him, you nodded to the couch, shifting over to make space, and he came sitting down without a word.

He let you talk. He even seemed to relish it. Intertwining his hands at his front and laying his head back against the backside of the couch, closing his eyes and listening to your mocked aggravation at the fact that Sam left a half-eaten sandwich on the counter again.

He stayed until the sun crept in through the windows, slight snoring making you smile.

It happened again. And then again.

After a while, you started recognizing the signs when his nightmares are getting worse again. The way he drifts into whatever room you are in and stays locked in his own when you are gone on a mission or out with the girls. How he leans against the doorway for a second longer than necessary before stepping inside, like he is debating whether he has the right to be there.

Sometimes, he’d pretend he’s just passing through. He would linger in the kitchen, hands wrapped around a cup of coffee he doesn’t drink while you are having your conversation with Wanda and Natasha.

One night, he even came to your room. Knocking and standing there with his hands fidgeting at his sides, eyes shamefully lowered, looking so much like a puppy in search of some love.

He didn’t pretend. He didn’t offer excuses. He just stood there and you saw it in his eyes.

You took him in your arms and then you took him in.

First, he sat down on the floor beside your bed, back against the wall, knees drawn up like he was trying to take up as little space as possible. He didn’t say anything for a long time. You just sat beside him on the ground, laying your head on his shoulder.

Eventually, his breathing evened out, head falling onto yours.

He would fall asleep like that. Until you managed to get him to lie down in your bed beside you. He usually sleeps like a baby when he’s with you.

You are not stupid. Neither are you naive. You have always been good at reading people, at knowing them, at watching them, and deciphering the things they do not say.

And you know what this might mean.

You certainly know what it means to you.

The way your pulse picks up when Bucky walks into a room so casually because you are there. The way your stomach flutters when his gaze lingers on you. The way your chest gets so unbearably full when he does all those smallest things for you.

But you think you also might know what it means to him. He seeks you out for everything, on instinct or not. Smiling seems to come so easily to him when he is with you. You are the only person he lets into his personal space - the only person he doesn’t startle away from when it comes to accidentally touching.

But Bucky Barnes is not a man who allows himself to want things easily.

So, you will not force yourself upon him. You will not push. You will not demand. You will not take what he does not freely offer.

Because you understand that he does not fear pain, or war, or perhaps even death.

But he fears something real, something good, something that cannot be fought off with fists or buried beneath old ghosts.

Because he does not think it is something he deserves yet.

But you are willing to wait. Until he is ready. Until he is sure. Until he knows that this is what he wants.

And if he never is, if he never comes to you with certainty in his hands, if he never crosses the space between you - then you will wait anyway.

Because for him, you would wait forever.

****

“Alright, sweetheart. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

There’s a smug grin on his face as he’s circling you.

And you know why it is there.

Because you are currently three losses deep into a losing streak against Bucky. And that just won’t do. You need a win.

You move first, closing the distance fast, testing his defenses. He blocks. A quick jab - he dodges. A feint - he doesn’t bite.

He knows your patterns, how you move, how you think. But you know him, too.

You go low, aiming for his legs, but he anticipates and shifts out of reach. “Getting predictable there, doll,” he drawls, smirking.

Yeah, you’re gonna wipe that off.

Rolling your eyes, you adjust. A punch goes up that isn’t meant to land, just to see how he reacts. He blocks high, but his balance shifts and there is a brief opening. A second and you are too late.

You strike fast, sweeping low again, and this time, you actually catch him. Not enough to take him down, but a start.

Bucky huffs, rolling his neck. “Not good enough, but better,” he teases, smirk still in place.

“Oh, fuck off,” you laugh, lunging again.

He meets you halfway, and for a moment, it’s just movement - sharp and fast and fluid, but you keep your balance. You duck, weave, block.

You land a hit, but it barely fazes him. He grabs your wrist, twisting - flipping you, but you are prepared, rolling and springing back up.

“That all you got?”

“Come find out.”

He laughs brightly before going in for attack. You block his strike, twisting out of reach.

It’s definitely not all you got.

He is not expecting you to cheat.

Not that you call it cheating anyway.

You decide that it’s time to take advantage of that weakness of his.

After all, it has worked before. And it will work again.

Bucky feints left. You dodge, pivot, but let your foot catch just so against the mat to send you off balance. The stumble isn’t exaggerated - it doesn’t need to be. You land on your side, letting out a sharp breath as if this is not exactly what you were expecting, and grab your ankle, wincing.

Bucky stops immediately. Just like always. It’s the first time you feign your ankle getting hurt but he reacts all the same.

His shift is instant. His whole body tenses. Taking a step toward you with his brows furrowed tightly, he scans you like he’s already running through every possible way to help you. Carrying you to the medical wing, for example.

“Shit, doll. You okay?” His voice is softer now. Concerned. So genuinely worried, you might actually feel bad.

He crouches without hesitation, without a thought, eyes so intensely fixed on you. And that smug grin is as predicted wiped cleanly off his face.

“Lemme see-”

He reaches out to you but that is when you strike.

You twist up, leg sweeping out and knocking his feet from under him. His surprised noise is so satisfying as he goes down, flat on his back, sprawled across the mat.

Silence.

“You have got to be kidding me,” Bucky groans loudly.

You are kneeling beside him, grinning, chest heaving. “Kinda needed that win, Barnes. No bad feelings, yeah?”

Bucky just stares at the ceiling for a long moment, one hand scrubbing down his face. He exhales sharply, muttering something under his breath, something that sounds suspiciously like every goddam time.

The last time you used your little trick on him, you had sold a jab against your side, staggering back and exhaling sharply as if he hit some sensitive point. He froze instantly, eyes wide. And you spun him into a flawless takedown.

The time before that it was your shoulder. All you needed was a slight grimace in fake pain and his whole demeanor changed in an instant. His hands went up slightly, a step in your direction and that was your opening to duck under his arm, and bring him down with a precise twist.

Yeah, alright, people might believe that that technique is a little mean and it certainly wouldn’t help you at all in the open field, but Clint did tell you to try something unorthodox.

You stretch, still smirking, and tilt your head at him. “You know, you’d think after falling for this multiple times, you’d have learned by now.”

Bucky’s head rolls to the side and he glares at you. Not in anger, not even close. Just that specific kind of exasperation that you have come to learn is something only you get to see from him.

He huffs. “Should’ve known you’d pull this shit again.”

“Should have. And here I thought I am predictable.”

He gives you a flat, unimpressed look.

“Can’t believe I was worried.”

“Aww, you were?” you say sarcastically, lightly. Almost in a sly sing-song voice, because is is always worried. That’s the whole point of this.

Another hand drags down his face, but there is a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

****

You exhale deeply, rolling your shoulders, as you make your way down to the gym.

Your muscles are stiff. Everything aches in that dull, stubborn way that promises it will get worse before it gets better.

The bruises that paint your ribs throb with your pulse. You remember the sharp, biting crack when you hit the ground.

It was a mission for Steve, Nat, and you, though you definitely could have used some backup.

You feel terrible.

And you hadn’t told Bucky any of that when you came home yesterday, sometime late.

Instead, you sent him a quick I’m fine. Training tomorrow? and buried yourself in sleep before he could pry. You know how he gets, after all. How his worry manifests, his eyes linger and his mouth tightens when you brush him off. You did not have the energy for it last night. And you don’t have it now. He does not have to know what hits you have taken due to your own recklessness. You already got a lecture from Cap. Don’t need it from his best friend.

So you show up. Because, if you don’t, he will know something is wrong.

Bucky is already waiting for you, standing loose and ready on the mat. His eyes snap up the moment you enter, scanning you the way he always does. Checking.

You ignore his gaze.

“Ready to get your ass kicked?” you say, tossing your water bottle onto the bench, forcing something light into your voice.

He smirks, arms crossed. “That what’s gonna happen?”

You step onto the mat, careful not to wince, careful to keep your breath even despite the sharpness pulling at your ribs. “Don’t sound so doubtful, Barnes. I’ll let you eat the mat.”

He snorts, tilting his head. “I sure like to see you try.”

He raises his hands, shifting into a stance, watching you closely. Too closely. There is something probing in his gaze today.

“How’d the mission go? Steve mentioned you guys ran into some-”

You don’t give him time to finish - time to think.

You move, fast, hoping to catch him off guard.

He sidesteps, but you strike again.

And immediately regret it.

Your ribs scream. Punishing. Your breath stutters, but you grit your teeth and keep going, keep pushing forward and attacking because if you pause, he will most definitely notice.

It goes on for perhaps a minute and you think you might actually be able to bite away the pain your whole body is consumed with, but then you stumble.

It’s a half-second of hesitation, a misstep that normally wouldn’t happen. But it causes you to trip away a few steps. Sharp pain courses through your ribs and a hand instinctively shoots up to your side. A hiss slips past your lips. Loud enough for him to hear.

But instead of reacting the way he always does - immediately stopping, immediately reaching - he just huffs amused, shaking his head.

“Bad time for trying that trick again, sweetheart. Shoulda known better.” There is that smugness in his tone.

His voice is light, teasing. His eyes are sharp, watching.

You grit your teeth, saying nothing.

He thinks you’re faking.

Which - fine. You have done this a few times. But now, with every movement grinding against the ache in your ribs, you wish he would just stop you.

Because it’s getting harder to hide.

It’s getting harder to see.

Bucky seems confused for a second when you don’t react to him at all, but doesn’t have time to act on it as you are going in for the next hit.

And Bucky dodges you too easily like he doesn’t even need to try. You swing again, slower than you should be, weaker than you should be - and he sidesteps, frowning.

“Tryin’ a new strategy?” he asks, but his voice is careful. His eyes are assessing.

You don’t answer. You can’t. You just go again, ignoring the way your body protests, ignoring the way you are moving wrong like you are just a second behind yourself. You hope maybe muscle memory will carry you through.

It doesn’t seem like it.

Bucky stopped throwing punches himself, only staying in defense mode and he won’t stop fucking looking at you.

And then you pivot too fast - twist wrong.

White-hot pain flares through your side so fiercely, it rips the breath from your lungs. A harsh, unsteady sound falls out. You can’t catch it. You stagger, grip tightening into fists, trying to push through.

But Bucky’s expression now definitely shifted. Amusement gone. Smugness gone. His face is hard.

You ignore that and try to go in for the next hit, but Bucky steps in fast, too fast for you to counter in your state, hooking an arm around you, pressing your back against his chest. He doesn’t throw you - he could, easily, he would - but he just halts your movement, stopping you clean in your tracks.

The pain spikes again and you gasp sharply. Your knees nearly buckle and Bucky’s grip on you tightens.

His hands are firm around you. Steady. But his breathing is not. It’s fast, strained, the muscles in his arms locking as he keeps you upright.

“What the hell happened?” His voice is so low, so serious. There is an edge to it, teetering on loosing control.

“It’s not a big deal,” you grit out.

“Bullshit.” Now he sounds harsh.

But his fingers still press so gently into your side, checking you out.

You whimper, flinching.

And Bucky freezes.

“Shit.” He shifts his grip, an arm around your waist, moving you to face him and still trying to support you without making it worse. His heartbeat is fast. You can feel it. Even in his hands on you.

He grabs the hem of your shirt and lifts it enough to see your torso. A breath hitches. It’s not yours.

The bruises are bad. Worse than they were yesterday. Dark and sprawling across your ribs, blooming in ugly purples and reds. You feel the shift in him, the way his whole body goes still.

You watch his tense features in discomfort. His eyes are turbulent, filled with a wildness stemming from something dark that writhes beneath his skin and causes his hands to shake against you. A tremor passes his jaw.

He curses under his breath.

“You didn’t tell me.” His voice drags low.

“I didn’t think it was that bad.”

He lets out a deep and rumbling sigh. Trying to compose himself. “It is bad, Y/n! How come you thought it’s a good idea to train like this, huh?”

He meets your eyes. There is a sternness in his expression. His eyes are heavy.

“I didn’t want you to worry.”

Bucky lets out a humorless breath. Closes his eyes for a moment until he takes a breath in again.

“I was already worried, doll. I always am. You know that, no?” he speaks solemnly. “You think not telling me makes this better?”

You open your mouth, then close it.

He shakes his head, exhaling profoundly through his nose. His grip tightens, but not enough to hurt you. He holds you carefully.

You take in a deep breath. “I- I don’t know. I guess I just didn’t wanna talk about it. I’m sorry, Bucky.”

His jaw is clenched and he bites his bottom lip, staring at the bruises littering your skin for a moment with eyes so dark they make you shiver.

“How did that happen? Who did this?”

You scoff half-heartedly. “Got a little messy. Pretty sure that guy’s not doing that well either.” You aim to get even the tiniest bits of amusement out of him but he might have gotten even more grim.

His touch is slow, a careful sweep of his finger across your skin, studying you for reactions.

He opens his mouth. Something on his tongue he wants to get out, but he hesitates. He swallows. Waits a few seconds. His voice is a rasp. “Don’t do that again.”

“Getting hurt on missions is kind of a normal occurrence, Buck. Not much I can do about that-”

“No, I mean-” he interrupts, voice quieter. “Don’t hide it again. Not from me. I- Just please.”

There is something in his tone that makes you stare for a while longer.

Then, you nod. Just once. But you mean it.

****

It took weeks for you to properly heal.

But finally, earlier today, you got the clearance of Dr. Cho - and Bucky, because he somehow told himself he has a say in that kind of thing - to step onto the mat again and resume training.

There is still a phantom pain in your ribs but it’s locked somewhere in the back of your mind.

But Bucky still would not stop fucking looking at you.

And it never is in a casual way. Bucky always watches you like he is waiting for something. Like his body is ready to move before his mind even has to tell it to. Like he is memorizing you, making sure nothing slips past him.

He is currently standing in front of you on the mat, rolling his shoulders, the stretch of muscle under his shirt shifting with the movement. The tension in his frame hasn’t faded, no matter how much you’ve reassured him. His fingers flex, then curl into loose fists.

Then his eyes find yours.

“Alright,” he says, voice low and edged with something firm, something not up for debate. “Don’t ever pull that shit on me again. You’re good enough as it is. No need for all that, yeah?” There is something heavy in his tone. “I'll even let you win this time if you need it so badly, doll,” he adds with a hint of humor that his voice lacked earlier, bouncing right back into your easy friendship.

You huff out a laugh and stretch your arms over your head, feeling the pull of muscles that have gone a little too long without use. “Trust me Bucky, I’ve learned my lesson.” Your voice is rather light, but it carries an edge as well.

Bucky’s jaw ticks.

There is something like guilt crossing his eyes for a second. Gone as fast as it came but you catch it. His lips are pressed together tightly and he seems to hold back an uncomfortable cough.

You’ve talked about this already. Plenty, in the weeks of your recovery. You told him you wouldn’t have believed him either after the many times you feigned injury during matches. That if anything, it was your own stubbornness that got you hurt and not him.

He only agreed with the stubborn part but he stopped bringing it up.

Still, you see he hasn’t let it go.

He carries too much guilt as it is. You don’t want him to carry more. So, you definitely won’t question his weakness during fights again. It was kind of funny, though, at least you’ll hold onto that.

You roll out your shoulders, shaking off the stiffness, then take your stance. “C’mon Barnes. You gonna fight me or just stand there looking pretty?”

His mouth twitches, a ghost of a smirk, maybe even a ghost of pink at the tip of his ears, but his eyes stay sharp.

He steps in, closing the space, moving with the same impossible control he always does.

You block his first strike, but it shakes through you. The force of it reminds you just how much power he’s holding back.

His eyes snap to your face. He doesn’t stop watching.

Studying.

Testing how you move, how much strain you can handle.

You feel yourself get into it again. The movement, the impact, the swiftness. The gym is filled with the sounds of breaths and footwork against the mat.

Bucky tests you, pushes you.

And you give as good as you get.

Your body remembers even if it’s been weeks. Your muscles adjust, wake up in a way they haven’t in too long. You move on instinct, dodging, striking, thinking, even pulling a move that you copied from Nat. One that Bucky didn’t see coming.

And it honestly looks pretty good for you, until your foot catches.

It’s nothing at first, a simple shift in weight, an uneven pivot that causes your balance to tip slightly off center. But a dizziness suddenly overcomes you and it’s too late to catch you. Your ankle twists, your knees buckle and the floor comes rushing up to you.

You hit the mat hard, landing awkwardly on your side, the jolt of pain snapping through your ankle up your whole leg, sharp enough for you to wince.

Shit.

You suck in a breath, already dreading what this looks like, what Bucky must be thinking. The timing couldn’t be worse. After everything - after the fights weeks ago, after the conversations, after the promise you just made to never feign getting hurt again - what else would he think?

But before you can lift your head, before you can force out some half-hearted quip, Bucky is already there.

Not hesitating. Not wary.

Rushing. Fast and frantic.

He’s at your side, crouching so fast his knees nearly hit the mat.

And you find yourself blinking at him stunned.

You expected him to pause. To hesitate. Maybe even get angry - to assume, even for a second, that you are feigning again, that you had just promised him not to pull that anymore but here you are.

But there is none of that.

Only the same panic from every other time you’ve dropped yourself to the ground on purpose. But this time it is real. There just was no way for him to know that. He still reacts the same.

“Where does it hurt, doll? Talk to me.”

His voice is calm, but his face is tight. His brows are drawn together, tension lining his mouth. The breaths he lets out are just a little too measured.

You blink at him, still baffled at the way with how fast he was there, how fast his reaction was.

“Just my leg,” you say, exhaling slowly. “It’s nothing. I just got dizzy and fell.”

That makes him frown, deeper than before. His hand moves so gently as he lifts the fabric of your training pants to get a look, taking your calve into his other hand. The touch sends a pulse of pain through you but you manage not to let it show on your face. You’ve had worse. You’re an Avenger, after all.

But Bucky’s jaw clenches so tightly at the sight of the swollen bone and the deepening flush of color on your ankle as if it is serious.

“Might have sprained it,” he mutters gruffly, and the displeasure in his voice is so clear.

“Think I’ll live, Buck,” you quip lightly and shift, trying to stand up but his hand doesn’t let up on your leg and he presses just lightly against your shoulders to make you sit back down.

“You still feelin’ dizzy?” he asks, basically ignoring what you said, voice dipping lower. His gaze locks onto yours. Intense.

You shake your head, trying to show him how casual this whole thing is but his eyes won’t stop searching you and it makes your stomach churn.

“I’m fine, Buck.”

His eyes don’t move. He doesn’t let go.

“Why did you even believe me?” You voice it light, but there is something cautious underlining it, you can’t shake. “Could’ve faked again.”

Bucky rakes a hand through his hair with a long breath. He averts his eyes.

“Saw you go down,” he says with a shrug that seems just a little too exaggeratedly indifferent. “S’ enough for my head to go straight to hell.”

That’s certainly not something you expected him to say and you are stunned once again. But you can’t help the way your belly does some delightful flips.

“And you promised me you wouldn’t,” he adds, shoulders straightening, like he is trying to shift your attention from the words he said before. From the admission he made.

“I’m really not going to do it again,” you promise again. But you won’t forget his words.

“I know, sweetheart,” he says sweetly, certainly, but the tension of your current situation lingers.

His touch on you is so damn careful, checking and rechecking, making you tell him what and how something hurts and you almost laugh out loud at his fussing.

“Buck, it’s not like I broke it,” you point out, a laugh in your voice. “I can still-”

“You’re not gonna walk around on that.”

You lift your brow at him, at his tone, an amused smile on your face but he just stares back. Without the smiling part.

Then he sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face before standing to his full height, adjusting his stance before crouching slightly again.

“Alright, come on.”

You blink but his hands already settle, one beneath your legs, the other bracing your back, and you barely have time to react before he is lifting you, arms locking as he pulls you against his chest with an ease you could only dream of.

“Bucky-”

“Not a word,” he warns with a grunt.

You sigh, letting your head fall back against his shoulder. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Don’t care.”

****

A sprained ankle takes anywhere from two to six weeks to heal properly, depending on the severity. You’ve had a few sprained ankles in your career already, so you would know.

But yours sits on the longer end of that spectrum and it frustrates you to no end because what the fuck. You were just done healing and now you got to do it all again.

The first week, Bucky barely lets you breathe without hovering close. He is always there, catching you if you wobble because you are too damn stubborn and rather hop around the compound than use a clutch. Because that would make it too easy, wouldn’t it?

The second week you get snappish. Tony makes sure to leave the room when you enter, Sam gets defensive, Natasha just smirks what frustrates you even more, Vision is a fucking robot only answering in a robotic voice way that drives you up the wall when he gives you a list of stores around New York that sell kettle fries but you only wanted to know where they are in the compounds kitchen. And Bucky endures every tiny bit of it, only that he is entirely unmoved by your attitude. At one point you just taped your ankle and tried to go down to the gym but Bucky stopped you before you could reach the elevator. He already stood there, brow quirked, arms crossed, unimpressed but amused.

By the third week, he sat next to you during team training, watching, studying. You criticized movements, talked about strategies, and laughed at Sam when Nat made him faceplant onto the mat.

Then the fourth week rolled in and you could finally put weight on your foot without wincing. For you, that meant you were good to go train again. But not for Bucky. So that meant another week of waiting.

But now you are back on the mat. Fucking again.

And you promise yourself, you will not fall this time. Not on purpose, not by accident.

Bucky stands across from you, arms loose at his sides, weight balanced, watching as you roll your shoulders and move through your warm-up.

“Got any last words before I kick your ass, Barnes?”

His mouth twitches. That half-smirk, something smug but fond, something that flies through his blue eyes like a spark.

“I dunno, sweetheart. Wouldn’t wanna land you on the sidelines again.”

You scoff, rolling your eyes.

“Bite me, Barnes.”

The moment you move, he matches it.

His reflexes are quicker than yours - always have been, always will be - but your advantage is that you know that. You know him. His patterns, the way he shifts his weight, the way his left shoulder always tenses a fraction of a second before he throws a punch. You don’t need to match his strength to win. You just need to read him.

The first strike comes low, an attempt to test your footing, but you pivot fast, avoiding the sweep of his leg with a practiced step-back. You counter with a jab - not meant to hit, just to distract - but he reads it immediately, catches your wrist, yanks you forward.

You twist, using the momentum, your free hand shooting up - Bucky dodges, barely, but you are already adjusting, using your own imbalance to push into him.

His hands are always steady, whether he’s attacking or defending. He uses his strength not to hurt you, but to push you, to remind you that you can take it.

And you do.

Blow for blow, counter for counter.

You refrain from looking at his face because he looks distractingly hot with his hair falling into his eyes and all, whipping around with his movements.

The moment his weight shifts forward, you are already countering. Stepping out of reach just as his arm sweeps for your waist. Your breath comes sharp as you turn and aim a well-placed jab that he sidesteps.

Bucky’s eyes gleam. Thrilled.

“Not bad,” he calls, already throwing another feint.

“Not trying to be”, you fire back, ducking, moving with him like it’s a dance. Like your bodies know this better than your minds do.

You push - he counters. You feint - he laughs, quick and breathy. You strike - he blocks.

Fuck, you missed this.

But then, he shifts.

And something changes.

It’s in his stance. The way he adjusts - not a mistake, but a decision. And in the half-second, before you react, before you catch on, you realize you don’t know what he is planning.

Your body is moving, a reaction before thought, but he is quicker - and you only feel him wind his arm around your waist, spin you around, and crash his lips against yours.

You stagger, letting out a surprised grunt against his mouth, caught completely fucking blindsided, because - what?

His mouth is firm, demanding - and it sears straight through your skin, your ribs, right into your bones, into your pulse, because Bucky Barnes is kissing you.

It’s not soft.

Not hesitant.

Not careful.

It’s everything it shouldn’t be in the middle of a fight.

It’s so unexpected that you don’t even notice the moment your back hits the mat. Don’t notice the way he takes you down like it’s nothing, like it’s unpredictable, because you weren’t ready.

You didn’t see it coming.

By the time you blink, by the time your brain catches up, he is already above you. Hovering.

His weight is balanced, both arms braced on either side of your head, and he is looking at you like he just won the fucking lottery.

Smirking. So damn smug.

Because Bucky finally found out your weakness. And he used it to his advantage.

Because what else could it be than him?

“You cheated,” you breathe out. Where has all the air gone?

“You kinda started it, sweetheart.” Bucky grins so wide, so proud, so happy. He pants above you. His eyes are shining.

And then he ducks down again.

He kisses you once more.

Slower, this time. Deeper. With something that lingers, something that presses into you as his hand slides along your jaw, something that feels like it has been waiting far too long for this exact moment.

And you don’t fight it.

Because it seems, you no longer have to wait for Bucky Barnes.

“You’ll know… not just in the way they look at you, but in how they’re not looking anywhere else.”

- butterflies rising

[surprised-penguin]

Only You, Doll

 Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: There’s something beautiful about the way Bucky loves you—fierce, unrelenting, like you’re the only thing anchoring him to a world he never belonged to. But when harmless smiles from other men threaten to shatter his fragile control, you learn that even a super soldier’s heart isn’t indestructible after all.

Bucky Barnes is not a jealous man. Or at least, that’s the lie he tells himself.

He’s been a lot of things in his unnaturally long life—a soldier, a weapon, a ghost—but jealousy? That’s a weakness for men who have something to lose.

And for most of his life, Bucky’s had nothing.

Until you.

The first time it happens, he doesn’t even notice at first. You’re at Sam’s backyard barbecue, the sun painting your skin gold, and Bucky’s only half-listening to Steve. His eyes keep drifting to you—how you move through the crowd with that easy grace, how you smile like the world’s still worth it, how every time you laugh, his chest aches like a bruise pressed too hard.

Then he sees it. Some guy—one of Sam’s buddies from god-knows-where—gravitating toward you, beer in hand, smile a little too bright.

Bucky watches the whole thing unfold, jaw clenched so tight his teeth hurt. The guy leans in, closer than necessary, and you tilt your head back to laugh at something he says. Bucky doesn’t even realize he’s crossed the yard until Steve calls after him, confused.

You’re mid-sentence when Bucky’s arm slides around your waist, pulling you effortlessly into his side, his touch possessive in a way that makes your pulse skip. His smile is polite when he says, "Hey, doll. Miss me?" but his grip on your hip is anything but.

The guy’s smile falters. You catch it immediately—and so does Bucky. Bucky doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t have to. The man makes a quick excuse and disappears into the crowd.

Only then does Bucky relax, just a fraction, his hand smoothing over the fabric of your dress like it’s some kind of grounding ritual.

"James," you say softly, eyes glittering. "Was that really necessary?"

He kisses your temple instead of answering, but the warmth of his body against yours says everything his words won’t.

You think it’s a one-time thing. It’s not.

At first, it’s almost subtle—his hand finding yours whenever you’re out, his body positioning itself between you and strangers. But soon it becomes a pattern, a choreography of quiet possessiveness.

A waiter calls you "sweetheart"? Bucky tips him 5% less. A man offers to help you carry something? Bucky’s already got it in his vibranium hand. Even at the grocery store, when some poor guy accidentally brushes against you in the aisle, Bucky’s gaze sharpens to a knife’s edge.

The kicker is, he denies it every single time.

Every.

Single.

Time.

The breaking point comes at Tony’s party—glamorous and over-the-top as always.

You’re on the balcony, enjoying the breeze, when a tall blonde drifts over. He’s harmless, you can tell—probably someone’s brother or date. The conversation is light, harmless, until Bucky steps outside.

The moment Bucky spots you—laughing at something the guy said—something dark flickers behind his eyes. His smile vanishes, shoulders squaring like he’s preparing for battle.

You feel him before you see him, the heat of his presence curling over your skin. His hand settles on your lower back, gentle but unmistakable: mine.

The guy catches the signal loud and clear, mumbling something before practically running inside. You watch him go, then glance up at Bucky. "Really?"

Bucky shrugs, but his jaw is tight, tension coiled through his muscles.

"James," you sigh, turning to face him fully. "Are you gonna tell me what that was about?"

He doesn’t answer immediately. Just stares past you, at the glittering city lights, like they hold a truth he can’t bring himself to say aloud.

"I didn’t like the way he was looking at you." His voice is low, almost embarrassed.

"Buck," you step closer, fingers brushing his, "he was harmless."

"So was the last one," Bucky mutters. "And the one before that. And the one before—"

You press a hand to his chest, right over his heart, feeling the rapid beat beneath your palm. "Do you really think I’d ever—"

"No." His answer comes quick, fierce. "It’s not you I don’t trust, doll. It’s men. Men like me."

Your brow furrows. "What does that mean?"

He exhales sharply, like the confession physically hurts. "I know what they’re thinking when they look at you. Because once upon a time, that was me. Before you, before I knew better."

It hits you all at once.

This isn’t about jealousy. Not really. It’s about fear—the kind born from a lifetime of loss and war, from learning the hard way that good things slip through your fingers like smoke.

"Bucky," you whisper, fingers curling into his shirt. "I’m not going anywhere."

His throat bobs with a hard swallow. "I know." But he says it like he doesn’t believe it. Like the universe has never let him keep anything this good before.

Later, curled up on his couch, you poke at him again—because you love him, and because teasing him feels like stitching soft threads through his battle-scarred edges.

"So," you murmur, tracing patterns on his chest, "jealous?"

Bucky groans into the pillow behind his head. "I’m not jealous."

You grin, propping yourself up on one elbow. "Really? Because if I remember correctly, someone nearly growled at a waiter last week."

His arm slides around your waist, tugging you back down until you’re sprawled across him. "I just know men, doll. That’s all."

"Because you are one?"

"Damn right."

"And you don’t trust yourself?"

Bucky’s smile is small, a little crooked. "Not even a little."

You laugh, burying your face in his neck. "James Buchanan Barnes, you are a menace."

He presses a kiss to your temple, voice a soft rumble. "I’m your menace."

And there it is—the truth he can’t always say aloud. That he’s yours. That you’re his.

And maybe, just maybe, if he holds you tight enough, the universe won’t take you away too.

The next morning, you catch him sneaking one of his shirts into your bag before you leave for work.

"Because," he says when you raise a brow, "if men are gonna look at you, they can at least know you belong to someone."

"Possessive much?"

"Absolutely."

You laugh, looping your arms around his neck. "Good. Because you’re mine too, Barnes."

And for the first time, Bucky doesn’t argue.

─────────────

It starts with his shirt.

The one he snuck into your bag this morning. The one you wore to bed tonight, just to tease him.

You’re curled up under the sheets, the worn Henley draping over your thighs, and Bucky’s standing at the edge of the bed—blue eyes darker than the sky outside, jaw tight, hands flexing at his sides like he’s fighting himself.

You know that look. It’s the one he gets when he’s teetering between lover and soldier, between tender and ruthless.

"Something wrong, Sergeant?" you ask, voice soft and playful, but the way his gaze drags over your body—the outline of your bare legs under his shirt, the curve of your hips shifting under the sheets—makes your pulse trip.

Bucky exhales hard, dragging his vibranium hand over his face. "Doll."

Just your name. Just that voice—low and gravel-rough, thick with something hungry.

You sit up slowly, the sheets pooling around your hips, and his Henley slips off one shoulder. Bucky’s eyes track the movement like a predator stalking prey.

"You’ve been pushing me all day," he mutters, stepping toward the bed, his weight sinking into the mattress like a warning. "Talking back. Calling me jealous."

"Because you are," you smile, all innocent and wicked.

Bucky’s weight is over you in a heartbeat, caging you beneath him. The cool press of metal fingers against your jaw makes you shiver.

"You think it’s funny," he says, voice dark silk, "how crazy you make me."

"Maybe a little," you whisper, eyes sparkling with defiance.

He leans in, his nose brushing yours, lips barely an inch away. "Do you know how hard it is," he murmurs, "to watch men look at you like they could ever deserve you?"

Your breath hitches.

"I don’t trust them," he continues, mouth ghosting down your throat, voice fraying at the edges. "But you? I trust you with every fucked-up, broken piece of me."

Your hands slide into his hair, tugging him down until your lips meet his, and the moment they do, the tether snaps.

Bucky kisses you like a man starved—deep and hungry, all teeth and tongue and desperation. His flesh hand fists in the fabric of his own shirt on your body, tugging it up until your bare skin meets the rough drag of his calloused fingers.

"Mine," he growls against your mouth, and you don’t argue.

Because you are. You always have been.

He strips you of his shirt like it’s offended him, tossing it aside carelessly. His lips map a path down your neck, your chest, his metal hand pinning your hips as his mouth closes around your nipple, sucking just hard enough to make you arch.

"Bucky—"

The sound of his name from your lips makes him groan, the sound vibrating against your skin. He kisses lower, trailing down your stomach, his stubble leaving pink paths in his wake, until his shoulders are wedged between your thighs.

"You want me to stop being jealous, doll?" he asks, voice rough silk against your inner thigh. "Fine."

His tongue slides through your slick folds, slow and deliberate, like he has all the time in the world to ruin you.

"I’ll just remind you," he murmurs between kisses, "why you don’t need anyone else."

Your hands tangle in his hair, thighs trembling against his cheeks, and Bucky loves it—loves the way you come undone for him, no barriers, no pretense. Just you, open and wrecked and his.

He works you like a man who knows your body better than his own—tongue circling, fingers curling inside you, teasing and relentless until you’re begging his name like a prayer.

"You’re so fucking perfect," he rasps, eyes flicking up to watch you fall apart. "Every inch of you—mine."

The moment you break, his name on your lips like a confession, Bucky’s already crawling back up your body, mouth crashing into yours, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.

"Need you," you whisper, nails digging into his back. "Need you inside me."

"Fuck," he groans, forehead pressing against yours. "You’ll kill me one day, doll."

He’s already bare—somehow you didn’t even notice him stripping—and when he slides inside you, it’s slow and deep, a claiming and a promise all at once.

You cling to him, legs wrapping around his waist, and Bucky moves like a man who has nowhere else to be. Just here, in this bed, with the only thing he’s ever truly wanted.

Every thrust pushes your bodies closer—skin to skin, heart to heart. His hands never stop touching you, like he’s memorizing you all over again, metal and flesh branding every inch of you his.

"You feel so good," he breathes, voice unraveling. "Like you were made for me."

You pull him down into a kiss, soft this time, your hands cradling his face. "I was."

That undoes him completely.

Bucky fucks you harder after that, like he’s trying to pour every unspoken word into your skin—you’re mine, you’re safe, I love you, I love you, I love you.

When you come again, it’s with his name on your tongue, and Bucky follows you over the edge, spilling inside you with a guttural moan.

For a long moment, neither of you moves. Just tangled limbs and breathless silence, hearts beating in sync.

Bucky finally collapses beside you, pulling you into his chest, and you trace lazy circles over his sternum.

"So," you murmur sleepily, "jealous?"

He groans, burying his face in your hair. "I’m not jealous."

"You just spent twenty minutes reminding me why no one else could ever have me," you point out, grinning against his skin.

Bucky sighs, but there’s no bite to it. "Okay, fine. Maybe a little."

You press a kiss to his chest, right over his heart. "Good."

"Good?"

"Yeah." You nuzzle closer, fingers tracing the edges of his dog tags where they rest against his skin. "Means you’re mine too."

Bucky’s arm tightens around you, holding you like you’re the only thing keeping him tethered to this earth.

"Doll," he whispers, voice softer than you’ve ever heard it, "I’ve been yours since the first smile."

You fall asleep like that, safe in the arms of a man who would burn the world down to keep you.

[surprised-penguin]

Marked What's Mine

Pairings: husband!bucky barnes × wife!reader

Summary: You can hold your own—always have. But that doesn’t stop your husband from going full Winter Soldier mode when he sees someone laid a hand on you.

Warnings: Language, injuries, soft-but-intense husband!Bucky, protective behavior, possessiveness, comfort, fluff, violence mentioned (not graphic), "who did this to you?", lots of banter.

Word count: 1.3k+

A/n: this fic is from my poll where husband au and who did this to u prompt won. I will do the enemies to lovers in my next fic. Thank you for reading <3.

Divider credits: @saradika

Night- 1:47 AM

You turned the front doorknob with all the delicacy of a trained assassin—which, to be fair, you were.

No sound. Good.

You stepped inside, sliding your shoes off silently and tiptoeing like the floorboards might narc on you. You could practically hear your heartbeat in your ears.

He’d be asleep. He had to be.

You could get to the bathroom, clean up, hide the worst of it. He didn’t have to know. You didn’t want him to worry, to spiral. Not again.

You made it three steps down the hallway.

Then— “Don’t move.”

Shit.

His voice cut through the silence, low and lethal. It came from the living room.

You closed your eyes. "Hi, honey. I'm home."

A light flipped on.

Bucky stood by the couch, arms crossed, half in shadow. The sight of him—barefoot, hoodie loose over his broad chest, hair tousled from waiting up—would’ve been comforting, if not for the look in his eyes.

His gaze traveled from your face to your arms, your ribs, where blood had started to seep through your shirt.

He didn’t say a word.

You tried to play it off. “Before you say anything, it looks worse than it is—”

His voice dropped to a whisper.

“Who did this to you?”

You exhaled slowly. “Buck—”

“Don’t. Just…” His jaw clenched. “Stay right there.”

“Bucky, it’s fine. I dodn’t even need stitches—”

“You’re bleeding.” His voice trembled with something dangerous. “You’re limping. You snuck into your own damn house like a thief because you knew I’d lose it if I saw you like this. And guess what? You were right.”

He was in front of you in three long strides.

His hands—warm, shaking—came up to cup your face, careful to avoid the bruises.

“You weren’t supposed to see me like this,” you whispered. “You’d only worry.”

“I worry when you’re five minutes late for lunch. You think this is gonna lessen that?”

“I’m not made of glass—”

“You’re made of everything I live for.”

Your breath caught.

He scanned your injuries with haunted eyes. “Who did this?”

“It’s not important.”

“It is to me.”

You sighed. “I didn’t want you to spiral. Last time you saw me with a busted lip, you threatened to drown a guy in the Hudson.”

“I should’ve.”

“Bucky—”

“Tell me his name.”

You met his eyes. “If I do, you’ll find him.”

He didn’t deny it.

“And if I don’t?” you added.

“I’ll find him anyway.”

You groaned. “You are the most dramatic man I’ve ever met.”

He lifted you into his arms like it was nothing—like you didn’t have two working legs—and carried you down the hall.

“I’m intense,” he corrected. “Not dramatic.”

“You literally brooded in the dark waiting for me to get home.”

“You really thought I wouldn’t notice? Like my wife could come home hurt and I wouldn’t feel it in my chest?”

You let out a weak laugh. “God, you’re annoying.”

“You married me, doll. That’s on you.”

Twenty Minutes Later...

You sat on the bathroom counter while Bucky dabbed antiseptic over the cuts along your ribs, his brows furrowed like each mark physically hurt him more than it hurt you.

He hadn’t stopped touching you.

Even now, his thumb rubbed soft circles into your thigh as he worked.

“Doesn’t even sting,” you said.

“That’s not the point,” he muttered, placing another bandage carefully. “You came home bleeding. You flinched when you took your shirt off. You snuck in.”

“I didn’t want to see your sad little kicked puppy face,” you teased.

He glared. “You’re lucky I love you.”

“No, you’re lucky I love you. You’re high maintenance.”

“Says the woman who took on a six-foot mercenary solo and got cracked in the jaw for it.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You think I didn’t win?”

He paused. “Wait. You won?”

“Cracked three of his ribs and made him cry.”

He stared.

Then—slowly—he grinned.

“That’s my girl.”

You tried not to bask in it, but you totally basked in it.

Still, he wasn’t done.

As he finished wrapping the final gauze, he stood between your legs and stared at you like you held gravity in your hands.“I breathe for you,” he said, voice barely a whisper. “That’s it. That’s the only reason I get up in the morning.”

Your throat went tight. “Bucky—”

“You come home hurt, and it feels like the world’s off its axis. I can’t think. Can’t function. You’re not fragile, babe. You’re the strongest person I know. But the thought of losing you? I’d lose everything.”

God.

You buried your face in his chest, arms tight around him.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Too late. You did. You always do.”

You looked up. “You’re a menace, you know that?”

“You love it.”

“Unfortunately.”

He grinned and kissed your forehead.

Next Day – 2:00 PM

You woke up to an empty bed and a note on the pillow:

Had to step out. Be back soon. Don’t move too much or I’ll find out and carry you around like a baby until you learn your lesson. I love you more than oxygen.

—B <3

You rolled your eyes.

And sighed.

And smiled.

He came back at sunset. Calm. Too calm.

You didn’t even have to ask.

“You found him, didn’t you?”

He dropped his jacket. “Yeah.”

“And?”

“He’s not gonna be walking straight for a while.”

“Bucky…”

“And probably won’t be talking much either.”

You stared at him.

“He’ll live. Probably,” Bucky said with a shrug. “I was nice. For the first ten seconds.”

“Jesus—”

“He laid a hand on you. You really think I wasn’t gonna rearrange his face?”

You huffed, arms crossed, but you were secretly touched. And maybe a little turned on.

“You are so dramatic.”

“No. Dramatic is you sneaking past your literal super soldier husband with blood dripping down your shirt.”

“Fine,” you muttered, walking toward him. “You win.”

He caught you easily, arms pulling you in.

“I always win, doll,” he murmured, kissing your bruised temple. “Especially when it comes to you.”

The Next Morning – 9:07 AM

Sunlight filtered lazily through the curtains, painting golden stripes over the bed where you were curled up like a cat. One leg over the sheet. A little sore. A little achy. But warm.

Bucky stirred beside you, his metal arm slung protectively over your waist.

“You awake?” you mumbled.

“Was watching you breathe,” he rasped, voice still sleep-rough. “You twitch your nose when you’re dreaming.”

“You’re creepy.”

“You married me, sweetheart. This is your fault.”

You snorted, rolling to face him, wincing a little. He was already awake, already watching you with that look. Like you were sacred. Untouchable. His.

“You hurting?” he asked immediately, shifting to sit up. “Need painkillers? Water? I can carry you to the bath—”

“Bucky.”

He blinked.

“I’m okay. It’s just a bruise, not a broken limb. Stop hovering.”

“I’m not hovering.”

“You’re three seconds from spoon-feeding me cereal.”

“…Is that an option?”

You groaned and buried your face in his chest.

“You’re insufferable.”

He chuckled, warm and smug, tucking you tighter under his chin. You stayed like that for a while. Tangled limbs. Warm sheets. His fingers trailing soft patterns on your back like he couldn’t stand not touching you.

“Don’t do that again,” he whispered finally.

You didn’t pretend to not hear it. “Okay.”

“I know you’re strong. I know you can take care of yourself. But if something happens to you—I stop breathing. You get that?”

You swallowed hard. “I get it.”

“I love you so much it makes me a little insane.”

“Only a little?”

“I toned it down for your sake.”

You giggled. “You’re cute when you’re crazy.”

“Good. Because you’re stuck with me.”

You looked up, brushed the hair from his forehead, kissed him slow.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

[surprised-penguin]

I Would Let the World Burn

Pairing: Avenger!Bucky x Non-superhero!Girlfriend!Reader

Summary: You attend a public Avengers event as Bucky’s girlfriend for the first time, but things spiral from nerves to chaos in a matter of seconds. And when you’re caught in the crossfire, Bucky unleashes.

Word Count: 2.4k

Warnings: violence; injury; PTSD elements; emotional distress; explosions; mass panic; allusions to death; protective!Bucky; nobody hurts his girl; seriously, he’s a little feral here

Author’s Note: I need protective Bucky all day and all night omg. Thank you so much, my love, for this absolutely amazing request!! I hope you'll enjoy ♡

2k Drabble Challenge Masterlist | Masterlist

The lights are everywhere.

Glinting off skyscraper windows and camera lenses, bouncing off metallic armor and too-white smiles.

The voices are everywhere. They swarm like bees - the press, the fans, the murmuring of people watching people.

The flash of the cameras is a strobe light stinging the back of your eyes. Reporters shout questions like bullets, flinging them past your ears and into your chest.

You feel your lungs shrinking in your ribcage as if they’ve decided you’ve seen enough. Felt enough. Been too much.

You’re not supposed to be here.

Not in this crowd, not in this dress, not in front of a hundred reporters and their glittering cameras. Not in the spotlight. Not on the arm of the Bucky Barnes.

You tug at the hem of your dress, fingers nervous, breath catching on a sigh you don’t release. Everyone here looks like they belong - as if they were born to walk red carpets and sip sparkling drinks under light that only blinds you. You feel like an ink smudge on a page of golden script.

It’s the first time you’re out in the public with him. The first time the press will capture who’s been speculated to be the former Winter Soldier’s girlfriend.

Bucky spent the night whispering reassurances into your skin, but it seems you should have listened to his words rather than the feeling of his plump lips all over your body.

Your hand is in his, and his thumb traces slow circles against you, metal fingers warm from your skin. His other hand rests lightly on your back. He hasn’t let go of you once.

You look up at him.

And he’s already looking at you.

He looks perfect, tailored, controlled, dangerous in a way that makes people stare too long and then look away even faster.

His hair is swept back tonight, save for one defiant strand that keeps falling across his brow. You keep watching that strand as if it’s a lifeline. Like if you can count how many times it falls, maybe your nerves will shut the hell up.

You know he feels how tense you are.

He frowns, and it’s so soft it nearly breaks your heart. That Bucky Barnes can frown like that. As if you just told him you were fading into dust.

“Hey,” Bucky coos, voice soft, voice low, the world dissolving for a second into nothing but him and you. “You okay, sweetheart?”

You try to nod. But you can’t lie to him. Words jam in your throat, caught somewhere between the beat of your heart and the reality of who he is and who you are not.

“I just-” you manage, but it’s a little shaky, you look around. “I feel out of place.”

Bucky tilts his head, brow still furrowed tightly. “Why?”

You open your mouth, then close it again. Try to explain how it feels to be ordinary in a sea of extraordinary. How it feels to be his, but not one of them. How terrifying it is to not have armor, or training, or anything more than love for a man who could kill with his pinky finger and kindness in his eyes just for you.

Bucky steps in close, crowding the noise out with the breadth of his body, his warmth, the familiarity of his scent - cedar and cold and something quietly him. His nose brushes yours, and it’s stupid how it grounds you.

“I’d rather be anywhere else,” he murmurs, eyes locked on yours. “I’d rather be nowhere. Just me and you. On a rooftop. Under the sheets. In the woods. I don’t care. Just not here. No noise. No cameras. No Stark in a tuxedo with a martini making bad decisions.”

You laugh, and it trembles out of you.

His smile is all softness and secret promises. His eyes are glinting. “But if I have to be here - then I'm glad it’s with you.”

The way he says it - quiet, low, as if it’s something he only ever told the wind - freezes everything inside you and sets it on fire all at once.

You blink, and the fear stutters. Collapses a little. Because it’s not you and the Avengers. It’s you and Bucky.

His lips graze your ear, then your temple, taking his time. He’s not bothered at all by the cameras flashing around you, capturing this moment, capturing the Winter Soldier going soft on his girlfriend.

You want to fall into him. You want to crawl into his chest and live there.

You let out a breath. It’s just beginning to feel okay. The world quiets just for a second.

Then it explodes.

There’s a metallic whine, a rumble like thunder swallowed by stone. The ground jerks beneath your feet as though it’s trying to shake you off. Screams tear through the air. A plume of smoke mushrooms in the sky as fire roars from the far end of the pavilion. People scatter. Glass shatters. Concrete buckles.

You don’t even have time to be shocked when Bucky already reacts.

He pushes you behind him so fast your teeth snap together. He doesn’t look back. His body shields yours, metal arm braced outward, flesh hand pressing you into his back, eyes scanning for threats.

Another explosion cracks through the sky, rips through the atmosphere like an angry god. And right after, the next explosion follows, punched through the sky like a fist made of fire.

You cough, eyes watering. There’s debris. Someone’s car door skitters across the ground like a dead insect. Tony’s suit whirs to life across the square. Natasha’s already sprinting. Sam is in the air.

Bucky is moving, dragging you behind a line of armored cars, his body is coiled with tension, his expression is deadly serious.

“Stay here!” he orders. It’s his soldier voice. Cold steel and no argument. He’s never used this voice on you before.

“Bucky-”

“Y/n, stay down,” he barks sharply, and you nearly flinch. But his tone is not filled with anger. It’s filled with fear. “Do not move until I come back for you.”

Your heart is pounding so hard you think it might break your ribs. Your head is shaking from side to side so fast, you can’t do anything. “No- Bucky-”

He cups your face, his hands stiff, his hold almost rough. He leans in. “Stay. Here,” he growls. “I can’t do this if I’m worried about you.”

His eyes tell you he already is. He will be. But he doesn’t tell you.

He waits for you to nod, although he doesn’t have the time. An almost aggressive kiss is pressed to your mouth, then to your forehead, and he is gone. Thrown into chaos, lost in the smoke and fury and shouts.

You barely register the space he leaves behind. The smoke moves like a creature through the crowd, making people disappear wholly. Somewhere nearby, there’s another explosion. The screams rise again, louder.

You crouch lower, press yourself against the cold steel of the car, try to breathe through the hammer in your chest. You want to do what he said. You try to do what he said.

But the panic moves toward you.

You don’t see where it starts. Just feel it. A shove. A push. Someone collides with your hiding place, someone is behind you and suddenly you’re on the ground. White-hot pain at your side. You fall hard enough to see stars. A sharp ache slices down your shoulder where debris must have caught you. Blood runs hot and slick beneath your dress.

Disoriented, you try to push up on trembling arms but they shake too much, and everything is spinning.

You don’t see the soldier until you turn your head and there’s a flash of metal in his hand. A knife.

“Y/n!”

It’s your name. It’s Bucky’s voice. It’s not a shout. It’s a roar. As if it was ripped out of his chest. As if he’s afraid of what he’ll find when he gets to you.

From fifty yards away, across smoke and bodies and fire, he sees the blood blooming on your sleeve. Sees your fingers twitch as you try to sit up. Sees the man with the knife coming too close.

And he is barreling through the smoke like something unholy, eyes wild, teeth clenched, hands balled to fists. The light behind his eyes just snaps.

He moves as though he’s been set free. No hesitation. No fear. No softness left in him. His face is stone, is fury, is death, is Winter Soldier. His arm gleams under the flames, a ghost of his past resurrected in defense of his present.

Bucky hits the guy with bone-crushing force, enough to send teeth skittering across pavement. A scream echoes once before it’s cut off. Another blow. Another. Fist to face. Elbow to jaw. A crunch that sounds like death and rage all rolled into one. His vibranium hand wraps around the man’s throat, and you swear you see something flash in his eyes - something ancient and broken - before Bucky picks him up and slams him against a crumbling wall. Again. And again.

It’s not strategy. It’s not mercy. It’s pure rage.

Somewhere, Steve yells his name like a warning.

Bucky doesn’t stop.

“Bucky-” you croak, blood warm down your arm. You try to sit up.

In an instant, he turns back to you, easing up on his brutal hold and the soldier crumples to the ground. Bucky’s whole body is tight with adrenaline, his breath sawing in and out as though he ran through a warzone - which he kind of did. For you. His eyes find yours and shatter.

He’s at your side in half a breath.

“Baby,” he whispers, hands on your face, on your shoulder, trembling now. “No, no, no. You weren’t supposed to be- I told you to stay-”

“I tried,” you defend weakly, dizzy. “I didn’t- I’m okay. I think. Just- grazed me, maybe-”

But he’s not hearing you. Not through the panic tearing holes in his composure. His hands flutter, unsure where to land without hurting you more. His voice drops, gravelly and hushed. “I shouldn’t have brought you here. Shit, I should’ve known-”

“Hey.” You grab his wrists. “Bucky.”

He stills, but he won’t meet your eyes. Your thumb brushes the inside of his wrist. “I’m okay.”

But he’s too far in his head.

He wraps you in his arms in seconds, cradles you as if you’re made of moonlight and scripture, as if you’re hallowed and half-broken and held together by threads only he can see.

His metal hand supports your back, curved protectively around your spine. His other hand is pressing your legs into his chest.

The darkening sky is still full of smoke and sirens.

Colors smear across the sky like blood in water. Reds and blues. Shouting and static. Flashing lights and fractured ground. Somewhere nearby, someone is screaming. Somewhere farther, something explodes.

But not for him anymore. He doesn’t seem to hear anything. Doesn’t seem to listen to anything other than your breathing, your pulse.

He walks fast, but carefully. Erratic feet cut through rubble, his jaw is locked so hard, his body so rigid, he surely is in pain from holding all that tension. His eyes are storm-dark and unblinking. No one stops him. Not Steve. Not Tony. Not even the medics who see the look on his face and take a cautious step back as though maybe the devil borrowed his bones tonight.

He never trusted any random medic to look you over. It has to be someone he knows.

You whisper his name.

Soft. Breathless. Almost an apology.

And he almost drops to his knees.

“I’ve got you,” he rasps, hoarse and urgent. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

You know you are. But he doesn’t.

Your fingers curl in the collar of his suit jacket. His real name - James - lives on your tongue but never quite makes it out because he’s holding you too close, and perhaps saying his name might crush him completely.

He smells like smoke and ash and steel and blood. Your temple is tucked against the curve of his neck, where his pulse thunders beneath the surface. He’s warm and shaking.

He bursts into the quinjet that brought you here like a man on fire, like a man trying to outpace grief, and he yells something sharp. He lays you down - reluctantly, tenderly, surrendering - onto a stretcher, but his hands don’t stop touching you.

He’s a storm with a purpose, and that purpose is you.

You, safe.

You, whole.

You, alive.

“Bucky,” you try to ease, blinking up at him, face pale under flickering emergency lights. “I told you, baby. It’s not that bad.” Your voice is soft. Slow.

“You were on the ground.” His voice cracks.

“I was on the ground for like two seconds-”

“You’re bleeding.”

“It stopped, baby. Okay? There’s no fresh blood.” You are close to whispering.

Bucky doesn’t seem eased, though. He sits beside you. Big body bent in half, elbows on knees, one trembling hand reaching to gently - so, so gently - brush your hair from your forehead.

And then he says it.

“I would’ve burned the whole goddamn city to get to you.” Quiet. Like a vow. Like a confession. Like faith. Like a truth, he doesn’t know how to carry anymore. “I would’ve torn down buildings with my bare hands if I didn’t see your breathing. I don’t care who saw. I don’t care what they think-” his voice breaks, his breaths spill all over his words. “I can’t be okay without you.”

You stare up at him. Your throat is tight, eyes are stinging. Because he doesn’t say things like that. Not often. Not out loud. You see it in his eyes every day, in the way he looks at you, in the way he treats you. But it’s something else entirely to hear him form those words and let his tongue roll them out.

He presses his forehead to yours. His breath ghosts over your lips. His eyes are closed. His hand cups the back of your head.

He’s holding you so close to him, as if he’s never intending to let go ever again.

[surprised-penguin]

Marked What's Mine

Pairings: husband!bucky barnes × wife!reader

Summary: You can hold your own—always have. But that doesn’t stop your husband from going full Winter Soldier mode when he sees someone laid a hand on you.

Warnings: Language, injuries, soft-but-intense husband!Bucky, protective behavior, possessiveness, comfort, fluff, violence mentioned (not graphic), "who did this to you?", lots of banter.

Word count: 1.3k+

A/n: this fic is from my poll where husband au and who did this to u prompt won. I will do the enemies to lovers in my next fic. Thank you for reading <3.

Divider credits: @saradika

Night- 1:47 AM

You turned the front doorknob with all the delicacy of a trained assassin—which, to be fair, you were.

No sound. Good.

You stepped inside, sliding your shoes off silently and tiptoeing like the floorboards might narc on you. You could practically hear your heartbeat in your ears.

He’d be asleep. He had to be.

You could get to the bathroom, clean up, hide the worst of it. He didn’t have to know. You didn’t want him to worry, to spiral. Not again.

You made it three steps down the hallway.

Then— “Don’t move.”

Shit.

His voice cut through the silence, low and lethal. It came from the living room.

You closed your eyes. "Hi, honey. I'm home."

A light flipped on.

Bucky stood by the couch, arms crossed, half in shadow. The sight of him—barefoot, hoodie loose over his broad chest, hair tousled from waiting up—would’ve been comforting, if not for the look in his eyes.

His gaze traveled from your face to your arms, your ribs, where blood had started to seep through your shirt.

He didn’t say a word.

You tried to play it off. “Before you say anything, it looks worse than it is—”

His voice dropped to a whisper.

“Who did this to you?”

You exhaled slowly. “Buck—”

“Don’t. Just…” His jaw clenched. “Stay right there.”

“Bucky, it’s fine. I dodn’t even need stitches—”

“You’re bleeding.” His voice trembled with something dangerous. “You’re limping. You snuck into your own damn house like a thief because you knew I’d lose it if I saw you like this. And guess what? You were right.”

He was in front of you in three long strides.

His hands—warm, shaking—came up to cup your face, careful to avoid the bruises.

“You weren’t supposed to see me like this,” you whispered. “You’d only worry.”

“I worry when you’re five minutes late for lunch. You think this is gonna lessen that?”

“I’m not made of glass—”

“You’re made of everything I live for.”

Your breath caught.

He scanned your injuries with haunted eyes. “Who did this?”

“It’s not important.”

“It is to me.”

You sighed. “I didn’t want you to spiral. Last time you saw me with a busted lip, you threatened to drown a guy in the Hudson.”

“I should’ve.”

“Bucky—”

“Tell me his name.”

You met his eyes. “If I do, you’ll find him.”

He didn’t deny it.

“And if I don’t?” you added.

“I’ll find him anyway.”

You groaned. “You are the most dramatic man I’ve ever met.”

He lifted you into his arms like it was nothing—like you didn’t have two working legs—and carried you down the hall.

“I’m intense,” he corrected. “Not dramatic.”

“You literally brooded in the dark waiting for me to get home.”

“You really thought I wouldn’t notice? Like my wife could come home hurt and I wouldn’t feel it in my chest?”

You let out a weak laugh. “God, you’re annoying.”

“You married me, doll. That’s on you.”

Twenty Minutes Later...

You sat on the bathroom counter while Bucky dabbed antiseptic over the cuts along your ribs, his brows furrowed like each mark physically hurt him more than it hurt you.

He hadn’t stopped touching you.

Even now, his thumb rubbed soft circles into your thigh as he worked.

“Doesn’t even sting,” you said.

“That’s not the point,” he muttered, placing another bandage carefully. “You came home bleeding. You flinched when you took your shirt off. You snuck in.”

“I didn’t want to see your sad little kicked puppy face,” you teased.

He glared. “You’re lucky I love you.”

“No, you’re lucky I love you. You’re high maintenance.”

“Says the woman who took on a six-foot mercenary solo and got cracked in the jaw for it.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You think I didn’t win?”

He paused. “Wait. You won?”

“Cracked three of his ribs and made him cry.”

He stared.

Then—slowly—he grinned.

“That’s my girl.”

You tried not to bask in it, but you totally basked in it.

Still, he wasn’t done.

As he finished wrapping the final gauze, he stood between your legs and stared at you like you held gravity in your hands.“I breathe for you,” he said, voice barely a whisper. “That’s it. That’s the only reason I get up in the morning.”

Your throat went tight. “Bucky—”

“You come home hurt, and it feels like the world’s off its axis. I can’t think. Can’t function. You’re not fragile, babe. You’re the strongest person I know. But the thought of losing you? I’d lose everything.”

God.

You buried your face in his chest, arms tight around him.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Too late. You did. You always do.”

You looked up. “You’re a menace, you know that?”

“You love it.”

“Unfortunately.”

He grinned and kissed your forehead.

Next Day – 2:00 PM

You woke up to an empty bed and a note on the pillow:

Had to step out. Be back soon. Don’t move too much or I’ll find out and carry you around like a baby until you learn your lesson. I love you more than oxygen.

—B <3

You rolled your eyes.

And sighed.

And smiled.

He came back at sunset. Calm. Too calm.

You didn’t even have to ask.

“You found him, didn’t you?”

He dropped his jacket. “Yeah.”

“And?”

“He’s not gonna be walking straight for a while.”

“Bucky…”

“And probably won’t be talking much either.”

You stared at him.

“He’ll live. Probably,” Bucky said with a shrug. “I was nice. For the first ten seconds.”

“Jesus—”

“He laid a hand on you. You really think I wasn’t gonna rearrange his face?”

You huffed, arms crossed, but you were secretly touched. And maybe a little turned on.

“You are so dramatic.”

“No. Dramatic is you sneaking past your literal super soldier husband with blood dripping down your shirt.”

“Fine,” you muttered, walking toward him. “You win.”

He caught you easily, arms pulling you in.

“I always win, doll,” he murmured, kissing your bruised temple. “Especially when it comes to you.”

The Next Morning – 9:07 AM

Sunlight filtered lazily through the curtains, painting golden stripes over the bed where you were curled up like a cat. One leg over the sheet. A little sore. A little achy. But warm.

Bucky stirred beside you, his metal arm slung protectively over your waist.

“You awake?” you mumbled.

“Was watching you breathe,” he rasped, voice still sleep-rough. “You twitch your nose when you’re dreaming.”

“You’re creepy.”

“You married me, sweetheart. This is your fault.”

You snorted, rolling to face him, wincing a little. He was already awake, already watching you with that look. Like you were sacred. Untouchable. His.

“You hurting?” he asked immediately, shifting to sit up. “Need painkillers? Water? I can carry you to the bath—”

“Bucky.”

He blinked.

“I’m okay. It’s just a bruise, not a broken limb. Stop hovering.”

“I’m not hovering.”

“You’re three seconds from spoon-feeding me cereal.”

“…Is that an option?”

You groaned and buried your face in his chest.

“You’re insufferable.”

He chuckled, warm and smug, tucking you tighter under his chin. You stayed like that for a while. Tangled limbs. Warm sheets. His fingers trailing soft patterns on your back like he couldn’t stand not touching you.

“Don’t do that again,” he whispered finally.

You didn’t pretend to not hear it. “Okay.”

“I know you’re strong. I know you can take care of yourself. But if something happens to you—I stop breathing. You get that?”

You swallowed hard. “I get it.”

“I love you so much it makes me a little insane.”

“Only a little?”

“I toned it down for your sake.”

You giggled. “You’re cute when you’re crazy.”

“Good. Because you’re stuck with me.”

You looked up, brushed the hair from his forehead, kissed him slow.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

[surprised-penguin]

Where Worlds Collide - Intro

Pairing: Silver Fox!Sugar Daddy!Alpha!Bucky Barnes x Omega!Female Reader

Summary: Your boss forces you to be eye candy for an alpha at a gala, but things take a turn for the better when you meet another alpha. Does it matter that you don't belong in his world?

Word Count: Over 9.2k

Warnings: Smut, v. fingering, possessive behavior, dirty talk, instant connection, A/B/O dynamics, talk of bonding, misogyny, unspecified age gap, insecurities, world building, choking (not our reader… yet), Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?)

A/N: I'm pretty proud of the intro to this world, lovelies! @whisperlullaby, @targaryenvampireslayer, @tavners, here it is! Ant thanks to @queenoftheworldisdead as well. ❤️ Beta read by the lovely @mumbles411, but any and all mistakes are my own. Bucky edit by the beautiful @nixakimbo. Divider by the talented @saradika-graphics. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

Soft music drifted from the ballroom as you stepped into the lavish venue. You’d never been to a gala before. Your family wasn’t wealthy enough to receive an invitation, nor did your last name carry any influence. The only reason you were there tonight was because of the alpha on your arm, all thanks to your boss’s insistence that you accompany him.

It was an evening of style, grace, and luxury, and you didn’t belong.

You held your breath as you walked deeper into the ballroom, the glittering chandeliers casting a refined glow over everything. A mix of alphas, betas, and omegas socialized and gossiped, their glamorous evening wear glittering under the lights. You had designed a few of the dresses and suits, but none of the people wearing them would recognize you. The alpha you worked for always took the credit. Complaining about it wouldn’t help. After all, you’d only sound like an ungrateful omega and hundreds of other omegas would beg to take your place.

You couldn’t wait for the day you quit.

Chet’s grip on your arm brought you back to the present. “Keep quiet and smile,” he ordered, a haughty expression on his face as he led you through the place. You didn't want to judge all men named Chet, but you had pegged him as a douchebag the second he went in for his fitting and he was proving you right. You couldn't even enjoy that he was objectively handsome since his personality made him less attractive.

“I am smiling,” you said. Wrinkling your nose at the overwhelming mix of scents and expensive colognes and perfumes, you did your best to make your smile look natural. The servers looked like they were doing the same as they served everyone. It was strange how a room so enormous could make someone feel so small.

“Then keep smiling,” Chet ordered through his grin. “What you do or don’t do is a reflection of me.”

“I know,” you muttered. Because it was all about him and you were just his omega arm candy. You really should’ve demanded overtime pay from your boss, but that conversation wouldn’t have ended well.

“As it stands, perhaps I made the right choice by bringing you,” he said, nodding to a few older gentlemen. “I can smell their envy.”

You did notice a few more men looking your way. A few women as well, not hiding that they were whispering about you. Trying to hide your vulnerability, you held yourself the way you thought a goddess would. You also held yourself with pride since the dress you wore was your own design. A sleeveless black dress with a middle slit, it was bold and alluring. The glitter throughout the fabric made you shine like stars in the night sky. The finishing touch was the matching collar, a tasteful way to protect you from any alpha who even thought about marking you.

Reaching up instinctively to run a hand over your collar, you felt your heart ache. Your inner omega wanted a mark, but the thought of being tied to someone was somewhat terrifying. You respected omegas who wanted to go the traditional route by staying home and being submissive, but you didn’t want to be submissive outside of the bedroom. You wanted a partner who would view you as an equal.

Your false confidence didn’t last long when Chet’s grip on you tightened, your body immediately going stiff. You’d have to take a long shower and dry clean your dress just to get rid of his scent. “Loosen up,” he ordered.

“Maybe I’d loosen up if you weren’t digging your fingers in,” you whispered.

“You’re my date. It’s my right to touch you,” he sneered. He had no right. It didn't matter if he was an alpha and he was rich. The urge to slap him across his face was so strong your palm itched. “So, get the stick out of your ass.”

A shiver rolled down your spine when you heard a low growl come from another alpha. Glancing around, you didn’t see anyone looking directly at you. It probably had nothing to do with you because why would anyone care if an alpha was bossing you around?

Chet’s hold on you loosened nonetheless. “And just so we’re clear, you have no intention of sleeping with me?” he asked as an omega in a revealing dress sauntered by. Your date didn’t bother to hide how he was undressing her with his eyes.

“That’s right,” you said. You made it clear to your boss that sex wasn’t an option, and he was oddly on your side. Maybe he thought Chet could sway you if he tried hard enough. If he even thought of using some sort of alpha command on you, nothing would stop you from lashing out and making him sorry.

“Then you’ll have no problem finding your own ride home should I choose to leave with someone else,” he said.

“So, I can’t make you look bad, but you can leave with another omega?” you asked.

“You got it. You’re smarter than you look.” He tapped your nose with a condescending grin. “And here I thought you were just a pretty face.”

The prick was pushing his luck. “Listen you-”

“Chet, my boy! Good to see you!” A man interrupted, uncaring that you were speaking.

“Shane,” Chet smiled. “Always a pleasure.”

The bulky alpha shamelessly looked you over, his scent almost making you choke on your next breath. “And who might this be?”

“Pretty, isn't she?” Chet cut in before you could answer, puffing his chest out. “Doesn't say much, but I’m not exactly interested in her conversational skills, am I?”

You bit your tongue when they chuckled. Be seen and not heard. It was insulting.

“Come join me, but leave the omega,” Shane said unapologetically, taking another look at your chest. What would happen if you threw a drink in his face? “As entertaining as she would be, we have business to discuss, and we don’t need the distraction.”

“Of course,” Chet smiled, turning you toward the bar as Shane walked away. “Since he doesn't want you around, why don't you take advantage of the free drinks until I get back?”

“I’m not-”

“And not that you’d have any extra cash to tip, but it’s taken care of,” he continues, your face hot at the assumption that you couldn't afford to tip the staff. “Just behave and try not to make a fool out of either of us, you got it? Wouldn’t want your boss to hear about it if you do.”

Biting back a retort, you freed yourself from his grip. There wasn’t enough liquor at this party to get you through the rest of this evening. “Don’t worry about me, alpha. Go have fun,” you said, your eyes burning as he walked away. A few heads turned your way when your scent soured. It wasn’t enough that you had to attend an event where you didn’t belong, but your date just had to rub salt in the open wound by reminding you of such. “Fucking asshole,” you muttered, making your way over to the bar to order a drink.

Plastering a smile back on your face when you got the bartender’s attention, you ordered a whiskey on the rocks. You wanted something that would go down smooth but leave a little burn. You also preferred opting to watch the bartender make a drink in front of you instead of grabbing a glass of already poured champagne. The drinks were likely fine, but better safe than sorry. And like hell would you accept a drink from your sorry excuse for a “date” if he offered you one. He was lucky you-

An intoxicating scent hit you out of nowhere, making you grip the bar as you inhaled. Plums, whiskey, sandalwood. The blended aromas had your mouth watering, and a whimper threatened to slip out. Your heart pounded against your ribs. Desire burned in your stomach. As quickly as the scent excited you, it seemed to wrap itself around you in a soothing embrace. How could a smell leave you hot and bothered and also feel like a hug?

No… It couldn’t be your mate.

You caught a small movement out of the corner of your eye, and you stopped breathing when you found a pair of blue eyes fixed on you that belonged to a devilishly handsome man. He leaned against the wall, his wool-blend black suit fitting his thick body like second skin. Streaks of gray lined his luscious brown hair and peppered his beard, too. He looked like the kind of alpha who would have omegas kneeling at his feet, and it frightened you how badly you wanted to get on your hands and knees and crawl toward him.

His. Mine.

Lifting his tumbler to his lips, he kept his eyes on you as he sipped the expensive liquor. You wanted to look away but couldn't as the air crackled between you. He had you under some sort of trance you couldn't snap yourself out of. As frightening as it was to have a scent hit you so strongly, a feeling like this hit you square in the chest, the thought of him staring at another omega that way nearly made you hiss because you didn't want anyone else on the receiving end of those blue eyes.

He smirked like he read your mind and pushed himself off the wall. You did whimper out loud when you realized just how large he was. Dominant, assertive, yet there was something almost playful in his smirk when he finally broke his gaze. You greedily inhaled with the hope of catching more of his scent when he strode toward the nearby balcony, smooth and fluid as a server quickly took the empty tumbler from his hand. The men at the gala were all posturing, but no one could match the confidence of that alpha.

So how were people not surrounding him, begging for a scrap of attention? Was he untouchable among those who deemed themselves untouchable? He certainly didn’t look like the kind of man who chased after anyone. No, people went to him.

He wanted you to follow him, right?

Downing your drink in one gulp, your feet moved before you could stop yourself. “I don’t need this alpha,” you whispered, the words bitter in your mouth as you followed his path. If you were smart, you’d walk the other way and not look back. Yet the thought of never seeing him again made your heart ache in a way you didn’t want to examine.

Does he know?

Studies over the years showed that not every bound pair was the same. Some couples felt the bond instantaneously like a firework exploding. Others felt it like a small burn that slowly consumed them over time. For a few, the spark took a long time to ignite. You couldn't ignore this burn if you tried.

You welcomed the slight chill in the air as you stepped onto the large balcony. It was lit up with sparkling lights, yet it didn’t take away from the stars that shone in the sky above. The alpha who caught your eye stood by the railing, alone, like he was looking over a kingdom. You felt foolish for going out there to bother him.

Steeling yourself with false confidence again, you walked over to stand beside him. You weren’t close enough to touch him, wanting to leave him a respectable amount of space. You could always use the excuse that you just needed some fresh air if he asked what you were doing.

Stealing a glance at him, you didn’t want to believe that you had a true connection with this man, that he could be your mate. No way would an omega like you be his match. Would he even want an omega like you? One with dreams to do more, be more?

“Beautiful,” he said, his voice thick like honey and the whiskey you drank. Of course, his voice would be a powerful weapon. But he wasn’t scenting you, or trying to tear your collar off, or doing anything to indicate that he felt the sort of spark you had. Maybe that was for the best.

“It is,” you sighed, looking out at the view. You couldn’t deny the beauty and how much easier it was to breathe since you weren’t surrounded by the suffocating bodies and scents. “It really is something.”

“I was talking about you.”

You whipped your head toward him so quickly you nearly hurt your neck. The flare of heat in his eyes hypnotized you again, but this time you didn’t want him to draw you in. A man of his stature, his power, he could chew you up, spit you out, and leave you a shell of yourself. But seeing him up close, his laugh lines, and the touch of softness in his gaze, you wanted to know all about him and the life he lived.

You were in so much trouble.

“Thank you,” you breathed.

“I don't think I’ve seen you at a gala before. I would've remembered you,” he stated. You weren't sure what to say to that. “I’m James, but you can call me Bucky if you’d like.”

You blinked a few times. “You’re James Barnes,” you whispered, not having to belong in the inner circle to know who he was.

James Buchanan Barnes. One of the wealthiest alphas in the city, his family came from money and it was no secret that Bucky, as he liked to go by, wasn’t bound to anyone. People assumed that he didn't want to share his wealth with anyone beyond his charitable donations, or that he was either extremely picky in choosing a mate. And here he was talking to you. This was the man you thought could be your mate.

You were in way over your head.

“I am,” he said, looking at you expectantly.

It took a moment, but your name tumbled from your lips as you shifted toward him. He inhaled when a breeze rolled in and you hoped your scent got to him the way his scent got to you. The way his eyes darkened, it had. Your inner omega wanted to purr with delight.

Time stood still when he took your hand and brought it to his lips. “It’s a pleasure,” he whispered, his lips brushing your knuckles. “I hope you don’t mind me being forward, but…”

“But what?”

You held your breath when he turned your hand and ran his nose along your wrist with a small growl. It was bold, intimate, possessive, and you got impossibly wet from the action. Had Chet or another alpha done that, it would've been a different story. “You smell divine,” he whispered against your skin.

You whined before your inner hackles went up, making him pull his mouth away immediately. He at least had some level of respect and sensed the shift in your stance. “How many omegas have you said that and done that to?” you asked when you had no right to feel jealous.

He didn’t look put off by your question, and he didn’t let go of your hand either. “I’ve come across a few delectable scents before, but I don’t think I’ve ever described anyone as divine,” he answered, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. An intense longing behind his eyes had your knees weak. “I haven’t smelled anyone like you.”

This alpha was telling the truth, but he wasn't a boy scout either. He knew how to fuck, you could tell, and he likely broke hearts without intending to. You didn’t want to be the next victim if a quick fuck was all he was looking for.

“I haven’t smelled anyone like you either,” you admitted, grudgingly pulling away. His heady scent made it hard to concentrate. And standing close to a man who wore a suit that cost more than half a year’s rent was another reminder that you were a girl playing dress up, nothing more. “I should go. I shouldn’t be here.”

Bucky stopped you from turning away, his grip on your arms tender so you wouldn’t feel threatened. “And why is that?”

“Because I don’t belong here, and I don’t expect you to understand that,” you replied.

It was bad enough to let your guard down by following him out there, and you couldn’t let him seduce you more than he already had. You were lucky the very presence of him didn't trigger your heat. And how would your story end? He was a rich alpha, and you were a struggling omega. Was happiness really in the cards?

Your eyes widened when you heard the rumble in his chest, his scent producing a soothing aura that wrapped around you. Your lip trembled slightly as the rumble faded. Bucky could’ve let you walk away, yet he was comforting you. It made you want to cry.

“I may understand better than you think,” he whispered. Did he? Did he feel alone in that crowd of people there? “But help me understand why you feel that way.”

You rapidly blinked to keep the tears at bay. What was there for him to understand? “Okay,” you whispered back. The fact that he wanted you to talk to him meant something. “For starters, that crowd is kind of… well, awful from the short time I observed and interacted with them. They think they’re better than everyone else because they have so much, but they have no right to look down on others.”

The people in the gala simply flaunted what they had without a second thought. Being there made you appreciate your friends and their genuine interactions more. They worked hard for everything they had. They wouldn’t have anything against people born with a silver spoon in their mouths if they showed a little humility.

Bucky's chuckle surprised you. “Money doesn’t equal class, and believe me when I say they aren’t worth taking up any space in your beautiful mind,” he said, giving you a small smile. “To be honest, I came out here to get away from them because, save a select few, they're fucking assholes.”

You found yourself smiling, too. No wonder he has been standing by himself. “Is that the only reason?” you asked curiously, reaching up to touch his perfect hair simply because you could.

He looked at you, a mixture of lust and something soft. Standing like this you felt like a couple. “I may have wanted you to follow me, and I’m glad you did,” he said, his tone calm and casual as butterflies filled your stomach. “You’re the first person I’ve considered approaching in a long time, but you looked a bit upset when you went to the bar. I didn’t think bothering you would win me any favors.”

You exhaled. Was he the alpha who growled when Chet gripped you too tightly? “I…” you shivered when another breeze rolled in.

He shrugged his jacket the moment he spotted you shivered. “May I?” he offered.

You hesitated. Bucky had a powerful scent, and how would it look to Chet if you wore another alpha’s jacket? Chet wasn’t your alpha, but he could run his mouth and get you in trouble with your boss. It didn’t matter that you wanted to quit one day. Today wasn’t that day because you financially weren’t ready. That was the excuse you made up in your head.

But your inner omega wanted Bucky’s scent to surround you and you replied in a small voice, “Yes, please.”

Bucky carefully placed the warm jacket around your shoulders. “I know the crowd bothered you for good reason, but who specifically upset you and how can I fix it?”

“My date,” you answered. You didn't have it in you to lie to him. It also wasn't up to him to fix it.

Bucky hummed, running his hands up and down your arms. It helped warm and relax you. “What’s his name?” he asked, his eyes landing on the collar around your neck. You wondered what he would do if your mating gland was exposed, and you had to push that thought away.

“His name is Chet and he’s discussing business with some alpha.” The change in his scent was subtle. He seemed too confident to be jealous, but he didn’t seem pleased either at the thought of you being with someone else. “They were extremely condescending, and I couldn’t exactly throw a drink in their faces or put them in their place since I’m just an omega.”

Bucky snarled quietly, his eyes blazing. “You’re not just an omega,” he said. He was upset on your behalf. Was he not like other older alphas who wanted omegas to be subservient? “Maybe I should have a chat with them.”

You purred before you could stop yourself. Bucky offering to stand up for you felt better than you wanted to admit. “You don't have to do that,” you said, running your fingers through his hair again. You wanted to soothe him the way he soothed you. “Besides, I’m not really on a date with Chet. He just wanted me to be eye candy for the night.”

Bucky almost snarled again, but raised an eyebrow instead. “And you agreed to that? I have the feeling you aren’t the arm candy type.”

You giggled. He was right about that. “Didn’t really have a choice thanks to my boss,” you told him.

“Your boss? What exactly do you do for work?” he asked carefully.

He asked a lot of questions, but you didn't mind since he seemed genuinely interested. Maybe he assumed you were an escort. “I'm a designer,” you answered, smiling to yourself. “At least, I want to be. I’m just an assistant at the moment.”

“Let me guess. Your boss is an alpha, makes you do the grunt work, and takes the credit?” he mused, humming when you solemnly nodded. “And he convinced you to come here tonight because Chet is a client?”

“Something like that. It was either that or I get fired,” you laughed bitterly. “And if he fired me I’d get blacklisted, then I’d have no job, no money at all, and I’d lose my tiny apartment and…”

His nose wrinkled when you trailed off. You were so embarrassed, and you couldn’t stop your scent from souring. Talking to one of the richest alphas ever about your problems wasn’t something you thought you’d experience tonight, but that soothing rumble and smell came out again to help you breathe easier.

“I’m sorry you have to deal with that,” he said with a touch of firmness so you knew he didn’t pity you. You could take a lot of things, but not pity.

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” you said, smoothing out some of the fabric on your dress and not wanting to dwell on the topic. “I actually made this,” you told him. It was silly, but you specifically wanted to hear something nice from Bucky to make you feel better, which was bad. You shouldn’t want compliments from him or want him period.

He parted his jacket so he could look you over. Unlike Shane leering at you earlier, Bucky seemed to take in the details of your design with a careful eye. “You made this? It’s stunning,” he said with pride that rivaled yours. You lost your breath when he ran the back of his finger along your torso, heat spreading through your body like a wildfire. “Like you.”

Your mind raced, the heavy weight of his gaze pinning you in place. The longer you stood there, the more you wanted him. You had to snap out of it. “You’re dangerous,” you whispered, shaking your head as his hand fell away. “I should go inside.”

He stepped back, his eyes searching yours. “Am I making you uncomfortable?”

“No,” you replied honestly. Some of his actions were forward, but he wasn’t pushy. He was the sort of predator who probably gently played with his food before he sank his teeth in, yet you weren’t completely afraid of the bite. “Though I’m wondering why you don’t have a date tonight. Keeping your options open?”

Maybe he really did want to live the bachelor life.

The corner of his lip tugged when you narrowed your eyes. “I come to these things to make a short appearance. That’s all,” he explained. Even the wealthy had obligations. “Unlike some alphas my age, I’m not interested in having a date for the sole purpose of eye candy. And because most of the people here are fucking assholes, I don’t usually find anyone to take home.”

“So, you aren’t interested in taking me home?” you tried to tease. If he said no, you could lick your wounds later since you’d likely never see him again. If he said yes, you… Well, you didn’t know what you’d do.

He reached out and placed his hands on your hips, pulling you close enough that you felt just how big he was. A shudder wracked your body, wanting nothing more than to have him inside you. “I’m very interested in taking you home,” he breathed.

You lifted your eyes to him, his desire matching yours. “I-”

A young giggling couple stumbled out to the balcony reeking of booze. They took a few steps forward and Bucky moved you out of the way before they could crash into you. The ferocious growl he let out made the laughter cease, but it had you purring like a bitch in heat. “Leave,” he ordered, keeping his arms tight around you. The underlying threat in that single word had the couple rushing back inside, but they had effectively ruined the moment.

“I think that alpha almost pissed his pants,” you teased to cut through the tension.

“He’s lucky he didn’t tumble over the railing,” he said, loosening his hold on you and taking in your expression. You felt naked under his stare. “You aren’t ready to leave with me just yet.”

“I’m still here with a ‘date’,” you reminded him to cover up any feelings or doubts in your mind.

Other than Bucky being wealthy, powerful, and smelling like a sinful kind of heaven, you didn’t fully know him. Something within you felt like you did, but going home with him for the night… What if you disappointed him? What if he decided he didn't want you?

He gave nothing away as he stared at you while you felt like your eyes told him everything. It wasn’t fair how in control he looked when you were close to spiraling. “Let’s go sit inside,” he suggested, finally cracking a smile when your face scrunched up. “No one will bother us, and I’d like to keep talking to you even if you don’t decide to leave with me.”

“I guess it wouldn't hurt to sit with you for a few minutes,” you said, especially if he would keep others away from you.

His hand on your hip felt like it belonged there as he guided you back inside. The scents and mindless chatter didn’t bother you as much now, likely because all you could really smell and concentrate on was Bucky. Did his kisses taste like plums or whiskey? Both?

He brought to a corner near the bar, far enough away from the mingling crowd that you still felt a bit of privacy. You kept his jacket around you though the room was considerably warmer than it was outside, not quite ready to give it back to him. “Drink?” he asked, angling his chair so that his knees were touching yours. There was no table in front of you. Anyone looking would see how close you were.

“No, thanks,” you said. You already downed a glass of whiskey and your head was spinning thanks to him.

You felt his gaze on you for a full minute before he spoke again. “Your ‘date’ isn’t the reason you’re hesitating to leave,” he said, scratching along his beard. You bet it would feel wonderful between your thighs. “Is it me? Am I too old for you?”

You had to laugh. “You’re a gorgeous silver fox, so that isn’t the problem,” you said. Beneath the suit you knew he was in great shape, too.

He smiled a gorgeous smile, appreciating the compliment. “So it isn't my age. Do you think I won’t treat you well?”

“I know you’ll treat me well,” you answered, avoiding his gaze. You knew that in your core. “But I’m afraid of what happens in the morning.”

He forced your gaze back to him with a large hand. “What are you afraid of?” he asked, his thumb brushing your cheek.

Everything.

“I’m afraid if I get a taste of you it won’t be enough for one night,” you said, your heart pounding as he stared into your eyes. Like he was staring deep into your soul. “And it isn’t fair that you have that kind of power over me.”

He looked almost impressed with your answer. “I appreciate your honesty,” he praised, his thumb sweeping over your lips this time. “And it won't be enough. Once I get a taste of you, I won’t let you go.”

It wasn’t a matter of if with him, but when. “You couldn't possibly want me for more than one night,” you said. He knew you were just a struggling designer’s assistant and didn’t run with this crowd. You lived in different worlds.

“I’m going to want you every night.” He tilted his head when you shifted in your seat. “You feel it, don't you?”

You feigned innocence when he held your gaze, your heart racing. God, he had felt it. Was it an explosion, a slow burn, or something else? “Feel what?”

Bucky smirked, not at all fooled. “That you’re my-”

“Don’t say it,” you begged. Speaking the word would make it real and it wasn't something he could take back. “Because if you don’t want that or me, we can just go our separate ways and ignore it.”

He hadn’t marked you, and you hadn’t claimed him either. You didn’t know what it would feel like to have his knot, so you couldn’t possibly miss it. And neither of you would have to depend on the other. You could walk away with as minimal damage as possible, and you’d find a way to remain whole. So would he.

The low growl Bucky emitted made the nearby guests move away, but you weren’t afraid. “Ignore it? I want you more than I’ve ever wanted anyone else. I would've fucked you right out there on the balcony if that couple hadn't interrupted us,” he said, your body hot and needy at the thought of him fucking you while you looked out at the view. “I’m lucky finally finding you didn’t send me into a rut.”

You thought the same about your heat. “Bucky-”

“Our scents call to each other. We call to each other,” he said, placing his hand on your chest. How did your heart feel fuller from his touch? “Tell me you didn't feel a connection when you caught my scent and looked at me.”

“I felt something,” you admitted.

“And it compelled you enough to follow me outside, to open up to me,” he said. You couldn't deny that. “You may say you don’t belong here, but something inside you says you belong with me.”

“And that doesn’t bother you? Scare you?” you asked. Having mates could be wonderful, but what if he wanted that pull with someone who wasn’t you?

“No, it doesn’t,” he said. There wasn't even a whiff of fear, likely because he had nothing to lose. “In fact, I think you should quit your job and move in with me.

You looked at him like he suddenly grew another head. “Quit my job and move in with you?”

“Yes. Your boss doesn't deserve to have you as an assistant, and you wouldn't have to pay rent if you stayed at my place.”

You didn’t attempt to laugh off his request since he was completely serious. “You realize that sounds insane, right?” you added. It wasn’t completely out of the ordinary though. Some couples who took their time building their bond still moved in right away.

“Insane would’ve been marking you the moment I saw you and dragging you home the way some alphas do,” he said.

You bristled. “It’s too soon for you to mark me,” you said, even as your mating bond throbbed.

“Don’t worry. I won't mark you tonight,” he assured you. Hurt crept up for a split second before he ran a finger along your collar. You visibly trembled and realized that he did want to mark you. He just wasn’t doing so tonight out of respect for you. “But you can still be mine in every other way until that day comes.”

You opened your mouth to argue. He hadn’t marked you, but you still felt owned. “You really think people want you with an omega outside of your tax bracket?”

“You think I give a fuck what they think?” His handsome face twisted in a scowl as he looked around. “And if they even think about insulting you, I’ll ruin them. It’s that simple.”

“It isn’t that simple,” you said.

“Why not? I know you're meant to be mine and you know it, too.” He touched your collar again, your mating bond throbbing almost to the point of pain. “You won’t need to worry about money or a roof over your head because I’ll give it to you. And a space to design your own clothes and make your dream come true.”

It sounded too good to be true, and nothing in this world was free. “I have my rent. If I break my lease-”

“I’ll pay what you owe.”

Your rent was probably pocket change to him. At least you didn’t have a roommate you’d have to worry about. It was always too risky to rely on someone else to help with bills and utilities. “And all that in exchange for what? Being your whore?”

He snarled, and you were delighted to hear that sound. “Trust me, doll, you may want me to fuck you like a whore, but I’ll treat you like a goddess. Like my equal,” he replied, his promise touching something deep inside you and drowning out most of your fear.

You just wished the remaining would fade away.

“I want us to be equals, but do you realize that you’d have all the power until I get my designs off the ground, right? I’d have to rely on your money, your roof over my head,” you said, swallowing the small lump in your throat. Did he realize what he was asking of you? To push aside the small amount of pride and independence you had? “I’ve done fine on my own and to have to depend on you is something else altogether.”

You hoped he at the very least realized how vulnerable you were right now by opening up more.

He looked vulnerable, too, as he moved closer. “I know it’s a lot to have to depend on me, but with me you wouldn't have to do this on your own. My finances don’t mean I have power. You’d have power, too,” he said. You wanted to believe you would. “In fact, I think you’re the only person in this entire city who could bring me to my knees. That’s power.”

You smiled a little. Could you really bring him to his knees? “As flattered as I am that you want to take care of me, do I have to decide tonight?” you asked. He was saying all the right things, and it was tempting, but there was so much to figure out beyond the living arrangements.

“We can discuss it more tomorrow if you’d like,” he said, looking around as you let out a breath. He had no doubt in his mind that you would spend the night. “Have you seen your date?”

You looked around, too, not at all worried when you spotted him. A complete contrast to how you felt at the beginning of the evening. “He’s…” You gestured to the bar where Chet was flirting with the loosely dressed omega from earlier and staring right down the front of her dress.

Bucky growled and swept his eyes over you, no doubt catching how you pressed your thighs together from the sound. A growl really shouldn't be that sexy. “Not a very faithful alpha, is he?”

“Well, he isn't my alpha, remember?” you pointed out. Someone like Chet would never be. “My boss only ‘suggested’ that I go with him tonight, and I made it clear I wasn't going to sleep with him.”

There was another hint of a growl before he smiled. “Wait right here. I’m just going to tell the young pup that you’re going home with me.”

You gripped his arm as he tried to stand. “Easy, old man. I didn't say I was going home with you,” you teased, knowing full well you were in fact leaving with him.

“Old man?” he smiled.

You shrugged. “You called me ‘doll’, which sounds like something an old man would say.”

“I think an old man is exactly what you need.” His eyes flashed with a deliciously dark promise that he was right and you’d enjoy every single inch of what he’d give you. “And you didn’t explicitly say you'd go with me, but we both know I’ve swayed you to go to my place.”

“You alphas are so cocky.” You refrained from rolling your eyes since he was right in this instance. “But maybe I should just stay here a bit longer and make you work for it since you want me so badly.”

He chuckled. “You’d rather stay here? Fine by me,” he said, leaning in close. “I’ll just slide my hand up your dress here and now and feel just how wet you are for me. I doubt anyone would notice if I made you come on my fingers. They’re too caught up in themselves.”

Your eyes closed when he touched your thigh. “You think I'm wet for you?”

“I know you are. I can smell it. Can practically taste it. You’ll let me taste you, won't you?” he purred, and you could only tremble as his hand moved higher, your legs parting to give him more access. “In fact, why don't I drag your ‘date’ over and let him watch while I lay you out and feast on your cunt? Show him what you'll never give him a taste of?”

You weren't sure if the pool of arousal was from the thought of Bucky eating you like a starved man, making that sad excuse for an alpha watch while he got you off, or both. You wondered what it would be like to taste yourself on his lips. “And why would you let him see what I look like when I come?”

He seemed to consider your question. “That’s a good point. He shouldn't see how you look when you come.” Bringing his hand to your face, your breath hitched when he caressed your cheek with such care. “But you’ll never have to hide that beautiful expression from me.”

“Hey!”

You pulled away from Bucky in time to see Chet storm over. “Shit,” you whispered when he furiously looked between you and Bucky. You were shocked smoke didn't come out of his ears.

“What the hell are you doing? I said enjoy the free booze, and do not embarrass me. You can't even follow a simple instruction,” he snapped. You refused to bare your neck when he showed his teeth. He wasn’t going to embarrass you either. “The only reason you can even step foot in this place is because of me. You fucking sl-”

Bucky was out of his seat before you could blink, his hand wrapped tight around Chet’s throat and cutting off the remainder of his insult. A few patrons gasped and stopped to watch as Chet clawed at Bucky's hand, but no one stepped in to help. The anger that poured off your alpha was enough to deter anyone from getting involved. And you were loving every second of it.

“She’s my mate,” Bucky said through his teeth, making Chet’s eyes bulge out of his head. “Biology may say you’re an alpha, but you’re nothing. And I’m tempted to crush your windpipe for insulting her.” He squeezed harder and smirked when Chet wheezed. “When her boss asks how the gala went, you’re going to sing her praises. If you don't, I’ll hunt you down and make sure you can never knot anyone ever again. And that’s just the start of what I'll do to you.”

It was almost humiliating how turned on you were by Bucky's dominant display. You thought you’d be an omega who wouldn’t want an alpha acting like, well, an alpha, yet his defense of you meant a lot. “Bucky.” You stood up and smiled when he looked at you, his anger shifting to something softer. “You can let him go.”

Chet fell to the ground and coughed once Bucky released him. Your alpha bared his teeth with a snarl and Chet showed his throat like an obedient dog. It was clear who the top alpha was.

“Apologize,” Bucky commanded. Not only did Chet cough out an apology while avoiding your gaze, a few others said “sorry” as well. That was how powerful this man was. And you wanted him more than anything.

“Thanks for the free booze, Chet. And don't worry about me getting a ride home. I think you should worry if that omega still wants you after your… performance,” you smiled, linking your arm with Bucky’s. “Have a great night.”

There was no need to fake your confidence as you and Bucky walked out together. It didn't matter at the moment what they thought of you. All you could think about was how Bucky defended you, and how he called you his mate. It was out in the open. He…

Oh, God.

“Thank you for defending me, but you do realize you just told everyone that I’m your mate, right?” you whispered. That gossip would spread before the night was over.

“Is that what I did?” he asked, smirking when you hissed and glared. “And you don’t need to thank me. He had it coming.”

The smirk was still on his handsome face as the valet brought his car around. What the hell were people going to say? He didn’t care what they thought and neither should you.

“Listen, Bucky, just because you…”

Bucky held your face in his hands, leaning in so close you felt his breath against your lips. His mouth barely grazed yours, carefully teasing you with the promise of what was to come. “Just because I what?” he rasped, and you swear you felt more slick stain your already ruined panties.

“You better get me off before we get to your place,” you said instead of finishing your original statement because you truthfully forgot all about it when his lips touched yours.

Your insides tinged with more heat and desire when he nipped your bottom lip. “You better say my name when I get you off.”

“Should I say Bucky or James?” you smirked.

“Bucky. Reserve the name James for when you’re upset or extremely serious,” he winked, thanking the valet before helping you into his vehicle. You had never been in a car this nice.

“And you won’t mark me tonight?” you asked once he got up, touching the back of your collar to make sure it was still secure.

“We still have a lot to figure out before I mark you,” he said, leaning over as you sighed in relief. “But before we go…”

His mouth landed on yours, both strong and soft as he took possession of yours. The entire gala could've gone up in flames and you wouldn't have noticed since all you felt was him. You tasted his hunger when his tongue plunged inside, and there was a hint of desperation, too. He was starving for you and you moaned, deepening the kiss to show that you were just as eager.

You panted when he broke the kiss. “Don’t make me regret trusting you,” you breathed, your eyes once again giving everything away.

His nose bumped yours affectionately as he dragged his lips to your forehead. You didn't expect such a fond gesture from him, and you had to bite your tongue so you wouldn't blurt out how nice a kiss to the forehead felt. “You won’t regret it,” he whispered, sealing the promise with a kiss against your skin.

Your heart felt full, and your inner omega wanted to shout with joy. “Take me home then.”

Bucky sped off a moment later, keeping his eyes on the road in front of him. Your core ached as you looked at him, giving you a chance to once again take in his profile. The saying of aging like fine wine probably rang true for him. You imagined he was always good looking, but he was both rough and refined thanks to his age. People who said perfection didn’t exist clearly never saw him before.

“You like what you see?” he asked.

“I do, but you know that,” you answered, his jaw clenching when you pulled your dress up to reveal your legs. “And didn’t you promise to get me off before we got to your place?”

The sexual tension that had been building up spiked, and you sensed his need to claim you in some capacity was rising to the surface. “Give me your panties,” he ordered, giving you a sharp look. “Now.”

“You’re bossy,” you smiled, pushing your dress higher. He swore under his breath when you gripped your underwear and slid it off, your slick practically dripping from the flimsy fabric. No one ever got you that wet before. “But I kind of like it.”

He chuckled, licking his lips. “You like it because it’s me,” he pointed out, snatching the underwear out of your hand once it was within reach. You watched with a whine as he brought it to his nose and deeply inhaled. “Fuck…” he growled, bringing the fabric to the tent growing in his pants next and rubbing all over it in a filthy display. Watching him ruin his pants with the scent and slick of your pussy had you soaking the seat beneath you. “Spread your legs and show me that pretty cunt.”

You trembled when he took his eyes off the road. Pulling your dress over your hips, you obediently spread your legs and let him get a good look at what would soon belong to him. “You like what you see?”

“Just wait until I tie you to my bed and get a real look before I fuck you. It’ll be a shame to wreck something so pretty, but you’ll thank me for it,” he replied, looking back at the road as he sped up. Oh, you’d thank him over and over. “Touch yourself, but don’t put your fingers inside.”

Bringing your hand between your legs, you gasped at how sensitive you were. It was like you were in heat, but fully aware of your surroundings. “Like this?” you asked, moving your fingers along your folds.

“Just like that,” he whispered, his gaze darting between you and the road. You hoped one day he’d fuck your throat while he drove. “Now give me your hand.”

You presented your glistening fingers to him, giving him the opportunity to grip your wrist and suck the wet digits into his mouth. You felt his mouth water from your taste, the groan of arousal in his throat making you shake. He didn’t stop until he licked your fingers clean. “You taste just as divine as you smell,” he said, releasing your hand and reaching over to cup your mound. “And I need more.”

“I need more, too,” you moaned, his palm rubbing your clit and building that ecstasy within you. He teased your dripping hole with another finger, but didn’t push inside yet. You arched your hips, trying to get him to breach you. “Please.”

“That’s a good girl saying please,” he praised, finally pushing a thick finger inside. You clenched around him so tight, your body wanting more. “Fuck, you’re tight. And wet. Made just for me. Imagine how good you’ll feel once you’re stretched around my cock.”

“Want your cock,” you moaned, opening your legs wider. “Want your big cock inside me.”

“Yeah, you do. You want my big, bare cock in your soaked cunt,” he said, pushing another finger in, your slick coating them. You didn’t let anyone fuck you bare before, but you’d let him. “You want my knot, too.”

You moaned, an image of you on your hands and knees flashing in your mind, Bucky’s strong hands pulling you back to meet every thrust until he locked your bodies in place. You could practically feel his teeth sinking into your neck to fully seal your fate. Or would he make love to you, linking your fingers together and kissing you with care as he tenderly pushed his knot in? It didn’t matter. He’d give you everything, and you wanted it all.

“Are you hard just thinking of fucking of me raw?” you moaned, the need to rip the top of your dress open to reveal your breasts strong. No… If your dress was going to get torn to shreds, he could do that himself. “Coming so deep inside me you’ll drip out of me days later?”

The next growl he let out was inhuman, his fingers curling until you cried out. “My good little omega has a dirty mouth on her,” he smirked.

“I do have a dirty mouth. You should fuck it sometime,” you smiled sweetly before your mouth fell open, his expert fingers fucking you deep. Talking dirty to him helped stamp down your emotions a bit, but they were threatening to surface the more he touched you. “Bucky.”

“That’s it. Say my name. Tell me who you belong to,” he demanded. Your back arched, gripping the leather seat until your hand ached. Your body certainly knew who owned you. “Tell me who’s going to take care of you.”

You bit your lip to hold back your whimper, your heart pounding out of control. No one took care of you. No one wanted to until tonight, and you hadn’t wanted that either.

He stopped moving his fingers, keeping perfectly still as you hissed in frustration. Was he really going to build you up and not let you finish? “Tell me,” he demanded again, gentler this time.

Your eyes burned, but you swallowed your pride. Again. “You, Bucky,” you whispered, trusting that he’d be an alpha of his word. “You'll take care of me.”

He cooed when you whimpered, slipping a third finger in and moving them again. “That’s my girl. My good omega. I know that wasn’t easy for you to say,” he praised, so proud of you. Part of you was proud of yourself, too. “Do you need to come?”

“Yes!” you cried out, desperately trying to ride his fingers as the pressure grew. You were so close. Just a little more…

“Then do it. Get that slick all over my hand and seat,” he said, pushing against your bundle of nerves once more as your body locked up. “And say. My. Name.”

Waves of pleasure rolled through you, colors blurring your vision as you cried his name. Your eyes rolled back as the squelching sound of your cunt filled the car, his fingers helping you ride it out. You were drowning, unable to breathe until you broke through the haze. You felt ruined already by his fingers. Oh, his cock was going to destroy you.

“Fuck, that’s it. Give it to me. That’s my good girl. Can’t wait to feel that all over my cock.”

He only removed his fingers when you whined and licked your essence away with a low moan. The beautiful bastard still looked so put together, and hadn’t swerved once while he drove. “Holy shit,” you exhaled, your walls still fluttering. The orgasm took the edge off while leaving you wanting more. “Did I… soak your hand?”

“You did,” he confirmed, your face hot. “Fuck, I’m going to need an entire weekend to eat your sweet cunt just to start,” he said, flashing you a smile. “And you make very pretty sounds when you come.”

You managed a smile as you slumped in the seat, your dress still bunched around your waist. “What do you sound like when you come?” you asked breathlessly.

“You’ll find out,” he promised.

You trembled again when he put his hand back on your thigh, your hand immediately covering his. You needed his touch to ground you, but didn’t want to say so. “I just realized something,” you said once you fully caught your breath.

“What’s that?” he asked.

“If you’re my mate but you haven’t marked me yet, and you plan to pay for… well, everything for me for the time being,” you said, a laugh bubbling up when you saw that your window was fogged up. You drew a little smiley face, making you laugh more before you glanced at him. “You’re kind of like my sugar daddy.”

The look on his face before he laughed made him look younger, the sound affectionate and happy. How many managed to make him laugh like that? “Does that mean you’re going to call me ‘Daddy’?”

“Don’t push it, old man,” you giggled. Though if anyone could sway you, it would be him. “Why don’t we just stick with ‘alpha’ for now?”

“That and Bucky,” he suggested, turning his hand so your palm rested against his. “I like hearing you say my name, doll,” he added in a whisper.

“I like saying your name, Bucky,” you said, your brows furrowing. “But who came up with that nickname?”

He chuckled again, your skin tingling when he lifted your hand to kiss it. “You don’t want to hear about that.”

“Yes, I do,” you said.

He stole a glance at you. Through the heavy scent of your orgasm, you detected joy seeping from him. It made you feel happy, too. “Okay,” he smiled, running his thumb along your hand. “I got the nickname a long time ago…”

You twisted more in your seat to face him as you listened, lost in his voice and smile. There was so much you had to learn about your alpha. His likes and dislikes. What he would be like before, during, and after his ruts. He had a lot to learn about you, too. You wouldn’t give up on your dream of becoming a designer, and accepting his help may not be such a bad thing.

And maybe accepting the fact that you had a mate to depend on wouldn’t be such a bad thing either.

So, what do we think so far? Love and thanks for reading! ❤️

Masterlist ⚓ Bucky Barnes Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi

[surprised-penguin]

In too deep

Pairing: Fuck buddy!Bucky x Reader

Summary: After Bucky calls, and you come running, you end up locked in his bathroom, trying to get rid of the evidence that something hasn’t gone well this time.

Word Count: 7.4k

Warnings: 18+ (mdni) blood; descriptions of sex; feeling pain during sex and not saying anything; friends with benefits; mentions of periods; mutual pining; miscommunication; self-doubt; self-loathing; worried!Bucky

Author’s Note: This is my first time writing something more suggestive. It is not outright smut, but there’s lots of talk about sex, so if you are a minor, please stay away. And if you are not, then I hope you enjoy and I'd be happy to know what you think ♡

Masterlist

You are bleeding.

The sting between your legs is sharp. Like a wound still weeping after the blade has been pulled away.

The yellow light above the mirror of Bucky’s bathroom hums and flickers slightly, ghostly shapes of shadows draping against the walls.

Your breath is shallow.

The bleeding won’t stop.

With toilet paper in your hands, you press your trembling fingers against the inside of your thigh. It soaks, leaving your skin warm and sticky. The scent of iron is in your nose.

You know your body. You know how it shifts and bends beneath pleasure, how it aches in the aftermath and you know that this is different. It’s wrong.

A breath shudders out of you at the pulsing pain.

Bucky is still in his bedroom.

Probably waiting for you to come out and leave.

That’s how it’s always been.

He calls, you come, you make him feel good, then go.

He never asks you to stay. Not really. He asks you to come over, to press your lips against his, to carve his pleasure into your skin, but he never asks you to stay thereafter.

But you still keep running. Every time.

The sting flares up again and you clench your fists against your thighs, your body curling inward on instinct.

You don’t know how long you usually take to freshen up, but it certainly takes too much time right now.

You don’t want to be a burden. You want to be something simple, something easy.

But fuck, it hurts.

You glance down again, lifting the hem of your shirt you pulled over quickly before retreating to the bathroom. Crimson smears against your skin, staining the inside of your thighs and you curse under your breath.

Squeezing your eyes shut, you exhale slowly.

You need to get up. You need to clean yourself up, put on your clothes, and walk out of his apartment like nothing happened. Like it doesn’t matter. Like you don’t matter.

The thought is a sour taste on your tongue.

Bucky had a bad day. That’s why he called. That’s why you came. That’s why you let him take and take, why you let yourself pretend it was more than just relief and release.

And now, you are bleeding in his bathroom, barely able to stand, barely able to breathe without wincing.

Your fingers grip the edge of the sink as you haul yourself up. The room tilts for a moment, and you grip it tighter, knuckles whitening.

You look in the mirror. You look ruined - cheeks flushed, eyes glassy, lips swollen from kisses.

You press your hands to the cool porcelain.

One more breath.

Then another.

Then you reach for the toilet paper again, dabbing at the blood, pretending you don’t see the way it just keeps coming. Pretending it’s not seeping through the white thin fibers. Pretending it doesn’t matter.

Because if you want to keep coming back, it can’t.

It’s not like he hasn’t been nice to you.

Bucky is always nice.

You were friends first, after all.

Before the weight of need, before his hands started lingering a little longer, before the heat and the fleeting contact.

Things had been easy, light, and simple.

You had inside jokes, late-night conversations that bled into mornings, you even cooked together - well, you cooked, while he hovered, occasionally stealing a bite, occasionally setting the table with that soft little smirk. It was comfortable. Safe.

Until he kissed you one day. So many weeks ago.

It was an accident. Or maybe it was inevitable.

You were both drunk. You were both in a good mood. There is not much you remember about that night. All you remember is how close you two were and that all your friends from the party were gone already.

You remember the way his knee had brushed yours, sitting on his couch, the way his fingers twitched like he wanted to reach for you. And then you remember that he did. He kissed you. And your heart stuttered, his breath caught, he hesitated for a second, giving you a chance to pull away. You didn’t. You should have.

Because there was no stopping from then on.

You left the moment you woke up in his bed to him snoring in your ear and leaving drool in your hair.

But you keep coming back when he calls.

He is careful with you, always. Slow and attentive. He never lets you leave without asking if you are okay, without pressing a bottle of water into your hands, without brushing his fingers against your wrist as if needing something. Maybe a reminder that this is real. Maybe something that’ll hold him back from saying something.

But today was different.

He didn’t ask you how your day was when you walked through his door. Didn’t wait for you to slip off your shoes, to drop your bag onto its usual spot by the couch. Didn’t even give you a chance to breathe before his hands were on you.

He had you pressed up against the wall next to his door and claimed your mouth in a searing kiss that almost tasted desperate.

His fingers curled around your waist and pulled you to him so tightly, you felt every single one of his ragged breaths against your chest, the tension thrumming beneath his skin.

Then he lifted you, carried you over to his bedroom, and basically tossed you onto his bed, his body following. He pressed you down, caging you in, his weight and scent and whole behavior dizzying you.

There was no hesitation. No slow unraveling. No playful touches and teases meant to draw things out. It was pure and unfiltered need.

His hands gripped your hips so firmly, not enough to leave bruises, but hard enough to tell you that he needed this.

He fucked you like you were the only thing on his mind.

He fucked you like you were the only thing keeping him here.

He fucked you like it’s you he craved.

He fucked you like it was making him blind.

It did.

Because he didn’t see the way you gritted your teeth, the way your nails dug into the sheets beneath you, the way the dull pain at the beginning began to sharpen, spreading with every of his hard thrusts.

His face was buried in the crook of your neck, lips tracing the curve of your skin, his breath warm and heavy against your pulse.

He was lost in it, consumed by the feel of you, the way you were wrapped around him, the way your body clenched.

Normally; his weight, his deep groans, the heat of him, his sheer presence pressing you into the mattress would be grounding, would be something good. Something addicting.

But it wasn’t today.

Because the pain only grew.

The stretch felt wrong - too much, too sudden. He gave you time to adjust, asked if you were ready with that husky tone of his, and you only nodded. You lied.

You thought you were able to push through the pain and that it would soon turn to pleasure. But that wasn’t the case, and every snap of his hips only had you fighting to keep from flinching.

Your breath stuttered as he shifted, angling deeper, hitting something that made you gasp. It must have sounded like pleasure to him because he then groaned into your hair, but it was a sound stemming from startled pain.

You felt that deep, bruising pressure that shot up your spine, making you bite down hard on your lip to refuse a cry to slip out that would surely make him stop out of concern.

You only squeezed your eyes shut, trying to will it away. But it didn’t.

It kept spreading, kept tearing, kept building with every thrust.

You know you should have said something.

You know you should have told him to stop, to slow down, to give you a second to breathe.

But then he panted against your neck, breathing into your skin how good you feel, whispering praises and words that sounded a little too affectionate for the kind of arrangement you are having and you felt him let go of whatever was plaguing him.

So when he checked in again, asking if you were alright, you nodded once more. Forcing your lips into a shape that could resemble a yes, and you felt him shudder, felt his grip on your waist tighten as he dived into you again, lost in the feel of your walls.

And you let him.

Because you didn’t want to ruin this.

Because this is what he needed, what he asked for, and if you had told him to stop, what if it changed something? What if it broke that thing between you? What if he would have ended up being disappointed? Unpleased? What if he stopped calling?

So you swallowed the pain. You kept biting your lip and tried to focus on his breathing, the warmth of his skin, anything but the way your body protested, the way the ache morphed into something unmanageable.

You still don’t stop bleeding.

It’s not your period.

You had your period last week. It’s what kept you away from him, what had you say no when he asked you to come over. The thought of bleeding on his sheets, on him, was enough to make heat run along your neck, mortified at the very idea.

But Bucky had just shrugged, voice low and unbothered when he told you he didn’t mind.

But you did, so you declined. And when he asked you, soft and caring, if there was anything he could do for you, you declined as well.

There is a limit to his affections you can take. A limit to the sweetest things he can tell you, the lovelies things he can do for you, and the softest ways he can touch you because you believe none of them mean as much to him as they do to you.

So you stayed home, curled in your bed with a heating pad, ignoring the way you ached for something that had nothing to do with cramps.

And now, here you are, bleeding anyway.

God, you hate this.

Thankfully, the blood started coming when you already sat down on the toilet. When your thighs pressed together and you felt the wetness along the sharp sting that made your breath catch.

But you tell yourself it will stop soon. It has to.

You just need a few minutes - just long enough for your body to calm, for the pain to fade into something tolerable. Long enough to clean yourself up and pretend like everything is fine.

You take another breath, pressing your palm against the cool porcelain of the sink. Your time is running out. You can’t stay here too long or Bucky will notice. You never take this long. And you certainly can’t let him see this. Can’t let him know. Can’t let him ask questions you don’t want to answer.

A knock comes. Soft and firm, rapping against the wood of the bathroom door. Once, twice, before his voice follows, rough but laced with something gentle. Careful.

“Hey, you alright in there?”

Your stomach drops. Shit, you took too long.

You squeeze your eyes shut, inhaling sharply, trying to keep yourself from spiraling. You force your voice to steady, to keep the waver out, to sound normal.

“Yeah,” you call back, trying to make it sound light, breezy, unbothered. “I’ll be out in a minute.”

Silence. Just for a second. Then, another knock, a little firmer this time, a little more insistent.

“You sure?” Bucky’s voice carries through the door, and there is something new in it now. A crease in his tone.

You can practically hear the way his brows furrow, the way his jaw ticks, that little frown tugging at his lips and deepening the line between his eyes.

Normally, you would think it’s cute. Normally, you would have to suppress the urge to press your finger to that little divot and smooth it out like your touch could unravel the tension in him.

But right now, thinking about it only makes your pulse halt, makes you feel like there is something thick and choking in your throat.

Bucky shifts on the other side of the door, his voice lower, softer when he speaks again. “Do you need-”

Panic flares in you. “I’ll leave as soon as I’m done,” you blurt out, too fast, too sharp. “Just- just give me a minute.”

There is a beat of silence.

The air in this small bathroom seems to be thinning out. You stare at your own reflection in the mirror, at the wide eyes, the parted lips, the tension in your shoulders that pulls them up.

“You don’t gotta leave, doll.”

It’s quieter. His words are careful, almost hesitant, but there is something insistent in them too. Him trying to piece something together.

“I just-” He exhales, and you hear the way he scrubs a hand down his face, the way he shifts his weight from foot to foot, like he is trying to keep himself still, trying to keep himself from pushing open the door and looking at you. “Is everything alright?”

It’s the way he asks, the way he lingers on the words, like he already suspects the answer but is hoping - praying - you will say or do something to prove him wrong.

And you want to. You want to smooth it over, to push away his worry before it sinks too deep, before it turns to annoyance or impatience. But before you can get a single word out, he keeps going.

His voice turns tighter. Faster. His knuckles still seem to rest on the door.

“Are you hurt?”

Your breath stays caught in your throat.

“Did I-” He stops. Starts again. “Did I hurt you?” The words rush out of him, like he can’t stop them. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

You open your mouth, but he still continues talking.

“Shit,” he exclaims, as if it hits him square in the chest. His voice dips lower, rawer, tinged with something like guilt, something thick and pressing. “Doll, was I too rough?”

You can hear it all in his voice - the worry, the guilt, the panic, that desperate need to fix something before it even fully breaks. And there is no impatience, no annoyance, none of the things you were afraid of.

You should have known, but somehow you keep lying.

“No, Bucky,” you say, and you hate the way your voice wavers, the way it doesn’t sound that much convincing. “Don’t worry.”

The door handle rattles.

“Doll.” Bucky’s voice is closer, pressed right up against the other side of the door, low and urgent. The knob jerks in his grip, testing it, trying to keep his touch gentle but unable to stop himself. “Can you let me in?”

You swear you can hear your own heartbeat, a dull, thrumming thing pounding in your ears.

“I’m fine, Bucky.” The lie stumbles out too fast, but you don’t know what else to say.

The knob shakes again, this time harder. “C’mon,” he breathes out, and you hear the strain in his voice, the way his words come tighter. “Please, doll. Just open the door.”

You don’t move. Your knees are weak.

“Fuck.” He is frantic. His breath is ragged and sharp. You hear him shift, pressing more of his weight against the door as if he is fighting the urge to force it open. “Y/n, I didn’t mean-” he stops himself, and you can almost picture his hand running through his hair, his jaw clenched tight, his brows pinched together so deeply. “I didn’t mean to be rough with you. Fuck, I- I swear, I-” His voice falters, cracking on something heavy.

You swallow hard, but your throat is closed up and it can’t pass through cleanly. “You weren’t rough, Bucky,” you try to assure him.

But he only lets out a troubled sound. “Yeah?” His voice turns gravelly. His tone turns desperate. “Then why the hell won’t you open the door?”

You can’t answer that. You can barely stand, gripping the sink so hard you feel your fingers might start to cramp. The pain flares up again and you grimace.

“Doll,” he tries again, his voice frenetic. “Please, let me see you.”

The door handle tugs again.

“I need to see you.”

You blink rapidly, trying to keep the frustrated tears from welling up your eyes.

“Bucky-”

“Please.”

That word is laced with a plea so deep, you feel it in your bones.

“Buck, I need a second, okay?”

You force a slow inhale through your nose as you rip off another wad of toilet paper and press it between your legs. The crimson smears against the white. You do it again. Again. Until there is nothing left to wipe away and nothing more is coming. For now.

Your thighs sting where you rub at the dried streaks, the skin tender, hypersensitive. You force yourself to ignore it. You just have to get out. That’s all. If you can get out of his apartment before it starts bleeding again and without crumbling to the floor in pain, there is nothing to worry about.

“You’re scarin’ me here, baby. Please. I need to see you. Need to make sure-” His voice catches.

You toss the balled-up paper into the toilet, reaching blindly for the handle, flushing it down, and cutting Bucky’s desperate words off for a moment.

The pain gets worse, dragging along your nerves and making you lose your balance slightly. You grip the sink again. Your vision goes dark for a short second. The floor is cold beneath your bare feet.

“I wasn’t tryin’ to be rough with you. Y/n! I- I needed you, and I got lost in it, and fuck- I didn’t-” he chokes out, not able to continue. His words sound like a confession.

You grit your teeth, twisting the faucet of the sink too hard, too fast. Water rushes out, scalding against your skin as you scrub your hands, scrubbing at the blood, scrubbing at the proof, as if that will make it disappear.

Your lungs feel too tight, too small to hold enough air. Your heart beats against your ribs like it wants out.

You don’t know if it’s because he went too deep, or too hard, or if something inside you just wasn’t ready for him, but it doesn’t matter now. What matters is that you don’t let it show.

On the other side of the door, Bucky exhales vehemently.

His fist knocks twice again before curling around the door handle. “Baby, please let me in.”

“I’m fine,” you call out, but it doesn’t sound right.

Bucky’s breath shudders out.

You try to straighten, try to compose yourself, and open that door to pretend you are fine, but a sharp, searing pain rips through your lower abdomen and you gasp. Your vision swims and the ground beneath your feet feels wobbly, shifting like it might fall out from under your feet.

Bucky’s breath is rough and broken through the crack beneath the door. His palm presses flat against the wood, a low thud that makes your stomach churn.

“Y/n,” he warns, voice low, but so incredibly distressed. So incredibly worried. “If you don’t open this door, I swear to God-”

Your legs give out.

It’s not a full collapse, but it’s enough. Your knee buckles and you stumble, hip knocking hard into the edge of the sink before you pitch sideways, shoulder crashing into the shelf beside you.

The impact rattles the whole thing.

A bottle of cologne topples over, then a razor, then something heavier - a glass jar filled with cotton pads - shattering on the tiled floor with a violent crack.

“Alright, I'm coming in.”

Bucky doesn’t wait for permission.

The door bursts open with a bang, the hinges groaning under the force of his shove. He is on you in an instant, all broad shoulders and frantic energy, filling the small space with his presence before you even have time to react.

Bucky’s hands find you - not grabbing, not pulling, just there, at your back, your arm, holding you together, holding you up before you can fully meet the ground.

His breathing is uneven, his chest rising and falling too fast, and the sight of him nearly knocks you off your feet once more.

His eyes are wide, pupils blown, that storm of worry you have heard in his voice through the door now a full-blown hurricane.

“What’s goin’ on? Doll, what is it?”

You don’t answer. Instead, your own gaze shifts to the glass jar at your feet, fractured lines spiderwebbing through the surface from the fall.

Your chest tightens. Your throat locks.

“Shit, Bucky, I’m so sorry.”

You barely recognize your own voice - thin, trembling, too damn weak. You grip onto him, the shirt he must have pulled over when you disappeared into the bathroom, and you hate it. You hate how bad of a burden you are to him right now, when all he wanted was to let off some stress of the day.

But Bucky doesn’t even seem to hear you.

He doesn’t seem to see anything else than you. Doesn’t look at the glass, doesn’t blink at the mess.

His eyes are on you.

And the way he is looking at you makes something inside you crack even deeper than the broken jar at your feet.

His eyes are sharp and they trace over you, cataloging everything.

He doesn’t just look at you, he dissects you. His gaze maps every inch of your body, searching, calculating, reading between the lines of what you’re not saying.

The way your shoulders are drawn tight. The way your chest stutters on each inhale, as if even breathing is too much right now. The way you clutch at him, your knuckles white, not even trusting your own legs to hold you up.

You swallow hard, shifting your weight in his hold, and the pain flares again, enough to make your body involuntarily tremble. You clamp down on a wince, but he notices.

Bucky’s jaw is tight.

You tug at the hem of your shirt, yanking it lower, bunching the fabric between your fingers as if that will do anything.

Bucky’s gaze snap to your movements. He narrows his eyes, drinking you in with an intensity that makes you want to shrink.

“Doll,” he lets out, voice hoarse and rough, like the single word is punched out of him.

His hands skim over your arms, your waist, searching.

Then he stills.

His fingers twitch against your hip. His shoulders stiffen.

His gaze drops.

The storm behind his eyes turns feral.

You know what he is seeing.

You feel it before you even look down - the slow, unwelcome warmth trailing down your inner thigh.

The blood.

A single, thin ribbon of red against your soft skin.

For a second there is nothing. No sound. No breath. Just his stare.

“Jesus Christ.”

His voice comes in a way you’ve never heard before. It’s rather a harsh croak of sound than his normal voice.

You try to move, do anything to shift his focus, to stop the way his grip on you tightens as if he’s afraid, in pain himself.

But the second you move, another sharp pang shoots up your core, stealing what little breath you have left and you gasp.

Strong arms wind around you tightly, pulling you into his chest firmly.

“Bucky-”

“Hush.”

It’s not an order. It’s not a demand. It’s a plea, soft and urgent and broken, whispered against your hair as he holds you like you might break. No, like he might break.

“You’re hurt.” There is an aching note of guilt hanging between each syllable. It’s so thick and pronounced, you wince. “Fuck- I hurt you.”

You shake your head against him, trying to swallow past the lump in your throat. “No, Bucky, you didn’t-”

“Don’t.” His voice breaks on the word. His grip tightens, his fingers pressing into your skin. “I hurt you. God, fucking hell, I hurt you.”

His grip on you is firm, but not rough.

His arms cage around you, holding you as if you might slip right through the cracks of his fingers if he lets go.

Large fingers press into your hip, your thigh with a feverish desperation, enough for you to feel the slight tremble in them.

His breathing is so ragged, like he’s been running. Chasing something he’s already lost.

He is shaking.

A whisper of his lips presses to the side of your temple, lingering. A contrast to the way he has been claiming your mouth moments before.

It feels like he is pressing his regret into your skin, hoping you’ll absorb it.

“I'm so sorry,” he breathes. It’s hoarse. Nearly choking.

You hear the fracture in his voice, something splitting open inside him.

Another kiss, this time on your forehead. Another apology, spoken in the warmth of his mouth against your heated skin. Another kiss, soft, like he’s praying to you, trying to breathe the apology into you.

“Shit- I'm so sorry, baby.” The words rasp out of him, broken, spilling into your hair, against your forehead, over your cheek.

His hands won’t stop moving. You feel them everywhere - gliding over your back, skating down your arms, searching. For what, though you are not sure. A sign that you’re okay? Proof that he hasn’t broken you?

But perhaps he has. Just not in the way he fears right now. Not in a way that bruises or cracks like a bone, but in the way that has you swallowing down the shame rising thick in your throat.

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

It’s humiliating. It’s too much. The way he is looking at you is making you lose control over your limbs and you really can’t afford that right now.

Heat pools beneath your skin, then it vanishes, leaving you cold, your body not able to decide whether to fight or flee.

He gathers you and lifts you in the air, pulling you to his chest. He does it slow. Careful. Looking at your face for any indication that he hurt you some more.

With that, he walks you out of his bathroom.

You should fight him, tell him you can walk, but you’re not sure you can. Your legs are trembling in his hold, unsteady, and the deep throb of pain is still biting at your insides.

And Bucky is holding you like you are the most important thing he ever carried.

You whimper in pain and his hold tightens instinctively. His hands shake against you.

You hate the way your stomach spins in on itself at the thought of staining him. At leaving blood on his clothes, on his skin, on his belongings.

But Bucky does not seem to care at all. He does not seem to think about that at all.

None of it seems to matter.

Only you.

He sits you down carefully, on the edge of his bed. The very same one he just fucked you raw in. His hands hover even after he lets go, still gripping at your waist, brushing along your arms, your knee.

Then he takes off.

You can hear the frantic rustling - the opening and shutting of drawers, cabinets, his movements fast and panicked.

And when he returns to you, he is kneeling in front of you with a damp cloth.

He doesn’t speak at first.

Just opens your legs slightly, with gentle hands, for better access and begins to swipe. Soft, slow drags over your sensitive skin, barely any pressure at all, afraid even the slightest touch might make this worse for you.

But the thing is, he is already making this worse.

Not in the way he thinks.

Not in the way that physically aches in your body but in a way that fills you with something barely manageable.

Bucky is not annoyed, or exasperated at this turn of events. He is not disgusted. Not even a little.

He is not wincing at the blood smearing on your thighs, isn’t hesitating when it stains the cloth, and also might stain his hand, the sheets on his bed. He just keeps wiping. Keeps caring. Keeps frowning with that expression of utter concern and remorse.

And this hurts so much more.

It would have been easier if he had been an asshole about it. If he had sighed in annoyance, rubbed a frustrated hand over his face, and told you to just go if you were gonna act weird. Maybe you would have been able to handle that.

But Bucky Barnes is anything but an asshole.

He is kneeling before you, hands still cautiously wiping at your skin. Each motion is so slow, painstaking, like an artist restoring a ruined masterpiece, knowing no stroke of his hand can undo the damage.

His touch is soft, but his body is anything but.

His spine is a pillar of strain, each muscle wound so tightly, even the act of breathing seems like an effort to him, like something he must force past the knot in his chest.

His jaw is hard, teeth pressed together in a pressure you can almost hear.

Rigid shoulders don’t really move with his breaths, as if the guilt inside of him has turned to iron and settled deep in his bones.

Every inch of him seems to be screaming with the need to undo something that has already been done.

His blue eyes are flooded with regret. With something heavier than guilt, something closer to self-loathing.

It feels like he is bleeding grief.

And it would have been easier if he didn’t care so much.

Because if he was indifferent, if he brushed it off, if he let you go, then at least you could pretend this didn’t mean anything. At least you could convince yourself that this arrangement was just that - an arrangement. A convenient thing. A way to feel wanted without asking for more.

But this makes it impossible to lie to yourself.

This makes it impossible to stop falling for him over and over again.

And that is what really hurts, what dives deep into your insides to carve out a room and stays there.

His fingers brush over your knee as he cleans.

And then, after a long, silent moment, he speaks.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

His voice is rough. Not accusing. Not angry. Just wounded. Pained.

He lets out a sharp breath, his throat bobbing as he swallows thickly. He looks away for a moment, squeezing his eyes shut as if blocking out what he did to you.

His gaze flicks back up to yours and the way he looks at you nearly takes you apart.

“Why didn’t you stop me, doll?” His voice breaks, as if it physically pains him to say it. “I- Jesus, I- why didn’t you tell me?”

You shake your head, your throat tight, trying to find the words. Trying to explain. But the shame, the embarrassment make it hard to pull in a full breath, making it impossible to speak.

Bucky waits.

And again, that makes it worse.

Because he is patient with you, even now. Even when he desperately searches you for something, when he looks like he wants to rip himself apart with his bare hands.

He is still waiting for you, waiting for you to think about your answer.

You push past the lump in your throat and force up something. “I didn’t want to ruin it,” you admit quietly.

His brows pull further together, face twisting. His hand stays on your knee. “Ruin what?”

You exhale shakily, your fingers curling into the fabric of your shirt. “For you,” you say, voice barely above a whisper. “I didn’t want to ruin it for you. I just- I wanted you to feel good.”

Bucky might have stopped breathing in front of you. Might have just died and come back in the same second.

A sound leaves him. You can’t make out if it is a word or something else, but it is deep and gravelly and it slams into your chest like a fist.

His head dips forward, his hands flexing into fists on his thighs before he drags them over his face. The stained cloth lay discarded.

He shakes his head, not believing what he is hearing. Not even knowing what to do with himself.

He looks at you again. His eyes are darker now. So full of pain.

“Doll,” he breathes, and the way he says it - like it hurts him, like it breaks him - have you staring at him helplessly. “You think I’d rather you suffer through it? That I’d rather have you- have you just take it? That I’d rather get off than-” He stops. He has to stop. His breath hitches in a gasp. His fists shake. “Fuck.”

You can’t look at him.

You want to. But you can’t.

Because he is too much.

Because he is everything.

Because he is making it impossible to pretend like this isn’t something more than what it is.

There is a deep, pulling sensation in your stomach, a hand reaching inside and twisting and turning everything around.

“I’m sorry,” you choke out. Your bottom lip trembles and you fight against tears welling up in your eyes.

Bucky moves instantly.

He is on you in a heartbeat, as close as he can possibly get, as if he could crawl into your skin if it meant keeping you from hurting.

His head shakes, frantic, desperate. “No, hey- no.”His voice sounds like it has been dragged over broken glass. Fractured.

“Don’t apologize, baby. Please, don’t.” He cups your face, his palms warm against your skin. He forces your eyes to his, refuses to let you look away, refuses to let you hide in your shame.

His brows are pulled together, his jaw is tight. His entire body vibrates with something fierce.

“Don’t be sorry. I’m the one who is. I’m the one who needs to apologize.”

His thumb catches a tear.

His hands tighten, like he can physically hold all of you.

“God, I gotta apologize, baby,” he breathes, and the sheer pain in his voice has your heart pounding. “I shouldn’t have- I should’ve never let you think this was all it was.” His fingers flex against your face and he drags in a breath that seems to hurt him.

His forehead almost touches yours.

“I should’ve told you,” he croaks out, words something like a confession. “That first night. That next morning. Should’ve told you then. Should’ve never let you leave thinkin’-” He stops himself, his eyes so blue, so damn intense, burning into yours with something so vulnerable it has your ribs crack open.

He regains a firmness in his voice when he speaks next.

“I should’ve never let you walk out thinkin’ you were just some good time to me.”

You choke on your next breath.

Your mind blanks.

He shakes his head, like he hates himself.

“I thought-” He exhales and rubs a hand over his jaw, his stubble rasping against his palm. “You were gone so fast that first time, baby. So fast. And I- I thought maybe that’s how you wanted it. Maybe that’s all it was for you. It broke my heart, but hell, I thought that’s all I was gonna get. And I didn’t wanna risk it. Risk losin’ that with you.”

You didn’t feel your lips part. You just know that they are gaping.

Words are lost on you.

Bucky’s hands slide down your arms, squeeze at your elbows, needing to ground himself, needing to feel you solid beneath his fingers. His thumb brushes over your pulse point, as if trying to memorize the beat of it.

His voice lowers. Softens.

“But I can’t do this anymore.”

His fingers tighten.

“Not- not like this.” He swallows hard. “Not when it’s hurtin’ you. Not when I-” His throat tries to work around the words, his gaze searching. “Not when I’m hurtin’ you, and giving you the impression you’d just have to take it. That you couldn’t tell me to stop when you need me to.”

His voice splinters.

You stare into the glossy sheen of his eyes and only see sincerity and the utter despair he is in.

Something pushes against your ribs, trying to carve out space where none existed before. A deep heat blooms low, not the kind that you knew to ignite in the dark between tangled sheets and intertwined limbs, but something slower, something deeper.

“I left that morning because I thought it’s what you wanted, Bucky.” Your voice wavers, but you hold his gaze, watching the way his entire body tenses, the way his brows draw together.

Your hands move to his shirt, nails pressing into it, eyes moving away from his, but he keeps them on you so firmly.

“I was scared,” you admit quietly. “I was scared you would wake up, look at me, and regret it. That you’d think it was a mistake. And then, you never asked me to stay-” You swallow hard, blinking rapidly to slow the tears. “And I thought that meant I was right. That you didn’t want me to.”

Bucky’s eyes go wide.

He looks broken.

His body jerks forward as if you hit him. His mouth is parted and his lips are trembling. His throat works words up.

You watch as something dark and agonizing moves through him. He blinks fast, breathes in sharp, and exhales even sharper.

Then he shakes his head, over and over again, lips moving to a curse he doesn’t speak out loudly. His hands adjust themselves on your skin.

“You thought I wanted you to leave?”

The sheer disbelief, the sheer devastation in his voice makes your chest cave in on itself.

“I-” You try to answer, try to explain, but he continues.

“No. No, sweetheart, no.” His hands slide down, gripping your arms, your hands, begging you to listen. “I never- Fuck. I never wanted you to leave.”

His eyes are wild, urgent, stormy.

“I wanted you to stay. Every damn time. But I thought it’s what you wanted.” His voice hitches, his shoulders rigid with tension. “You were gone so fast, doll, you didn’t even-” He swallows, his expression shattering. “I figured you didn’t wanna wake up next to me.”

You feel everything crack open inside you.

Your pulse hammers in your throat, in your wrists, in your ears, in the very tips of your fingers, both in a wild and certain way.

“You never told me to stay,” you whisper.

Bucky’s face contorts in pain.

“I was terrified,” he breathes, his forehead pressing against yours. “Terrified that if I asked, you’d tell me no. And I- I couldn’t-” He exhales a profound breath, shaking his head. “I couldn’t stand hearin’ that, doll. I couldn’t stand losing even the little of you I had.”

Something harsh tugs at your chest, making it hard to breathe.

You had it all wrong.

And so did he.

You want to laugh, maybe, or cry, or press your hands to his face just to make sure this moment is real, to make sure he won’t take back what he just told you.

You let out a shaky breath. A finger lifts gradually and brushes against his jaw. He leans into your touch like he is starving for it.

“I always wanted to stay,” you whisper, voice breaking.

Bucky’s breath stutters, his fingers twitching against you. His lips are parted.

With a long and drawn-out breath he moves to cup the back of your head, his fingers threading through your hair, holding you to him.

His lips press against your forehead, once, twice, a third time, his breath warm and unsteady against your skin.

“I fucked up,” he mutters, voice thick with regret.

You shake your head, but he won’t have it.

“No, baby. I shoulda told you from the start. I should’ve never let you walk out that door.” Another kiss. Another released breath. “But you ain’t walkin’ out now. Not this time. Not ever. M’ not gonna let you.”

His voice is low and rough, filled with something sore.

“You’re stayin’ right here.”

You pull him in, needing him closer, needing his arms around you and his warmth against you.

And Bucky melts.

Completely, he folds into you. His arms wrap around your body, pressing against the small of your back, fingers digging in like he needs to feel you.

He buries his face into your hair, leaving kisses there, his breath strained against your scalp. He smells like soap, like something faintly sweet, like safety.

His hand smoothes over your back, tracing slow and grounding patterns, memorizing every inch of you, needing you to be okay.

“How do you feel, baby? You still hurtin’?” he whispers against your temple.

Your stomach flips at the care in his voice. How much he wants to know. How much he needs to know.

You hesitate for a second, words sticking to your tongue.

Bucky pulls back slightly, enough to look at you. His eyes sweep over your face, over every tiny micro-expression, over every little glimmer of pain you can’t quite hide.

His gaze drops lower, assessing you, thoroughly. The bleeding seems to have stopped and relief washes over his features. But it’s fleeting.

“I’m okay,” you assure, even though the soreness still lingers, the ache still exists beneath your skin.

Bucky gives you a warning look.

“It only hurts a little.”

Bucky closes his eyes for a beat, and when he looks at you again, you get uneasy. It seems he wasn’t quite done with confessing things.

“Please don’t do that again, baby. Don’t ever put me before you like that. Don’t ever let me hurt you just ‘cause you think it’s what I want. I could never feel good at the cost of your hurtin’.”

His face is twisted with pain, the idea of you suffering in silence unbearable to him.

He is looking at you like you are everything.

“I promise, Buck,” you tell him reverently. Softly. “But I really am okay.”

“Doll.” His voice is low, firm. “We need to get you checked out. We ain’t just sittin’ on this and hopin’ it’s fine. We’re going to the ER.”

You sigh.

“Bucky-”

“Not up for discussion,” he retorts, shaking his head. There is tension around his mouth, pulling it taut. “We’ll let a doc check you over, and gonna let ‘em tell us you’re okay. And if you’re not, we’re gonna figure out what to do. But we won’t ignore this, sweetheart. Not when it’s you. Not when you’re in pain and bleedin’.”

Your chest is filling with something warm, something fond, something that hurts and heals all at once.

Still, you try. “It’s better now, Buck-”

He doesn’t even let you finish.

He is already moving, already reaching for clothes. He grabs a new pair of his boxers for you to pull on, seemingly not caring about the remnants of blood that will stain them, along with sweats and one of his hoodies.

And before you can argue, or can even fully process what he is doing, he dresses you in those clothes and immediately lifts you into his arms when he is done.

His hands are strong, gentle, so cautious, one cradling your back, the other under your knees. He holds you like you weigh nothing, but also like you are the most precious thing in the world.

You let out a startled noise, but Bucky shushes you tenderly, pressing a sweet kiss to your temple.

“I got you, baby,” he soothes, voice so warm and full of something so achingly deep you don’t know how to hold it.

But you try to.

Because you want to.

“Real love doesn’t meet you at your best. It meets you in your mess.”

- J.S. Park

[surprised-penguin]

So I've had this very Bucky Barnes thought running through my head...

“So responsive, so beautiful,” “I could spend hours just tasting you, exploring every inch of your delectable body.”

What if Bucky was legit serious and did spend hours fulfilling his promise. 😳

This is in my inbox for soooo long. While I absolutely love the idea I just didn’t get myself to write anything for it so far? But let’s try to make a small Drabble out of it, shall we?

MINORS DNI! 18+, smut.

Boyfriend!Bucky who loves to have you all overstimulated and responsive underneath him while his head is buried between your thighs.

“M-mhm, B-Buck–“ you whine, trying to wiggle away from your boyfriend’s skilled tongue. Bucky growls at you, his fingers digging further into the soft skin of your hips as he holds you in place for him. His tongue pushing into your cunt. “T-too much, p-please, B-Buck.”

Bucky lifts his head, his lips and chin glistening from the mixture of your arousal and his saliva as he looks at you. His tongue darting out, gliding over his plump lips with a low moan rumbling in his chest. “What’s too much, babydoll?”

You whine, trying to form a sentence when two of his fingers sink into your tight hole. Your back arching, your breathing picking up as he curls his fingers against your soft spot. “B-Buck!”

“Yes, babydoll?” Bucky asks softly, burying his head back between your spread thighs. Your hips stuttering when his lips are wrapped around your clit, suckling softly. “Ya have to tell me what you want.”

“G-gonna c-cum… I-i can’t cu-cum anymore,” you breathe out in a quiet whimper. Bucky’s playing with your pussy for hours, pulling one after another orgasm from you.

He chuckles against you, licking a strap from your clenching hole to your clit. You buck your hips, trying to wiggle away but at the same time you’re so close to your orgasm that you want to press further into him. His thick fingers keep thrusting lazily into you, storming your spongy spot with every movement.

“So responsive, so beautiful,” Bucky hums. He adores the way you keep wiggling while you chase your orgasm. Your legs tightening around his broad shoulders, caging him in.

When he came home after work and you started to make out, he already praised you how responsive you always are to his touch and then he told you he could spend hours between yours legs, eating you out and making you feel good. You laughed but he kept promise.

“I love exploring and cherishing every single inch of your delectable body, babydoll,” he growls against your folds, his tongue working against your sensitive bundle of nerves to bring you closer to the edge. “You can gimme one more, can’t you? C’mon, babydoll, gimme another orgasm.”

Your moans get louder, you throw your head back into the pillow while Bucky keeps thrusting his fingers into you, his lips closing around your clit once more. With a low whine, your fingers in his brown locks you come all over his tongue.

“That’s it, good girl,” Bucky hums, working his fingers inside of you until your legs are shaking. You pull Bucky up, pouting at him. He leans up, removing his fingers before sucking them clean and bringing his lips to hover above yours. “Such a good girl, my good girl.”

Taglist: @rogersbarber @loki-laufeyson68 @etherealdisneyvillainness @winterschildren8 @rnurse-kole @kimmie113080 @sergeantbarnessdoll @sebastianstanisahotmf @mercurial-chuckles @holylulusworld @randomawesomeperson102 @looking1016 @multiversefanfics @kpopgirlbtssvt @alexxavicry @gremlin-girly @grilledcheesewithjalapeno @unabashed-lover-of-fictional-men @irisk12 @lilyalone @iris-xoxo-juhu @fckedupandbeautiful @hisredheadedgoddess28 @princesscore-angel @casa-boiardi @blackhawkfanatic @mrsalexstan @thesarcasmqueen-22 @bamitzzsam @feynightlight @ethanhoewke @kandis-mom @peachy-satan00 @armystay89 @queen-honeybee-stories @p1nkgirly333

[surprised-penguin]

hi!! can I get an azriel fic where he and the reader had a fight before a battle or mission and then she is presumed dead so he spends his days spiraling with guilt and he misses her a lot and that stuff. And then when she makes it back he finally confesses his feelings to her and happy ending :) bonus if she's rhys' sister but not necessary. thank u so much and happy new year!!

please come back

thank you so much for your request - i hope this lived up to expectations since i’ve wanted to write a fic like this for ages 💫

word count - 1.6k

“Where is she?”

“Az.. We… We don’t—.”

“I said where is she?” Azriel bellowed, readying Truthteller for anything.

Rhys rubbed a bloody hand over his chin whilst Cassian hung his head low.

Rhys looked at Azriel with those deep violet eyes, conveying a whole conversation to him without having to use any words.

Truthteller dropped to the ground.

Azriel followed.

His knees let out an earth shattering crack as he crumbled onto the floor. His whole body went slack, his entire demeanour changing from how he had been seconds before.

How evil a few seconds could turn life into.

“No.” He whispered to the wind.

“Az…”

“No!” He screamed, spit and blood flying from his lips - blood from the battle which he didn’t feel like they’d won anymore.

Why had any of that been worth it?

Days of war and fighting, and for what?

The peace and safety of the Night Court wad restored once more, but was life worth truly living without his person living beside him? He couldn’t even comprehend the thought of figuring that question out.

He could feel the bond slipping away. That once golden-feel thread, rusting and greying away.

Azriel tried pulling on the bond with all he had, whispering pleads under his breath. “Please, please.” He pulled and pulled, but the void when nothing pulled back was too empty to deal with.

“I’m sorry, brother.” Rhys said, kneeling down in front of Azriel. “I’m sorry.”

“Tell me it isn’t true.” Azriel looked from his blood-caked hands and into his brother’s eyes once more.

Azriel’s own eyes pooled with tears. He didn’t think he had any energy left to think, let alone cry and yet the tears would not stop falling.

His body rocked as his cries took over him.

He felt like the world was ending and he was ending with it.

He pulled that bond again, wishing for anything to give him a sign that you were at least trying to pull back - to give Azriel reason to believe you were still there - but all he felt was nothing.

🦇 • 🤎• 🦇

The sun was setting when Azriel woke up.

He sat up in your once shared bed, holding himself up by his hands behind him.

He looked from the setting sun to your side of the bed. He’d set up your pillows so it looked like your body was underneath the sheets. They had dents in from where he’d been holding them at night - trying to replicate the feeling of you.

He can’t believe you were gone.

Azriel took one of his hands and placed it over his heart, tugging at that thread - he wasn’t giving it up so easily. He could feel it still there, only it felt distant. Distant didn’t mean forever gone, though.

And so he pulled.

Every morning - or evening - he rose, he pulled.

🦇 • 🤎• 🦇

“You look…” Cassian started as Azriel entered the kitchen.

Cassian was sat at the table eating some bread and sauce - forever snacking.

“Handsome?” Azriel asked in a teasing voice

“You don’t want me to answer that honestly.” Cassian shook his head, tearing off a bit of bread and throwing it across the table for Azriel to catch.

Azriel caught it with one hand and immediately took a bite from it. It didn’t take an intelligent someone to know that Cassian was just trying to make sure Azriel remembered to eat, seeing as he kept ‘forgetting to’ recently.

Azriel hadn’t attended family dinner in 2 days - the battle having ended 3 days ago.

Cassian was impressed that Azriel was even out of bed - proud, even.

“Answer me this, then.” Azriel counter offered, “If… If you thought there was still a small chance the bond was still alive between you and Nesta, even though she’d… gone, would you pull it? Persue it?”

“Without hesitation.” Cassian nodded.

Azriel nodded in agreement.

“Why—.”

“It’s nothing.” Azriel shook his head, leaving the bread on the table and disappearing from the room once more.

“What a weird guy.” Cassian spoke to no-one as he dipped his bread into a spicy-red sauce.

🦇 • 🤎• 🦇

You looked peaceful.

Madja had dressed you in lilac robes - traditional to your homeland for your upcoming memorial service.

You were lying to rest in a room away from the main part of the House of Wind. You looked so beautiful. Your Fae skin had not yet withered or cracked.

“Hello, my love.” Azriel said, brushing the tips of his fingers over your cheek.

Azriel had been coming down to speak to you every spare moment he had, not wanting to miss a single second he had to watch over you.

“Are you ready to come back yet?”

He tugged that bond and he tugged it hard.

🦇 • 🤎• 🦇

It was the third morning.

Azriel was at his desk, writing away as he often did in the mornings. His diary was the one constant - other than you - that he had always known he could turn to each day.

Now with you gone, he–

Mor burst through the door, panting like she’d run up the steps to reach the House of Wind.

Azriel hadn’t noticed he’d dropped his pen and spilt the ink everywhere. Mor had startled him, but his shadows had calmed him.

Mor caught her breath long enough for her to speak two words.

“She’s awake.”

And that’s when he noticed he could feel it; the bond.

🦇 • 🤎• 🦇

Azriel was running faster than he had ever before.

He sprinted down the halls, apologising when he knocked over a vase but continuing nevertheless.

When he approached the end of the hallway that led to that door, he spotted Rhys speaking to Madja just in front of it.

Azriel slowed down his pace until he was actually apprehensively approaching the door.

He looked at Madja first, needing medical reassurance more than anything. If this was real, how did the Mother pull this off? He would owe his soul for this.

Madja gave Azriel a knowing look that made Azriel want to crumple to the floor and kiss at the feet of the Gods.

Madja, Rhys and Mor stood beside the door as Azriel didn't waste a single moment more waiting behind the doors. He pushed them open widely and for the first time in what felt like a lifetime, he saw your eyes open.

You smiled at him from across the room and he was done for.

Azriel's shadows went into a frenzy to reach you and you laughed as they hugged and tickled you, moulding around your body in a protective cocoon.

"I came back." You said.

Azriel nodded, not understand how this was even possible. How was this possible? Could Madja even explain this phenomenon?

"You.. You were..."

"I know." You nodded sadly. "I can't imagine how that must have been for you."

"I pulled on the bond every other moment." Azriel walked towards you slowly, careful to tread carefully in case he blurred the dream that he was sure he was dreaming.

"I know." You rested your hand on your chest. "I could feel it."

"You could?"

"I'm certain that you brought me back, Az."

His shadows met back with him but only because he was so close to you now. Close enough to be able to reach out and make sure you were real.

He brought a scarred hand up to your cheek, hesitating in case this was some cruel trick. His hand hovered where he wanted to cup your cheek, like he was internally stuck with choosing what to do next.

"It's okay. I'm here."

You moved for him and pressed your skin into his.

Azriel gasped as he felt how real you were beneath his own body. He quickly brought his other hand to cup your other cheek and greedily bring your lips close to his so he could seal this moment with a kiss.

The kiss poured all of his love for you back into him.

He felt that bond grow tighter in his chest, begging to burst out and fill the room with the endless happy that you brought him.

"You're here." He said between kisses, not letting you go for a moment.

"I am."

Azriel's kisses were hungry and desperate. It was almost like he refused to believe this was real and that he would lose you the moment he stopped. As much as you loved him and his kisses, you did need to breathe and so you reluctantly pulled away.

"No..." Azriel whined, desperate to pull you back.

You cupped his cheeks this time, grounding him to you. "Hey, sweetheart, I am here. I am right here. We have all the time in the world. I'm okay."

"We're okay." And he sealed the fact with another kiss.

🦇 • 🤎• 🦇

"Az, get off!"

You laughed as you tried to push him off of your side of the bed.

"You're too big." You grunted as you tried to move him off you, but he was too big of a lump of muscle to move. Of course you were only struggling to suffer - you actually quite enjoyed the feeling of him on you. If it comforted him then it comforted you.

"I am, aren't I." He said cheekily, like a teen Illyrian.

"Ugh." You rolled your eyes, but were glad to see he'd gotten his spark back. "I give up."

You stayed laid down, Azriel's body completely wrapped over yours and his legs intertwined with yours. His arms were wrapped so snug around you that you couldn't move even if you did want to. Seemed like he was attached to you from here until forever.

"Good." He said. "Now, let's sleep."

He gave one last tug on the bond before you tried to go to sleep and he was only comfortable enough to go to sleep when he felt you tug back.

[surprised-penguin]

Mine. Always.

Title: Mine. Always.

Pairing: Alpha!Bucky x Omega!Female Reader

Summary:  Bucky closes off post rut, and his little needy omega make a play to entice him back in.

Word Count: 4.1K

Warnings: /Explicit Content / 18+, Minors DNI Alpha/Beta/Omega AU, mentions of violence in Rut, Fingers, oral sex (F receiving), Unprotected sex, knotting, breeding kink – No beta…

A/N:  I refuse to be sorry for this… first time writing this trope, so yeah forgive that… But yeah.. The tension had been unbearable.

Bucky had been distant for days, maybe a week, and it was slowly eating you alive. You knew why. His rut had passed. It had been intense, overwhelming, a raw storm of need that left you both spent, tangled together for days in a haze of heat and instinct. He had taken you, claimed you, knotted you over and over until you were shaking, boneless, utterly his. He’d been rough-brutal in his hunger-but that wasn’t new, he was an enhanced soldier, the fact you could get out of the bed and walk was a sign of his restraint. You’d wandered around the apartment after, quietly enjoying the collection of marks left in his wake, proof that you’d been perfect, proof of how much you both needed each other. ‘War wounds’ for an alpha that made your world turn. And yet now, when it should have been the time to bask in the aftermath, to touch and reassure, to settle into the closeness the bond demanded, he was pulling away.

Short answers. Distant gazes. Nights where he wouldn’t even touch you. A wall forming between you, thick and impenetrable, and no matter how much you reached out, he kept retreating.

It wasn’t just emotional distance. You noticed how moody he had gotten, how he snapped at even the smallest things, how his body language screamed tension. Out in public, he wouldn’t let anyone near you-where before, he would keep you caged against him, touching constantly, his presence a looming, possessive force, now he stood just behind you, a silent and rigid shadow. His glare cut through any poor soul who strayed too close, the occasional warning growl slipping past his clenched teeth, but the contact was gone, the warmth of his touch absent. You caught the way his hand flexed at his side, like he was seconds from lashing out. But once you were back home, in your supposed haven, he’d pull away, shut down. The possessiveness, the aggression, it all melted into something sullen and distant, leaving you cold in his absence.

It hurt. God, it hurt. Not being able to touch him, to soothe him, to do what you were meant to do as his omega-it made your chest ache with longing, with need. He had been so good to you, so perfect during your heats. He gave himself to you completely, spent himself entirely just to make sure you made it through. He had held you through every fevered night, knotted you again and again until you were full, sated, and safe. He cared for you in ways no other alpha ever could, ensuring you never had to endure a second of suffering alone.

So why wouldn't he let you do the same for him now?

Your instincts screamed at you to help, to comfort, to ease the strain on him, but he wouldn't let you. And the more he shut you out, the more the doubt crept in. Had you not been good during his rut? Had you not kept him satisfied, not given him enough? The thought alone made the omega inside you whine and ache, a hollow, twisting sensation burrowing deep in your chest. Was he now regretting his claim? Did he not want you anymore? Was that it? Had you failed him in some way? The questions haunted you, eating away at your resolve, leaving you raw and desperate.

His scent still made you weak, still made your knees tremble and your pulse race, but now it only served as a painful reminder of what you couldn't have. You were supposed to help him, supposed to ease his suffering, but he was keeping you at arm’s length, shutting you out when all you wanted was to be let in. To be his.

It was driving you insane.

You noticed the other changes too. The way he was spending more time in bed, curling into himself, avoiding the world. He only showered in the mornings now, before he left, as if scrubbing your scent from his skin. Worst of all, he only seemed to come to bed after you had already fallen asleep, slipping under the covers just late enough to make sure you couldn’t snuggle up against him. It was deliberate, intentional. Like he was making sure you couldn’t comfort him, couldn’t be close. As if he was denying himself the one thing that would make it easier.

And then there was the fixing. His routine of checking the doors and windows had turned obsessive, looping again and again each night before he could even attempt to sleep. His hands fidgeted with anything he could, tightening screws, adjusting cabinets, securing things that didn’t need securing. Anything to keep his mind busy, anything to keep from acknowledging what was happening inside him.

He wasn’t even eating with you anymore, standing at the counter instead, shovelling food into his mouth between tasks. Like even sitting with you at the table, sharing a meal, was too much. It was just another wall, another way he kept you at a distance, and it was starting to break you apart.

So you took matters into your own hands.

You spent the entire day preparing, picking out the perfect lace set, something soft and delicate to contrast the raw edge of what had passed between you. Something that would remind him. You stood in front of the mirror, taking yourself in. The soft lace sat firm along your curves, accentuating the places you knew he adored, but it still wasn’t enough. This wasn’t just about seduction-it was about staking your claim. About reminding him of what you were to each other.

You were his. He was yours. That was what the mark meant. What your bond was supposed to be. And if he wasn’t going to come to you, if he was going to keep denying what you both needed, then you would make him remember.

With that thought, you reached for the last touch-one of his flannel shirts. Slipping it over your shoulders, you wrapped yourself in the scent of him, letting it settle deep in your lungs. It eased the ache between your legs, soothed the hollow pain in your chest just a little. But it wasn’t enough. Not when he was right there, so close, yet refusing to let himself have what he needed.

You waited until he came home-his scent was heavier tonight, darker, filling every inch of your shared space before he even stepped through the door.

Bucky barely got through the threshold before his breath hitched, his entire frame locking up as his eyes landed on you. His scent spiked, sharp, conflicted. His fists clenched at his sides. His chest rose and fell with uneven, ragged breaths, his pupils blown wide with something almost like panic.

“Alpha…” Your voice was a plea, and that was all it took.

A shudder went through him, his body torn between fleeing and coming undone. He exhaled sharply, his jaw tight, and then finally, finally, he surged forward, grabbing you with a ferocity that sent a shudder down your spine. His hands were rough, desperate, roaming over your body like he needed to memorize every inch, gripping, kneading, staking his claim all over again. Metal cold and his other so hot it was scolding.

His breath came in sharp, ragged gasps, his body pressing flush against yours as though he could crawl inside your skin, as though he could keep you there, lock you away and never let go. His scent was thick, intoxicating, suffocating, wrapping around you until there was nothing left but him, until every thought melted away into pure, primal instinct.

He buried his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply, his entire body trembling against yours. His fingers dug into your hips, bruising, grounding, his lips hovering over your bond mark as if he was afraid to touch it, afraid to claim what was already his.

“You don’t know what you’ve done,” he rasped, voice thick with something desperate, almost broken. “Tried to be gentle, doll… tried to stay away, tried to let you breathe. But you-fuck-” His hands gripped tighter, dragging you impossibly closer. “You’re beggin’ for it, ain’t ya doll?”

A helpless whimper left you, your omega clawing its way to the surface, aching for him, pleading for his touch. You weren’t sure if it was his words or the way his scent was sinking into you, twisting something deep in your gut, but you could barely think, barely breathe past the sheer, overwhelming need radiating between you.

"Please.." The word falling from you as his nose dragging along the length of your throat as he pressed you into the nearest surface, trapping you with his weight, his need. His muscles were strung tight beneath his skin, his restraint hanging on by a thread. The tremor in his hands as they roamed you, as they mapped the curves he already knew by heart, was the only sign he was still fighting it, still trying to hold himself back.

His scent swirled around you, and it wasn’t just need now-it was something deeper, something raw, something he had been trying to suppress. Something that had been building since his rut ended, since the moment he started pulling away, pretending he didn’t crave you, pretending he could survive without you.

His voice was rough when he spoke again, low and guttural, a confession wrapped in a snarl.

“Needy little thing. Always needing me. Always so fuckin’ sweet.” His hands skimmed over your sides, possessive, worshipping. “Mine. My 'mega.”

"Bucky-" You gasped his name, barely managing to get it past your lips before his mouth crashed against yours, devouring, consuming, desperate. Bucky groaned into you, his tongue sweeping past your lips, claiming, dominating, as if he could erase every second of distance, every moment he had spent keeping himself away.

His hands were relentless, pulling his shirt off your shoulders, his fingers dragging over your skin like he needed to feel every inch of you. Then, almost tearing the flimsy fabric of the lingerie away, his breath hitched, a low growl rumbling through his chest. The delicate material gave way easily under his strength, leaving you bare, vulnerable, exactly how he needed you. His body pressed you into the wall, his knee pushing between your legs, parting them effortlessly, demanding more, demanding everything. His touch was fevered, urgent, like he was afraid you might slip through his fingers, afraid he might wake up and find that this wasn’t real. "Want me, please, Alpha, please." 

His lips trailed lower, teeth scraping over your pulse, tongue following, tasting, savouring. A guttural sound rumbled from deep within his chest, his need only growing sharper. He pressed against you, his entire body covering yours, surrounding you, enveloping you in warmth and scent.

“You feel this, don’t you?” he muttered against your skin, his voice rough, strained. His hips rocked into yours, you could feel his hardness straining up against the fabric of his pants.  “How much I need you? How much I’ve always needed you?” His mouth descended again, hot and open-mouthed, sucking bruises onto your throat, staking his claim anew. 

A whimper spilled from your lips, your fingers twisting into his hair, trying to pull him closer, needing more. “Missed you,” you whispered, barely audible over the sound of your own pounding heart. “Missed feeling you-”

Bucky groaned, the words breaking something in him. His hands slid lower, grasping your thighs, lifting you effortlessly, forcing you to wrap around him.

“Mine,” he growled again, dragging his lips over your collarbone. “Every inch of you, mine.”

You gasped as his grip tightened, fingers pressing bruises into your skin, as if he needed to ground himself in you, to make sure you wouldn’t slip away. His breath was ragged, his body trembling as he held you there, between him and the wall, caging you in with his overwhelming presence. "Thought I'd hurt you," he murmured, lips brushing against your ear. "Saw you limping after, saw the marks. You didn’t complain, didn’t say a damn word, but I knew. And I-fuck, I thought I needed to give you space, let you recover."

His forehead pressed against yours, his hands still gripping you like he couldn’t bear to let go. "You're so perfect, ‘mega," he breathed, voice thick with something broken, something raw. "Gonna give me the family I want. Can’t have you-can’t damage you."

His confession settled over you like a storm, heavy and aching. The guilt had eaten at him, festered, made him retreat when all you had wanted was for him to stay close. To hold you, to remind you that you were his, and that he was still yours. That nothing had changed.

"Bucky-" Your voice wavered, your fingers threading into his hair, tugging, forcing him to meet your gaze. "You never could. I need you, always."

A shudder ripped through him, his resolve crumbling, and then he was kissing you again, desperate, consuming, as if trying to swallow down every ounce of distance he had put between you. And this time, he wasn’t holding back.

With a growl, his hands gripped the backs of your thighs, hoisting you up against him as if you weighed nothing. You barely had time to gasp before he was moving, his steps purposeful, heavy, marching you straight toward the bedroom. His grip was bruising, his breath coming out in sharp pants, his restraint shredded beyond repair. You could feel his heat radiating through his clothes, the solid, unrelenting press of his body making your breath hitch. The scent of him was overwhelming, thick with want, making your head spin as you clung to his shoulders.

The second he reached the edge of the bed, he tossed you onto it, your body bouncing slightly against the mattress before he was on you again. His weight pressed you into the sheets, his hands roving hungrily over you, fingers gripping your thighs, your waist, like he was trying to anchor himself. His pupils were blown wide, his expression wild, something feral and unrestrained lighting up in his gaze. His scent, already potent, grew even heavier, curling around you, filling your lungs until there was nothing left but him.

Bucky wasted no time, yanking at his clothes, pulling his shirt over his head and shoving his pants down with a frustrated grunt. Every movement was rough, impatient, like he couldn’t get to you fast enough. "Not letting you outta my sight again, ‘mega," he growled, voice low and dark with promise. "Not after this. Not ever."

His skin was flushed, chest rising and falling with deep, ragged breaths. He didn’t hesitate as he grabbed your ankles, spreading you out beneath him, his touch rough, desperate, like he needed to feel every inch of you, to reassure himself that you were still here, still his. His mouth descended upon you again, searing and demanding, lips tracing hot paths over your throat, your collarbone, down to the soft skin of your stomach.

Your body reacted instantly, a fresh wave of slick pooling between your thighs, your skin prickling with heat as his scent invaded every corner of your mind. You whimpered, arching into him, your hands fisting in the sheets, desperate for more, for all of him. “Smell so good..”  He groaned at the sound, at the way your body responded so instinctively to his touch. His fingers dug into your thighs as he spread them wider, his gaze locking onto yours, dark and possessive.

“You feel that?” he muttered against your skin, his voice rough, almost reverent. "The way your body begs for me? You’re dripping for me already, omega." His lips curled into a wicked grin as he inhaled deeply, letting your scent consume him. "Wanna take my time with you this time. Gonna remind you exactly who you belong to." The possessiveness in his tone was intoxicating, making your heart skip a beat as you felt his fingers digging deeper into your thighs.

His mouth trailed down your stomach, leaving a path of scorching kisses that made your skin prickle with heat. You whimpered as he reached the apex of your thighs, his breath dancing across your saoked folds. The sensation was almost too much to bear, and you arched into him, desperate for more.

Bucky's response was immediate; he groaned, his lips closing around your clit as he sucked hard. The sensation was blinding, sending sparks flying through your body. Your hands fisted in the sheets as you rode the wave of pleasure, his name tumbling from your lips like a prayer.

As he feasted on you, his fingers began to explore, delving into your wet channel with a rough gentleness that made you shudder. His touch was unapologetic, claiming every inch of you as his own. You felt yourself opening up to him, surrendering to the primal need that drove him.

The air was thick with tension as Bucky's body began to move against yours, his hips flexing in a slow rhythm that built anticipation. His eyes locked onto yours, burning with an inner fire that seemed to sear itself into your very soul. Sitting up, he wiped your slick off his face, his metal arm glinting under the low light, his gaze dark with intent.

His fingers curled possessively around your thighs, prying them open again, not willing to give you a moment’s reprieve. “Not done yet,” he murmured, dragging his tongue along your inner thigh, savoring the taste of you. “I’m gonna sure you’re ready for me, ‘mega. Gotta get you so soaked you take every inch of me like a good girl.”

You keened, writhing under him, overwhelmed by the slow burn of his dominance, the way he unravelled you piece by piece, pulling you deeper into that soft, yielding headspace only he could send you into. Your body trembled as he slid another thick finger inside you, stretching, coaxing, his thumb circling your swollen clit until you gasped, arching off the bed.

“I need to be inside you,” he growled, his voice barely above a whisper. “Need to feel you wrapped around me." His hands grasped your hips, pulling you closer as he positioned himself at your entrance. His cock pressed insistently against your slick heat, teasing, taunting, dragging along your folds until you whimpered, legs falling open wider in invitation.

"Gonna take you like an alpha should. Gonna fuck my seed so deep into you, you’ll never question who you belong to again. You’ll feel me leaking out of you for days, you want that, don’t you?”

Your omega keened in surrender, body already trembling, already aching for him. You were his. He was yours.

"Yes, Alpha. Need you. Need you to fill me up."

"Good girl," he purred, satisfaction dripping from his tone.

The first thrust was like a dam breaking; Bucky's body surged forward, filling you completely as he claimed every inch of space within you. You felt yourself stretching around him, accommodating the thickness of his cock as it pressed deep into your channel. A strangled moan escaped you as the sensation overwhelmed you, the sheer size of him making you gasp, your walls tightening instinctively around him.

Your Alpha snarled, his lips ghosting over your bond mark before biting down gently, a silent promise. "Need to fill you up again, ‘mega. Breed you proper. Make sure everyone knows exactly who you belong to."

The sensation was overwhelming; Bucky's heat and scent surrounded you as he began to move in earnest. Each thrust sent waves crashing through your body; each withdrawal left an ache that only intensified the need for more. His hands gripped your hips, fingers pressing deep, possessive, as he ground himself inside you, ensuring you felt every inch, every stroke, every claim he made.

You clawed at his back, nails raking down his shoulders, clinging as if you’d come undone without him. Your body trembled beneath him, pleasure cresting with every desperate snap of his hips, every growled praise against your skin. “That’s it, omega, take it,” he murmured, voice thick with satisfaction, with the sheer thrill of claiming you all over again. “Made for me. My perfect little thing. Gonna keep you full, gonna make sure my scent never leaves you.”

"Auh, fuck, Alpha," you gasped, your fingers raked up his back again, desperate to hold onto something, anything as the overwhelming sensation of being stretched and filled stole the breath from your lungs. Your cries only urged him on, rough and unrelenting, his pace deepening as he pressed your knees back, opening you further, making space for him to take you the way you’d been aching for. He was relentless, primal, your Alpha in every sense of the word, his instincts sharpening with every thrust. His grip on you was possessive, fingertips digging into your thighs as his hips snapped forward, deeper, harder, claiming you over and over until there was nothing left but him.

“Bucky-urgh, Alpha, it’s so much,” you whimpered, your legs wrapping tighter around his waist, locking him even deeper inside you. Your body trembled, slick pooling around where you were joined, overwhelmed by the way he stretched and filled you. “Y-you’re so deep, Bucky… feels so good, please.”

Your pleasure built, winding tighter and tighter, and Bucky felt it. He knew your body better than you did.

“Come for me, omega,” he rasped, his voice laced with command. “Milk your Alpha like you’re meant to.”

Your body obeyed before your mind caught up, the orgasm slamming into you with devastating force. Your vision blurred as the pleasure coursed through you, your walls clamping down around him in desperate pulses, gripping his cock in a vice that had his own control slipping. A strangled moan tore from his throat, his hips stuttering as he drove deep one last time, his knot swelling, locking him inside you with a shuddering growl.

"Nnnngh-Bucky!" Your voice was nothing more than a broken whimper, your body reacting instantly to his words, your walls clenching around him in tight, desperate spasms.

The sensation was overwhelming, the sudden stretch forcing a keening cry from your lips as your body adjusted around him, holding him deep, keeping him right where you needed him most. The fullness was near unbearable, his knot swelling and locking him inside you, sending pleasure rippling through your body in pulsing waves. Your omega keened, instinct taking over, urging you to surrender, to take all of him, to be bred, to be filled. You could feel his heartbeat pounding inside you, the rhythmic throb of his knot as it swelled to ensure he stayed exactly where he belonged.

Bucky let out a deep, guttural groan, his body trembling against yours, muscles twitching as he fought to catch his breath. His arms wrapped around you, caging you in, holding you so tight it was like he was afraid you'd slip away. He buried his face against your neck, his lips brushing over your scent gland, pressing deep, open-mouthed kisses there as if to further seal his claim.

“That’s it, ‘mega,” he murmured against your skin, his voice raw, reverent. “Takin’ me so good. Just like that, just like you were made for it. Made for me.” His tongue flicked out to taste the salt on your skin, to feel the way your pulse thrummed wildly beneath his lips. “Fuck, feel how tight you’re squeezin’ me? Milk me, baby. Milk your Alpha just like that.”

The size of his knot stretching you further sent sparks of pleasure straight through your core, making your thighs quake.

His breath hitched, and then a ragged moan ripped from his throat as he bucked once more, his hips pressing deep, his knot bumping up against that spongy spot as he spent himself inside you, filling you over and over again. You could feel it, thick and hot, spilling so deep, marking you in the most primal way, ensuring there would be no question-you were his, you always would be.

His hands smoothed up your body, palms gliding over your waist before resting possessively over your belly. “That’s it, ‘mega. Gonna keep you so full. Gonna make sure it takes.” His voice was thick with satisfaction, and something deeper-something wild and unyielding. “Gonna breed you right, keep you round with my pups.”

A needy whimper spilled from your lips at his words, the thought alone sending another wave of shared slick spilling between your thighs, your omega completely lost in the pleasure of being claimed so fully.

Bucky shifted, pressing himself even closer, his scent warm and heavy, his body heat lulling you into a state of perfect bliss. His knot would keep him inside you for a while, tying you together just as nature intended. There was no space between you, no room for doubt-only Bucky, only his love, only the quiet certainty that he would never let you go.

And you knew, without a doubt, that he’d never let you forget it.

[surprised-penguin]

Oka soo I dare to send in a Bucky imagine <3 Maybe one where you're dating but you're not an avenger, so you sometimes feel not good enough for him even though he always makes you feel special and he loves you more than anything. One time while he's at a mission, you're back at the compound waiting for him, but then also Sharon comes up to you being a bitch again and makes you feel even more unwanted and leave before Bucky returns. Later then he's happily waiting to see you, but frowns when he finds out you're not there. So he calls you, asking you to come over and you reluctantly agree. As you finally confront him with your doubts he immediately tries getting this thought out of you and gives you also his dog tags to prove he's yours forever and it's all cute then and also some soft smut where he tells you how much he loves you ? ♥️

Here we go! Here's our boy making everything better when the doubts creep in and we can shut it down on your own. Title: Yours to Keep

Pairing: Avenger!Bucky Barnes x SHIELD Analyst!Female Reader

Summary: You feel like your not enough, and when Sharon gets in your head it makes it so much worse. But to Bucky you’re the reason to make it home.

Word Count: 3.3k

Warnings:  / Explicit Content /18+, Minors DNI, Insecurity, emotional manipulation (from Sharon because she's a mean girl), soft possessiveness, smut, unprotected sex, established relationship, oral (f- receviving), praise, dog tag kink, Angst with Fluff, Romance.

A/N: Something softer for everyone this weekend. Thank you for the ask @wintersoldierchronicles

The compound was quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that seeped into your skin and clung to you like static. You sat curled into one of the deep leather chairs in the lounge, knees tucked beneath you, a tablet in your lap. The screen glowed softly, lines of mission data scrolling as you half-heartedly skimmed them, reading intel you’d collected yourself over the past few days. Every enemy movement tracked. Every building layout mapped. Every communication protocol updated and tested.

All to help keep the Avengers safe. To keep him safe.

You should’ve felt accomplished. Proud. Instead, you felt like a ghost in your own home.

No one had said anything, not directly. But they didn’t have to. The looks, the nods you didn’t get in the hallway, the way everyone seemed to talk around you instead of to you. It all added up. They were Avengers. Legends. Gods. And you were… what? Just the analyst who happened to be dating one of them. An ordinary woman in love with an extraordinary man.

And somehow, no matter how often Bucky looked at you like you hung the stars in the sky, the thought kept crawling back up your throat like bile: You’re not good enough for him.

You bit the inside of your cheek and tried to focus, tried to chase away the fog settling over your mind. But it was no use. The feeling had been a quiet whisper in the dark for months now, and lately… it was starting to scream.

You had seen the way people looked at Bucky- like he was a living monument to strength and survival. A relic of history wrapped in modern muscle and trauma, wearing his past like armour. People admired him. Revered him. And yet, he came home to you. You, who shuffled files and ran analyses. Who flinched when the training team sparred too close to your desk. Who once got winded jogging down the corridor when your badge lanyard snagged on a doorknob.

What could he possibly see in you that someone like Sharon, like Natasha, couldn’t offer in a more fitting package?

Footsteps echoed lightly down the corridor, the sharp click of designer boots hitting the polished floor like a countdown. You didn’t even need to lift your eyes. That cadence was familiar, the kind that always made your stomach twist with a mixture of dread and forced politeness.

Then came the voice. Smooth. Sweet. Laced with superiority.

“Still here?” Sharon Carter stepped into view, her tone dipped in passive-aggressive honey. She was perfectly made-up, of course, with not a single hair out of place, her sleek suit hugging her figure in all the ways that made people notice when she walked into a room.

She looked you up and down like you were something out of place, something small, insignificant. “Thought they kept the admin staff in the basement.”

It was a joke, probably. One of those faux-friendly jabs that everyone was supposed to laugh at. Except she wasn’t smiling. Not really.

You fought to keep your expression neutral, fingers tightening slightly around the tablet in your lap. You weren’t going to let her see how deep that cut went, not when she was already poised to twist the knife.

You gave her a polite nod, trying not to let your discomfort show. “Just going over the post-mission data. They’re due back in an hour.”

"Must be hard. Being with someone like Bucky." Sharon's smile was the kind that never quite reached her eyes.

“What do you mean?” You stiffened, your fingers tightening slightly around the edge of the tablet.

She stepped closer, arms folded casually like this was just idle chatter.

"I mean- he’s one of us. Field-ready. Weapon-trained. A living legend. And you… well, you make great coffee."

You swallowed hard. "I do more than-"

"I know," she said quickly, with that same dismissive tilt of her head. "You’re smart. Very behind-the-scenes. Essential in your own way, I suppose. But let’s be honest…Bucky’s built for war. He needs someone who understands that. Who can keep up. Who can be more than just a comfort waiting at home."

Your heart pounded painfully in your chest, each word driving in like a nail. It was everything you'd feared, laid out in someone else’s voice. Someone who was supposed to be on your side.

"He probably misses someone who can actually stand beside him out there," Sharon added with a shrug. "You know… someone who belongs."

The tablet in your hands blurred as tears threatened. You blinked hard and forced yourself to breathe through your nose.

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Because if you opened your mouth, you weren’t sure whether you’d scream or sob.

So you just stood, quickly and quietly, and walked away- shoulders stiff, throat tight, eyes stinging. You had to get out of there before someone saw you fall apart.

You left the compound entirely, slipping out the back entrance and taking the long way home. Your mind ran in circles the whole walk. What if Sharon was right? What if everyone had just been too polite to say it out loud? What if the only reason Bucky was with you was because you were safe? Easy? A soft landing after years of running and pain?

~#~#~#~#~#~

Bucky came back two hours later, bruised and sweaty but grinning. The mission had been long, much longer than expected. But successful at least. He was covered in dirt and grime, dried blood flecked across one temple, the strap of his weapons bag cutting into his shoulder. His muscles ached, and the adrenaline had long since worn off, but one thing kept him upright, kept him moving: you. The thought of you waiting at the compound, probably curled up with your tablet and a warm drink, maybe looking up every time the door slid open- yeah, that thought had gotten him through worse days than this.

He slung his weapons bag over one shoulder, still covered in dirt and dust from the mission, and scanned the lounge immediately.

“Hey, Sam,” he called. “She around?”

Sam looked up from his protein bar, brow furrowing slightly. “She left a while ago. Didn’t say much. Looked kinda off, though.”

Bucky’s shoulders stiffened. “Off how?”

Sam stood, tossing the wrapper aside. “I dunno, man. Quiet. Real quiet. Didn’t even look me in the eye. Thought maybe she was just tired, but now…” He trailed off, reading the worry blooming on Bucky’s face.

“You think something happened?” Bucky asked.

Sam gave a slow nod. “Could be nothing. But you know her better than anyone. If it’s not nothing- you’ll fix it.”

Bucky’s heart dropped. Something was wrong. You always met him after missions. Always.

Without another word, he turned and pulled his phone out of his pocket, hand still a little bloodied. ~#~#~#~#~#~

You pulled your car over to the side of the road, the quiet hum of the engine the only sound breaking through your spiralling thoughts. You hadn’t made it home. It felt too far. Too final. The space inside your car was tight, suffocating, but it was still safer than walking through the front door like nothing was wrong.

The phone vibrated in your hand again, lighting up with his name.

You stared down at the caller ID like it was a bomb about to go off. You didn’t answer right away. How could you? How could you speak to him when all you wanted to do was disappear?

You were a coward. That much was clear. Running off like that, not even saying goodbye. You should’ve stayed. Faced it. Faced her. But the words Sharon had said... they hadn’t been new. They were just the same cruel thoughts you’d had about yourself, dressed up in someone else’s voice.

You weren’t right for someone like Bucky.

You were just an analyst. A desk jockey. A tagalong to the world of gods and heroes.

And he was... everything.

He was strength and legend and pain and hope, all wrapped up in that scarred, steady way he looked at you like you were worth the whole damn universe. And you? You couldn’t even look yourself in the mirror right now.

The phone buzzed again.

Guilt stabbed through your chest.

He’d just come off a mission. He was probably still aching, tired, maybe even hurt—and here you were, making it all about you. Selfish. So unlike him. He always made you feel like the only girl in the room. One look from him and the world melted away.

You swallowed hard, blinking back the sting in your eyes, and finally picked up.

“Hey,” you said, voice too quiet.

“Doll, where are you?” he asked, voice already softening. “You okay?”

“I’m fine. Just… needed some air.”

There was a pause.

“You lying to me, sweetheart?” he said gently.

You closed your eyes. He knew you.

“No.”

Another pause. “Come back to the compound. Please. I need to see you. You're scaring me.”

Your chest cracked open. He sounded so… real. So Bucky. You found yourself nodding, even though he couldn’t see it.

“Okay,” you whispered.

~#~#~#~#~#~

He was already waiting by the elevator when you arrived, walking slow, tense loops with his hands clenched into fists at his sides. His jaw was tight, lips pressed into a thin line, the lines around his eyes carved deeper than usual. Every few seconds, his gaze darted toward the entrance, like he couldn’t help but check again, hoping- needing- you to appear.

The moment his eyes landed on you, he stopped dead. Everything in him just stilled. Relief hit him like a wave, shoulders dropping, hands unclenching—but his expression didn’t ease completely. No, his eyes stayed cautious, flickering across your face like he was afraid one wrong move might send you running. Like you were something breakable he didn’t dare press too hard.

He didn’t speak. Just opened his arms.

You tried to fake a smile, to smooth the cracks in your mask. But it was shaky, barely there, and he saw right through it. You saw the flicker of sadness in his eyes at the attempt.

You stepped into his embrace slowly, almost shyly, as if uncertain you still deserved it. The moment your body met his, the dam inside you cracked.

You buried your face in his chest, exhaling like you’d been holding your breath since you left the compound.

“Hey,” he murmured into your hair, voice rough with emotion. “There’s my girl.”

You clung to him, fingers twisting in his shirt like you were afraid he’d vanish, afraid this was all a dream that would dissolve when you let go.

“Do you wanna tell me what’s going on?” he asked eventually, drawing back just enough to look into your face. His thumb brushed the corner of your mouth, like he wanted to catch the remnants of that broken smile.

You looked up at him, eyes glassy and aching. “You’re Bucky Barnes. You’re an Avenger. A war hero. And I… I sit at a desk.”

“Stop,” he said instantly, thumb now tracing your cheekbone like he could wipe the pain away.

“I don’t fight aliens. I don’t have powers. I’m just… support staff.” Your voice wavered, trembling like your heart might break in two right there in front of him. “Sharon said you’d get bored of me. That you’ll want someone who can stand beside you in the field.”

His jaw tensed like he’d been struck. A flicker of something dark and cold passed through his expression, steel sharp and silent. His entire body went still.

“She said what?” he asked, voice low and dangerous, but even as the fury gathered behind his eyes, he didn’t let it take hold. He inhaled slowly, grounding himself. Because right now, you were what mattered.

You looked down, ashamed. “Doesn’t matter. She’s not wrong.”

There was a pause. Not long. Just the space of a heartbeat and then the weight of metal settled into your palm with a soft metallic clink.

“Look at me,” he said, voice low but unwavering.

You looked up, surprised by the intensity in his gaze.

“You see these?”

You nodded.

“These?” he said again, his voice thick with meaning as the tags clinked quietly between you. “These don’t just mean soldier. They mean survivor. They mean second chances. They mean you, okay? I don’t give these to anyone. I want you to have them.”

You stared at them, too stunned to speak, too overwhelmed to breathe. They were warm from his skin. Heavy with meaning.

He cupped your face gently, both hands trembling slightly now.

“You’re not support staff. You’re the person I come home to. My person. You keep me grounded. You’re the one thing that’s real.”

Your lips trembled, voice caught in your throat. “Bucky…”

He leaned down, voice husky and sure. “Put them on. Right now.”

You slipped the dog tags around your neck, hands shaking, heart pounding so loud you could hear it in your ears.

“There,” he said, eyes gleaming- not with pride, but with something softer. Fierce, unyielding love. “Now everyone knows. You’re mine. Forever.”

~#~#~#~#~#~

In the hallway, without a word, he scooped you up into his arms. Not rushed. Just worshipful, like you were something sacred he’d been aching to hold all day. You wrapped your arms around his neck, face tucked into the crook of his shoulder as he carried you, his footsteps steady and full of purpose, all the way to his room. Every step was careful, intentional, his hold firm but gentle, like he wanted to shield you from everything that had hurt you today.

He kissed your forehead as he laid you back on the bed, then your cheeks, your jaw, each press of his lips like a vow.

“So beautiful… so smart…” he murmured with each kiss. “Couldn’t do any of this without you.”

His soft kisses pressing into your cheeks, the corners of your mouth. 

“You’re everything to me,” he said, pulling your shirt over your head. “Every breath, every second.”

His mouth moved to your collarbone, your chest, trailing down your stomach , while his hand eased you out of your pants. 

“You think I don’t need you?” he said between kisses, each one a soft promise against your skin. “Baby, I fall apart without you.”

His mouth moved lower, worshipful and unhurried, kissing every inch of you like he was reacquainting himself with something sacred. By the time his tongue slid between your thighs, you were already trembling.

He groaned when you gasped, the sound low and reverent. Not just desire but devotion. His tongue moved with slow, deliberate precision, savouring every soft, slick response he pulled from you. He licked a long, teasing stripe up your centre, then circled your clit with a maddening tenderness, his hands gripping your thighs just firm enough to keep you open and trembling beneath him.

He moaned into you, like the taste of you was salvation, like he’d starved for this and finally had permission to feast. One hand slid up your stomach, grounding you as your hips bucked gently, chasing every press of his mouth.

“So sweet,” he murmured against you, voice thick with love, his lips brushing your most sensitive skin. “Taste like heaven. My heaven.”

He didn’t stop. Not yet. Not when you were trembling so perfectly for him. His tongue moved in slow circles, each pass deliberate and precise, coaxing you higher with gentle persistence. His grip on your thighs tightened slightly as your breath caught, his mouth parting you with reverence.

He flicked his tongue softly, then flattened it, letting the heat of him soak into every nerve ending, every gasp. He alternated pressure and pace, reading every twitch of your body like scripture. When he sucked your clit into his mouth and moaned, the vibration made your entire body arch into him.

“You’re not allowed to think you’re not wanted,” he rasped between strokes, his voice wrecked with affection and need. “Not when I love you.”

You cupped his face as he kissed up your body again, pausing to nuzzle the dog tags now lying warm between your breasts. “You feel like home,” you whispered, eyes glassy, voice raw with truth.

When he finally pressed inside you, it wasn’t fast or greedy. It was achingly slow, like he was trying to carve a place for himself inside you, not just in body but deeper. He let out a low, unsteady breath as he sank in, his forehead dropping to yours, his hand tightening around yours like he couldn’t bear to let go.

He didn’t thrust. Not right away. He stayed there for a beat, deep and still, forehead resting against yours as his breath caught in his throat. His hand stayed tangled in yours, his vibranium one anchored at your hip, grounding you both. “I need this,” he whispered. “Need you. Like this. Just us. You make everything quiet.” Bucky needed you to feel every inch, every part of him that belonged to you.

And then he moved like a tide rolling in to soothe what had been broken, to wash away everything that hurt. His hips rolled back with unhurried grace, then pressed forward again in a smooth, reverent stroke, making sure to drag himself along your velvet walls with each motion, slow and devastatingly deep. The way he filled you, the way he moved inside you. Like he was writing his name into your soul with every breathless thrust, imprinting himself where no one else had ever reached. Every motion was a promise: that he was here, that he was yours, that you were loved in the most complete, carnal, and emotional sense of the word.

Every slow push and pull was deliberate, reverent, the kind of lovemaking that felt like a conversation without words. He kissed your cheek, your jaw, your temple, murmuring softly between each breath.

“I love you,” he whispered, voice cracking as you trembled beneath him. “So damn much it hurts. You make me feel like a man. You see me.”

You cupped his cheek, tears sliding down your temples. “You see me.”

He let out a soft, shaky breath and kissed you again, Bucky pouring everything he had into it.

His rhythm stayed slow but insistent, hips pressing into yours with aching tenderness, like he wanted to be memorized, like he never wanted to be forgotten. The friction, the closeness, the way he looked at you like you were the only thing that had ever made him feel whole—it all built into something consuming, something soft and sacred.

When you came, your soft cries muffled into the curve of his neck, he held you tighter, like anchoring himself to you, like if he let go, the whole world would tilt. He whispered your name over and over again like a prayer, like a lifeline, like a vow, following close behind you with a quiet, broken groan into your skin.

And you knew, in that moment, that this wasn’t just sex.

It was coming home.

~#~#~#~#~#~

Afterward, he wrapped the blanket around you both, tucking you into his chest like he was trying to shield you from the rest of the world. His metal fingers traced soft, soothing circles against your spine, grounding you in the silence that settled warmly between you.

“You ever doubt your place again,” he murmured, lips pressed to your hair, voice rough with sleep and sincerity, “I want you to remember tonight. Remember how I touched you. How I looked at you. Remember this.”

You nodded against his chest, overwhelmed, your cheek pressed to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. Your fingers curled around the dog tags still resting over your heart, the weight of them a quiet promise.

“I’m yours,” you whispered, the words small but certain.

He smiled, eyes closed as his arm tightened around you, pulling you impossibly closer.

“You always were,” he said, so softly it was nearly a breath, but you felt it more than heard it, like a vow etched beneath your skin.