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buckyseternaldoll · 15 days ago

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Where The Threads Meet

⤷ Part 1 | Part 3

Bucky Barnes x Fate-Weaver!Reader | Soulmate AU

Summary: She’s no longer just a dream. When their paths cross in Leipzig, the recognition hits like lightning. Amid chaos, battle, and truths untold—Bucky realizes the woman who’s haunted his nights is real.

Disclaimer: 18+ content (mdni!), canon-level violence (Civil War battle), intense emotional reactions, dreamwalking, psychic intimacy, fate entanglement, and tension-heavy interactions. Mentions of combat trauma, shifting timelines, and sensory-spiritual overload, high romantic tension and spiritual connection explored. Sets during and after the events of Captain America: Civil War, but follows a largely canon-divergent path

Word Count: 7,938

He slid down into the corner seat just outside the compartment, the hum of the jet still vibrating faintly through the hull. His shoulders eased against the wall, and he let his head tip back until it rested there—his profile cast in shadows and dim amber light. One knee braced up, the other leg stretched long. His metal fingers twitched once on his thigh. Then stilled.

And just like that—he was gone.

His body slackened with startling ease, as if the act of sleep wasn’t something he resisted anymore, but something he’d been aching for. Like part of him had just been waiting—for you. For permission. For that silent moment when the body exhaled and the soul could finally drift.

You stared at him for a beat longer than you meant to.

His lashes fluttered faintly, and a small crease smoothed from his brow. The scar near his cheekbone caught the light when he breathed. He looked peaceful. Younger. Like something had released inside him.

You sat down slowly across from him, knees bending into the narrow seat. The pressure of the jet seat felt distant already, like your body was anchored in one world but your mind was cracking open to another. Your hands came to rest atop your thighs, fingers splayed gently, steadying your breath. In through your nose. Out through parted lips.

Your eyes fluttered shut—not to shut the world out, but to soften its borders.

And this time, you didn’t dive straight into the dream.

You went deeper first.

You reached for the layer beneath sleep. Beneath story and setting and illusion. You reached for the space between waking and dreaming—the threshold of all things.

The In-Between.

It opened around you slowly, like a ripple spreading through silk.

You felt your pulse stretch outward, not thumping from your veins, but resonating through your chest like a quiet beacon. Not a heartbeat—but a tether. A line of energy pulsing outward, golden and true, humming like something alive.

Your spine straightened slightly. The space around you blurred. The physical world faded at the edges—not disappearing, just quieting.

You weren’t unconscious.

You weren’t dreaming.

You were between.

The sensation was like walking along a bridge suspended between stars. No ground. No gravity. Just threads—shimmering, whispering, tugging faintly in your ribs. They stretched across you in every direction, brushing your skin like static against silk.

And somewhere in that glittering expanse of soul-threads and fate-signatures…

One line glowed brighter than the rest.

Gold. Familiar. Pulling you like breath pulls lungs.

Bucky’s thread.

Not a dream yet. Not a memory.

Just the outline of one.

You reached for it.

Not with fingers—but with your soul.

And as your palm met that golden tether, you felt the warmth of recognition flood your chest.

He was already dreaming.

Waiting.

And now, so were you.

—

You exhaled slowly, eyes fluttering shut, spine melting into the curve of the jet’s bench.

And then—

You slipped.

Not with movement, but with something deeper.

Like a sigh drawn from the soul instead of lungs.

The air left your chest, not as a breath but as a release—full-bodied, irreversible.

Gravity unraveled.

Sound stilled.

Heat dissolved.

The world behind your eyelids didn’t fade. It… peeled.

Layer by layer, the physical plane fell away, until what remained wasn’t body or breath—but essence.

Your spirit unlatched from its anchor, weightless and bright, and drifted forward like silk cut free from a spindle.

And when you opened your eyes again—

You weren’t in the jet anymore.

You weren’t anywhere, not really.

You were in the In-Between.

That fragile sliver of reality suspended between time and consequence. Between dreams and decision. Between who you are and who you might become. A realm where physics bowed and causality held its breath.

The silence here wasn’t absence.

It was fullness.

Alive, reverent.

Like standing in the nave of a cathedral made entirely of stars.

Light shimmered all around you—not harsh or blinding, but threadlike and luminous.

They crisscrossed in every direction, some delicate as spider silk, others wide as tree roots—vibrating with fate, grief, love, potential.

They arched and swayed across the void like veins pulsing through the fabric of existence.

You had been here before.

You knew this stillness.

This weightless hush.

You’d learned how to move through it like a careful dancer—never brushing too close, never plucking too deep.

Threads were sacred. Every one of them led somewhere. Every one of them belonged to someone.

But tonight—

Tonight was different.

The In-Between hummed beneath your skin.

You didn’t reach for anything, and yet something reached for you.

Not a pull.

Not a person.

A presence.

You turned slowly, hands still at your sides, your breath caught somewhere between fear and wonder.

And then—you saw it.

His.

The golden thread.

No…

Not just gold.

Luminous.

Alive.

It glowed like firelight trapped in honey. Like sunlight through amber, warm and ancient and impossibly steady. It didn’t just shimmer—it resonated, vibrating in the marrow of your bones like it recognized the shape of your soul.

You stepped forward.

Just one pace.

And immediately—you felt it.

A heat blooming behind your sternum, not from the realm, but from within.

Not burning—remembering.

A recognition so deep it bypassed thought and struck something older than logic.

And then—another flicker.

Right beside it.

Your breath caught.

Another thread.

Yours.

You froze.

Because you had never seen it before.

Not once.

Your own thread had always been absent. Hidden from you like a locked journal you were never meant to read. You’d searched for it many times, in quiet moments here. But it had never appeared.

Not until now.

And there it was—

Shimmering and real, glowing in a softer hue, a blend of midnight blue and silver-gray.

Tied to his.

Knotted.

Not once.

Not twice.

Countless times.

You moved closer, hand rising without permission.

The knots were like fingerprints—each one unique. Each one telling.

One looped like a childhood promise, tiny and perfect.

Another: ragged, frayed. A thread that had broken and been retied with desperate fingers.

Another still: elegant, intentional. As if someone had braided it on purpose across centuries.

The longer you stared, the more knots you saw. Some pulsed faintly, like memories. Others shone bright—like futures still waiting to unfold.

They didn’t move in rhythm.

They were rhythm.

A single current split between two threads.

Two souls.

Two lives.

You weren’t just tethered to him.

You were fused.

And suddenly, your breath trembled.

Your throat thickened.

You didn’t even realize you were crying until tears hit your lips.

It wasn’t grief.

It wasn’t fear.

It was knowing.

The kind of knowing that lives in the blood. That haunts your dreams long before your mind understands it.

This—this—was why he’d always felt familiar.

Why his voice struck nerves you didn’t know existed.

Why your skin reacted to his nearness like it remembered his touch from lives you hadn’t lived.

These threads weren’t made last week.

Not even last lifetime.

They had been tied in the Before.

You stepped closer, chest tight, the vibrations of his fate humming through your bones.

You wanted—desperately—to reach out.

To touch them.

To trace every knot and whisper, Tell me who we were.

But you didn’t.

You weren’t ready.

Instead—you turned.

Beyond the radiant weave of your joined threads, a flicker shimmered deeper in the distance—dimmer, drifting.

His dream.

You recognized it instantly.

A flare of familiar consciousness hovering just outside this tethered realm.

His soul was already there, already dreaming, already waiting for you to find him.

So you breathed in.

And let the thread guide you.

Your essence leaned forward, your form still weightless, still radiant.

Your heart buzzed with fate.

Your mouth trembled with something holy.

And then—

You stepped into his dream.

And the world around you changed.

—

(Bucky’s POV)

It always started the same.

That impossible quiet.

The hush that only lived in dreams—where time folded in on itself and sound had no weight.

Dim light flickered somewhere overhead, warm like candlelight. The sheets below him—thin, rumpled—clung low to his hips. The air was cool, brushing across sweat-slick skin, raising goosebumps across his chest.

He was already hard.

Already aching.

Like his body remembered something his mind hadn’t caught up to.

The slow throb low in his belly curled tight, needy. His muscles twitched under the weight of anticipation. Every inch of him tuned to her—to the warmth of her thighs bracketing his hips.

She was above him.

Always.

Riding him slow.

Commanding. Hypnotic. Beautiful.

Her navy-blue combat suit hung around her waist in folds, peeled halfway down her body, like she’d torn it off just to feel him better. Her skin glowed in the dreamlight—soft curves and strong lines, her breasts heavy and free in his hands. Perfect. Real.

Like she was meant to be touched.

She moved with the kind of rhythm that made men forget their names.

Each roll of her hips—slow, deep, devastating—drew a curse from his throat. He clutched at her skin like she might vanish. Flesh and metal both gripping tight, grounding him. Her body rocked against his like she’d been sculpted for it. Like the fit of her around him was the answer to every wrong he’d ever lived through.

And she knew it.

She dragged her nails down his chest, slow and deliberate. A silent brand. His abs flexed beneath her touch. His breath hitched every time her fingers grazed the faint scar near his ribs.

Above him, she moaned his name.

“James…”

She said it like a vow. Like she’d been waiting years to say it out loud. Like the syllables had been tucked under her tongue through lifetimes.

His hands flew to her hips—possessive, greedy. His metal arm curled around her side with surprising gentleness, like he wasn’t sure whether to anchor himself or worship her. His human hand slid up her belly, thumb sweeping just under her breast, reverent and hungry.

“Fuck,” he groaned, head falling back against the pillow. “You feel like heaven.”

Her pace stayed unhurried—sinful and precise.

Every bounce of her hips sent shockwaves through him.

Tight. Wet. Hot. Perfect.

Her body fluttered around him with every thrust, gripping him like she knew exactly what he needed. Every squeeze made him buck up harder, like instinct, like desperation.

Her choker brushed his throat.

The satin ribbon—dark navy, snug—pressed softly beneath her jaw, its silver bow glinting in the dim as she leaned down, breath ghosting across his lips. He could feel the star-shaped birthmark at her nape dragging over his collarbone, like a sigil meant to brand him this time.

“You’re driving me insane,” he panted, voice cracking.

She didn’t answer right away.

Just rolled her hips harder, deeper. Her nails dug lightly into his shoulders. Her thighs flexed around him, her rhythm deliberate—pulling moans from his chest, snarls from his throat. His cock throbbed inside her, every vein lit up like she’d wired herself straight into his nervous system.

“Say it,” he rasped, his voice torn open. “Tell me this is real.”

She leaned closer, mouth brushing his.

Her eyes burned into his, deep and knowing. Not cruel. Not teasing. Just certain.

The silver charm on her ribbon grazed his chin.

“You’re mine,” she whispered, lips grazing his. “You’ve always been mine.”

It wasn’t a declaration.

It was truth.

Etched into the folds of time. Carved into the marrow of his being.

His breath stuttered.

His hands locked tighter.

The dream shifted. Not in setting—but in gravity. In weight.

He could feel it now—not just the arousal, not just the need.

Recognition.

Bone-deep. Soul-etched.

He didn’t know her name.

Not yet.

But God, every part of him knew her.

Knew her voice. Knew the warmth of her chest against his. Knew how her hips angled just right when she wanted to make him lose control.

Knew the breathless sound she made when he hit that one perfect spot.

Something in his chest twisted, tight and sharp.

He’d loved her before.

He was sure of it.

And even in the dream—even in this fevered haze of skin and sweat and fate—he clung to her like she was the only tether holding him together.

Like she’d done it before.

Like she would do it again.

And again.

Across every thread.

Every dream.

Every time.

—

(POV: You, at the edge of Bucky’s dream)

You hovered at the threshold of it.

Suspended between knowing and witnessing. Between flesh and dream.

The moment you stepped out of the In-Between and into the hum of his subconscious, it felt like walking into heat after snow. Everything here was saturated. Thick. The air pulsed with sensation. The color was warmer. The shadows softer. The light—golden and low—hung like breath on skin.

The dream didn’t feel like a dream.

It felt like a memory.

You stood at its edges, just beyond the candlelit room where it played out—an echo of his longing shaped into vivid, physical truth.

And you saw it.

Him.

Writhing beneath the weight of your dream-form. Skin slick with sweat. His mouth parted in broken gasps. Eyes dark and wild with desire. His human hand clenched the sheets in a desperate grip, fingers white-knuckled from restraint. His metal hand—the old Hydra-forged one—cupped your thigh with reverence, trembling with the effort to be gentle.

And her.

The dream-you.

She moved with precision. With knowledge. With ownership.

Like every movement had been etched into muscle memory.

Her hands traced his scars like reading scripture. Her lips kissed each patch of skin like she’d made it. Like she healed it.

And he let her.

God, he welcomed her.

There was no shame here. No fear. No hesitation.

Only need. Only recognition.

You watched, breath frozen behind your ribs.

Because you felt it.

Not just as a bystander. Not even as a metaphysical presence.

But in your body.

In your bones.

This wasn’t just fantasy.

This wasn’t want.

This was history.

You had never seen a thread like this.

So thick. So tethered. So blistering with emotion it shimmered through the fabric of the dream like a current. The golden thread hummed beneath the entire scene—alive, reactive, curling around his soul like ivy around stone.

And something in you knew:

This wasn’t just his desire.

This was his truth.

You floated upward, instinctively shifting your vantage point. The scene rotated gently beneath your mind’s reach, like a globe tilting on its axis. You turned it slowly. Adjusted the lighting. Watched from above.

Below, he’d rolled the dream-you onto her back, bracing himself above her, breath ragged. His forehead pressed against hers like a prayer. His back flexed with every thrust. And when he kissed her—kissed you—it wasn’t frantic.

It was reverent.

His lips moved like he was trying to remember the shape of you from before he ever met you. Like he was trying to kiss you into permanence. Into existence.

And you—your real self—trembled.

Because this wasn’t just a dream born from lust.

This was a memory from his soul.

Your hands shook. The shift tingled in your skin. The dream seeped into your marrow like déjà vu that went too deep, too far back. You could feel him now—not just watch him.

His breath on your collarbone.

His chest pressed to yours.

The quiver in his hips from holding back too long.

It wasn’t pretend anymore.

It was you.

And then, something cracked open.

His gaze found yours.

Not the dream-you’s.

Yours.

The part of him still buried in sleep saw you standing at the edge of the dream, and his pupils dilated like the universe just unfolded behind your eyes.

And when he drove into you again—you, not the phantom—his gasp was worshipful.

Like his soul recognized the change before his body did.

You dropped down.

Your feet touched the ground like a whisper. Bare. Quiet. The air shifted around you, dense with the scent of him—warm skin, salt, musk, something deeply human. You stepped closer. The air grew electric.

Dream-you writhed beneath him, moaning something against his jaw, her hands in his hair. She was still repeating something you couldn’t quite hear.

But your body moved forward on instinct.

You reached out.

Your fingers hovered for just a second above her shoulder.

And then—

You touched her.

Light surged through you.

Not brightness. Not white. But knowing.

The second your fingers brushed her skin, the two realities overlapped—your soul folding into hers like two halves of a book finally closing shut.

And suddenly, you weren’t separate anymore.

You were her.

You had always been her.

You sank down into yourself. Seamless. Instantaneous.

And above you—inside you—Bucky’s breath stuttered.

His eyes fluttered open. His hands trembled on your hips.

Because he felt it too.

He felt the shift.

The truth.

This wasn’t just a dream.

This was the moment fate caught up to him.

And for the first time since he was fifteen, Bucky Barnes wasn’t dreaming of you anymore.

He was dreaming with you.

—

(POV Shift: you, becoming her)

The instant your fingers brushed against your dream-self’s shoulder, the world shifted—gently, but utterly.

Not a shatter.

Not a scream.

Just a surrender.

Like fog giving way to morning light. Like gravity changing direction.

The dream collapsed inward and reformed around you—seamless.

You didn’t fall through space. You fell into place.

Your knees met the sheets. Warm. Tangled. Your body aligned perfectly with hers—no, with yours. The dream no longer split between watcher and watched. You were in it now. In him. In this memory of something that hadn’t yet happened, but had already been lived by his soul.

His chest pressed to yours. Slick with sweat, trembling with restraint.

He didn’t say your name.

He didn’t have to.

Because this wasn’t his mind searching for you.

This was his soul remembering you.

He moved above you, slow and aching, like he was desperate to make it last. His mouth brushed your jaw, your throat, the edge of your lips. Not speaking. Only breathing. Only feeling.

And your body responded like it had been waiting lifetimes.

Every press of his hips met with a pulse from your own.

Every quiet moan caught between your teeth answered by the stutter of his breath.

This wasn’t conscious.

This wasn’t fantasy.

It was instinct. Deep and ancient. Buried in the marrow.

And as your back arched, your fingers curling against his shoulders, the vision unfurled behind your eyes:

— A 1940s dance floor. His eyes tracking yours as laughter rose around you.

— The smell of gunpowder and iron. His body shielding yours in a trench.

—A temple beneath a sky filled with stars. His hands cradling your face as if he’d found his entire universe in it.

—A battlefield where his lips pressed to your palm—before fading in your arms.

Lifetime after lifetime.

Thread after thread.

Knotted, tangled, rewritten—but never severed.

His dream self didn’t know it was you.

But his soul did.

And now you were here—inside the echo of every version he’d ever loved.

Unseen.

Unknown.

But wholly felt.

He moaned into your neck, the sound raw with need, with memory he couldn’t name.

Your body trembled beneath him.

And for the first time since stepping into this gift—this burden—you cried for the weight of it.

Not from sadness.

But from the awe of being loved across time.

Quietly, inside the dream, you whispered:

“I found you.”

And though he didn’t hear it—

He breathed deeper.

As if some part of him did.

—

A sound broke in your throat—half gasp, half sob—as memory layered upon memory. The intimacy between your bodies blurred with centuries of longing you hadn’t lived but still remembered.

His lips grazed your collarbone, skin slick with sweat, and he whispered things into your skin like they were prayers he didn’t know he was saying.

Not your name.

Never your name.

Just murmurs. Fragments.

“I missed you—”

“…always feel real…”

“…every time…”

You weren’t sure if he was awake inside this dream. But his words came like instinct, like breath—like something practiced.

Because he was used to this.

To you.

Not the real you—but the echo. The one who visited him in shadows, in silence. The one who rode him through nightmares and gave him peace in the places no memory could touch.

You felt your throat tighten.

Because this wasn’t new to him.

He’d done this before.

Dozens of times. Maybe hundreds.

With you.

He didn’t know you were here now—really here, body and soul—but even still, he clutched you like he always did. Like muscle memory. Like his body remembered even when his mind couldn’t.

One hand splayed low on your back, drawing you closer. The other ghosted over your ribs before gripping your hip, firm but tender, like he was afraid you’d disappear.

His eyes never opened.

But his mouth kept moving.

Soft. Half-slurred with sleep. His voice sank into your skin like water into earth.

“Every night— you come back…”

A ragged exhale against your jaw.

“This's the only place I feel alive.”

You pressed your lips together, trying to breathe through the quake in your chest. His thrusts were slow, reverent—his body rocking into yours like a wave that never stopped returning to shore.

“I don’t wanna wake up,” he whispered, voice breaking.

“Don’t go yet…”

Your fingers clenched in the sheets beneath him. You couldn’t reply. Not aloud. Not here.

This was still his dream.

You were only the shadow inside it.

But your soul ached to reach him.

To touch more than just skin—to touch knowing. To whisper I found you and you’re not dreaming alone anymore.

But the dream held its rules. And he held you like he always did—believing you were nothing more than the figment of his longing.

Your eyes fluttered shut, lashes wet.

Because even if he didn’t know it—

You were real.

You were here.

And for the first time, so was he.

—

You weren’t sure who moved first.

Maybe it was him—fingers curling tighter against the edge of the seat, shoulder blades shifting like he couldn’t bear the tension in his own skin. Or maybe it was you, your spine arching minutely with the strain of holding yourself back, breath still quivering from the dream’s echo.

The air in the cabin had thickened, heat blooming off your skin like a fever. You could feel the dream on him—could see it in the flushed pink spreading up his throat, the dampness along his hairline, the way his thighs shifted apart again like he was trying to relieve the pressure.

He looked at you like he was starving.

Not just with lust—but with awe. Like something inside him had just realigned. Like his body knew you before his mind could catch up.

“You’ve been there,” he murmured again, voice hoarse. “In my head.”

You didn’t deny it. Couldn’t.

“I followed the thread,” you said softly. “I didn’t know it would be that strong. That… clear.”

His gaze searched yours. “It’s always been that clear. For me.”

That admission felt like it cracked something open between you—something fragile and molten. You saw the way his hand twitched again, his jaw flexing like he was fighting an instinct older than discipline. His pupils were still blown wide. Your scent still clung to him. His body hadn’t come down from the high, not truly.

And neither had yours.

You shifted slightly where you sat, trying to ease the throbbing between your legs. But the friction only made it worse. Your breath hitched. His eyes dropped—and he noticed. Of course he did.

The silence vibrated like tension wire.

Then, quietly, like confessing a sin:

“I wake up like this most nights,” he said. “Hard. Sweaty. Aching. Wanting.”

You swallowed.

His eyes flicked up to yours, filled with something unguarded now. “But I never remember her face. Just the sound of her voice. Her body. The way she touches me like she already knows me.”

Your breath caught.

“She does,” you whispered. “Because she’s me.”

A long pause.

Neither of you moved. Neither of you breathed too loud.

And then, his voice—low, raw:

“I’ve been dreaming of you for decades.”

You didn’t realize you were crying again until the tears hit your lips.

Because those dreams—they weren’t fantasies. They weren’t projections.

They were echoes.

Lifetimes of touch, stitched into your skin.

He sat forward slowly, like he was moving through molasses, like he didn’t want to startle you or himself. The cabin groaned faintly with turbulence, but neither of you noticed. You were tethered to each other now—through soul, through thread, through the ghost of a kiss that hadn’t yet happened in this reality.

“I don’t know what this means yet,” he said, voice nearly a whisper. “But I know what it feels like.”

You nodded slowly.

“Like coming home,” you said.

And for the first time in what felt like centuries, Bucky Barnes smiled.

A real smile.

Not bitter. Not guarded. But quiet. Reverent.

He leaned back again, exhaling shakily, jaw still tight with restraint.

“You need rest,” he said softly. “You look like the dream took everything out of you.”

You did.

But not because you were weak.

Because your soul had finally been seen. And it had recognized him back.

You nodded, letting the silence settle again. And though neither of you touched, the pull between you was undeniable.

Unspoken. Electric.

The dream was over.

But the real story had just begun.

—

The silence between you stretched—thick, electric, trembling on the edge of something neither of you were ready to name out loud. You could still feel him inside you—not physically, not anymore. But in your soul. In the echo.

Your limbs remembered him. Your ribs remembered the pressure of his chest. The center of your body still throbbed faintly, like his dream hadn’t quite let you go.

And Bucky—he hadn’t moved much. But something in him shifted.

His hips angled slightly. His thighs spread wider. His shoulders tensed and relaxed, like he was trying to breathe through something unspoken. He moved slow, careful, almost reverent—as if even the smallest motion might unravel the thread of control he still had.

You knew why.

The outline of him pressed hard against his pants, still painfully obvious in the dim light. The aftershocks of the dream had followed him into waking, just like they had you. The memory of your body wrapped around his had imprinted into his nerves like a brand.

But no one else could see.

The rear alcove of the jet was still cloaked in shadows. Steve was silent in the cockpit, Sam still slumped in a corner seat, half-asleep. The others hadn’t stirred. For now, this space was yours.

Just yours.

And his.

Bucky exhaled slowly, through his nose. Measured. Focused. His voice came quiet and low—threaded with something tender, something almost raw.

“You know I’d never do anything without your say-so.”

You turned your head, just slightly, and met his eyes.

He didn’t look away.

Those steel-blue eyes flicked across your face—carefully, like he was trying to memorize every shift in your expression. Not hungry. Not urgent. Just… open. Bare.

He leaned forward—slowly, so slowly—resting his forearms on his thighs. His broad frame curled inward, protective, but his eyes stayed on yours. The tension rippling off him wasn’t just desire. It was reverence.

And when he spoke again, his voice cracked with restraint:

“I’ve seen you… in my sleep. For years.”

He paused, jaw working.

“Some nights, it was the only thing that got me through. Not even knowing your name—just… knowing you were there. Waiting for me. Calling me home.”

You said nothing.

Couldn’t.

Your throat was too tight.

He swallowed hard, lashes dipping briefly before he lifted his gaze again. “At first, I thought it was punishment. Some beautiful ghost haunting me for the things I’d done. But then… I started to hope. That maybe it wasn’t punishment at all. That maybe… it was a promise.”

Your breath caught.

His fingers flexed, resting loosely between his knees. “And then I saw you on that runway. That suit. Your mouth. That fucking ribbon around your neck…”

His jaw tensed.

“And I knew,” he whispered. “It’s always been you. It’s only ever been you.”

You closed your eyes for a second, but it didn’t help. You still saw the dream. Still felt him wrapped around you. Still heard his breath catch when your hips met.

Your ribs felt too tight. Your hands were trembling.

But he didn’t reach for you.

Didn’t take more than he was given.

He leaned in slightly—just enough that his breath ghosted against your cheek. Warm. Gentle. Grounding. A tether you didn’t realize you needed until it was there.

You opened your eyes again and found his waiting.

“I couldn’t let anyone else in,” he said, barely above a whisper. “Something in me was always holding back. Always waiting. Now I know why.”

Your eyes stung.

He hadn’t said it.

Not out loud.

But you heard it.

In every breath.

Every glance.

You’re my home.

You’ve always been mine.

And in the stillness between his words, your fate thudded quietly behind your ribs—no longer tangled. No longer searching.

Just… known.

—

You leaned in. Just slightly.

Not with intent. Not with strategy.

Just need.

Your knees brushed his—barely there—but it was enough to send a shiver up both your spines. The contact was brief, featherlight, but it struck like flint and steel.

Bucky didn’t move.

Didn’t flinch.

Didn’t assume.

He waited.

His lips parted, breath unsteady. His eyes searched yours with such quiet intensity it made your heart ache. Hands still braced on his thighs. His entire body tense—but not from desire alone.

Consent.

That’s what it was.

Not just for a kiss. Not even for touch.

For everything.

Your fingers rose slowly, reaching toward his jaw—hesitant, reverent. When you touched him, the stubble there was rougher than you expected. The skin beneath ran hot, strained with restraint.

His eyes fluttered shut.

You tilted forward.

And finally—finally—pressed your lips to his.

Just once. Soft. Barely more than breath.

Not a demand.

A question.

He exhaled shakily against your mouth.

Like it knocked the wind from him.

Then he moved.

His hand rose—cautious, trembling—to cradle the back of your neck. The pad of his thumb traced under your jaw, tender and unhurried. Like you were something precious. Sacred.

And then he kissed you back.

Not hard. Not rushed.

Just a slow, anchoring meeting of mouths.

A yes.

A memory.

A homecoming.

Your bodies stilled, yet everything inside you spun.

His breath warmed your lips. Still trembling. Still waiting.

The kiss ended—but neither of you moved.

You hovered in that space between restraint and surrender.

Your fingers were still cupping his jaw.

His hand still held the nape of your neck.

Your mouths, barely apart. One breath shared between two lifetimes.

He whispered then—low, raw, a secret spilled from the oldest part of him.

“Feels like I’ve done this a thousand times.”

Your throat tightened.

You nodded. Voice barely audible.

“You have.”

And so had you.

The echoes were there now. Crystal-clear.

The taste of him. The sound of his breathing.

The way his shoulders curved when he leaned over you, trying not to shake.

You remembered the way he held your hips like he was terrified you’d disappear.

The way he kissed your pulse like a prayer.

The way he’d always, always come back.

Your hands trembled.

Not from nerves.

From knowing.

You leaned in again—this time slower. Not just to kiss him again, but to press your forehead to his. Your nose brushed his. Breath exchanged. That single point of contact grounding you both in the now.

“We don’t have long,” you whispered, your voice a breath against his mouth. “But I don’t want to wait anymore.”

A sound escaped his throat—quiet and strangled.

Half moan. Half prayer.

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t ask for clarity.

He nodded once.

And that was all it took.

—

You didn’t remember moving.

Not really.

One moment, your hands were tangled in the hem of his shirt—breathless from that kiss, the kind that cracks time open—and the next, you were straddling his lap, knees braced on either side of his thighs, your bodies pressed so close it hurt to think.

His breath was already staggered. His lips parted, chest heaving under your palms like he couldn’t get enough air. And when you rolled your hips down—slow and reverent—his head tipped back against the wall behind him with a thud.

“God, baby—” he rasped, voice hoarse and wrecked.

It was the first time he called you that.

Your heart clenched. Your pulse skittered. That word—baby—felt like it belonged to something old and true, like a name whispered across lifetimes. Not just desire. Not even comfort. But possession forged in fate.

Your hips moved again—this time with intention.

Not rushed. Not frantic. Just… slow.

Dragging friction through the seam of your pants until your clit throbbed and your throat caught fire from holding in a moan. You were soaked. The heat of him pressed perfectly where you needed him, thick and twitching and so close, and it made your whole body tremble.

His hands gripped your hips—not to guide. Just to hold on.

His grip was tight, fingers flexing with every roll of your body, like he needed to feel every inch of you to believe this wasn’t still a dream.

One of his hands slipped up your spine, warm and reverent, and pressed between your shoulder blades. He pulled you into his chest with a desperation that shook you. His heartbeat thundered against your ribs. His thighs tensed under you, bracing your weight like he never wanted to let it go.

You buried your face in the curve of his neck and breathed him in—sweat, skin, metal, breath. All of it.

“You feel the same,” you whispered into his pulse. “You still feel the same…”

His arms tightened around you.

“So do you,” he said, brokenly. “You feel exactly the same.”

You didn’t ask how he remembered.

You didn’t have to.

Your hands slipped under his shirt, dragging up the firm plane of his stomach—mapping muscle, scars, the ridges and dips your body somehow already knew. You found that one scar near his hipbone, the one your dream-self had kissed a thousand times before. And this time, you pressed your lips to it.

He groaned.

“Fuck,” he muttered, voice strangled. “How do you know—?”

“Because I’ve been here,” you whispered. “We’ve done this before. In your dreams.”

“They weren’t just dreams,” he said. “They were ours. You weren’t just in them… you were mine.”

The way he said it—mine—it wasn’t possessive like chains. It was sacred. Like he’d carved your name into the walls of himself. Like his soul had been shaped around the space you left behind every time you were gone.

You kissed your way up his chest. His throat. His jaw. Soft, slow, worshipful.

And then your hand slid lower.

Not inside. Not yet. Just the firm press of your palm against the front of his pants—thick, solid heat twitching under your touch.

His whole body jerked.

He bit down on his bottom lip, hard. His hips twitched up into your palm before he could stop himself.

And he moaned your name.

Not loud.

Not performative.

Just like it meant something.

Like it was a prayer he’d been whispering for years.

“Tell me you want this,” he said, voice wrecked. “Tell me you’re here. Really here.”

You didn’t flinch. Didn’t hesitate.

Your eyes met his—and you let the truth pour out of you like a vow:

“I’m here. I’ve always been yours.”

And then you kissed him again—deeper, wetter, hungrier. Not just a seal this time, but a claiming. You licked into his mouth like you’d been starving for it. Because you had.

He groaned into your mouth, hands finally slipping under your top—this time not stopping at your ribs.

His palm splayed over the softness of your chest, brushing the underside of your bra. You arched into it, gasping softly, and he exhaled hard through his nose, like he’d been waiting his entire goddamn life to feel that again.

“Still so fucking soft,” he whispered. His voice shook. “You haven’t changed a bit.”

You reached down, fingers slipping to his belt. You felt him tense—one sharp breath—and then still. Waiting.

Your eyes flicked to his.

His pupils were blown wide. Lips parted. But he didn’t help.

He didn’t guide.

He waited.

That was what undid you.

Not his hands. Not the press of his cock.

But the way he waited.

Because even now, even after everything, he would never take anything from you—not without permission.

You nodded once.

That was all it took.

He shuddered like you’d granted him absolution.

You undid his buckle. Slowly. Deliberately. His breath hitched louder now, echoing in the small space like a lit fuse.

You pulled the waistband down.

His cock sprang free—hot, flushed, already slick at the tip.

He was gorgeous.

Thick. Heavy. Veined and swollen with need. And the way he looked at you when your eyes dropped to it?

Like you’d just given him back something sacred.

Like his soul had finally made it home.

—

You were grinding against him—bare now, skin flushed and slick from heat, your thighs spread wide over his hips as you moved.

His tactical pants had been shoved down just enough to free him, his shirt rumpled and tugged up to his chest. You were down to nothing but the ribbon around your neck. Your top and bra had been tossed aside—forgotten—and your underwear, soaked through, now hung low on one ankle before slipping loose altogether when he shifted.

Your soaked center slid against the hard line of his cock, your folds gliding over his length with every slow, devastating roll of your hips. Each pass dragged his thick head across your clit, catching just enough to make your whole body shudder.

His cock—hard, flushed dark, glistening with precum—throbbed between your legs. It slid along your folds, not quite breaching, but enough to make your breath catch on every downstroke.

Your arms wrapped tight around his shoulders, your breasts pressed to his bare chest. The skin-on-skin contact only added to the ache. His metal hand gripped your waist, trembling, while his human hand pressed between your shoulder blades—anchoring you.

You leaned forward, mouth against his ear, breath shallow and wrecked.

“Feels better than the dream—”

He groaned, the sound low and guttural, vibrating in his throat like a warning and a confession all at once. His hands gripped you tighter, like he was holding back from breaking apart.

“Fuck, baby—you’re soaking me,” he panted. “You’re so wet, I—”

You gasped as your hips rocked again—your clit dragging across his length, each stroke pulling a broken moan from your chest. Your thighs trembled.

Your body was winding too tight.

Too fast.

“Bucky—James, I’m gonna—”

He moved.

So fast it made your breath catch.

One fluid motion: he lifted you off his lap, cradling you effortlessly in his arms. His metal arm supported your thighs, the other steady against your spine as he turned and laid you flat across the bench seat beside him. Cool air kissed your flushed skin.

Your legs dropped open before you could think.

And he was already there—on his knees between them, eyes dark, chest heaving.

“No way I’m letting you cum like that,” he rasped. “Not without tasting it.”

His voice dropped lower.

“Not after waiting this fucking long.”

Your breath caught as his palms slid up your thighs—hot, reverent. The kind of touch that said this wasn’t just lust. It was hunger wrapped in devotion.

He leaned in.

Nosed along your swollen folds. Moaned softly.

“Smell so good,” he whispered. “Been dreaming about this since I was fifteen…”

You whimpered.

His stubble scraped lightly across the crease of your thigh before he parted you with his thumbs and pressed his mouth to you.

And the world disappeared.

His tongue licked a broad, slow stripe through your folds—one long taste like he needed to savor you. His moan vibrated against your clit, and you cried out, thighs trying to close on instinct, but his hands held you wide.

He was relentless. Hungry. Worshipful.

His tongue circled your clit with maddening precision, then flicked, then sucked—deep, slow pulls that had you shaking in seconds.

Your hand shot to his hair.

“James—fuck—I can’t—”

“You can,” he growled against you. “You’re gonna cum on my mouth, baby. I need it. Need to feel you.”

And then he closed his lips around your clit and sucked—long and steady and perfect.

That’s all it took.

You shattered.

The orgasm hit you like a thunderclap—tight, searing, primal.

Your whole body convulsed. Your hands gripped his hair, your hips lifted, and your voice broke on a soundless cry as the pleasure rolled through you like a wave too big to outrun.

When it ebbed, your legs were shaking. Your chest heaved. And Bucky—fuck, Bucky—

He looked up at you like he’d found the divine.

His mouth was wet. His pupils were black. And the reverence in his gaze made you feel like you’d just been made sacred.

—

You didn’t even give him time to recover.

The second his mouth lifted from between your legs—lips swollen, chin glistening, pupils still blown wide—you were pulling him back down, switching places with a surge of aching need.

Your knees hit the floor of the jet’s rear cabin with a muted thump. He followed you without hesitation, but froze when your hand wrapped firmly around his cock.

He was thick and heavy in your palm, the shaft twitching as your thumb swept over the tip—slick from your earlier grind, flushed a deep red. His stomach jumped. His breath caught.

“Your turn,” you whispered, voice low and sinful.

“Sweetheart—fuck—wait, you don’t have to—”

“Shut up,” you murmured, dragging your tongue up the underside of him with reverence. “I want to.”

He moaned—sharp, choked, almost disbelieving.

Then your mouth wrapped around him—warm, wet, giving—and he shattered.

His hand flew to the wall beside him for balance. The other buried in your hair, not guiding, just holding on like he was drowning. His thighs trembled beneath your touch, straining not to thrust.

“Oh, my god—” he gasped. “Fuck, baby, that—”

You didn’t tease. You worshipped.

You let him slide in deep, your throat relaxing to take him farther than any dream ever allowed. When you pulled back, your tongue swirled against the head, savoring the way he twitched in your grasp.

He was already close—his whole body drawn tight, vibrating.

“I’m gonna cum—fuck, baby, I’m gonna—”

You moaned around him, and that was it.

He came hard—deep inside your throat, hips jerking, jaw slack, voice breaking on your name like it was a confession.

You swallowed every drop.

Didn’t stop until his breath stuttered, his hand falling from your hair to cradle your cheek as he sagged against the wall, panting.

—

The moment that followed was breathless. Quiet.

You stayed there, kneeling together on the floor of the jet, still flushed, still trembling.

Then—his arms wrapped around you.

One metal. One warm.

He pulled you into him without a word, chest heaving, lips brushing your temple in quiet awe. He held you like prayer—slow, sure, steady. As if anchoring himself to the reality of you.

Your face nestled into the curve of his shoulder. His skin was hot, still tinged with sweat. You could feel the steady beat of his heart under your palm as your hand slid up his ribs, tracing the hard planes and familiar scars.

“You okay?” he whispered against your hair.

You nodded into his chest, breath still ragged. “Yeah. Just… can’t feel my legs.”

That earned a soft, breathy chuckle—more exhale than laugh.

He kissed you then. Not on the mouth—too much, too soon—but everywhere else. Your forehead. Your cheekbone. The curve of your shoulder. He kissed you like you were something he’d spent lifetimes trying to find, and now that he had, he didn’t dare let go.

“You’re perfect,” he whispered.

You exhaled shakily, fingers curling at his waist. “You always say that. In the dream.”

“That’s ‘cause it’s always been true.”

And this time, he didn’t say it like a line.

He said it like a memory.

Like a vow already made—over and over—across lifetimes.

—

His hand slid up the back of your neck, fingers brushing the edge of your choker. His thumb found the charm—cool silver against your flushed skin—and he traced it absently, like he was grounding himself with every stroke.

“Always loved this thing,” he murmured.

He bent lower.

Pressed his mouth to the side of your neck. Soft, slow kisses. His stubble scraped lightly, a delicious contrast to the gentleness of his lips. Every touch was unhurried, almost reverent—like he was rediscovering you inch by inch.

And then—

His teeth caught the edge of the ribbon pendant.

He didn’t pull.

Just bit. Gently. Playfully. Like he’d done it a hundred times before.

“Used to dream about biting this,” he admitted against your throat. “Woke up hard more times than I can count.”

You huffed out a breathless laugh, hips twitching slightly beneath his.

“You always bite it right before you—”

“I know.”

His mouth curved into a smile as he mouthed lower. “Always figured it was a sign.”

His fingers dipped beneath the fabric now, just below the choker—sliding lower until they brushed the skin above your spine.

And then they found it.

The star.

Your birthmark. The one no one ever really noticed—unless they were meant to.

He stilled.

“It’s real,” he whispered. “I always wondered if I imagined it.”

You shivered when his lips ghosted over it. Then he kissed it.

Once. Deep. Devotional.

“This part of you?” he murmured. “Always felt like it belonged to me.”

You didn’t answer—not with words. Just curled your fingers into his shirt and pressed your forehead to his chest.

That ache in your ribs hadn’t faded. If anything, it thrummed stronger now. Like your body had caught up to your soul—and neither wanted to let go.

—

You were still tangled together—his arm around your waist, your thighs sticky against his lap, his shirt rucked up around his ribs—when you heard it.

The soft thump of boots down the corridor.

Muffled voices. Approaching.

“Yo,” Sam’s voice came low, somewhere between teasing and resigned, “they’re still not answering.”

“Give them a moment,” came Steve’s voice, less amused. More… cautious.

You and Bucky both froze.

Your eyes widened. His grin widened.

“Doll,” he whispered against your cheek, voice full of sinful glee, “you think you could fate-nudge ‘em? Make ‘em take the long way back? Give us five more minutes and I swear—”

You gasped and bit the tip of his nose.

Not hard.

Just enough to make him snort through his teeth, shoulders shaking with silent laughter.

“Shut up,” you hissed, straightening your shirt with trembling fingers. “Or I’ll fate-snap your dick off.”

He placed a dramatic hand over his crotch like you’d wounded him.

“That’s a cruel misuse of metaphysical authority, sweetheart.”

You both hurried to reassemble yourselves, movements hurried but still gentle. You fixed the waistband of your pants while Bucky reached for his own gear, sliding his jacket back on. He caught your wrist one last time, pressing a soft kiss to your palm—his eyes never leaving yours.

And then the voices passed.

Footsteps faded.

You exhaled in sync, your shoulders sinking in relief.

For now, the moment was yours alone.

But the thread between you?

Still pulsed like fire.

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes fic #bucky x reader #bucky barnes smut #bucky x you #જ⁀➴ by elle #mcu!bucky fic #mcu!bucky #bucky soulmate au

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