vamplu

[vamplu]

I Finally Decided On You

✧˖*°࿐ : 18+ only, no minors.    ✧. ┊ rin itoshi x f!reader

Genre: smut & angst Notes: in my feelings abt a friendship break up so have some angst heheheee Warnings: 18+, mutual pining, angst, pet names, cheating, dacryphilia, tit sucking ♡, vaginal sex, choking ♡, love bites, breeding kink, creampie ♡ Words: 5.8k

“You’re lonely, aren’t you?”

Your breath hitches as the words make their way into your brain. His eyes have been fixed on you for what seems like a lifetime, but it’s only after you hear him ask something so personal, so intimate, that you can bring yourself to look at him. His glimmering, jade eyes are so striking, so captivating, you can’t help but want to bare your soul to him.

“You shouldn’t ask me something like that.” you whisper, unable to hide your smile as you are both all too aware of the irony of your sentence. There are so many things neither of you should be doing right now.

And yet, here you are, allowing the 4am sky to encase your bodies in a melancholic blanket. You’re waiting for one more sentence to spill from his lips that will have your deepest secrets tumbling from yours.

You know him.

He knows you.

And it’s so comforting.

You’ve never felt like this with anyone before. He’s so easy to talk to, and even easier to be around. It’s almost like a punishment. The worlds cruellest joke that you’re being subjected to.

“You shouldn’t be in my bed, but you’re here. So, talk to me.” he smiles, effortlessly. A smile that he’d only ever show you. An expression that only you are worthy of and the only person he’d ever trust to experience it. It’s so loving. It’s like being home.

You’re quiet, your own smile fading slightly as you think about his question. What had you done to make him even ask it? You’re lonely. Is that true? You have friends, family, a lover. Realistically, you can’t be lonely.

“I am.” you tell him, honestly, finally finding his gaze once more. Allowing him to scan your trusting eyes so he can see there isn’t a trace of a lie. And he does, stare, until he looks at your lips briefly, and then back to your eyes.

“You’re lonely?”

“Yes.”

He hums, thinking about it for a moment. You don’t deserve to feel that way. Though it may be his heart talking. It might be the fact that he’s head over heels in love with you.

Every moment with you is so saccharine, so disgustingly dizzying that it could make him vomit from excess. He can’t get enough of you. He’s ravenous for you.

Your taste.

Each kiss you allow him to take is so seraphic, your candied lips cloying his insides. It hurts to be with you sometimes, he knows what this is and what it will be. He knows what he is to you and what he will never be. He hates himself, and honestly, he hates you a little bit in that same breath. Though he locks that feeling of loathing deep down inside, he doesn’t want to feel it. He doesn’t want to care that much.

Whatever you are to each other now, in this moment, is enough.

His face nears yours, and you observe him as his eyes close. Yours close too, gently, and you feel his lips on yours. His hand cups your face, his thumb gently caressing your cheek as he deepens the kiss only slightly. He pulls away, eyes glittering as he observes you. He’s making sure you’re okay, that what he just did was okay.

And it is.

He pulls you closer to him, enveloping your body in his before carefully planting his lips on your cheek. He sighs, a little. The heavy, disheartened breath rushing through your ear canal. It makes you shudder, so he holds you tighter.

“You aren’t alone, you know.” he tells you, quietly. You feel tears pricking at your eyes as he starts speaking. He cares, so much, you can almost feel his passion vibrating from his skin and passing through you. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“I know.” you sniffle. “It’s just hard.”

“I know.” he agrees, kissing atop your head as a show of comfort. He just can’t get enough of you. He can’t stop himself from being with you like this, even if he wanted to, he wouldn’t. These moments with you are his main source of happiness. Getting to know you so viscerally is everything to him. Whenever you’re together, like this, he gets to peel back another layer of who you are.

“I’m so—” you stop, your eyes catching his again before you brush away the thought. You’re playing with fire, with him. You’re letting him scrutinize your body as you bare your self-inflicted gaping wounds. Allowing him to decide whether to pour alcohol and salt into your ruined flesh. “I’m just sick of feeling like shit all of the time.” you sigh a little before laughing.

“Don’t.” he huffs, his thumb stroking your face again. It’s a bid to make your body submit to his. “I don’t like it when you perform for me.”

You smile, again, nodding in acceptance as you take his word as truth. It makes sense why he isn’t fond of you acting for him, though for some reason you can’t seem to help yourself. Wrapping your body in an invisible gauze as you do all that you can to prevent your lacerated skin from becoming infected by him.

“Rin?” you whisper again, almost hoping he won’t have heard you say his name. “Do you love me?”

The question almost wounds him. You see his eyes begin to tremor as he wonders if you want him to answer that. And answer it genuinely. He rolls onto his back, staring up at the ceiling. Your bodies are mirrored up above, and he can’t help but stare at his own reflection as he contemplates how to answer. His heart skips a beat when you inch closer to him, wrapping an arm around his torso as you caress him and await his response.

He hates how little effort you need to make to force him to smile.

“Yeah.” he tells you. But he doesn’t look at you, still staring at himself in the mirror above. It’s a confession for him as well as you. “I’m in love with you. Is that okay?”

Of course he’s asking for permission to love you. Though even if you were to say no, it’s not like he could just stop his feelings. It isn’t okay, of course it isn’t. Nothing about what you’re doing is okay. Whatever you’re not meant to do always makes you feel most alive. It makes you feel excited. And right now, you feel wanted. You feel loved.

You don’t feel lonely.

You’re quiet for a moment, but you hope the smile you’re donning will show that you’re appreciative of his honesty. It takes you a while to think about how to respond. You could say it back, but what good will it do? If you don’t say anything, you’re sure he’ll be upset, but he won’t tell you that. You don’t want to hurt him, that’s the last thing you want.

“Thank you.” you tell him.

He doesn’t say anything to that. He closes his eyes, a soft chuckle emanating from him as he processes the rejection. In his mind, that smart, logical mind of his, he knew you wouldn’t say it back. Why would you? Even if it was true, it’s too messy. It’s a disaster waiting to happen, you both know it, so why would you say it back? But then again, why would you ask his feelings in the first place? His heart is screaming at him with every aggressive beat against his ribcage. It’s telling him, despite the logic working overtime in his brain, that you love him too.

“Do you love me?” he wonders, finally allowing his head to roll to the side again so that you’re making eye contact once more.

And you’re silent. You can see in his eyes that he’s pleading with you to reciprocate his feelings. To verbalise them. He wants you to mean it, though. He’d rather you not say a word than lie to him.

But, he knows you.

He knows your mind body and soul and he truly believes that you feel the same way about him. So tell him, won’t you? Lay your heart bare and just tell him the truth. No matter what the world throws at you, he’s certain you can handle it, together. Whatever concerns you have, he’ll protect you. Any repercussions you think will follow you from following your heart, he won’t allow. He’ll do anything for you. Anything to be with you. So look into his emerald eyes and be honest with him.

Be honest with yourself.

“Please,” you start, “please never ask me that again.”

The words cut like a knife. Or rather, he feels like he stopped existing the moment you finish your sentence. It’s like being in a car accident and dying on impact. He looks up at the ceiling again, closing his eyes, knowing the tears are soon to pour from them if he doesn’t get a grip.

Why would you say that?

You still haven’t given a clear answer. And really, he knows why you said what you did. It’s self-preservation. Maybe you think you’re protecting him, too. But you aren’t. You’re the reason his heart beats and this is the reason that it will stop. Every moment from now will be agony. Without an answer, you’ve given him one. And he despises you, now. He thinks you’re selfish.

He thinks you’re a fucking coward.

“Then… what is this?” he wonders, still not daring to widen his eyes and give you the satisfaction of seeing him cry. You can barely stand to look at him now though. Not when he’s being like this. You don’t want to hurt him, truly. But there’s no use in giving him hope that isn’t there. This is for the best, you’re sure. “Have you just been using me for the last two years? When you’re… fucking lonely.” his own breath hitches and he wants to disappear. From your line of sight, from the room, from the fucking planet.

“It’s not like that, Rin.” you sigh, and it’s almost breathless as you try and conjure the right words to alleviate his pain. There’s nothing you can say that won’t hurt. The damage is done. You’ve broken him. “You know the first time was a mistake… and then it just kept happening… and then—”

“And then you—” he balls up his fists until his arms begin to tremble. But he takes a breath, anger leaving him as he exhales. He’s always been good at that. He always knows when he’s getting too worked up and knows how to take it down a notch and compose himself. He’s calculated with everything he does. But he supposes you’re the exception. There was nothing calculated in regard to you. He fell into this fucking mess with you, because it’s you. “… Don’t you think the fact we’ve been making the same ‘mistake’ for so long means it might not be a mistake.” he talks, quietly. You can’t tell if he’s asking you a question or simply speaking words for you to hear.

You don’t answer. What can you say? You can’t contradict yourself now. It’s a valid point, of course. Is a repeated mistake truly a mistake? Maybe you and he are made for each other. Being with him could be easy, if you wanted. Being honest with yourselves and those around you might be easier than you think. Being able to hold his hand and go out on dates like a normal couple. Could it really be so simple?

“I don’t know what you want me to say.” you respond, bluntly. It’s harsh. The words make your mouth swell with discomfort and a horrendous desire to burst into tears. Nothing else will get through to him, you think. Being nice is getting neither of you anywhere. You gulp, and it’s like swallowing razor blades as you see how fucking shattered his face becomes.

He scoffs, a little, and sits upright in bed. You chase him, somewhat, sitting upright beside him and placing your hand on his shoulder. And you gasp, quietly, as he shrugs away from your touch. Your defeated hands fall into your lap as you continue to sit beside him, your eyes alternate from looking at his side profile to your twiddling thumbs.

Rejection was always bound to come eventually. He wishes he never opened his mouth, though. The delusion could have carried on a little while longer. Why did you have to ask if he loved you? You surely knew already. His mind roars at him to run. He’s staring at his sneakers placed meticulously by his wardrobe as he thinks about where he could go. Anywhere away from here.

Away from you.

But the child in him… is resilient. He’s never been one to accept true defeat. He’s never been the type to give up on his dreams or quit when he truly believes there is a chance at happiness for him. You see his hand move to his obscured cheek, and you’re sure he’s wiping away a tear.

It’s all but confirmed when he looks at you. Teal eyes almost illuminate the room as they look at you. Crystalline droplets reside in his lashline, and his eyes keep shimmering as they take in every solitary detail of your beguiling face. He can’t lose you. You’re perfect for him.

And he loves you.

He leans towards you, and you don’t fight it. Your lips slotting beautifully against one another as you melt into his kiss. It’s prolonged and it’s deep. You feel as though he’s giving you everything he has. Everything he is as a final farewell. The thought of never seeing him again makes you break away, panting desperately before you comb his hair out of his face.

“What are you doing, Rin?” you whisper.

This time you’re left without an answer. He grips his fingers into your soft hips and helps you move above him, straddling him so that he can look up into the eyes of the woman he loves more than he ever has or will love anyone.

“Play with my hair, please.” he whispers back against your bare skin as he lifts your tank top to expose your breasts. You do as he asks, combing your fingers through his hair again as he sweetly kisses your erect nipples. The only sound filling the room is his puckered kisses and your laboured breaths.

You hum, intoxicated, as kisses turn to suckles. They’re soft and careful, your skin breaks out in bumps as your flesh tries to huddle together to keep in the warmth. Your heart skips a beat when he looks up at you, briefly, before focusing on your tits again. He wraps his arms tightly around your torso in a bid to pull you closer. Your cotton-clad mound humping against his straining cock in the process.

He grunts against your skin when he feels the wetness pooling on your panties transferring to his boxers. One of his hand roams to squeeze the fat of your ass, a squeaking yelp escapes you as you feel thick bruising fingers dig into your supple flesh. He gentle nibbles your swollen tits, eliciting a mewl from you that speaks to your infatuation with him. Whether you care to admit it or not, he knows your body enough to understand the truth.

“Rin,” you shudder, throwing your head back in an attempt to gain some distance from what is happening and retrieve your thoughts. He doesn’t stop, though. But his eyes meet yours again when you return. He’s listening. He’s clinging to your every thought. “I-Is this really what you want?” you ask him. And he nods, slowly, relinquishing one nipple from his mouth with a pop and licking his cherry bitten lips.

 “’m not a mistake, baby…” he tells you in hushed tones before sucking your neglected nipple momentarily. He means it, too. You don’t think he’s a mistake. In truth, you think the world of Rin Itoshi. You wish you met at a different time. Things could be how you both want them to be. But this is how things are. You feel tears you hadn’t given permission begin to roll down your cheeks as you think about how lowly he views himself because of you. You are a fucking coward, you always have been. “I can be right for you, princess. I can.”

You hear him sniff a little before he continues making out with your aching tits. And you push his hair out of his face again, getting a perfect view of his lusciously long eyelashes. You can’t see his pretty green eyes from this angle, they’re focused intently on your chest. But his eyes snap to your when he hears you sniffling too.

“Rin… I-Is this—?”

“Do you want to do that thing you like?” he asks, breath fanning over your spit soaked tits as he snaps you from your thoughts. He encourages you to move a little as he hooks his fingers into your panties and tries to pull them down your legs. It’s clumsy, and it makes you laugh as you shuffle around awkwardly until they’re off. And he throws them across the room before your lips crash together again.

Your arms wrap around his neck as you kiss him. He swallows your moans like they’re holy and he’s fucking greedy. He manages to snake his hand between your bodies to free his length. And your vision strays to see it. His gorgeous, pretty cock. It’s beautiful and pink, though the darkness of the room hides it well. You know it from memory by now. But you can’t mistake the drooling precum leaking from his slit and down his shaft as he strokes his length at a steady pace while he kisses you again.

But you break it once more.

“You like it… you like it, too.” you smile, thinking back to what he’d asked you moments ago. He smirks against your lips, kissing you again before looking down at his length as he attempts to guide it into your heat.

“That’s right.” he nods, licking his lips. “’n it feels the best when you ride me… so sit on it.” he commands. He clenches his teeth as his tip sits comfortably in your sticky interior. You’re so tight and wrap around him so heavenly. As though you’re made solely for him. In his mind, though, that’s exactly what you are. He hisses, eagerly, as he feels the conflicting constrict of your cunt tightening and releasing repeatedly as he remains there. It’s like you aren’t sure if you’re trying to suck him in further or push him out completely.

His fingers curl around your dainty wrist, guiding your hand to his neck and encouraging you to squeeze. You do, softly, and you can’t help but smile when he laughs breathily.

“Sit on it, princess. S’all yours.”

The squeeze becomes tighter as you slowly sink on his length. Your jaw drops willingly as you moan through the stretch. And Rin, God, he’s fucking beautiful. His eyes roll over white as your pussy envelops him until you feel his pretty tip nudge your g-spot. You kiss his cheek. Again, and again and again until his vision returns to you.

He likes it. No, he loves it. But only because it’s you. He’s been with plenty of women, but he’s never been in love. He’s had feelings for partners, but never love. He can’t imagine letting any of them choke him the way you do. It makes him heady, but only because it’s you. The first time you did it he wanted to protest, to tell you in no uncertain terms that he isn’t interested in that kind of thing. But the word no could barely escape his lips before he came inside you after you squeezed the sides of his neck oh so deliciously.

“F-uck, Rinnie…” you moan as you start to rock your hips against him. His hands gently hold your waist and help you in your efforts, your breath catching in your throat as your clit catches against his pubis and trimmed hairs. “You’re s-so deep. Feel you h-here…” you point to your lower abdomen as you carry on rocking against him, your grip on his neck easing as you feel pleasure begin to surge through your nervous system.

He's speechless, though. He knows he’s big and doesn’t feel a need to reiterate it. Instead, he pushes his palm flat against your tummy as you continue to get yourself off. You moan, louder. Drool forming in the corner of your mouth as you keep going and going until your legs begin to give. And he pities you, he does. So much so that he holds your hips tightly and helps you rise and fall on the full length of his cock again and again.

Each impale is rapturous. The pleasure is fucking blinding as his heavy tip slams repeatedly against your sensitive soft insides and you mewl blaringly, no care or consideration for neighbours that might be trying to get a full eight hours before that dreaded sunrise approaches any minute now. You can’t possibly care, not when a cock so perfectly made to mould the shape and ridges of your pussy to suit it’s domineering size is ruining you so divinely.

“Don’t stop.” he reminds you, his hand covering and squeezing your own around his willing neck, encouraging you to persevere. The way your clutching fingers hug the column of his throat is beauty personified. Like a scene from a renaissance painting before your very eyes. And his eyes are blown to hell, full of lust, “harder.” he smirks, greedily. And you always do as you’re told. You want to be good for him after being so cruel. You want to please him after being so cold. You want to love him after being so harsh.

“I—” you start, your words becoming trapped in your throat as your cowardice springs to the forefront of your mind. Though, is it really cowardice? Or is it just the right decision for both of you? For peace of mind and an easy life, it is.

“Yeah?” his eyes practically glitter in expectation as he awaits your sentence to be brought to completion. You are cruel, cold and harsh. Because you’ve gotten his hopes up yet again. And you can’t have that, you just can’t.

“I’m, c-close…” you alert him. His eyes widen in surprise. It hasn’t been so long since you started. Are you lying? He can usually tell. He studies your face and feels the way your cunt constricts around his length as you draw near your demise. You’re honest, only sometimes.

“N-N.. uh… can you hold it? F-For me, princess?” he asks, pleads, really, if his watery eyes are anything to go by. You aren’t sure you can, but you nod anyway. You’ll try your damndest, for him, anything for him.

He manoeuvres you carefully onto your back so you’re lying beneath him. You remain wrapped around him the entire time, like he can’t bear to be apart from you for even a second. You can’t blame him, either, you don’t want to remember what life feels like without him snug inside of your welcoming cunt.

His eyes roam your body as he cages you in below him. Emerald jewels taking in each and every inch of your perfectly bare skin. Every detail, every crevice and pore. It’s all so beautiful to him, and hasn’t become a boring sight to behold in the entire two years you’ve been doing this.

Both of your hands cradle his head, fingers interlocking through the back of his hair. He looks into your eyes and you can’t help but smile. This is how your life should be. When you see how much love pours from his eyes as he looks at you, you know this is how things are meant to be. But it’s a shame, they aren’t. You feel your heart break in two as reality crashes around you once again. But he leans down to kiss you, silently asking your permission to keep going.

“Please, Rin.” you nod.

“Okay, I’ve got you.” he kisses your neck as he begins to shallowly thrust into you again. You mewl softly as you feel him suckle the skin covering your clavicle, and it’s sure to bruise, but you don’t care. You’re sick of caring, now. You just want to feel this. Enjoy this moment. You want to enjoy Rin.

He pushes your thighs gently, spurring you to wrap your legs around his hips in a bid for you to hug him tightly. You hook your feet against one another, and you feel like a koala clinging onto a tree. You don’t mind though. You feel safe, like this. A safety you’ve never felt from anyone at any time. He’ll keep you safe, always, because he loves you. All he wants in this moment is for you to feel good and for him to be the reason. You cock your head, curiously. And he wastes no time satiating your lust with a kiss.

Your moans feel suffocating as your throat swells with the desperate need to share them with him. But you can’t. Not when he’s pressing his lips to yours and trying to inhale your every breath and any other offering you can muster for him. He can’t let you go for even a second, he thinks. This is all he has. He needs to remember.

He looks upset when you turn your head to break the kiss, but his thrusting doesn’t cease. They slow, however. Opting to fuck you deeper. He wants to explore depths in your cute cunt that neither of you know even existed.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, voice quiet but laced with concern. It’s hard to even think as his thrusts seem to be whisking your brain into a pink mushy paste.

“I can’t—” you pant, “hold it… m-much longer!” you warn him.

“Oh.” he chuckles, and burrows his head into the crook of your neck. He kisses. Sucks. Makes it known that you’ve been with him. A final bid to make you his, though it will surely amount to nothing. “That’s okay, let go, baby…” he tells you.

You bite your lip. A momentary gesture before you find your pleasure crescendo from his faithful pace. He kisses sweetly along your jawline, humping into you hard enough that there is a steady slapping resounding through the bedroom. You note how the sun seems to rise and birds begin to chirp as you topple over the edge of your orgasm.

He could bathe in your sweet moans for the rest of his life, he thinks. They seem to harmonise with the birds singing outside. Your fingers dig and claw into his shoulder blades as you don’t let up. It’s all so tantalizing, a song he’d happily play on repeat for the rest of his miserable life if he could.

You clamp around him and feel a swell of pride in your chest as you hear him moan for you, too. Your cunt floods with warmth and you’ve never felt so wanted. Part of him wishes you weren’t on birth control. Part of him wishes that it would fail so that there’s a reason he can truly make you his. But he knows he isn’t that lucky. And he knows it’s wrong to want those things, too. He doesn’t even want a kid, really.

He just wants a reason to keep you.

Your chest heaves as he collapses on top of you, hugging you closely. You fear that your sweaty bodies may meld together permanently, until the breeze from the open window rolls in. Cooling your dampened skin slowly but surely. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, though. Being stuck to him. There’s always fantastical ideas conjured from absurd imaginations that give you cause to be together. It’s the only way, you think.

It can’t be as simple as you want to be together.

You can’t just love each other so much you can be together.

You need a reason.

A very good fucking reason.

“Are we going to be okay, Rinnie? Things haven’t changed, right?” you ask him, almost scared to speak but not enough to stop the flow of your words. You feel his body tense up, and at that point you know things have indeed changed. But change can be good… you might just be delusional, though.

“I’m going to shower.” he says, coldly, peeling his body from yours. And it stings. He couldn’t give you an answer, and you know that translates to him only having an answer you won’t like. He’s cruel, mostly, but never with you. With other people he can be rude and mean. But he’d rather be silent than do that to you. And it hurts. Fuck, it hurts. It’s all such a mess and everything is fucking ruined. “… are you coming?” he asks, looking back at you as he heads towards the bathroom.

And there it is.

The flame of hope he can never truly let die when it comes to you.

Your eyes flicker open, the room fully bathed in the light of the mid-morning sun. Rin is sitting at the edge of his bed. Legs covered by grey joggers and his torso bare. The shadows and light contrasting each other and painting an alluring portrait of toned musculature across his back. He shields it from you, though, as he pulls a t-shirt over his head.

He stands up, collecting the towel he dropped on the floor as he got changed. And that’s when he sees you’re finally awake again. He curses himself when he smiles at you, still unable to believe how easily you can make him do so.

“How was your nap?” he asks, calmly, tossing the towel expertly into his laundry bin.

“I don’t even remember falling asleep…” you admit.

Though you do remember cuddling into his side after your shower. Your towel is loose around your body, the one wrapped around your hair is crumpled up atop your pillows. He didn’t sleep a wink, he savoured the feeling of you clinging onto him like you might actually love him. But his mind was also plagued by the future. About what happens next. He doesn’t get nervous, usually. But now, as he looks at you in your most natural form, he’s legitimately scared. Scared of everything crashing down around him.

“I… your clothes.” he tilts his head, gesturing to the folded clothes on your bedside cabinet. You thank him, quickly, dropping your towel and hurriedly getting into your jeans and tank top you wore over here in the middle of the night. “I want to be with you, properly.” Rin confesses, focusing intently on his hands before daring to look up to you. Your expression is sullen, unsure of how to respond. You hadn’t expected to hear him say something so bold, not after what you said to him earlier. But you suppose he’s had time to think.

“I just don’t know what you want me to say, Rin.” you sigh, shaking your fingers through your still damp hair. Little droplets flying to the wood floor below.

“I want you to tell the truth… I know you love me. I know you’re just scared. I know you want to be with me, too. I don’t get why you’re doing this. I don’t know why you’re punishing yourself… or me.” he approaches you, walking around the bottom of the bed and grabbing your shoulders with fervour as he wills you to be honest for the first time in your life.

“No.” you shake your head and move away from him. “It isn’t right, you know it isn’t.”

“It’s not right? I’ve loved you for two years and you’re telling me that’s wrong? And I know you feel the fucking same, so please, please baby—”

“I have to go, I can’t do this.” you feel fresh tears roll down your face as you begin to search for your purse. You feel like your fucking heart is going to explode. And he doesn’t bother hiding his upset, either. Because he’s made up his mind.

“This was goodbye, then.” he informs you, and your movements halt as you look at him.

“What?”

“I’m not being this… joke. I’m not going to be your shoulder to cry on when you’re lonely. I’m not going to fuck you, you can’t just come here when you feel like it. I’m done, I can’t do it.” he takes a deep breath as he finishes, knowing that this is really over. It’s killing him. “I love you, and it hurts. This really hurts. But you’re not the girl I thought you were. I thought you were kind and I know you love me too and that’s why it’s fucking— I feel like I’m dying. I don’t get why you’re denying yourself of this.”

You sigh, slipping your feet into your white slides and trying to fight back tears. He thinks everything is so simple. He thinks you can both just live a fairy tale life and be happy, but that isn’t realistic. He isn’t being realistic and maybe that’s your fault. You thought you’d been clear about what this is between you. You hadn’t intended to make him feel used. You didn’t want to hurt him and you didn’t want things to end like this.

“Okay.” you shrug, fingers grasping the door handle as you prepare to leave.

“What’s so fucking special about Sae?” he sobs, quietly. You can’t bear to look at him. Your heart is already breaking and you know looking at his defeated face will give your vital organ cause to split into quarters. “As kids, he was always better at football. He’s older, he’s the favourite. But he doesn’t even treat you right, he doesn’t love you. I do, I love you so what’s so special about him, princess?” he drops his weight onto the bed below, sitting on the edge again as he wills you to face him. His stomach ravaged by butterflies as he waits for an answer. Any kind of answer that will give him some clarity.

“Nothing’s special about him, Rin…” you sigh, again, giving into his desire and offering him the eye contact he craved. “I just met him two years and a few days before I met you.” you sniffle loudly before hurrying out of the door, slamming it behind you unintentionally as you run to the elevator.

He lets his head fall into his hands as he begins to bawl. The knowledge finally setting in that this is really the end of this chapter of his life. The story of you and him is complete and the ending is fucking devastating. He rests his head against the wet pillows you’d left in such a hurry. The scent of your lotions and perfume still clinging to them. And he cries more, covering his face entirely with his hands.

He’ll always lose to Sae, that much is clear.

If only he’d met you first.

© 2023 rinitxshi

[vamplu]

TANGLED IN LOVE, STUCK BY YOU .ᐟ

texts with your bestfriend !!! (he does NAWT have a secret crush on u) (yes he does)

incl ; rin itoshi x gn!reader , all smau , ooc rin a bit , fluff , crack kinda , time stamps matter!!!!

©heartmaddie all rights reserved. please do not repost my work.

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form to be added to taglists

[vamplu]

ᓚᘏᗢ — rin itoshi: wrong number, right guy !

synopsis: you text your number neighbor for fun but end up texting your crush.

rin itoshi x reader ⭑ fluff / smau / number neighbors / rin lowk knew + likes & reblogs are appreciated <3

note: hi

© mixolya 2025. do not copy, remake or edit any of my works.

[vamplu]

godslayer — ft. mydeimos

your husband is a king who knows little else outside of being a warrior. that is the truth you cling to until slowly, month by month, he makes his way into the cavity of your chest and refuses to leave

word count. ❤︎ 18.2k words — i know, i know. but plssss give it a chance plsss

before you read. ❤︎ female princess/queen reader ; crown prince/king mydei ; arranged marriage ; NOT canon universe + NOT canon compliant - royal/historical au ; mentions of war and politics ; slow burn + falling in love ; lots of bickering LOL ; reader has a (king) father and is implied to no longer have a mother ; sexual harassment but mydei saves reader ; reader drinks alcohol + gets drunk in one scene ; jealous mydei ; fingering ; nipple play ; unprotected vaginal sex ; creampie ; hand jobs ; cockblocking LOL sorry ; blood and injuries (mydei gets stabbed) ; love confessions and cheesy bantering

commentary. ❤︎ IT IS FINALLY HERE MY GOD. my god. BIG THANK YOU TO @osarina for not only beta reading this fic and fixing WAY too many grammar errors (LOL) but for literally listening and helping me work through every struggle i had with this fic and being 70% of the reason i even finished it. you are my biggest inspo forever ily dearly

You do not remember most of your wedding to Lord Mydeimos. 

On the day of your wedding, the beginning of your ceremony goes by like a blur, and you pay little attention. It’s not until Kremnos’s royal advisor steps forward does your reality sink in. You watch wearily as he faces the crowd of people—enough of the Kremnoan commoners have gathered to witness the ceremony, and you feel more like a spectacle than a bride.

“The son of Gorgo shall be crowned in blood!” The Advisor chants. 

“The son of Gorgo shall be crowned in blood!” The people of the nation bellow in tow. Men and women—even young children who cannot understand fully what is happening—scream in sync for your union with Lord Mydeimos.

You realize quickly, by just a glance, that your nation of Janusopolis is everything his nation of Castrum Kremnos is not. 

Janusopolis is a wealthy land built on the industry of gold. Beneath your fertile soil is the precious metal, and the mines stretch from one side of the border to the other. Trade is easy when you hold such a luxury beneath your soil, and the people of your land have never known what it means to be hungry. But for all its riches, your nation is fragile—small, with a military force that pales in comparison to the other armies of Amphoreus.

Castrum Kremnos is filled with warriors—people who are bred for battle as though they were handpicked by the Gods themselves to fight. There is not one nation in all of Amphoreus that stands a chance against their strength, and yet, the people die of starvation every day. The streets are filled with mothers and fathers who feel the despair of poverty, feeding every small morsel to the hungry mouths of their children before themselves. 

It is little surprise to anyone that you form an alliance. Now more than ever, when there are rumors that a war is coming—a war that you cannot fight and Kremnos cannot afford. They linger in the air, thick and heavy, carried through the wind by whispers that slip from court to court. The rumors are not just rumors—you know it by the deepening creases in your father’s brows, in the way his advisors speak in hushed, urgent tones. 

Should war come, Janusopolis will not endure on its own for long. And should war come, Castrum Kremnos will not survive on just its strength. 

So, when your father offers your hand to Lord Mydeimos for a union, you are not shocked when the crown prince agrees. You have heard rumors of him often, the hushed whispers of a man who is a warrior first and an heir second. A man whose bones are built for battle before his blood runs from a lineage of royalty. He sits beside you now, silent and brooding—in fact, he’s spoken not one sentence to you. 

Good, you think to yourself as you glance at him from the corners of your eyes, he does not seem like a man who knows how to speak to a lady. 

You’re broken out of your thoughts quickly as a shadow covers your face—the Advisor has returned from facing the crowd, standing over you as you listen to the shouting behind his figure. The son of Gorgo shall be crowned in blood! The son of Gorgo shall be crowned in blood! The son of Gorgo shall be crowned in blood! It’s all you hear. Shouted over and over like a prayer to a God of a land you are unfamiliar with.

Lord Mydeimos’s advisor hands you a blade. The marriage rituals of Kremnos, you find, are as brutal as war itself. You hesitate for a moment before glancing at your father. He stares at you—his precious daughter, whom he loves more than his own life—with eyes filled with sorrow that he does not dare voice. You can practically hear his plea:

If not for Janusopolis, then for me.

Numbly, you take the handle, your fingers tightening around the cold metal. You steal one last glance at your father. The man who has always treated you like a delicate flower, as if you are to be carefully shielded from the harsh storms of winter until spring could smile upon you once more. The man who spoiled you as a princess should be, yet shaped you with the discipline of a future ruler. The man who, until now, has never let the weight of his crown come before his love for you.

But today, he has no choice. Today, he is a king first and a father second.

You carve his face into your memory. You’ll miss it—the days when he was your king, the time when heir to the throne was your title. You are just the Lady of Kremnos now, bound to share the burdens of a new nation alongside a new king. An heir that is not you. You wonder how you will cope with that fact, how you will learn to accept that your birth rights mean little in a new set of borders. 

But you give your father a nod, as firm and convincing as you can muster, before gripping the blade tightly and dragging it across your palm.

It stings. You don’t flinch.

Blood wells instantly, deep red against your skin—the same palm that has never known violence, never held a weapon, never bled for anything, now spills heavily on your first night in the strongest nation in Amphoreus.

How ironic, you almost want to say.

Instantly, Lord Mydeimos takes your wrist—he wastes little time. (You’re not sure why you expect it, but a small part of you is disappointed he shows little care for the wound on your palm.) His hands are rough and calloused like you imagined they might be. They feel like the hands of a warrior. You wonder if this blood spilled across your palm is laughable to him. Surely, with a man as strong and fierce and accustomed to battle as he is, he must have felt the warm spill of life across his skin countless times. Whether his own blood or that of others, surely he must know the feeling familiarly enough that this is nothing to him. 

He dips his thumb into the dark crimson of your hand and smears a stripe along his forehead. His advisor, slowly, with eyes that do not leave yours, lowers the crown onto your husband’s head. No longer a crowned prince but a king. 

The nation cheers. “The son of Gorgo shall be crowned in blood!”

Such a brutal man, you think as you stare at your husband, to have his fate sealed through nothing but bloodshed.

—————

Lord Mydeimos is quiet during your trek to your now-to-be-shared chambers. His first words to you are far from romantic. 

“You are not happy with this arrangement,” he says, and for a moment, you think perhaps he is offended by the fact. You realize only a second later that he has little care. He is merely making an observation. 

“Unhappy is not exactly the correct term for it,” you mumble, “However, it is no lie that all envision their marriage to be one of love, not political convenience.”

“Then you should have married for love,” Lord Mydeimos responds blandly. 

You raise a brow, staring at him as if he has grown two heads. (Surely, the man you just witnessed willingly take your hand in marriage while he becomes king for the sake of his nation could not possibly think you could marry out of love. Surely, he is not so naive when he bears the responsibility of his people entirely on his shoulders.)

“That would not be possible,” you furrow your brows, “I have always prepared myself for a marriage of alliance.”

“Then you should not have such fickle dreams.”

Oh. 

Some part of you is more shocked than it is outraged. But then the better part of your emotions takes over completely—how dare he have the gall to tell you what your desires should and should not consist of? You wonder if all warriors are cold-blooded in Kremnos—if they only know their ways around the heart when it is to pierce a blade through the delicate tissue and nothing else. Perhaps to expect Lord Mydeimos to understand the ways around emotions and desires is to lead a blind man into the dark, bare room. 

There is nothing for him to grasp his footing and find his way around. 

“Forgive me,” you spit bitterly, soured by his dismissiveness, “I did not realize accepting my circumstances meant I could not wish for things to be different.”

“You can,” he says, still infuriatingly detached, “But it would be a waste of energy.”

You have a sharp retort ready on your tongue. Perhaps it’s unwise to speak to a newly crowned king in such a manner, husband or not, but you are too used to the way your father tolerated your every thought. Welcomed them, even. You were never raised to hold your tongue, and the habit will be a hard one to break. 

But before you can hiss out your reply, you are interrupted by a maid. 

“Your chambers are ready, My Lord,” she tells Lord Mydeimos, bowing slightly before taking her leave. She avoids your eyes entirely, blush dusted across her cheeks as though she has stated a scandalous fact. You realize rather quickly why.

Lord Mydeimos, apart from the stiff nod, seems mostly unbothered—but the tenseness in his neck and shoulders is enough to tell you that even he is not unaffected by everything. You almost want to tease him, but your words die on your tongue as the large doors to what is now your shared chambers are opened by two guards. You follow him inside, and the doors are quick to shut behind you before hurried footsteps echo down the corridor. 

There is no one nearby, you realize. You expect as much, of course, but it doesn’t make your skin feel any less hot. 

“Well…” you start awkwardly. (You are certain there is a ghost of an amused tug at his lips at that, but before you can properly look, it is gone.) 

“Well…?” he repeats, raising an eyebrow. 

“I suppose it is customary that we…” You don’t want to say it. What would you say? It is customary that we fuck on the first night of knowing each other so our marriage is properly completed, My Lord? You have little interest in consummating a marriage with him. 

But you are not above your duties, and you’re positive that neither is he. Of course, he isn’t, in fact. With an attitude as uncaring and bothersome as his, he sees no issues with doing what is expected of him. He would probably finish with that stupidly straight face of his, too, you think somewhat bitterly. 

“Do you not wish to say it?” He finally cracks a small grin as though watching you squirm under his gaze is entertaining to him. You scowl. He has enough tact to go back to looking serious as he continues: “We do not need to do anything.”

“But—”

“Unless what is your wish, of course,” he adds. 

You sputter. “I do not care regardless,” you huff, pretending to be as unbothered as he seems to be. (You know, as well as he does, that neither of you are unbothered at all.) “If you wish to complete our marriage, then I will do as you wish.”

“Even if that is not what you wish?” He cocks his head to the side. 

“It matters little what I wish,” you say darkly, narrowing your eyes as you pointedly add: “And, I suppose it is a waste of my energy to hope for what I wish, is it not?”

He eyes you for a moment. Something about his gaze makes you feel more bare while being fully clothed than if you were to strip yourself in front of him. He turns abruptly, leaving you to blink in shock before you watch as he begins to pull off his armor, one piece at a time. 

Oh. You swallow thickly, realizing what is happening. 

“The least you could do,” you start as you walk over to the bed, “is to pretend to be interested in bedding your wife if you are to do so.”

He looks at you, carefully laying his armor on the wooden stand by your bed, before humming, “I will not bed anyone if that is not what they wish. It is distasteful.”

You gasp, offended. “I should have you know many noblemen would not find me distasteful by the slightest—”

“You are not distasteful,” he interrupts. “But taking you against your will would be. We can be husband and wife without such outdated customs.” He pulls back the covers and prepares to settle onto the mattress. “Now, I am off to bed—I have training at sunrise. Which side do you prefer?”

You blink, still processing. He stares expectantly.

“The left,” you murmur.

“Good.” He nods, lying on the right. “I prefer the right. How agreeable.”

With that, he turns and settles under the sheets, leaving you with the privacy of getting ready for the night yourself. You stand there for a moment, utterly shocked, before you collect yourself and despite still being in your wedding robes, slip under the sheets and stay as close to the edge of your side as you can. (There is little need for that, of course—the mattress is large enough that you could fit two more bodies between yours and his, but you spitefully cannot help but leave as much room between you as you can.) 

“Goodnight,” he mumbles. 

“Goodnight,” you huff in return. 

“Do let me know if I hog the blankets—I have never shared the sheets with someone before.”

“No need to fret,” you say matter-of-factly, “If you do, I will simply pull them back.”

He chuckles. You almost wish you could see a proper smile on his face, but you don’t dare turn. “I have no doubts about that.”

────────────────────────

One month into your marriage, you learn that the palace is a lonely place in Kremnos. 

At least, it is for you. 

You are still learning who your husband is, so he offers little companionship to your lonesome heart. And more often than not, attempting to understand him leaves you with a headache. You still hardly know Lord Mydeimos—in fact, only yesterday, you learned that despite his robes and attire strictly following a red scheme, his preferred color is actually yellow. An absurdly preposterous revelation, you think—you have no understanding of why he would dress the way that he does if he prefers a color so…opposite, but only Lord Mydeimos knows for certain what goes on in his head. 

The first person you can consider as proper company is an attendant called Agnes. She is your personal attendant, and her days are reserved strictly to cater to your every need should you require it. Lord Mydeimos has made it very clear that she is to be nearby in case you are in need, and she follows his orders strictly. 

Agnes is wonderfully kind. She is skilled in many arts—stitching and embroidery, cooking and baking, and even music. In a few weeks, you have learned the basics of the harp, her best instrument, and she teaches you fondly as she tells you about your husband. 

“He is just so stubborn,” you huff, stretching out your sore fingers. “And he has an attitude I cannot even begin to describe—I am certain children must cry at just the sight of him?”

“Actually, they do quite the opposite. Lord Mydeimos enjoys playing tag,” Agnes says as she applies balm along your tender fingers after a lengthy harp lesson, “He does not seem like it, but he does. He is fond of the children who play by the ponds outside of the palace gates.”

“And are they fond of him?” You raise an unconvinced brow, wincing as the blisters on your fingers sting. “He does not seem like someone who knows how to converse well with children.”

“That is partly true,” Agnes chuckles thoughtfully. “He is a tad bit stiff with his words. But the children are indeed fond of him nonetheless, yes. He brings them treats from the palace bakery.”

“Well, at least I can trust that he will not lock me in the dungeons for one wrong move,” you break into a teasing grin. “They say children are a good judge of character. I suppose he has passed that test.”

“What test?” You and Agnes straighten at the sound of Lord Mydeimos’s voice as he enters your chambers, exchanging looks before she clears her throat.

“Nothing, My Lord,” she says evenly, standing up as you follow. “I was simply telling My Lady about what a seasoned warrior you are.”

Your husband does not look particularly convinced, but he nods politely as Agnes excuses herself, leaving you and Lord Mydeimos alone. He walks up to you, glancing quickly at your fingertips as you rub them and wince. 

“What has happened to your fingers?” he asks with a frown. 

You look at them sheepishly, murmuring quietly, “I have been learning to play the harp from Agnes. My fingers have blistered against the strings.”

“Ah,” he nods, holding up his own gauntlet-clad hands and mumbling, “Perhaps you should consider armory. They are most useful for shielding simple pains. In any case, I have come to speak to you about our trip.”

You blink. Once, then twice, and then finally, you ask hesitantly, “…Our…trip?”

“Yes. We will be departing in two days' time for Styxias to negotiate on military affairs. Should this go successfully, that is one more ally we can tally in case war breaks out. You are to accompany me, of course,” He raises an eyebrow, surprised by your confusion. “Have they not told you?” 

“No, they have not…but regardless, you are king,” you point out. 

This time, he blinks, unsure exactly what point you are trying to make at all. “Yes…” he says carefully. “And you are queen, which is precisely why you shall accompany me. It is only four nights.”

“I have never had to accompany my father in official matters when I was princess.” You furrow your brows, creases forming in your forehead that he almost instinctively reaches out to smooth. Almost.

“That is because you were a princess,” he muses. “If your father had a queen, it would be customary for her to travel alongside him to the kingdoms of his dealings. It is seen as the polite thing to do, to have both rulers make an appearance.”

“But you will speak on military negotiations. I am of no help in those matters, you know.”

“I am aware,” he says patiently. “That is why you will not accompany me to the negotiations. You will only attend the social gatherings—as I mentioned, it is simply for appearances. However, it would be greatly appreciated if you could glean a piece of intel or two about other nations from the mingling.”

That puts you in a sour mood. Not only will you join him on a four-day trip for no other reason than existing as a sight to bear witness to by the other nobles, but you will be in a nation yet again where you are a stranger to everyone. Lord Mydeimos, the only person you even somewhat know, will be busy with official matters, and that will leave you with nothing to do. 

And Agnes has promised to teach you how to sew in the coming days. 

Unhappy, you bargain, “Alright, then perhaps Agnes can join us to keep me company while you are busy.”

“That is not necessary.” He waves a hand and denies your request. “Agnes is an attendant, so there is no need for her to join. She shall remain in the palace where she belongs.”

“I’m sure it will be of little difference if the palace is missing just one attendant,” you reason, “And besides, Agnes is my personal attendant, so I’m sure the other nobles will think nothing of it. My father would often be accompanied by his own attendants to make matters simpler for him in regards to—”

“Well, that is the way of Janusopolis,” he interrupts, patience wearing thin. Strictly, Lord Mydeimos adds, “You are in Kremnos now. And in Kremnos, we do not allow our maids and attendants to neglect their duties to join pointless expeditions that they have no concerns with.”

His tone is clipped. Firm. A touch reprimanding like that of a parent scolding a child, and some part of you, underneath the hurt, simmers in rage. One attendant, among hundreds, will make not the slightest dent in the palace’s operation. More frustrating still, Lord Mydeimos leaves you with little say in anything regarding this trip—not whether or not you will go, not what you will do, and now, not even who you will be accompanied by.

Stubbornly, you refuse to accept his terms. 

“If you will not allow me the company of Agnes, then I will be most troublesome. Mark my words, Lord Mydeimos,” you warn, “If you do not wish for me to make a fool of this kingdom, then Agnes and I will both join your senseless journey.”

His lips take a dangerous shape, morphing into a hard line that you fear could cut you with how sharp it is. “Is that a threat?” he questions.

“It is but a mere promise of an outcome,” you reply smartly, as though he is dense in the head. (You think he might be, just a tad. To ask a lady that question is to only ask for trouble.)

“Agnes is an attendant,” he says exasperatedly. 

“I do not care,” you bite back. “She is also the only one I have befriended in this kingdom, and her position as attendant should mean little compared to the wishes of your wife.”

“She is meant to stay behind palace doors and do her duty. Just as you are to do yours and accompany me as my wife and as Queen. You cannot bend such rules just because you simply wish to do so.”

“And who is the one who set such standards in the first place?” You challenge, “Do not tell me that as king, you do not have the authority to undo the regulations that only a king can put in place? How laughable.”

Lord Mydeimos is becoming impatient. You can tell by the twist of his features and the blazing fire behind his eyes, the light shade of his amber deepening into a dark honey. He is not happy—not with you, not with your attitude, and not with your tendencies to question everything. 

And you like it that way. If you do not get your way, you sure as hell will make sure that his way is difficult to enjoy. 

“You are your father’s only daughter,” he says through a grumpy snarl, “It is as apparent as the tide’s ebb and flow. Only would a woman who has never known the word no be so maddening.”

“I am simply highly revered where I come from,” you shrug, giving him a purposely haughty smile just to get on his nerves. 

It seems to work as he grits, “You are spoiled beyond reason. It is ill-suited for one who carries the burdens of duty.”

And with that, your satisfaction is short-lived—you sputter at his insult, doing a double take while his eyes lighten with amusement at your reaction. He is enjoying this, you realize—enjoying denying you of a simple pleasure all for the sake of his petty, twisted desire for authority. And to question your devotion to your duty, too, is an outrage. You, who married a stranger who knows little outside of bloodshed and brutality, all for the sake of your people, being accused of putting your own pleasure before your duties.

You will have nothing of the sort.

You glare at him, ferocity in your gaze as you huff, “Do not speak to me of duty and obligation when I have left all that I know for the sake of my nation and for the sake of yours. I carry the burden of sacrifice for two lands, not just one. It is not out of line, I believe, to wish my husband would indulge me in a harmless request. But if you must deny me, then so be it. I will pack for our departure—”

He catches your wrist just as you turn to leave. It’s gentle. He’s gentle. You cannot wrap your head around how quickly Lord Mydeimos is able to switch between a stubborn mule and a gentle doe, but carefully, he pulls and spins you to face him, taking a step closer as he studies you thoughtfully for a moment in mild fascination. You do not like it—you feel like an animal under his gaze, cornered in a cage and waiting to see what fate his cruel hands may hold for you. 

Except, never do you face a cruel fate. Instead, after a painfully silent moment of being scrutinized under his gaze, he lets out a defeated chuckle—almost a snort, you could even say. Equal parts tired and equal parts amused. 

“No need,” he hums. “The attendants will see to it that your belongings for the trip are packed. As for your request…I suppose I could make an exception for my wife. Do not make a habit of thinking you shall always get your way, though.”

You relax in his grip for a moment, staring into his eyes carefully to decipher if he is lying. He is not, you conclude after a moment—and just like that, your anger washes away as fast as it came. You perk up, excitement gracing your features and brightening them. 

“Agnes will join me?” You ask to double-check.

“Agnes will join us,” he corrects, exasperated. 

“Oh, wonderful,” You bring your free hand up and clap, your other still in his grip. He stares down and watches the motions of your hands, and by extension, his, as it moves with the flow. “I am most grateful, Lord Mydeimos.”

And just to be devious, you lean up, planting a small, mischievous peck to the edge of his jaw before promptly pulling away and brushing past him, excitedly on your way to find Agnes and tell her the good news. Lord Mydeimos stands, paused and tense from shock. After a moment, he shakes his head and rubs his face tiredly, ignoring the heat blooming across the swells of his cheeks and spreading as far as the tips of his ears. 

“That woman is a most wicked thing,” he grumbles to himself. “A most wicked thing, indeed.”

—————

Just as Lord Mydeimos had promised, Agnes joins your carriage as you take your leave to Styxias. She is thrilled to leave Kremnos for the first time—it’s abundantly clear by her expression alone, even if she maintains a humble mellowness in both of your presence. 

Lord Mydeimos looks tired after all of ten minutes of being stuck listening to the two of you as you converse and giggle endlessly. 

“I hear the waters are beautiful in Styxias,” Agnes murmurs. “I am most excited to see if that is true.”

“Oh, they are,” you nod eagerly. “Father had taken me for a ball many years ago. I still remember the water lilies like it was just yesterday that I had witnessed them bloom. They are the most breathtaking sight I have yet to see.”

Lord Mydeimos scoffs. You throw him a withering glare. Agnes sighs as she predicts the argument to come. 

“I’d consider them to be mediocre among flowers,” your husband says roughly. “Clearly, you have yet to see the blooming of the flowers that stem from Kremnophilas.”

“Perhaps I  have yet to see them because clearly nothing that could make an impression on me has bloomed on the dry soils of Kremnos. There is nothing but cliff and rock here,” you retort. 

Lord Mydeimos’s lips press into a firm frown, clearly displeased with your assessment of his homeland. (You are correct, of course. Kremnos is not known for its botanical splendor, and part of the reason for its financial struggles is its dependence on imported crops rather than growing them on its own soil. Something tells you, though, that voicing that particular fact would sour his mood even further.)

“Kremnophila flowers bloom once a year,” he grunts. “They are beautiful. And they were my mother's favorite. There is no sight quite like it.”

“They are rather beautiful,” Agnes nods earnestly. “Lady Gorgo would wear the blooms in her hair during the spring. She was known for being quite a beauty across all the kingdoms.”

You have heard about Lady Gorgo. Lord Mydeimos’s mother was a cherished Queen—your father had spoken highly of her in passing. You know little of the woman who raised your now husband, but the tragedy of her death spread across nations like wildfire. 

She was murdered in her own chambers, poisoned by an attendant who had been bribed by a rival kingdom seeking to invade Kremnos. They found her lifeless body on the floor the next morning, and the attendant had vanished without a trace.

(“Truly a shame,” your father had muttered once the news had spread. “Betrayed by her own trusted maid for the sake of another nation. Such an awful way to go. Her son is utterly alone now. May the Gods bless him to be a formidable king some day.”

You don’t even remember the name of the nation that harbored the assassin—it no longer exists. The palace was burned to the ground by Lord Mydeimos’s army, and rumors claim he had been the one to behead the king himself. He was only fifteen at the time. In an act of mercy, he spared the commoners, allowing them to flee to Kremnos. But not a single noble was left alive. Some whisper that he keeps the severed head of the fallen king somewhere in his palace, both as a trophy and a warning: no one is a match for the Kremnoan army.

After his mother’s death, Lord Mydeimos was to take on the nation’s affairs officially. Most believed Kremnos would crumble under a young, inexperienced ruler—that the kingdom would soon fall, an easy target for invasion.

“Perhaps we could acquire Kremnos, Father,” you had said once. “With an unfit future king, surely the kingdom will fall. We would benefit from such a strong army, no?”

“Do not be so quick to gamble on such matters. He is brilliant,” your father had murmured, “Even our best knights were no match in a duel with that boy—he may be young, but he is a godslayer of a warrior. He will make a fine king, I am certain.”)

In the end, your father was right. If not for the raging battle against poverty, Kremnos could easily be the fiercest nation of all.

Godslayer. You still recall the title he’d given your now husband, and you wonder if your father would still call Lord Mydeimos such a title now, or if he regrets handing over his daughter to such a fierce man.

Perhaps not even the Gods know. Not when faced with a man who could slay them in a heartbeat.

“I’ll believe in their beauty when I see them for myself,” you hum. Lord Mydeimos scoffs yet again. Agnes rubs her temples, exasperated by the bickering that seems to follow you both wherever you go. 

It is several more hours before you finally arrive in Styxias. You fall asleep midway through the journey, and you’re startled awake by a cool, pointed piece of metal to your ribs. You shriek, flinching away as your eyes fly open. 

“We are here,” Lord Mydeimos states in amusement. You realize quickly that the object that assaulted your ribcage was one of his gauntlet-covered fingers—he has enough wit to at least try to hide the smile on his face at your moment of panic. 

“You saw no better way to wake me than with such a sharp piece of armor?” you hiss, rubbing your side

He grins, holding out a hand for you as he says through a cocky voice, “No. You are a deep sleeper. Agnes could not wake you after countless attempts—therefore, I took it upon myself.”

“Do not lie to me,” you scold accusingly. “I’m positive you did not even give Agnes the opportunity. Surely, you saw your chance to get under my skin, and you took it.”

“I do not lie,” he hums. “Nor do I need to. The evidence of your deep slumber is written clearly in the drool on your chin.”

You quickly wipe at your chin. There is nothing. 

Before you can scowl and scold him further, he chuckles, yanking you by the wrist and tugging you to exit the carriage. You gasp, hardly managing to make sure your clothes are neat and orderly before you are dragged to come face to face with Styxian nobles. 

The introductions are boring. Lord Mydeimos holds you delicately by the hand and leads you down an endless line of nobles, their names blurring together as he introduces each one. You smile, bow your head politely, and offer the right words at the right moments—years of royal training make your social skills effortlessly polished. At least this part is not complicated.

It’s not long before your husband escorts you to your shared temporary chambers and murmurs, “I will be back before sunfall to collect you for dinner. The maids have packed your finest robes, and Agnes will know which one to prepare tonight for you to wear. Do not be shy to call for the maids of this palace should you need something—they are accustomed to aiding us when we visit.”

“How long will this dinner last?” you pout. 

He fights the urge to roll his eyes, sighing before he murmurs, “Long enough that you should have no trouble making acquaintances with such a dazzling personality. Now, I shall be on my way, wife.”

With that, Lord Mydeimos leaves. 

You are bored within the first hour. After sifting through the books and trinkets in your guest chambers, you have little to do—and Agnes, who came with the purpose of keeping you company, is too busy steaming and preparing your robes to pay you proper mind for the moment. 

So you do the only thing you can think to do: wander the halls in search of something, anything to keep you entertained. 

That was your first mistake. Your second was to wander to the gardens where no one would hear you at this hour if you were to scream. 

“Why hello, my lady,” comes a voice. You flinch in surprise, turning quickly to meet the gaze of a young man, clearly a noble of sorts—he’s too old to be a teenager but too young to be a proper man. You can’t help but feel put off by the glint in his eyes.

“Hello,” you blink, “W-who are you? I believe all the nobles are to discuss important matters at the current moment, yes?”

“Ah,” he hums. “That would be correct. But I am not here for such matters—the king of Styxia is my cousin, you see, and it seems I timed an impromptu visit rather poorly. My cousin has banned me from entering the chambers where they hold such important negotiations; thus, I am left bored with nothing to do.”

“I see,” you nod slowly, offering him a small smile. “I suppose we are in the same predicament. Lord Mydeimos has also abandoned me for the moment as he discusses away.”

“You came here with the king of Kremnos?” the young man asks, lips curling into a wider grin—you cannot help but feel unsettled by the way it curls happily at the news. A shiver runs down your spine as he walks closer. And closer. “You must be exceedingly special to have caught his eye.”

“N-no, it is not like that,” you try to explain—

He cuts you off, humming as he murmurs, “I have yet to see a lady who has earned the attention of the great Mydeimos for courting. Tell me, what is it he is fascinated by?”

“We are not courting,” you try to correct. “He is my—”

“Ah, no need to be so shy.” This stranger, who begins to make the hairs stand at the back of your neck, seems hellbent on cutting you off at every sentence. By now, you have stepped backward from him enough times that a cold stone hits your back, and you are left nowhere to go, pinned in place by his body as it hovers over you. 

Your hands sweat. Something is not right about him. 

“I must go,” you smile shakily. “The attendant who is meant to look after me must be worried, so—”

He cuts you off again. 

“What is the rush? Surely, they are aware the palace walls are safe. We’ve only just begun to know each other.” A hand reaches over to trace your jaw, making you stiffen as he hums at the touch of your soft skin. “Well, you’re certainly a sight. I suppose that is what might have caught the attention of The Great Mydeimos,” he muses mockingly. “But I wonder…perhaps there is something…dare I say, more tantalizing about you, My Lady?”

His hand trails from your jaw to your collarbone, wandering lower, lower, lower—

“Enough,” you hiss, shoving his hand away, but he is fast. He catches your wrist and pins it above your head. The glint in his eyes is no longer playful—it is hungry, dangerous. Panic grips you. No one can hear you from here, not when they are all busy preparing the grand feast. Not even Agnes. “Unhand me this instant, or Lord Mydeimos will hear of this, you know!”

“Ah, I wouldn’t bother,” he hums. “You wouldn’t want to tell him you wandered to the gardens alone, would you? He might get the wrong impression of your intentions.”

The meaning is crystal clear—no one will believe you. Not even Lord Mydeimos. 

And perhaps he is right. Why would Lord Mydeimos believe you? You, who have done nothing but push against your husband’s will since the moment you arrived? Who forced him to bend the customs of his own kingdom? Who argues with him at every opportunity, simply to watch his lips curl into a frown? Surely, of all people, Lord Mydeimos would be the first to assume you had done this to humiliate him—flirting with the first man you could find, just to make a fool of him before royalty and nobility alike.

A sob breaks through your throat, and you wrestle to free your wrist from his grasp. 

“Unhand me,” you spit. “I won’t say it again!”

“You heard her.” The voice is low. Dangerous. “She will not say it again. Unhand my wife.”

You stiffen. So does the wretched man pinning you. His face drains of color as realization dawns on him.

“Wife,” he echoes weakly. Then again, as if he cannot believe it: “His…wife?”

“That would be correct, Albus,” Lord Mydeimos says, his voice eerily calm. “Have you not heard the news? Surely, you could not have been dwelling beneath a boulder for this long—I have wedded the princess of Janusopolis to form an alliance. You do recognize her, don’t you?”

“P-princess…” the man—Albus, repeats, hands trembling as he pulls away from you quickly, recoiling from touching you as if your skin burns him. 

“Well, a princess no more,” Lord Mydeimos corrects. “Queen is the title you should use now. Queen of Castrum Kremnos. And I trust you, of all people, understand the proper way to address a queen.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Albus chuckles nervously, turning to face Lord Mydeimos with tense shoulders. 

You watch as your husband closes the distance in a single step, gripping Albus by the collar and yanking him close. Lord Mydeimos whispers something—something too low for you to hear. But you do hear the strangled whimper that escapes Albus before he stumbles back, tripping over his own feet in his haste to flee. He does not look at you again.

With that, your knees give out. You are certain you would fall if not for the steady arms that catch you, pulling you against a firm chest.

“Are you alright?” Lord Mydeimos asks quietly. You say nothing, only letting out a soft sniffle. A bare fingertip—one not covered by armor, you note—gently captures a tear from your lash line before it can fall down your cheek. “Agnes nor the other attendants could find you, so they alerted me. I thought perhaps the gardens would capture your attention, so I came to look. Lucky I did, I suppose.”

“Lucky me, indeed.” You give a forced, watery chuckle. “Good thing My Lord knows just where I might be causing trouble.”

He frowns, tightening his grip around your waist. “Do not say such absurd things—the only trouble is that shallow vermin of a man. I shall see to it that he is properly dealt with.”

“No need,” you sniffle, not meeting your husband’s gaze. “He was right about one thing: people might get the wrong impression by my wandering—”

“If my wife were to desire wandering the streets under the moon’s light, then she should be able to do so. I will tolerate none who take advantage of her moments of indulgence. Believe me,” he says fiercely. 

You swallow, and something—an odd, warm, and fluttery thing, forms in the pit of your belly at his words. A small smile forms at the edges of your lips as you nod slowly. “I shall hold you to such a vow, My Lord,” you murmur. 

“Good,” he nods, satisfied. “Come. I will escort you to Agnes. Do not leave her side until I return, understood? It would seem your stubbornness to bring her paid off in the end.”

By the end of your trip, Lord Mydeimos is able to negotiate an alliance generously in favor of Kremnos—a little too generously in favor, in fact, that you wonder if part of it is so that Styxia can escape the wrath of your husband’s rage. You even run into Albus briefly before your departure, not a long run-in by any means—he hurries off as soon as your eyes meet—but you are happy to find out that he is nursing a broken nose. 

Oddly enough, the skin looks torn as though sharp metal dug into it upon impact. You eye Lord Mydeimos’s gauntlets as he carefully holds your hand and helps you into the carriage. 

“Ready to return home?” He asks. 

You hum, smiling knowingly to yourself. “Yes, Lord Mydeimos,” you say softly.

Agnes, to her surprise, is able to return home the entire journey alongside the both of you without the headache of witnessing a petty back and forth. 

────────────────────────

After four months of marriage, you believe it is safe to consider yourself and Lord Mydeimos as companions. You suppose, under the indifferent brutality of a warrior, that he can be quite good-natured. And when you are not feeling especially argumentative, he is easy to get along with. You fall into a comfortable routine of addressing your husband and sharing your life as good friends. 

That is how you like to view it. He is a man who you share your life and duties (and perhaps bed—in a literal sense) with, and he is a companion whom you have put your trust in. It’s an easy routine:

Good morning, wife. I am off to official matters—I shall see you in the evening.

You have returned, Lord Mydeimos. The evening is still young—shall I have the maids draw you a bath to ease your aches from training?

I have finished my bath, and the attendants will see to cleaning the bathhouse, wife. Have you eaten? Join me for dinner. 

Lord Mydeimos, you must rise before the sun tomorrow. Shall I prepare our chambers for you to rest? 

Wife. Lord Mydeimos. It’s what you know each other as. You prefer it this way—you are just that: his wife, and he is just that: Lord Mydeimos of this nation of Castrum Kremnos. You are bound through marriage on parchment by duty and nothing else. For four months, that is the truth you cling to, and you find it comforting this way. 

It takes all of four months before he decides otherwise. 

“From now on, you are to call me Mydei,” he commands one day in your chambers. He sits in his chair, polishing his armor, while you sit nearby on the bed, practicing the stitching Agnes has recently taught you. 

You pause, furrowing your brow in confusion. (And honestly, you are a little bit unhappy with his tone—he should not get used to making his desires be known through such demanding manners. You will not stand for it.) “And why is that?”

“Because I have asked it of you,” he replies plainly. And, as if sensing your irritation (which he has gotten very good at through practice), he adds an earnestly mumbled, “Please.”

It surprises you sometimes—Lord Mydeimos seems brutish by his exterior, but he is unpredictably perceptive at times. And, more importantly, he is shockingly gentle by nature. He is not above a please or a thank you. It is just that he happens to never need to use those phrases, you suppose—but he tries. (For you—your heart suggests. Only because he is cunning when he wants something—your brain counters.)

“But your name is Mydeimos,” you say stubbornly. (In truth, calling him by a nickname feels a touch too intimate than you are willing to admit. You are not yet prepared to accept that you are approaching intimacy in this…well, whatever your circumstance with Lord Mydeimos is considered.)

“Are you now attempting to teach me my own name?” His brow arches, a look of mild amusement flickering across his face.

At this, you crack, unable to resist a playful quip. “If I must educate you on something as fundamental as that, perhaps you are not as suited for the role of king as everyone seems to think, Lord Mydeimos.”

“Mydei,” he corrects gruffly. “Do not be so stubborn all the time.”

“But I quite like Lord Mydeimos,” you insist. “Your title is important, is it not? And besides, it would be strange for me to address you with such familiarity while you continue to call me simply… wife.”

His expression shifts, darkening slightly, his lips pressing into something dangerously close to a sulk. He is pouting, you realize, amused by the notion. Or, at least, as much as someone with such sharp features can pout. He looks more childlike than usual like this, and there is something undeniably endearing about the way it softens his rough features. Oddly enough, you find him almost...charming. 

The thought unsettles you deeply, but you bury it quickly.

“Mydei,” he pushes once more. (There is an undeniable, almost spoiled edge to his tone, as though he is unaccustomed to hearing the word no. You find that somewhat ironic, considering he had teased you himself for being spoiled not too long ago.) “I shall call you dear wife.”

“You do call me wife,” you point out blandly.

“Yes, but now I shall call you dear wife,” he corrects. “There is a difference between simply being a wife and being a dear one.”

“And what would that be?”

“You are dear to me,” he says simply. As though it is obvious. (Perhaps it is.) 

And you cave. 

Not because the curve of his lips as he all but pouts is undeniably charming, not because being called dear causes a strange flutter in your heart, and certainly not because the sight of his frustration is in any way captivating. No, you only concede because you have no desire to deal with a grumpy husband who might make your life far more complicated than it needs to be, all over something trivial. That is the only reason. 

“Fine. I suppose Mydei is easier on the tongue,” you huff. 

You ignore the way you feel oddly lightheaded when he smiles the tiniest, yet softest, of smiles at your agreement. He is undeniably handsome, you think—and that thought, too, scares you.

—————

It is only a few weeks later when you start to question if you and Mydei are two people who have married and become friends or if there is more beyond your carefully strategic union.

You and Mydei share a bathhouse. It is reserved strictly for the two of you, though Agnes has informed you that before your arrival, it had been Mydei’s alone. (He is quite fond of baths, you come to realize, and is rather particular about them. Only a select few attendants are permitted to prepare the bathhouse before he bathes, solely because they are the few who meet his standards. Some part of you, if you are honest, feels just a bit flattered that he allows you to share a space he holds with such high importance.)

Sharing the quarters has always come with an unspoken routine: you bathe at separate times, preserving the polite distance you have managed to keep yourself from him.

“Lord Mydeimos is finished with his bath,” one of the maids tells you, handing you a large, fresh towel as you smile. “I delivered him freshly laundered robes just a bit ago.”

“Thank you,” you smile. 

With that, you undress, wrapping yourself in nothing but the warm towel the maid has handed you before you make your way to the bathhouse. You knock once and wait, just to be sure he has left before you enter.

Silence. Perfect. 

Humming to yourself, you step inside, the thick steam curling around you instantly, enveloping you like a warm blanket against your skin. The scent of the lavender and cedar Mydei uses lingers in the air, the water still gently rippling from recent movement. Mydei’s fondness for this space is easy to understand—it is grand, carved from marble and stone, with towering pillars and vines that decorate the delicate interior. It is extravagant, built lavishly for comfort.

But before you can fully take it in, you notice a figure.

You barely manage to stifle a squeal as you snap your eyes shut and immediately turn away, your face burning. Mydei stands near the water’s edge, a towel slung low around his waist that he is still in the process of tying in place, droplets clinging to his skin. His hair is damp, pushed back from his face, and when you dare to glance his way again, he is watching you with a knowing look.

“The attendants had told me you were done,” you squeak, quickly turning away again as he finishes wrapping the towel around his waist. 

He looks amused when you finally have the courage to turn and look at him properly, lips curled into the faintest yet most obvious smirk as he runs a hand through his wet hair and brushes it further away from his face. 

“I am done,” he agrees. “Just that I did not leave.”

“I knocked! And no one had answered so…so I assumed…”

“I did not hear,” he replies, entirely unbothered by the predicament. 

“W-well, my apologies, My Lord—”

“Mydei,” he corrects. 

“Mydei,” you huff in exasperation. “I did not mean to intrude on your private moment. I apologize.”

“It is our shared bathhouse,” he points out. “You are allowed to be here as you please.”

“But you are using it,” you all but whine. 

“There is plenty of room,” he shrugs, looking at the large, very large bathhouse. 

That much is true, but that is not why you are horrified. And he knows it. Mydei, you have learned, has a penchant for casually being a nuisance. He purposely evades the true meaning of your words often, and it is for no other reason than to tease you. You are aware, of course, but still—you cannot help but feel frustrated that he is missing the point. 

He is nude, just as you are under the towel. And neither of you have so much as let your lips touch, let alone seen each other so bare and vulnerable. Sure, you pecked his jaw that one time to be teasing. And, of course, for appearances, he spares you a small kiss on your cheek or your knuckles, but neither of you shares affection for the sake of being affectionate. 

Seeing him bare just feels like a sin when there is the absence of even the simplest forms of intimacy. 

“You are teasing me,” you frown, hugging your arms tighter around your chest as if the towel is slipping. 

“I am not,” he says simply. He walks, and your gaze follows him as he makes his way to the neatly folded pile of clothing, freshly washed and dried for him to wear. Without warning, he turns his back to you—then lets his towel drop.

You shriek, whipping around so fast you nearly trip over your own feet, one hand flying to cover your face. But not before you catch the briefest glimpse of his entire backside—of bare, toned skin and the unmistakable curve of his ass. (It is a nice ass, you would think later when you are less horrified by the situation. Round and firm, sculpted in a way that is almost unfair. But for now, you are simply horrified.)

“Mydei!” you hiss, refusing to turn around. He chuckles. You can hear it. And by the name of the Gods, do you want to kill him. “Honestly! Have you no sense of shame? Letting yourself be so immodest in front of—”

“In front of who? My wife?” he snorts, completing your sentence. “Ah, yes, how improper of me.” The bastard, you think—he knows exactly why this is not ideal, wife or not. “But you were the one looking.”

“Wh-what ever do you mean?” You sputter at his nonsensical accusation. You would not look on purpose. “I did not think that you would….that you would….”

“That I would remove the towel and begin to dress myself before I exit the bathhouse? It would be immodest to leave that way, wouldn’t you say?”

“Do not jest at my expense,” you huff, feeling the tips of your ears get hotter by the second. “You could have warned me.”

“You were the one looking,” he reminds you once more. And suddenly, he’s in front of you, leaning so close, you can feel his breath fanning across your lips as he bends eye level to you and stares directly into your face. It’s maddening. You feel sick. You can feel him so close, and it takes all of your efforts not to turn your head and look at him. “But I do not mind if my wife looks.”

“Enough,” you bite weakly, “Are you decent?” You don’t dare to look for fear of….of an entirely different view than just his ass. 

And you swear you can hear the smirk in his voice when he speaks and says, “Yes, you may turn now. I am decent.”

You hesitate, suspicious. “Are you certain?”

“I would not lie to you, dear wife.” 

You take a breath and look—and just as he had said, he is decent. With a huff, you shove his chest and scold, “Then out! Out! Off you go,” you usher. “You have matters to see to, and I have a bath to finish myself before the water cools. Out!”

He laughs—not his usual soft, low chuckle, but a boyish laugh straight from his belly. It is as charming as a small, young lion cub as it prances about. “As you wish, my dear wife.”

He leaves. Not before he grabs one of your hands clutched to your chest, which makes you gasp and clutch the other tighter to keep the towel from slipping. He does not break his gaze as he brushes his lips against your knuckles before standing to his full height and walking past you. 

You exhale shakily as soon as you hear the door close. 

“I have married an absolute shameless buffoon,” you shake your head, “Completely mad in the head, that man. Unreasonable beyond comprehension.”

────────────────────────

In the seventh month of your marriage, you meet Mydei’s childhood friend for the first time. It is by accident, of course—he comes to surprise Mydei in the gardens in a short visit while he passes the area, and you just so happen to enter the gardens to read under the sun for a bit at the same time. It is most unfortunate, you think, because had you known that you would meet him, you would dress a bit less comfortably and a bit more exquisitely and have the maids prepare tea and pastries. 

But Lord Phainon is charmingly easy to get along with—he insists there is no need for such formalities, and you find yourself happily conversing with him as you wait for Mydei to arrive. 

“Ah, such a beautiful garden, isn’t it, My Lady?” Lord Phainon asks, lying on the grass with his arms behind his head. “Very few places in Kremnos are not just rock and soil. It comforts me that you can enjoy the feeling of grass between your toes, at least somewhere.”

“Yes,” you snort. “There is very little to see in Kremnos. Do not let Mydei hear you say that, however—he is still in denial. I’m afraid it puts him in a very sour mood when—” you cut yourself off with a gasp. 

“What’s wrong?” Lord Phainon asks in concern, “Do tell me, My Lady—if Mydei were to know you are troubled in my presence, he would surely see to my death himself.”

He moves to sit up, but you quickly hiss, “No! Do not move—there is a bee.”

“Where?” he asks in panic, eyes flashing in alarm. “Where? I do not see it! Where is it?”

“Lord Phainon, you mustn’t move,” you warn in panic, “Otherwise, you will startle the bee, and it will sting.”

“Sting?!” he gasps, quickly sitting up to move away from the small threat as it buzzes nearby. “How can you expect me to be still near such a beast?”

It happens all too quickly—just as you reach a hand forward and take a step toward him, he jerks away, and the startled bee, caught in the sudden movement, changes course. You barely register the sharp, sudden sting before you yelp, instinctively flinching as pain blooms across your palm.

Lord Phainon gasps. “My Lady! You’ve been struck by the bee!”

And, as if perfectly timed, you hear a deep voice call: “Ah, I see the two of you have already been introduced—” Mydei’s voice is behind you in the distance, and before you know it, you turn to find him. 

You stumble towards your husband, tripping on your feet, and before you can react, you find yourself falling directly into his arms. Mydei is quick to catch you, of course. He looks at you in confusion, entirely calm and unbothered by the proximity. You are so near hysteria that you hardly register the position you’ve found yourself in: pressed flush against his chest, his strong, armored arm securing your waist with careful authority to keep you balanced.

“What happened?” he asks gruffly. Once upon a time, you’d mistake his tone for coldness. Now, you can hear the underlying concern.

Sniffling and utterly distraught, you lift your palm toward him with wide, teary eyes and a trembling lip. “I have been stung! By a bee,” you say, offering your hand closer in a pitiful attempt to prove your claim. “See?”

He gently takes hold of your wrist, inspecting the large welt on your skin. After a moment of silence, he hums disapprovingly. “Unacceptable,” he mutters, his voice softer now, attempting to soothe you, “I cannot stand idly by while the bees of my own gardens turn their venom upon my dear wife.”

“And it hurts!” you wail miserably as a single delicate rivulet of misfortune—a tear—slips down your cheek. He frowns at the sight. “My dominant hand is stricken! I am useless now!”

“You are not,” he fights back a smile at your borderline theatrical sorrow. You’re past the point of holding onto your composure enough to even notice his amusement, so you say nothing. “I shall have the court’s healers prepare a salve for this at once.”

“It should have been Lord Phainon,” you continue to sniffle, ignoring the offended gasp in the distance, still not keen on moving past such a tragic turn of events, “Not me! Why must the Gods turn their back on me in such a cruel manner?”

This time, he chuckles softly. You pout at the gesture but say nothing else, too exhausted from the whole ordeal to put up a proper fight. He makes up for it, though, and raises the wrist in his hold, bringing your hand up before gently pressing a kiss to your swollen palm. 

You blink in surprise. 

“Were it possible, I would have every bee in the kingdom executed for such a treacherous offense,” he mumbles quietly. 

“But then we’d have no flowers,” you frown. “I favor the flowers, you know.”

“Do you?” he grins. And before you can register what is happening, Mydei has leaned down and pressed his lips under your eye, kissing away the offensive stain of your pain. Your tears on his lips feel like a terrible burden to bear—he does not like the taste of your unhappiness. But you are his wife, and he is your husband. Kissing away your tears is but one of his many duties. 

“I do,” you nod, looking away bashfully at his rare act of affection. “The bees are the reason the flowers bloom. But the bees have been unjustly harsh to me today.”

“They have,” he nods, agreeing.

Suddenly, the world is moving, and it’s moving fast. The ground is lower than you remember, and the gentle breeze of moving through the air kisses your face against your will. You let out a small squeal, unsure of why the world seems to be moving in such a sudden motion, and the only thing you can think to do is hold onto Mydei’s shoulders—which are a lot closer than they usually tend to be, given your height difference now that you think about it. 

It hits you when you’ve finally stilled that it is because he has you hoisted in his arms, holding you easily as though you weigh nothing. You suppose for a man who trains as tirelessly as he does, very little is difficult for him physically. 

“Mydeimos,” you gasp his full name so that he is well aware that you are scolding him. You look around frantically for potential witnesses of such a scene—it seems your husband lacks the sense of tact you tend to hold onto so dearly. “What in the Gods’ names are you doing?”

“I am bringing my dear wife to seek medical attention for her current ailment,” he says simply, “It would be careless of me to allow you to walk under such circumstances.”

“It is a bee sting, not a stab wound!” you scowl. He fights back a smirk at your remark.

“Ah,” he nods slowly, “Forgive me, my lady. Your tears persuaded me to believe it was more grievous than it perhaps truly is.”

“You are amused by my misfortune,” you accuse, pouting once more. You give up on caring who sees you in his arms like this, deflating in his arms as he tightens them around you. You curl into his chest—if he is carrying you regardless, who is to say getting comfortable in the process is a crime?

“I am not,” he insists, “I am offering you care, am I not?”

“Do not think a kiss or two to my injury will distract me from your mischief,” you warn, though your tone holds little conviction. You settle into his arms more willingly, one arm wrapped around his neck while the other rests carefully against your chest to protect your wounded palm from further harm.

“Then, in that case, I shall offer you a kiss or five,” he declares with a devious grin. And with that, he leans and presses a peck to the tip of your nose before straightening and looking ahead once more. Only the slightest tilt to the edges of his lips hints that he heard your breath hitch in your throat. He turns over his shoulder and adds causally, “And I will deal with you later, Phainon.”

Lord Phainon sputters, calling out in a wail, “It was not my fault, you know!” 

—————

Despite your horribly tragic injury, you are fond of Lord Phainon. (Just call me Phainon, he tells you sheepishly, gesturing to your hand before he adds, I have caused you as much trouble as I do for Mydei. I am sure we can be familiar enough with each other.)

You enjoy his company at dinner, giggling through wine glass after wine glass as he tells you tales from Mydei’s childhood. 

“Did you know Mydei’s robes are only red because his father did not allow them to be pink when we were children?” Phainon chuckles, sipping more of his wine. “He favors pink far more than yellow—he simply won’t admit it. And he cried terribly after he was denied pink clothing, too.”

“What?” You turn to Mydei, raising a brow as you ask through a small giggle, “Is that true?”

“No,” he grumbles. But his ears are turning pinker by the second, letting you know that it is, indeed, the truth. 

“Oh, how adorable,” you whine, reaching to pinch Mydei’s cheek. He frowns deeply at the way both you and Phainon chuckle drunkenly at the gesture. “Who knew you could be so fragile, Mydei.”

“I am not fragile,” he clicks his teeth, unhappily nursing a glass of pomegranate juice. (He does not drink wine, which you suppose you understand. Even after placing such strict precautions after his mother’s death on all food and drinks that reach nobility in Kremnos, Mydei is still unable to bring himself to stomach a glass of wine.)

“He is very fragile,” Phainon chuckles, rising as he downs the last bit of his beverage, “Be careful with his little heart. He is a delicate one, you know.” That earns him a glare from your husband, and Phainon skillfully dodges a cup thrown at his head before he laughs and stumbles his way toward the door of the dining hall. “Goodnight, My Lady, and goodnight, Mydei! I’m afraid I am feeling the effects of such a long journey. It is well past the time for me to rest.”

“Goodnight, Phainon!” You wave cheerily, hiccuping through your laughs as you murmur, “Do tell me more stories of Mydei at breakfast, won’t you?”

“No more stories,” Mydei groans. “Now come along. You should start preparing for bed as well.”

“Noooo,” you whine, slumping against his chest as he wraps an arm around you instinctively, keeping you in place as you lean your weight on him. “No bed.”

“It is getting late—”

“Mydei, you are very handsome when you’re shy, did you know?” You hum, leaning up to get a good look at his face. This, of course, makes him just a bit shy as blush dusts over his cheeks. You beam, poking his cheek with a finger as you murmur, “Such precious cheeks that redden at small praise. I could eat you, you know.”

He clears his throat, clearly unused to your behavior being so…well, forward. “You are intoxicated,” he mumbles. 

“And you are intoxicating,” you retort, giggling, “And so, so, so, so handsome! Have I ever told you that?”

“I…well, yes—you just have,” he stumbles over his words. (You are easier to deal with when you are stubborn and argumentative. This side of you is far too much of an uncharted territory for him to properly know how to handle.)

“Mmh,” you hum, leaning in to press a kiss to his jaw, trailing your lips along his skin until you find his lips—and you kiss him. His breath hitches in his throat at the move. Never, in your seven months of marriage, have you shared a kiss like this with Mydei. Sure, you have afforded him a peck here and there, just as he has with you—but you have never kissed him plain and simple. Lip to lip, mouth on mouth. 

He melts for a second, on instinct alone. 

And then, as soon as realizing, he stiffens and quickly pulls away. “You are inebriated,” he reminds you, gently pushing you away. “We mustn't—”

“No,” you whine, wrapping your arms around his neck as you whisper huskily. “Come back. Kiss me, Lord Mydeimos—I cannot believe I have wed the most handsome man in all of Amphoreus. What a waste it would be if I did not properly appreciate my husband!”  

“You are mad,” he croaks, tiredly eyeing you in alarm. “What has gotten into you?”

You press a litter of kisses everywhere you can reach—his jaw, his neck, even down to his collarbone. Something stirs in him, something that Mydei is ashamed to admit and even more ashamed to even dare to act on. 

“Won’t you kiss me, Mydei? In fact, let us do more than kiss! Bring me to our chambers and take me, won’t you? I want you to fuc—”

“Enough,” he says through a cracked voice, pressing a hand to your lips before you can finish being so…vulgar as he closes his eyes and breathes. (Mydei is unsure what is worse: the fact that your words actually have such a…physical effect on him or the fact that he has no choice but to ignore his desires because yours are only built on intoxication.) “You need sleep.”

“But—”

He kisses your pouty lips with a brief peck, silencing you before you can finish. “If you awaken in the morning, and you remember what you wished for, then I will give it to you. Whichever way you want it. Fair?”

“Fine,” you huff, slumping against him unhappily. “Being a warrior has disciplined you too much, Mydei. It is such an unfortunate thing.”

He chuckles, easily lifting you into his arms, murmuring, “I am unsure if you would agree with yourself while sober, my dear wife.”

—————

In the end, you awaken with nothing more than a pounding headache, latched onto Mydei’s figure with your cheek resting on his chest. (You insisted on sleeping this way, and no amount of compromising could sway you on the matter. He gives up soon enough and allows you to have your way when he notices the developing tears in your eyes at your emotionally heightened state.)

You meet his amused gaze, heat blooming on your face as you whisper, “I–I must have rolled over in my sleep. My apologies.”

“No need to apologize,” he hums, pulling you in closer as soon as you try to put a gap between the two of you. “If not your husband, who else will hold you while you sleep?”

“Such a cheeky bastard, aren’t you?” you huff, but you relax into his chest once more. “Are you sure holding me is all you did last night?”

“It is,” he says quietly, rubbing the small of your back. He gives you a knowing look of sorts—you don’t quite understand it. 

“Well, good,” you huff, “At least you can be trusted to be quite the honest man.” 

(You do not remember your wishes from the previous night, and he does not remind you, keeping the events a close-kept secret in his heart. A small part of him is disappointed, but the larger part of him is more endeared than ever with you.)

────────────────────────

It is ten months into your marriage when the first time you are intimate with Mydei comes, and you realize that he has fallen in love with you. 

He does not tell you, but you know. And you are grateful for the fact that he does not utter the words because, in your heart, you wonder if you could truthfully whisper them back. 

You care for Mydei. That much is as true as the sun’s promise to rise from the east and set in the west. When he rises from bed beside you with a low groan and moves tiredly to put on his armor, you know you care because tiredness in his face pulls a frown onto yours. And when he looks at you with a fond, exasperated look as he ushers you to fall back to sleep, you know you care simply because the stretch of a smile on his face is enough to soothe you back to slumber.

It has been ten long months since your marriage. You have not seen your father since the day he handed you over to your husband, but you would tell him now not to worry. 

He is a good man, father—you think you would say—he drives me mad and is as stubborn as a stone unmoved by the river’s current, but he has never let me want for anything since the day the duty of caring for me became his. You need not worry. 

Mydei is a soft man who was molded into the role of a warrior early on. Like the finest of silk, he is delicate to the touch but most durable for the wear and tear of everyday use. He is used to training every day, to putting his needs last and his duties first. He is good at wearing a face of indifference and masquerading through his day as though he cares little for the fact that he is still in his youth, shouldering the burdens of the previous generations and their mistakes. And, as a husband, he is the same. Soft and gentle as he holds you, but firm and unmoving in his principles. He indulges your whims and silly requests with patience and little bickering (apart from the kind that is simply meant to poke fun at you, of course), but he does not let you forget that you are the queen of this land and that your duties come first. 

He is the perfect example of discipline and patience—you did not expect it, but he is. He is not the cold warrior you had believed for so long—and sometimes, you are reminded that he is very, very human. It is a rare reminder indeed, but every once in a while, the young boy in him breaks free and makes his emotions troublesomely apparent. 

At least, they are troublesome for him. Not for you, however.

“Mydei, do not sulk because I was friendly with other nobles,” you chuckle. 

He sulks harder at that, curling a deeper frown on his lips before he stubbornly mutters, “I do not sulk.”

“But you are sulking right now,” you poke at his cheek, earning a huff from him. “Jealousy is unbecoming of a king as mighty as you.”

“Nothing is bothering me,” he says. A lie. “I am perfectly fine.” Another lie. “I do not get upset by these petty matters you accuse me of.” By now, you would say he has mastered the art of fibbing better than wielding his lance.

“It would be impolite of me not to treat our guests with friendliness, you know.” 

“Friendliness does not need to consist of laughing at such horrible jokes,” he bites, crossing his arms. “Those were terrible jokes.”

“They were,” you nod along, stifling a giggle as he remains with crossed arms as you boldly seat yourself on his lap. “My poor husband. He is pouting.”

“I am not—”

You kiss his (pouty) lips gently, cupping his cheeks. He stills, pausing before letting out a shuddered breath and letting his arms uncross to hold your hips. 

“You live just to drive me mad, don’t you?” He breathes, rubbing up and down your hips as you move up, sitting closer to him as he grunts. 

“You do not seem to hate it,” you whisper, glancing down at the bulge in his pants. He does not even try to hide it—has no shame and does not even try to hide the arousal between his legs that stands fully erect, hidden from your view by nothing else but cloth. (Why would I feel shame in finding my wife alluring? you can practically hear him ask. You are almost certain that is what he would say if you teased any further.)

Mydei’s jaw tightens, his hand gripping your waist tighter as he tries to maintain control. “No,” he finally grunts after a few deep, labored breaths. “I do not. I could never hate you.”

“Really?” You hum, pressing a hot, open-mouthed trail of kisses to his neck as he shivers. “Perhaps you should prove it.”

For a moment, his hands grip your hips tighter—almost enough that you believe he’ll give you what you want. But he’s quick to let go of them just as fast, sighing as he whispers, “No. Intimacy simply to ease my bad temper is not what you deserve.”

“And if I want it?” You raise a brow in a challenge, making him study you closely. Mydei, as you have heard, has the eyes of his mother. They are the color of truth dipped in gold honey—his eyes cannot tell lies. They hide nothing, bearing everything to you with sun-soaked flecks that bore into your own gaze. 

You tell him your own truth with your own gaze: I want this. I want you. 

And he accepts. With a shaky breath, his body presses against yours as he traps you against the wall, filling any and all space that offensively keeps you away from his touch. The heat that radiates off of his skin is palpable even through the cold metal, and when he leans down, lips brushing just barely over yours, the warmth of his breath sets you ablaze—starting from your lips, making its way down to your fingertips. 

“Are you sure this is what you want?” he rasps, voice just barely above a whisper. 

“Yes. It occurred to me the other day that we have never completed our marriage, you know,” you breathe. “Shall we be husband and wife tonight, Mydei? 

Mydei’s hands shake as they rub your hips slowly, his body trembling slightly at your words. In excitement, maybe. Or perhaps impatience. His control crumbles little by little, and when your lips brush against his with a teasing, phantom touch, he lets go of his resolve entirely and lets out a guttural sound—something crossed between a grunt and a moan. “Yes,” he murmurs. “Tonight you will be mine.”

“I have always been yours. So take me,” you goad, “Take your wife and mark me as yours.”

His control snaps at that. Cradling your cheeks in large, cold gauntlets, he angles your head up and kisses you deeply, hungrily, desperately. It’s warm like his touch but burning like his desire. It does not take long before it turns into a needy, impatient kiss, the two of you pressing into the other harder as if trying to melt into each other’s skin. 

“Take off that wretched armor,” you huff, “Touch me.”

He groans, quickly slipping off the gauntlets and tossing them to the floor. “As you wish,” he murmurs, and before you can stop him, he tears your robes open from your chest, pulling the fabric away as if unwrapping a present impatiently and catching a glimpse of your bare chest. 

“Mydei!” you shriek. “I liked those robes!”

“You act as though I cannot have the seamstresses replicate it as many times as you want,” he snorts. He doesn’t slow down—not in his persistent trail of kisses along your collarbone and not in his wandering hands that feel every inch of you and your curves. “They were in the way. The only thing that suits your skin is my touch.”

You whimper as he quickly moves, tossing you onto the mattress and hovering over you, shedding himself off his own clothing as quickly as he can—nothing left but his underwear, the thin cloth doing little to hide his thick, bulging erection. You eye it, half-lidded gaze falling hungrily over the trail of blonde hair at his navel and the thickness of his hidden cock. 

“They will question what happened when you present the torn ones to replicate,” you huff. “Have you no sense of shame?”

“Why does a king need to find shame in desiring his wife?” Delicately, his finger traces along a breast, mapping along your skin until it circles your nipple, making you gasp as you arch into his touch. “Why would I find shame in wanting to rid my wife of what separates her from me? Anyone who tries to shame me for it will come to find a rather undesirable fate.”

“You are impossible,” you breathe, gasping when he leans down, latching his lips onto one breast and rolling his tongue around the pebbled nipple, the other traced by his thumb and pointer finger as he rolls and tugs at the skin. You mewl, grasping at his shoulders as you mewl, “M-Mydei—”

“Yes,” he hums, interrupting you. “That is my name. Say it a few more times, just like that.” 

His lips move off of your breast. The string of saliva that connects him still to you is a scene that is utterly vulgar enough to make you shiver as he moves to the other breast, giving it just the same amount of attention. Except his fingers…well, they wander further down your body, trailing over your belly and moving until they find the hem of your panties. You gasp as he tugs them down, exposing your wet, needy cunt to him before he teasingly moves to feel at your entrance, collecting your slick between his pointer and middle fingers. 

He pulls away, bringing his hand up to stare at his fingers, separating them so a web of your wet arousal connects the two appendages. 

“Mydei,” you whine. “You scoundrel!”

“What?” he chuckles. “Can’t a man appreciate the wonders of his dear wife’s beautiful body?”

“You are filthy and obscene,” you hiss. “Hardly a respectable trait for a king.”

“Then I will be an improper king,” he decides. “If that is what I am considered for appreciating my dear wife.”

His fingers are back in an instant, plunging into your entrance and prodding at your walls as if to find something— “Fuck,” you wail, body spasming as he hits a particularly sensitive spot in your walls. 

“Ah,” he grins, “I found it. The place that makes you sing.”

“Horrible,” you sob, whining softly as he thrusts his fingers back and forth, back and forth inside of you over and over and over—until your nails leave crescent-shaped indents into his shoulder where you grasp onto him. “You are horrible!”

“But you do not feel horrible, do you?” he hums, and his thumb moves to roll over your clit, his eyes admiring the sight of the sensitive bundle of nerves as you quiver at the sensations.

You don’t—that much is obvious when, in a sudden crash of waves, your orgasm washes over you, and you gush around his fingers, wet, messy slick coating them as your walls suck him in and spasm around him tightly. Tight—you’re so tight around his fingers, he can’t help but groan from that alone, envisioning the way you’ll squeeze around his cock. 

“Gods,” you whimper, clinging to his shoulders as he helps you ride through the waves of pleasure. “Feels…feels—”

“Good, doesn’t it?” he finishes for you, grinning to himself at the way pleasure breaks over your face like light. “It will feel better—I had to prepare you. Cannot risk hurting my precious, delicate little flower, can I?”

You watch it in a trance as it happens: his fingers leave the warmth of your pussy and leave you unbearably empty, but you watch with wide, entranced eyes as he rids himself of the last remaining piece of cloth, bearing his painfully hard erection to you fully. You gasp at the sheer size of him, and he chuckles at your expression. 

“We will make it fit,” he hums, leaning to press a kiss to your lips. “Not to worry, my precious lady. You’ll take me, slowly, and soon, we’ll carve this pretty cunt to fit around me like it was made to take me, hm?”

“Yes,” you whisper, nodding like the idea is the only thing you care for. (And in the moment, it is.) “Yes, yes, yes,” you say greedily, pulling him closer and closer until your chests brush and his forehead is against yours. “Fuck me, Mydei. Take me and make me yours—now, please.”

He groans at the words, eyes fluttering shut before he loses all little traces left of his self-control. Instantly, his mouth is on yours, teeth clashing against teeth as he kisses you harshly, hungry nips at your lips and starved tongue on yours, tasting you as much as he can savor. The tip of his cock presses against your entrance, slowly intruding past your folds and sinking into you inch by agonizingly slow inch.

He’s patient. Even when he is on the brink of insanity, Mydei is patient about taking you. 

“You are mine,” he says possessively, and a part of you knows he is still speaking from jealousy. “You feel it, don’t you? The way you take me in? The way you squeeze around me? How your body responds and yearns for me—just as I yearn for you. You’ll never yearn for another, will you?”

“No,” you sob, shaking your head, tears of pleasure coating your lashes as you blink up at him. “No—give me more, Mydei. More. Harder.”

And he listens. Because you are spoiled. You came to him spoiled, and against every bone in his body initially, he could not help but indulge your sweet, needy whims. Every argument, every back and forth, every moment of bickering, you never let him win—not truly. And he spoiled you. He continues to spoil you. When you ask for more, he gives you everything. 

“Okay,” he grunts, panting as he rolls his hips and slams into you as you suck him in further into your tight little pussy. “But just be warned that you asked for this, dear wife.”

With that, one leg is hoisted over his shoulder, giving him better access to drill his thick girth into you, pistoning his hips as the tip of his cock kisses perfectly against the sweet, spongy spot in the back of your walls. He angles so perfectly inside of you, it’s like he carves himself into your hole and molds the shape of himself into your folds. So that only he fits. So that only he can take you. So that only he can be the one you take. 

“Yes,” you whine. “Like that M-Mydei—please. Please.”

“You drive me insane,” he mutters, gritting his jaw as he groans lowly when your walls hug around him tightly, squeezing him as his arms quiver and barely hold him upright over you, “Since the day you came to my world and became half of my soul, you have driven me mad. You must take responsibility for that.”

“You should take responsibility for driving me horribly mad first,” you say stubbornly, still so fierce even as you are split open on his cock. He chuckles, leaning in to press a soft, lingering kiss to the corner of your mouth. 

“You’re right. Let me make up for all the trouble I caused you, hm?”

His thumb latches onto your clit, rolling harsh, quick circles as your body arches up into his touch, responding to every sensation he pulls so easily out of you. One thrust, and then a second and third, and by the fourth, you come undone once more, walls erratically squeezing around him. 

“Fuck, Mydei—you…you feel so good.”

“And so do you,” he murmurs, moaning softly as he turns his head and presses a kiss into the skin of your leg where it’s hooked over his shoulder, “So, so good—you were made for me. Made to take me. Made to drive me wild enough so that only you can tame me. You wicked, beautiful thing.”

When you sob his name once more, he comes undone himself, spilling hot, thick ropes of his seed into your abused cunt and painting your sensitive walls white. They welcome him, sucking him in deeper, letting him succumb to his pleasure and fuck his load deep into you. 

And when he collapses over you, you’re too numb from pleasure to protest at his weight, wrapping your arms around his sweaty body and holding him tightly. “It only took ten months,” you whisper, “But we are officially husband and wife, according to the customs.”

He chuckles, nipping at your shoulder as he buries his face. “I care little for the customs. You are my wife if I say you are—and you have been mine since the day you agreed to take my hand. It is as simple as that.”

“Go to sleep, you fool,” you groan, rolling your eyes as you fight back a smile. 

Sleep comes easier than it ever has—you fall asleep against him, fitted where you most belong.

────────────────────────

The night of your anniversary, Mydei is having a bad day. 

You are unable to do much but watch from the sidelines as he enters one chamber after the other, meeting with advisors and council members left and right until even you grow weary of how burdensome his schedule is. 

After a year of marriage, you are used to his daily matters not allowing him time until later into his day, and you have never been a stranger to the busy demands of political affairs. Your father is a king himself, after all. You were once a princess, and now you are a queen. Therefore, you know, without doubt, that your husband—who is no less consumed by responsibility than your father—will return to you in a foul mood. And it will be yours to contend with.

“You have returned,” you say quietly as soon as he enters your shared chambers. He drops his armor to the ground, one piece at a time, uncaring where they fall. Any other day, you might scold him for such untidiness (though, really, he is not untidy at all. You would not have to scold him on any other day). Today you choose to bite your tongue and focus on his face instead of the misplacement of his garments. 

“I have,” he says plainly. Mydei stands. For a long, agonizing moment filled with deafening silence, he stands, and he does not say one word. It makes your skin pinprick with an uncomfortable feeling, making you want to crawl into yourself and hide. His gaze feels scrutinizing. Always. Something about the piercing, golden amber of his eyes staring into you makes you uncomfortably exposed. 

Then, he walks. 

As if a moment of clarity has struck him, he sets his shoulders back like he’s made up his mind, and he walks. To you. Before you can react, he collapses himself on top of you, draping his weight like a blanket over your unsuspecting body and pressing you down onto the silken sheets. 

“M-mydei,” you gasp, glancing at him in confusion as you shift under him. “What are you—”

“No more words,” he huffs, voice heavy with exhaustion. His arms curl around your waist to keep you still. “I have exchanged enough of them for one day. I request but one simple thing—silence.”

“A most impossible request,” you scoff indignantly. “You know well that you provoke argument from me unlike any other.”

“Mmh,” he hums, whether in agreement or mere acknowledgment, you are unsure. Regardless, you frown petulantly at it and expect more—he is meant to persuade you otherwise. (No, my dear wife. You are as gentle as the breeze through the valley, ever soothing, ever constant. That is what he ought to say to you.) “You say this as if I am to find displeasure in it.”

That only seems to irk you more. 

“You take pleasure in getting a rise out of me?” You narrow your eyes, glaring down at him as you watch the way he presses his lips to fight back the oncoming smile. 

“You put words in my mouth, dear wife,” he murmurs. “I merely meant your spirit is endearing. The…complications that come about it are tolerable at best.”

“So you find me only tolerable?!” you ask in disbelief. 

Fondness, as clear as the warm light of the Kremnos sun, settles onto his face and softens the sharpness of his eyes a hue lighter, the amber now glazed in a honeyed glow. He lets out a low chuckle in amusement, and it is softer than anything you have ever heard. Not just from him—no, you have never heard a gentler sound through the entirety of your life. It is as though the Gods have decreed that the first time you listen to something so tender will come from the man they have handpicked to be bound to you. 

“Do you willingly choose to hear only the unsavory parts of what I say? If so, then it is a talent I am most impressed by,” he murmurs. “You do not challenge my tolerance. I am unable to find faults when it comes to you, even when you drive me mad.”

“Such a romantic. Have you been spending time with poets recently? You speak as charmingly as one,” you chuckle teasingly as you shift under him, and your leg brushes accidentally against the innermost part between his legs. It brings him to shiver and let out a low grunt, but you do not realize. Not for a while as you try to get comfortable under his weight. 

Not until he stops you with a nearly painfully tight grip on your hips as he grits, “Be still.”

“What?” You tilt your head. “Why? If I am to lay under you like your personal mattress, then at the very least allow me to—”

“You torture me,” he says, voice strained. 

You blink in confusion. And then—

Ah. You realize soon enough that there is a hardness poking at you. You only now feel it, but it’s been there for some time. Throbbing against your thigh is his erection, separated from you by the fabric of your robes and pressed as tightly against you as possible, and you have been rubbing against it this whole time. The thought should horrify you, but all you can focus on is the way his cheeks take on a flushed hue.

Pretty, you think. Mydeimos is pretty. Just like his name, just like his throne, just like his nation, everything about Mydeimos is pretty. (Mydei—you can hear his grumpy voice correct you in your own mind—you are to call me Mydei.)

“What is that?” you ask through a cheeky, whispered breath.

He exhales shakily, looking at you unamused. “If I have to answer that, I am unsure if you are old enough to be wedded to me.”

You giggle, rubbing a hand along his back as you murmur, “Indulge me.”

“If I must,” he grumbles tiredly. “It is proof that you are what I desire. Does that satisfy you?”

“Exceedingly,” you nod. “Shall I now offer you the satisfaction of fulfilling your desires in return?”

“You do not need to,” he mumbles quietly. Mydei is an honorable man—he is kind to women and children, and he does not see himself above other men simply because he is king. He is a man of principles, if nothing else. Stripping him of his principles is not a simple task.

“And what if I want to?” you pout. “Will you indulge your dear wife?”

“Devious,” he hisses, stiffening when you flex your leg to press more pressure against his hardened cock. “You are a devious, dangerous thing.”

Your hand slips between your bodies at the same time as his lifts up, held over you by two muscled arms that cage either side of your head. You stare up at him, watching the flickers of his expression as your hand carefully untucks his hot, lengthy erection from the confinements of his pants and gives a small squeeze to the shaft. 

“Today is a rather special day,” you murmur, “Wouldn’t you say?”

“Of course,” he chuckles breathlessly, groaning as your thumb strokes along his slit, gathering pre cum and carefully smearing it along his tip. “I have survived the wicked schemes of my wife for an entire year.”

“And I have survived the brutal warrior that is my husband,” you grin. “My father will be relieved to hear I am still alive.”

“You mention him while you have me like this?” He grins wolfishly, shivering as you slowly stroke his cock. His eyes flutter shut, and for a moment, his arms waver as they hold him upright above you. “Fuck,” he whispers, “Do not tease.”

“Tease?” you gasp, stopping at the base of his cock and giving him a small squeeze. He grunts, cracking an eye open, displeased. “I would never.”

“Then don’t,” he says roughly, his voice a gravelly sound that shoots an ache straight to your cunt. 

“Only because it is our anniversary,” you murmur, leaning up to kiss him gently between his furrowed brows. 

Your hand drags along his thick girth, stroking it quickly as he lets out low groans, burying his face into your neck. You can feel him—pulsing in your hand, hot against your neck, heavy over your weight. His breath fans against your skin as he makes pleasured sounds into your ear, making wetness stain between your own legs. And he knows it, too—you’re certain because otherwise, the bite to your earlobe wouldn’t be so tantalizingly slow. 

“Happy Anniversary, my dear wife,” he murmurs. “It has been a year of enduring your madness. Won’t you drive me just a little more insane?”

“Happy Anniversary, my darling husband,” you breathe, stroking him faster as he moans into your ear and shivers. “If you are not already insane, I have yet to properly fulfill my duties.”

He makes a sound at that—a cross between a chuckle and a low groan, and with just a few more careful strokes of his aching cock, he spills into your hand, painting your delicate fingers and the intricate stitching of your robes white with his seed. You feel every twitch of him, every rope he spills of thick, warm cum that spills from his reddened tip, and in a daze, you imagine it to fill you to the brim. 

And you’re certain he will, too, by the hungry look in his eyes as soon as his blissed-out expression dies out. He opens them, eyeing you like you are the first meal presented to a starved man—and perhaps he is. He is always starved of you, no matter how often you let him get his fill. 

“One year since I have had such a beauty to call my dear wife,” he whispers. “How unfortunate it is that you will never get to see the sight of yourself. But I am too selfish to allow anyone but myself to witness it.”

“You talk most when you are feverish,” you tease, pressing a hand to his forehead. “Are you feeling well, Mydei?”

“Not until I have you,” he responds cheekily, grinning in amusement as he leans in to kiss you hungrily. You gasp against his mouth, hands instantly traveling to his hair. “Won’t you look after your sickened husband?”

“If I must,” you sigh playfully. (The slick wetness between your legs almost screams at you to quit your agonizing schemes and simply give yourself as quickly as he wants to take you.)

His fingers tease along your collarbone, trailing just between your cleavage as you shiver. Just as his hands reach for your robes, ready to expose your breasts, a knock disturbs you as you both stiffen—

“Lord Mydeimos,” calls a guard, “There has been an ambush on our patrolling troops outside of the border. It is urgent.”

Mydei stills. You glance at him worriedly. 

“Of all times,” he grunts, cursing under his breath.

“There will be plenty of time later,” you soothe, tracing the angry creases in his forehead, “Duty calls.”

He glances at you miserably before sighing, rising from atop your body. But not before planting a soft, lingering kiss on your lips that he reluctantly pulls away from. “Wait for me. I will take care of it quickly and return to you to finish where I have left off.”

You giggle, poking his cheek as you murmur, “I have no doubts.”

———————

Mydei does, in fact, return to you. 

Except, it is not in the condition that he left. 

He comes back carried by four men at once, ushered quickly into the healer’s wing, and stripped of his armor quickly. You follow along, stumbling over your feet and heart beating in your throat. 

“What hap—” You are carefully tugged to the side before you can even utter the words, moved away from the grotesque scene before you can properly get a look at the stab wound in his chest. The blade has missed his heart by just a hair, you hear one healer mumble. It is a miracle that he has lived long enough to be brought back, another whispers. 

You hear him groan unconsciously as they clean at the torn flesh, and your knees buckle at the sound. 

“My lady,” murmurs an attendant. “Perhaps it is best if you do not witness such a scene—”

“That scene is my husband,” you cry hysterically. “Who else is to witness it? My husband needs—”

“He needs the healers, and they cannot do their duty with your hovering.” You’re cut off firmly. You blink, and even without the tears in your eyes, you’re certain you would look pitiful as you sniffle. 

“He promised he would return to spend the night with me,” you croak. “If he does not live to see through to his promise, I will kill him myself.”

“I am certain he fears such a fate more than anything else,” whispers the attendant, gently tugging you along and supporting half your weight. “Come, I am positive My Lord will appreciate a properly tidied chamber to recover in, wouldn’t you say?”

You let yourself be dragged away, turning to glance at Mydei one more time—just in time, in fact, to catch a glimpse of a bloodied rag tossed to the floor by a healer. More blood than you have ever witnessed spilled from Mydei before—if at all. 

———————

It takes hours before there is a knock on your chamber’s door, and before you can even rise from your bed, a handful of guards enter one by one, carefully carrying your husband on a stretcher as he unhappily lays with his arms crossed. 

“I could have walked myself,” he grumbles bitterly.

“The healers would have my head if I allowed your stitches to be torn, My Lord.”

“The healers could not do anything if I had ordered—”

“Mydei,” you sob, throwing yourself into his arms as soon as they lay him on your shared bed. Your arms wrap around his neck as he cuts himself off and lets out a low grunt of surprise. 

And then, he beams. So smugly that even the guards eye each other warily. “Did you miss me, dear wife?”

One by one, they quickly file out of your chambers as your head shoots up, and you glare at him. 

“You leave me on our anniversary night to fight an ambush, promise to return to me only to come back bloodied and half alive, and your first words to me are to ask such an arrogantly tasteless question?” 

He chuckles, cupping your cheek as he murmurs, “I am fine. It’s just a small cut—”

“They missed your heart by a hair! I heard the healers myself!”

“You know how they are,” he all but huffs petulantly, rolling his eyes as he complains. “I would have been fine to walk myself back, but they insisted that the guards escort me by stretcher—”

“And a good thing they did,” you spit. “If your injury did not kill you, then your ego surely would have finished the job.”

You have never considered the possibility of losing Mydei. Not once in your marriage. Not when you felt no tug for him in your heart, and not even when your heart began to yearn for him more than anything else. A naive little thing you were, you think to yourself—to think your husband is invincible just because he is as strong as he is. Your father’s words had made you think of your husband as nothing more than a warrior at times—a godslayer, a man not even divinity could stand against. 

But he’s painfully human. Painfully just a boy who grew into the body of a man and nothing more. Strength means little in the face of chance—and it occurs to you now, as you eye the bandages wrapped tightly around his chest, that by chance alone did a blade pierce through his skin, and by chance alone did he survive and come back to you.

And you will never risk a chance to lose him again without telling him what your heart knows after a year of marriage. 

“Do you not have any faith in m—”

“I love you,” you sniffle, the words wobbly and wet like your tear-stained lips. They cascade down your cheeks and collect pitifully at your chin, but you care little for your appearance as you let out an ugly sob and cradle his cheeks. “I love you, and it is the worst fate you have cursed me with. I despise you.”

“That is a rather contradictory statement,” he says quietly as he processes your words. But the tips of his ears are red as his lips fight to stay still at the corners. “Could you repeat that first part without that latter one?”

“You are insufferable,” you glare, still blinking through tears. He chuckles, pulling you closer as he carefully thumbs away the wetness of your cheeks. 

“And I love you, as well,” he says gently, “Even though you have possessed me and changed everything as I know it, I love you.”

“Do not scare me like this again,” you command. 

“I won’t,” he agrees. With enough conviction that you believe him. For now. For now, you believe him, and little else matters. You let him pull you against his side, curling an arm around you as you reach over and brush hair from his face. 

“Did you know that my father called you a godslayer once?” you hum, tracing his cheek softly and wiping away the sweat that lingers on his skin. “I wonder what he would think now if he were to see you.”

“Did he, now?” he asks in amusement. “Far too high of praise, isn’t it? I’m afraid he’ll only be disappointed—I do not know if I could slay a God.”

“What if my life depended on it?” you pout. “Wouldn’t you at least try?”

He chuckles, grabbing your hand from his face and pulling it to his lips, kissing your fingertips slowly, one by one, before he says thoughtfully, “I suppose your father was not wrong then. For my dear wife, I would slay even the divine.”

“In that case, he will be most pleased to know Kremnos and its king are taking such great care of his daughter,” you finally, finally smile, giggling softly, much to Mydei’s pleasure as you lean up to press a kiss to his cheek. He hums, happily accepting your affection as he relaxes further into the bed.

“After a year spent on this land, what is your favorite part of Kremnos?” he asks. And you know—better than anything, you know what he wants you to say. 

“The sun,” you murmur. 

He frowns. You bite back a smile. “The sun,” he repeats, dry and in disbelief. “The unchanging sun that is the same no matter what nation you travel to? Why not your husband?”

Chuckling, you cup his cheeks once more, leaning to kiss over his eyelids one by one. He closes his eyes and lets you as he relaxes under your touch. When he opens them, you are reminded that the Kremnos sun is the warmest you have ever felt. 

“The sun does not shine the same in other nations, Mydei,” you whisper. “In Kremnos, you can find its warmth in not just the sky.”

“And wherever else, pray tell, would you find the sun’s warmth in Kremnos?” he asks, his voice husky as he leans closer. 

You smile, and for a moment, you consider giving in and telling him what he wishes to hear. But you decide to tease him for a bit longer, in retaliation for what he put you through, as you pat his cheek before pulling away. You walk to leave your chambers, but not before you say over your shoulder, “I believe I should fetch more supplies from the healers. Your bandages will need to be replaced soon.”

He gapes, watching your retreating figure in shock before he slumps back and chuckles, sighing before shaking his head as he mutters under his breath, “Utterly wicked. Such a wicked, beautiful thing I have married.”

WOW THIS FIC IS FINALLY DONEEEEE.

It was a 23 day wip to a lot of you guys bc a lot of you guys follow me and saw me posting about this fic during the writing process. So you probably know that royal au’s are very hard for me. I find the dialogue to be difficult to get right and I can’t crack the same jokes I normally would through the character’s lines and I also have no idea how royalty would go about filthy talk LOL. So that’s rough. But also world building and handling the political atmosphere in these sort of settings is just. Complicated to me. But royal au’s are also some of my favorite to envision and think about, so these scenes in this fic have been a COLLECTION of scenes that I’ve had from many, MANY attempts at writing a royal au. I’m talking years worth of attempts and compiled scenes that I abandoned and brought back to get added into this fic.

It may have been a 23 day wip to everyone who followed along with my writing updates on this blog, but this is technically a longgggg 5+ year journey that FINALLY saw the light of day, and went through soooo many characters.

First it was for Miya Atsumu from haikyuu.

Then it became a Bakugou Katsuki fic from bnha.

Then it became a Gojo, then Sukuna, then back to Gojo fic from jjk.

Then I was like no no trust me it’ll make for the PERFECT Alhaitham fic from genshin.

Now, FINALLY, it has seen the light of day after maybe 5 ish years as a Mydei fic from hsr.

Would you believe me if I told you I’m hardly an hsr player and I’ve met him for approximately 2 mins total in game? 💀 LOL. I am not really sure why he managed to make me finally really take all these half written scenes from over the years, polish them up, and finally finish this fic, but I did and I am proud of myself.

For my first proper attempt at a royal au fic, I don’t think it’s the worst thing I’ve written. Are there some parts that I wish were executed better? Yes for sure lol I’m just a failgirl writer who is honestly her own biggest hater. But that being said, I really think that I did not fail at my attempt and I think that’s a really big step for me in my silly hobby that I take a little too seriously sometimes.

Anyway, if you read this note, and you read this fic, thank youuuuu for reading all my words lol I know sometimes I have a lot of them. And thank you to miss Carina—if you don’t know her, that’s tumblr user @osarina and she’s really talented and she probably is 70% of the reason why this fic exists. Thank you for hearing me whine about this, and for literally forcing me to finish it. And also for beta reading it and for helping me polish up my sophisticated royal dialogue. AND for helping me figure out scenes when I was stuck. Aka thanks for being my inspo and museeeee hehehe ily

[vamplu]

touch and go | b.b.

✮ synopsis: he's the Winter Soldier, and you're just you. but when your skin touches his, he becomes bucky barnes again.

(or: the soulmate fic where touch is everything and bucky barnes will fight his way back to you, one broken memory at a time.)

✮ pairing: ca:tws!bucky x soulmate!reader

✮ disclaimers: fem!reader, soulmates, violence/action sequences, graphic descriptions of torture/memory wiping, PTSD, panic attacks, dissociation, past torture, brainwashing, heavy angst, touch deprivation, references to past violence/assassinations, hurt/comfort, fluff, eventual happy ending, bucky is down horrendously bad

✮ warnings: (18+) MDNI, explicit sexual content, unprotected sex, p in v, oral (f receiving), overstimulation, multiple orgasms, soul bond sex (enhanced sensations), touch-starved bucky, possessive behavior, marking/bruising, praise kink, body worship, emotional sex, crying during sex (in a good way), size kink if you squint, bucky has a dirty filthy mouth

✮ word count: 14.3k

✮ a/n: re-uploading all my fics to this blog so i'm posting a ca:tws-era oldie but goodie (the last 4k of this is straight smut, so if that's not your cup of tea feel free to stop at the **)

bonus drabble main masterlist

The library basement feels like a crypt tonight—all dead air and fluorescent buzz that makes your molars ache.

You've been down here so long your bones have started to match the temperature of the concrete, cold seeping through your jeans where you've been sitting cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by a semi-circle of photocopied articles that all essentially say the same nothing in different ways.

3:17 AM according to your phone, which you check compulsively every twenty minutes like maybe time will take pity and skip forward to your deadline. The security guard made his last round two hours ago—Gerald? Gary? Something with a G—his whistling fading up the stairwell along with any pretense that you're not completely alone down here.

Your neck cracks when you roll it, vertebrae protesting the last six hours of hunching over sources that shouldn't be this hard to parse. But your advisor had smiled that sharp little smile when assigning this topic, the one that says let's see if you're really cut out for this, and spite is a hell of a motivator.

Even if your eyes are burning. Even if the coffee tastes like battery acid. Even if your soul bond has been aching since midnight with that peculiar emptiness you've learned to ignore.

The lights flicker—building's older than sin, held together by asbestos and prayer—but the air changes with it. Shifts. Like all the oxygen just remembered it had somewhere else to be.

Your fingers still on the keyboard mid-sentence.

Don't be stupid. It's a basement. In a library. The scariest thing down here is your browser history.

But your body knows things your mind pretends it doesn't. Every hair follicle suddenly awake, skin prickling with the kind of ancient warning that kept humans from being eaten in the dark. Your heartbeat kicks up, stuttering from normal to concerned between one breath and the next.

You turn.

He stands at the edge of the stacks like violence in human form.

Black tactical gear eats the light, makes him look like someone cut a hole in reality and taught it how to hunt. The mask covering the lower half of his face should make him less human, but somehow it's worse—forces you to focus on the eyes that track your movement with the kind of empty precision that makes your hindbrain scream predator predator predator.

"Oh." The sound punches out of you, high and strangled.

He doesn't speak. Doesn't need to. Just moves toward you with the kind of lethal economy that makes you understand, suddenly and completely, why rabbits freeze when hawks circle overhead. No wasted motion. No hesitation. Just purpose distilled into muscle and intent.

Your body tries—God, it tries. Scrambling backward, papers scattering, laptop sliding off your thighs to crack against the floor in what feels like slow motion. Three months of work fracturing into digital garbage as you crab-walk backward, palms slipping on photocopies, knee catching on your backpack hard enough to send you sprawling.

He crosses the space between you like it's nothing.

Like you're nothing.

His hand finds your throat before you've even processed standing, leather and pressure sending you backward into the wall hard enough to knock the air from your lungs. Old brick catches your hair, pulls it, but that barely registers against the feeling of being pinned like an insect, specimen for examination before disposal.

Both your hands fly to his wrist, fingernails catching on tactical fabric that won't give, won't move, won't budge. He's not crushing your windpipe—not yet—but the promise is there in the careful placement of his thumb, the calculated pressure that says I could, if I wanted to.

"Please—" It comes out thin, reedy. Your right hand abandons his wrist to push against his chest, trying to create distance that doesn't exist, will never exist. "I don't know what you—I'm nobody, I'm just—"

His head tilts. Minute. Considering. The eyes stay empty, stay cold, but something flickers there—assessment, maybe. Calculation. How long it will take. How quiet you'll be.

Your left hand keeps clawing at his grip while your right slides up his chest, finds the edge of his tactical vest, pushes uselessly at a shoulder that might as well be carved from stone. But the movement makes you stretch, makes your hand slip higher, past the collar of his gear, past the edge of the mask, until—

Your fingertips brush his jaw.

Skin against skin.

The world breaks apart.

Heat races from that point of contact like lightning seeking ground, if lightning could rewrite your DNA as it traveled. Every nerve ending lights up at once, not with pain but with recognition so profound it feels like drowning in reverse. Like every cell in your body suddenly remembers how to breathe.

His entire body locks. The hand at your throat spasms, loosens, and you hear him make a sound—sharp, bitten off, like someone just slid a knife between his ribs. Those empty eyes blow wide, pupils expanding until there's barely any gray left, and his chest heaves against your palm like he's just broken the surface after being underwater too long.

He rips the mask off with his free hand. Tears it away like it's burning him, revealing a face that makes your chest cavity feel too small. Sharp jaw, soft mouth, stubble that catches the shit fluorescent lighting and turns it into shadow. Beautiful in the way broken things can be beautiful, in the way that makes you want to cut yourself on the edges.

The leather glove at your throat disappears—he tears it off with his teeth, movements gone jerky and desperate where they were smooth before. Then his bare hand is cupping your face, thumb brushing your cheekbone with the kind of reverence reserved for holy things, impossible things, things that might disappear if you breathe wrong.

He pulls you forward, or maybe he falls into you—either way, your foreheads meet in the space between one heartbeat and the next. His breath fans across your face, ragged and hot, and you can feel him shaking. This man who moved like death incarnate thirty seconds ago is shaking.

"Oh," he breathes, and his voice—Christ, his voice is nothing like you imagined during those empty nights when the bond ached worst. Rough like he hasn't used it in years. Soft like he's afraid it'll break something. Accent pulling at the vowels in ways that make your chest hurt. "Oh, no. No, not—not like this."

You can't move. Can't think. Can't process anything beyond the electricity still racing through your veins, the place where his thumb traces your cheekbone like he's trying to memorize the architecture of your face through touch alone. Your hands are caught between you, one still fisted in his tactical vest, the other pressed flat against his chest where you can feel his heart hammering out a rhythm that matches yours.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, and the devastation in his eyes makes your throat close for reasons that have nothing to do with violence. Gray like winter mornings, like grief, like the moment before the sky breaks open.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, wrecked. His thumb catches the tear you didn't realize was sliding down your cheek, and the tenderness of it makes you want to scream. "I'm so fucking sorry, I didn't—I couldn't—"

"Who are you?" Your voice comes out destroyed, barely recognizable. The soul bond hums between you like a live wire, like coming home to a place that's on fire, and you don't know whether to run toward it or away.

His jaw works, muscles tightening and releasing like he's fighting something immense. When he speaks again, it's careful. Measured. Like each word costs him something irreplaceable.

"Someone who's going to disappear." His forehead presses against yours again, harder this time, desperate. Both hands frame your face now, holding you like something precious, something he's about to lose. "Someone who needs you to run. Now. Before—"

A sound echoes down the stairwell. Footsteps. Multiple sets.

The change in him is instant and terrible. The softness vanishes like it was never there, replaced by the same lethal efficiency that brought him here, but now there's something else in his eyes. Something that looks like anguish.

"Forgive me," he says, and before you can ask for what, his thumb finds a spot behind your jaw.

The world tilts. Your legs go liquid. But he catches you—of course he catches you—lowers you to the ground like you're made of spun glass while your vision tunnels to nothing.

The last thing you feel is his mouth pressed to your forehead, words whispered against your skin in a language you don't recognize but somehow understand.

I'll find you again.

I promise.

I'm sorry.

When security finds you four hours later, you have bruises on your throat that look like purple-black fingerprints, a concussion that makes the world swim, and no memory the EMTs will accept of how you ended up unconscious in a locked basement.

But you remember.

You remember the way his hands shook when he held your face. You remember the devastation in winter-gray eyes. You remember the electricity of recognition, the soul bond snapping into place only to be severed, leaving you with a phantom ache that feels like dying in slow motion.

There's a leather glove clutched in your fist that no one can pry from your fingers.

You tell them you don't remember where it came from.

You lie.

The world had always been divided into two types of people: those who'd found their match and those still waiting.

You'd grown up watching the found ones move through life with that particular brand of settled confidence, like they'd discovered some fundamental truth the rest of you were still stumbling toward.

Your mother used to tell the story at dinner parties, after her second glass of wine made her sentimental. How she'd been twenty-three, working at a bank in downtown Brooklyn, when a man came in to dispute an overdraft fee. Their hands touched when she passed back his paperwork. The bond snapped into place like a rubber band that had been stretched across decades, just waiting to contract.

She'd knocked over her coffee. He'd forgotten his own name for thirty seconds. They'd been married six months later.

"You just know," she'd say, fingers intertwined with your father's across the table. "It's like every cell in your body suddenly remembers what it was made for."

You'd wanted to believe her. Spent your eighteenth birthday waiting for that recognition to hit, for your body to suddenly make sense in a way it never had before.

But days turned to weeks turned to months, and all you felt was the same low-grade emptiness everyone without a bond carried—that constant, quiet ache of incompleteness.

By twenty-one, you'd stopped looking for it in every accidental touch.

By twenty-three, you'd convinced yourself you were one of the statistical anomalies. No bond. No match. Just you and your dissertation and a future that looked exactly like your present, only with better coffee and maybe tenure if you played your cards right.

The bruises have faded to sick yellow-green by the time you make it back to campus. Two weeks of medical leave that you spent staring at your apartment ceiling, trying to make sense of something that refuses to be made sensible. The official report sits in your email, cc'd to your advisor and the department head and probably half the university's legal team: Student found unconscious in library basement. Possible assault. No cameras functioning. Investigation ongoing.

You don't correct them. Don't mention the glove hidden in your nightstand drawer. Don't explain that the bruises on your throat match the exact span of fingers that had held your face like you were something holy, something worth breaking for.

Your body remembers even when your mind tries to forget. The soul bond, severed as quickly as it formed, has left you feeling like someone hollowed out your chest cavity with a melon baller. It's worse than before—before was just absence. This is active loss. This is knowing exactly what you're missing.

The dreams start the first night home from the hospital.

Not nightmares—that would be easier. These are soft things that leave you gasping awake at 3 AM with tears on your face and your hand pressed to your cheek where he'd touched you. Dreams where those gray eyes find yours across impossible distances. Where his hands shake as they frame your face. Where he whispers apologies in languages you don't speak but somehow understand.

Sometimes you dream of snow. Of cold so profound it burns. Of a voice saying his name—names?—until there's nothing left but the mission.

Sometimes you dream of falling. Of a train that screams through mountain passes. Of reaching for something—someone—who's always just beyond your fingertips.

But mostly you dream of that moment. The mask coming off. The devastating gentleness of his forehead against yours. The way he breathed you in like his lungs hadn't recognized oxygen until then, like you were the first real thing he'd touched in decades.

You become an expert in lying about the nightmares. "Trauma response," you tell the university-mandated therapist. "Yes, I'm processing. No, I don't remember details. Yes, I feel safe on campus."

Lies. All lies.

You remember everything. The weight of him. The contrast between violence and tenderness that shouldn't have existed in the same person. The way the soul bond had sung between you for those impossible seconds—not the gentle hum your mother described, but something desperate and raw, like two halves of something broken trying to fuse back together.

The research starts three weeks after the incident. You tell yourself it's academic curiosity. Tell yourself you're not the first person to lose a soulmate before really finding them. There are support groups. Statistics. An entire subset of psychology dedicated to severed bonds and what they do to the human psyche.

Increased rates of depression. Anxiety. Insomnia. Some subjects report physical pain at the site of initial contact. Others experience what researchers call "phantom bond syndrome"—the persistent sensation of a connection that no longer exists.

You check every box. Feel him in every room you enter, just a second too late. Wake up with your hand pressed to your face, trying to hold onto the ghost of leather and gunpowder and something metallic you couldn't place then but can't stop tasting now.

The databases give you nothing. Facial recognition software turns up empty. You sketch what you remember of his face—strong jaw, soft mouth, eyes like winter—but it feels like trying to draw music, like something essential gets lost in translation.

"Maybe he was military," Katrina suggests over coffee that tastes like disappointment. She's trying to help, your best friend since undergrad, but she looks at you with the kind of careful concern reserved for people about to break. "Special ops or something. That would explain the tactical gear."

You don't tell her about the way he moved. Don't mention that special ops soldiers don't usually have metal arms—you'd felt it when he caught you, the strange whir of plates adjusting beneath the fabric. Don't explain that whatever he was, military doesn't quite cover it.

December bleeds into January. You submit your dissertation proposal late, blame the incident, receive an extension wrapped in sympathetic looks. The bruises are long gone but you wear scarves anyway, can't stand the feeling of air against your throat where his thumb had pressed.

Your google search history becomes a testament to obsession:

“severed soul bonds recovery time?” “can soul bonds reconnect?” “military tactical gear supplier identification” “metal prosthetic arm advanced” “soul bond physical pain management”

Nothing. Always nothing.

But late at night, when the world sleeps and you're alone with the ache that lives between your ribs, you pull out the glove. Run your fingers over worn leather that's been softened by use and something else—care, maybe. The kind of attention that comes from having nothing else to focus on.

It smells like winter. Like violence. Like the ghost of cologne that might have been nice once, before it mixed with gunpowder and fear and whatever else clings to people who move through the world like weapons.

You press it to your face and breathe deep, eyes closed, trying to summon those impossible seconds when he'd looked at you like you were salvation and damnation all at once. When his voice had broken on an apology for something you didn't understand. When he'd promised to find you again in words you shouldn't have been able to translate but did.

The bond throbs. Phantom pain for a phantom connection.

You fold the glove carefully. Place it back in the drawer. Go to bed knowing you'll dream of gray eyes and the kind of gentleness that only comes from people who've forgotten they deserve it.

Tomorrow you'll get up. Go to class. Pretend your chest doesn't feel like someone excavated it with rusty tools. Pretend you don't scan every face on campus, looking for winter eyes and a jaw that could cut glass.

But tonight, you let yourself remember. Let yourself feel the echo of his forehead against yours, the desperate press of his mouth to your skin, the way he'd held you like you were worth breaking the world for.

I'll find you again.

You touch your throat, the memory of leather and promise.

I'm waiting.

The asset doesn't fight anymore.

Hasn't for years. Learned the hard way that resistance only makes it worse—more voltage, longer sessions, deeper cuts into whatever remains of the person he might have been.

Better to go limp. Better to let them position him like a doll, open his mouth for the rubber guard, wait for the electricity to wash it all away.

The asset craves it sometimes. The blankness. The nothing. Easier than carrying the weight of what his hands have done.

But Bucky Barnes fights.

Screams himself raw before they get the guard between his teeth. Thrashes against the restraints hard enough to bend the metal table, to make the technicians step back with wide eyes because the asset never does this, hasn't done this in fifteen years, not since they perfected the chair's calibration.

"Hold him!" Pierce's voice cuts through the chaos, sharp with irritation. "Get those restraints tightened before—"

Bucky's metal arm tears through the leather strap like tissue paper. Swings wild, catches a handler across the jaw with a crack that sends him spinning into medical equipment. Two more rush forward and he fights them with everything he has, everything he'd forgotten he could be.

Soft hands on his face. Bright eyes wide with recognition. The soul bond singing between them like coming home—

"No!" The word tears out of him, accent thick with desperation. Russian, English, something older—he doesn't know anymore, doesn't care. "Please—please, I can't—"

A needle finds his neck. Sedative, fast-acting, enough to drop an elephant. His knees buckle but he keeps fighting, keeps reaching for—what? The memory's already going slippery, falling through his fingers like water.

Someone. There was someone. Wasn't there?

"Interesting." Pierce circles him as four handlers wrestle him into the chair, voice clinical. "What happened on the mission? You terminated the target, but something affected you. The timeline's off by forty-three minutes."

Bucky's jaw works around the guard they're shoving between his teeth. Can't tell them. Won't tell them. But what is he protecting? The feeling's there—urgent, desperate, worth dying for—but the shape of it keeps shifting.

A face. Soft mouth parted in shock. The way she'd—

The electricity hits before he can finish the thought.

White-hot agony races through every nerve ending, bows his back against the restraints they've doubled, tripled. The scream locks in his throat, comes out as a sound that doesn't belong to anything human. But underneath the pain, worse than the pain, is the feeling of something essential being carved out of him.

Don't take her, some part of him begs. Take everything else, but not her, not this—

But the machine doesn't care about please. Doesn't care that he's crying—when did he start crying? The asset doesn't cry. The asset doesn't feel. But Bucky Barnes is sobbing, choking on the rubber guard as memories start to fracture and fade.

Her hand against his jaw. The world breaking open. Recognition so profound it rewrote thirty years of programming in seconds—

Another pulse. Stronger. Pierce has turned the dial past safety parameters, past sanity, past anything they've done before.

"Sir," one of the technicians ventures, nervous. "The readings—"

"Continue."

Forehead to forehead. Breathing her in. The apology scraping his throat raw because he'd never wanted to meet her like this, never wanted her to know him as a weapon first and a man second—

Gone. It's gone. He reaches for it, desperate, but there's only white noise where her face should be. Only the echo of something precious he'd held for minutes—hours?—seconds?—he doesn't know anymore.

The machine winds down. Silence except for his ragged breathing, the drip of something (blood? tears?) hitting the concrete floor.

"Asset."

He doesn't respond. Can't. There's something wrong with his chest, like someone reached in and scooped out everything that mattered.

"Asset."

Training kicks in where consciousness fails. His head lifts, eyes focusing with effort on the man in the suit. Pierce. Handler. The one who holds the leash.

"Ready to comply." The words come out broken. Mechanical. But correct.

"Mission report."

"Target eliminated. No witnesses." A pause. Something scratches at the back of his mind, urgent, important. But when he reaches for it there's nothing but static. "Extraction successful."

Pierce studies him, pale eyes narrowed. "And the deviation? You were off-schedule."

The asset blinks. Searches the white noise of his mind for an answer that makes sense. "Unexpected resistance. Handled."

"I see." Pierce doesn't look convinced, but he waves to the technicians. "Run a full cognitive recalibration. I want him stable before the next deployment."

They unstrap him eventually. He doesn't fight. Doesn't do anything but stare at his metal hand, trying to understand why it feels wrong. Why everything feels wrong. There's an ache in his chest that wasn't there before—or was it always there? He can't remember. Can't remember anything but the mission, the chair, the readiness to comply.

But that night, locked in cryo-prep, he dreams.

Fragments. Glimpses. A basement that smells like old paper and fear. Someone pressed against a wall, hands pushing at his chest. The feeling of skin against skin and the world exploding into color he didn't know existed.

He wakes with her ghost on his lips—no name, no face, just the shape of an apology in a language he's not supposed to know.

The asset reports for cryo on schedule. Lies still as they prep the chamber, ice already forming in the tubes that will freeze him until the next time he's needed. But as consciousness fades, as the cold takes him under, one thought persists:

Someone. There was someone. And I've lost them.

The machine hisses. Frost spreads across the glass.

The asset sleeps.

Bucky Barnes screams.

The Starbucks on 42nd doesn't have soul bonds on the menu, but they do have overpriced lattes and witnesses, which is why you're here instead of home, staring at your bedroom ceiling and trying to parse nightmares from memories.

Six months.

Six months of the glove under your pillow losing his scent. Six months of your advisor asking pointed questions about your "lack of focus" and your therapist prescribing sleeping pills that don't work because how do you medicate a severed soul bond?

How do you explain that you're mourning someone you knew for less than five minutes?

You're arguing with yourself about the merits of a fourth shot of espresso when the world explodes.

Glass shatters inward, the windows becoming a thousand diamonds catching afternoon light. Your coffee hits the floor—there goes eight dollars you don't have—as your body moves on instinct, dropping behind the counter with five other people who smell like fear and pumpkin spice.

Screaming. So much screaming. Cars screeching outside, the percussion of something that might be gunfire but sounds too wrong, too close, too real for a Tuesday afternoon in Manhattan.

You peek around the espresso machine and your heart forgets how to beat.

He's standing in the middle of the street like death dressed for winter. Same tactical gear, same casual violence, same way of moving that makes everyone else look like they're traveling through molasses. The mask covers the lower half of his face again, but you'd know those eyes anywhere. Have been seeing them every night for six months, after all.

A cop raises his weapon. The soldier—your soulmate, your ghost, your nightly torment—disarms him with an economy of motion that's almost beautiful. The crack of breaking fingers carries even through the shattered windows.

Get up, your brain screams. Run. Move. Do something that isn't standing here like a deer watching headlights come to claim it.

But your body has other plans. Your treacherous, soul-bonded body that recognizes his even across thirty feet of chaos and broken glass. You're moving before conscious thought catches up, stumbling through the destroyed storefront on legs that feel like they belong to someone else.

This is stupid. Monumentally stupid. The kind of stupid that gets psychology PhD candidates killed in broad daylight. But your hand is already reaching, already grasping, because maybe—

Your fingers close around his wrist.

The barest slip of skin where his sleeve has ridden up, your thumb finding his pulse like it was made for nothing else. The connection slams through you—heat and recognition and yes, finally, yes—

The gun clatters to the asphalt.

His whole body goes rigid, that same terrible stillness from before. You watch his pupils dilate, watch six months of careful nothing shatter in his eyes as a stranger crashes back into existence.

He moves so fast you don't process it. One second you're standing there, thumb on his pulse, the next you're spinning, back slamming into his chest as his metal arm locks across your body. The gun—when did he pick it up?—presses cold against your temple.

You stop breathing.

Around you, cops and civilians alike freeze. Weapons lower incrementally because now there's a hostage situation, now there's a girl who was stupid enough to touch the Winter Soldier and—

"Name." His voice in your ear, so quiet you almost miss it under the sirens. That sound that had haunted your dreams, rougher now, desperate. "Your name. Please."

Your lips barely move, sound threading between heartbeats. You tell him, soft as a whisper.

The gun doesn't waver. To everyone watching, he's perfectly still, a predator considering prey. But his metal thumb moves against your bare arm where your shirt has ridden up. Gentle. Deliberate. Tracing letters maybe, or just feeling, and you wonder if he can—if there are sensors in the metal that let him—

"My name is James Buchanan Barnes." Each word careful, precious, pressed into the space below your ear like a secret. Like a gift. "Bucky. My name is Bucky. I won't remember, so I need you to—you have to remember for me."

James Buchanan Barnes.

It tickles something in your memory. A history class, maybe. Something about World War II, about Captain America, about—

"What have they done to you?" The words slip out, horrified, because the pieces are trying to fit together but the picture they're making can't be right, can't be possible—

"Find me." Urgent now. His realness, his hereness makes your chest ache with completion even as your mind screams danger. "When I—after they—find me. Please. I can't—"

His voice cracks.

The gun leaves your temple.

The crack of the shot makes you flinch, but it's the cop to your left who goes down, clutching his knee, screaming. Bucky shoves you—not hard, but enough to send you stumbling into the crowd as he moves the opposite direction, using the chaos as cover.

You hit the ground hard, knees cracking against asphalt, palms scraped raw. Around you, people scatter like startled birds. Someone's hands on your shoulders, pulling you back, asking if you're hurt, if you need medical attention.

You can't answer. Can't do anything but stare at the place where he'd stood, where he'd held you, where he'd given you his name like it was the only thing he had left to give.

Your arm throbs where his metal thumb had traced patterns. When you look down, you can see the faint red marks—not bruises, just pressure. Just proof.

"Miss? Miss, we need to get you checked out—"

"I'm fine." You're not. You're the opposite of fine. You're shattering in slow motion, held together by adrenaline and the phantom feeling of his chest against your back. "I'm—he didn't hurt me."

The EMT looks skeptical. "He held a gun to your head."

"He didn't hurt me," you repeat, and you're not sure who you're trying to convince.

They take you anyway. St. Luke's emergency room, where you spend four hours being poked and prodded and questioned by people who look at you like you might break or explode. The FBI shows up eventually, two agents in bad suits who ask the same questions fifteen different ways.

"Did he say anything to you?"

My name is James Buchanan Barnes.

"No."

"Are you sure? Even something small could help."

Find me.

"He didn't say anything."

They don't believe you. You can see it in the way they exchange glances, the way their pens hover over notepads. But what are you supposed to tell them? That the most wanted man in America is your soulmate? That he gave you his name like a prayer? That even now, hours later, you can still feel the phantom press of metal against your skin?

They release you near midnight with a card and instructions to call if you remember anything. You take a cab home because the subway feels too exposed, too dangerous, like maybe he'll be there in the shadows between stops.

Your apartment is exactly as you left it. Laptop open on the counter, half a cup of cold coffee growing something ambitious by the sink. Normal. Safe.

Empty.

You sink onto your bed, still fully dressed, and pull out your phone. Your search history is already damning, but what's one more nail in the coffin?

James Buchanan Barnes

The results make your stomach drop.

Born 1917. Best friend of Steve Rogers, Captain America. Sergeant in the 107th Infantry Regiment. Fell from a train in the Alps in 1945. Presumed dead.

Except he's not dead. He's not dead because you touched him today, felt his pulse under your thumb, heard him breathing in your ear as he held you like something breakable and precious all at once.

You dig deeper. Past the official records, past the Wikipedia entries, into the conspiracy forums and leaked documents that only half-load on your shitty wifi.

The Winter Soldier.

HYDRA.

Seventy years of ghost stories.

An assassin who appears and disappears like smoke, leaving bodies in his wake.

Your soulmate is a century-old brainwashed assassin. Your soulmate is Bucky Barnes, who died in 1945. Who didn't die. Who was turned into something else, something violent and beautiful and dangerous.

Who fights back to consciousness every time you touch him only to be dragged under again.

What have they done to you?

You close your laptop. Lie back on your bed, fully clothed, and stare at the water stain on your ceiling that looks like a rabbit if you squint. Your arm still throbs where he touched you. Traced letters, maybe, or just—

You bolt upright.

Grab a pen, try to recreate the pattern from memory on your other arm. It takes three tries before the movements feel right, before the shapes resolve into something recognizable.

Numbers.

He'd traced numbers on your skin. Coordinates.

Find me, he'd said.

Your hands shake as you type them into your phone. A location upstate, middle of nowhere, the kind of place where no one would look twice at an abandoned building or hear the screams from underground.

You should leave it alone. Should forget his name, forget the numbers, forget the feeling of being whole for thirty seconds in the middle of chaos. Should be smart and safe and boring and alive.

Instead, you screenshot the location. Book a rental car for tomorrow. Pack a bag with things that might matter—the glove, pepper spray that won't do shit against a super soldier but makes you feel better, a first aid kit you probably won't get the chance to use.

Find me.

You're going to. God help you, you're going to find James Buchanan Barnes.

Even if it kills you.

(It probably will.)

(You're going anyway.)

The HYDRA facility squats in the pre-dawn darkness like something that crawled out of the Cold War and forgot to die. You're crammed in the back of a tactical van between enough weaponry to level a city block and Captain America's guilt, which somehow takes up more space.

Forty-eight hours. That's all it took from wine-drunk-email-to-vague-Avengers-PR-listing to this—body armor that doesn't fit right, your heart hammering against ceramic plates, and the ghost of coordinates still throbbing on your arm where he'd traced them.

"Two minutes to insertion." Natasha's voice crackles through comms you're not supposed to have. But Steve had insisted, jaw set in that way that apparently nobody argues with. Not even Fury.

Steve Rogers had shown up at your door with Natasha Romanoff and Nick Fury, your roommate had screamed in her towel, and you'd told them everything. About the library. About the way Bucky's entire being had shifted when you touched him, like watching someone break the surface after drowning.

About how he'd held you in that Starbucks, whispered his name against your ear like a secret, like salvation, like the only thing he had left that was his.

Steve had gone very, very still. Then: "We're finding him. We're bringing him home."

Now he's sitting across from you, shield balanced against his knee, and you can see why people follow him into impossible situations. It's not the shoulders or the jaw or the way he fills out tactical gear like he was born to it. It's the way he looks at you—not through you, not around you, but at you. Like you matter. Like your connection to his best friend makes you worth protecting.

"Remember," he says quietly, pitched below the engine noise. "The moment we find him, the moment you make contact—"

"I know." Your fingers won't stop moving, tracing and retracing the numbers Bucky left on your skin. "Skin contact. Bring him back." Don't let go."

What you don't say: What if it doesn't work this time? What if they've wiped him too many times? What if whatever's left isn't enough to—

The van stops.

Everything happens too fast after that. Doors flying open, bodies moving with practiced precision, you stumbling to keep up as Steve's hand on your elbow guides you through pre-dawn shadows toward a concrete mouth that looks like it's waiting to swallow you whole.

The facility is worse inside. All industrial fluorescents and that particular kind of silence that sounds like screaming if you listen too hard. Your soul bond, quiet for months, starts to ache with proximity—a deep, bone-level recognition that makes your teeth chatter.

"Northeast corridor clear." Natasha's voice, clinical.

"Southwest clear." Someone else, call sign you didn't catch.

"Movement in the lower levels." Another voice. "Looks like they're mobilizing—"

A sound cuts through the chatter. Not quite human. Not quite animal. Something between a scream and static that makes your hindbrain light up with warnings to run.

Steve's already moving. "That's him."

You follow because what else can you do? Down stairs that smell like rust and terror, through corridors that branch like diseased arteries. The ache in your chest intensifies with each level down, soul bond pulling taut as piano wire.

Then—

The room opens before you like a wound. Medical equipment that belongs in museums next to things that belong in nightmares. And in the center, strapped to a chair that looks more like an electric chair than anything medical—

"Bucky." Steve's voice breaks on it.

He's shirtless, sweat-slick and shaking, with enough electricity running through him to light up half of Brooklyn. His hair hangs limp around his face, and even from here you can see the way his muscles lock and release in waves as current pulses through the chair. Fresh burn marks lattice across his chest where the nodes attach, and there's blood—so much blood—dripping from where he's fought against the restraints.

There are bodies on the floor. Technicians, by their white coats. The blood is fresh enough to still be spreading.

"Stay back." Natasha has her weapon trained on him, all business. "He's still the Winter—"

Bucky's head snaps up.

His eyes find yours across twenty feet of blood and machinery.

Time stops.

Those aren't the empty eyes from the library. Aren't the desperate clarity from the coffee shop. These are something else entirely—feral and frightened and so fucking broken under all that damage. He looks like something that's been torn apart and reassembled wrong, like an animal that's been in a cage so long it's forgotten what sky looks like.

You're moving before conscious thought catches up. Dodging Steve's reaching hand, slipping past Natasha's outstretched arm. Your feet slip in blood—whose blood? His? Theirs?—but you don't stop. Can't stop. The soul bond is screaming, every cell in your body reaching for its other half.

"Don't—" Someone shouts. Might be Steve. Might be God himself. Doesn't matter.

Because Bucky's watching you approach with the kind of stillness that precedes violence. His metal arm—and this close you can see how it's grafted to flesh, red and raw and infected at the edges—flexes against the restraints. The leather creaks. His chest heaves with each breath, and there's a wild look in his eyes like he can't decide if you're real or another torture.

You collapse on the arm of the chair. His breathing is ragged, chest heaving, and this close you can see old scars layered on new ones, a roadmap of decades of damage. Seventy years of this. Seventy years of being unmade and remade into something sharp and wrong.

Your hand reaches up, slow as you'd approach a wounded animal.

He flinches.

Actually flinches, this assassin who's probably felt every kind of pain there is. A sound escapes him—small, wounded, barely human. But when your fingertips brush his cheek—skin to skin, that electric recognition—his whole body convulses.

"Oh," you breathe, and it's inadequate, it's nothing, it's everything. Because the bond slots into place like coming home if home was a person who'd been carved hollow and filled with ghosts.

His eyes clear incrementally. Pupil contraction, focus sharpening, and then—

The noise that tears out of him is inhuman. Seventy years of grief and rage and desperate loneliness condensed into a single sound that makes your bones ache. His metal hand shatters the restraint like tissue paper, then the flesh one, and before you can process the movement he's dragging you up, up, into his lap, crushing you against his chest with desperate strength.

"You," he's saying, over and over, voice wrecked beyond recognition. "You, you, you—real, you're real, you're—"

His hands are everywhere at once. Metal fingers tangling in your hair, flesh hand splayed across your back hard enough to bruise, holding you like you might dissolve if he loosens his grip for even a second. He buries his face in the curve of your neck and the sob that escapes him is pure agony, seventy years of touch starvation hitting him all at once.

You can feel him shaking—no, not shaking, convulsing, like his body doesn't know how to process gentle touch anymore. Doesn't know what to do with softness after decades of nothing but pain.

"I'm here," you whisper against his temple, your own tears falling freely. "I'm real. I found you. I've got you."

His response is to hold you tighter, tight enough that breathing becomes difficult, but you don't care. Can't care when he's falling apart in your arms like this. The metal hand fists in your tactical vest and you hear fabric tear, but he doesn't seem to notice. He's pressing his face harder into your throat, breathing you in like you're air and he's been suffocating for seventy years.

"Thought I dreamed you." The words come out destroyed, muffled against your skin. "They said—they said I made you up. That the pain was making me see things. But you smell real. You feel—" His flesh hand slides up to cup the back of your head, holding you in place. "Please be real. Please, please be real."

"I'm real." You press your lips to his temple, just a brief touch of comfort. "James Buchanan Barnes, you're real and I'm real and I found you."

His breath hitches at his full name, and suddenly he's pulling back just enough to look at you. This close, you can see everything—the burst blood vessels in his eyes, the way his pupils can't quite focus, the decades of accumulated scars. He looks ancient. He looks young. He looks absolutely shattered.

"Don't know who that is anymore." Raw honesty, delivered while his thumbs trace your cheekbones with desperate reverence. "Don't know who I am when I'm not killing. When they're not—" He breaks off, jaw working. "I've been empty for so long. So fucking long. And then you touched me and I remembered what it felt like to be human and they took it away—"

"They can't take it away again." You frame his face with your hands, forcing him to meet your eyes. "We're leaving. Right now. Together."

"You don't understand." He's crying openly now, no shame in it, just pure emotional overflow. "Seventy years. Seventy fucking years of this chair, this room, these walls. They put me in the dark and take me out to kill and put me back and I can't—when they say the words, I disappear. Everything disappears."

"Then we don't let them say the words."

"I've killed so many people." He presses his forehead to yours hard enough to hurt, but the contact seems to calm something in him. "Children. Civilians. Good people. Bad people. So many I lost count. The things they made me do—the things I did—"

"I don't care."

"You should." His metal hand comes up to wrap around your throat, gentle but present. "This hand has strangled innocent people. These fingers have pulled triggers that ended lives. I'm not—I'm not good. I'm not worth—"

"Stop." You turn your head to press your lips to his metal palm, and the sound he makes is pure agony. "You're worth everything. You're my soulmate. You're—"

He makes a broken noise and crushes you against him again, like he's trying to crawl inside your skin. His whole body trembles with the effort of holding you close enough, like no amount of contact will ever be sufficient after seventy years of nothing.

"They're gonna wipe me again." Matter-of-fact. Resigned. "Soon as they realize what happened here. They always do. And I'll forget you again. Forget this. And next time—" His voice breaks. "Next time they'll make sure I can't touch you. They'll find ways to hurt you through me. They'll make me—"

"No." Your hands tighten on his face. "No, they won't. We're leaving. Steve's here. Natasha. We're getting you out."

"Stevie?" For the first time, his eyes flicker past you, landing on his best friend. The confusion there is heartbreaking. "But you're—you're supposed to be—"

"Hey, Buck." Steve's voice is thick with emotion. "It's me. It's really me. We're taking you home."

But Bucky's already looking back at you, like he can't bear to look away for more than seconds. His flesh hand hasn't stopped moving—tracing your face, your neck, tangling in your hair like he's trying to memorize you through touch alone.

"I don't want to forget again." It comes out small, broken. "Please. I can't do it again. Can't lose you again. It'll kill me. It'll—"

"You won't forget." You shift in his lap, wrap your arms around his neck, and he makes a sound like you've given him salvation. "I won't let them take you. I won't let them hurt you anymore. I promise."

"We need to move." Natasha's voice, soft but urgent. "Security response in two minutes."

Steve's at your side instantly, but when he reaches for Bucky, the soldier flinches back violently, metal arm coming up in defense. The only thing that keeps him from lashing out is your hand on his chest, your voice in his ear.

"It's okay. It's Steve. He's safe. He's here to help."

"Can you walk?" Steve asks, careful to keep his distance.

Bucky nods against your shoulder, but when you try to move off his lap, his arms lock around you with desperate strength.

"No." Panicked. "No, please. Need to—need to touch—"

"I'm not going anywhere." You run your fingers through his hair, and he leans into it like a cat. "We're walking out of here together. But you have to let me stand up."

It takes visible effort for him to loosen his grip. When you stand, he follows immediately, swaying slightly. He towers over you even hunched with exhaustion, and when his hand finds yours, it's with the grip of a drowning man finding driftwood.

You start moving as a unit, but Bucky can't stop touching you. His free hand keeps finding your face, your hair, your shoulder, like he needs constant confirmation you're real. At one point he stops entirely, pulls you back against his chest, and just breathes you in for several seconds while Steve and Natasha stand guard.

"Left," he says suddenly as you reach a junction, pulling you down a side corridor. "Service tunnel. I've—I've tried before. Three times. No. Four? They always—" His free hand comes up to his head, pressing against his temple.

"Hey." You squeeze his hand. "Doesn't matter. Which way?"

The service tunnel is narrow and dark. Bucky pulls you through it like muscle memory, but halfway through he stops, pressing you against the wall. His hands frame your face in the darkness.

"What if this isn't real?" Desperate. "What if I'm still in the chair? What if this is just another way they're breaking me?"

You reach up to cradle his face in return, thumbs brushing over his cheekbones. "Does this feel like a dream?"

"No." He breathes the word against your mouth. "No, it feels—it feels like waking up."

The exit spills you out into pre-dawn forest. The quinjet looms out of the darkness, and for the first time in seventy years, Bucky Barnes runs toward freedom instead of away from it.

But even on the jet, even safe, he can't stop holding you. He pulls you into his lap on the bench seats, ignoring the medical team, ignoring everyone, and just holds on. His face stays buried in your neck during takeoff, his arms locked around you like prison bars in reverse—keeping the world out instead of keeping him in.

"You're free," you whisper, over and over, like a prayer. "You're free. You're safe. You're mine."

"Yours," he agrees, and finally, finally, his death grip loosens just enough for you to breathe. "Yours. Always yours. Even when I couldn't remember. Even in the dark. Somehow I was always yours."

The sun breaks the horizon as you fly toward home, and for the first time in seventy years, Bucky Barnes believes he might actually make it there.

The first time Bucky Barnes calls you at 3 AM, your body knows it's him before your mind catches up.

The phone vibrates against your nightstand, and your hand's already reaching, heart already racing—not with fear but with recognition. That soul-deep pull that's been your compass for three months now.

"Bucky?" Your voice comes out sleep-rough, concerned.

Just breathing on the other end. Ragged, like he's been running. Or fighting. The sound makes your chest tight.

"Can't—" His voice cracks like splintered wood. "Can't remember if the blood on my hands is from yesterday or a decade ago."

You're already moving, sheets tangling around your legs as you hunt for clothes in the dark. "Where are you?"

"Steve's. The Tower. I'm—" A shaky exhale that you feel in your own lungs. "I'm safe. Everyone's safe. Just needed—"

"Me." Not a question. The bond thrums with his distress, a phantom ache under your ribs. "I'm coming."

"You don't have to—"

"I'm coming."

Twenty minutes later, Happy's pulling up to the Tower's private entrance. You're wearing the first things your hands found—pajama shorts with snowflakes on them that you stole from your roommate, one of Bucky's hoodies that still smells like him (cedar and gunpowder and something indefinably him).

The elevator ride feels eternal. Your skin prickles with proximity, the bond pulling taut as you rise through the floors. By the time JARVIS deposits you on the residential level, your hands are shaking with the need to touch him, to soothe whatever's tearing him apart.

You find him on the couch, knees drawn up to his chest like he's trying to make himself smaller. His metal hand is clenched so tight you can hear the recalibration whirs, flesh hand buried in his hair. Steve hovers nearby, hands opening and closing like he wants to help but doesn't know how.

"Buck," you breathe.

His head snaps up, and oh—his eyes are winter-wild, pupils blown with panic, caught in some liminal space between then and now. You watch him catalog you in pieces: face, voice, the way you're already moving toward him like gravity's reversed its pull.

You don't speak. Don't need to. Just fold yourself onto the couch beside him, close enough that the line of your body presses against his from shoulder to hip. His flesh hand finds yours immediately, desperate, fingers lacing between yours like maybe if he holds tight enough he won't drift away.

The effect is immediate—a full-body shudder, his breathing starting to sync with yours. The bond hums, warm honey spreading through your veins. Steve makes a sound—relief wrapped in something more complicated—and quietly retreats.

"Sorry," Bucky murmurs after a moment. His thumb finds your pulse point, traces it like he's counting heartbeats. "Shouldn't have woken you."

"Yes, you should have." No reproach, just fact. "That's what this is."

He turns to look at you then, really look, and you watch him surface by degrees. His metal hand comes up without conscious thought, fingertips ghosting along your jaw with impossible gentleness. The cool metal makes you shiver, but you lean into it, letting him map the reality of you.

"There you are," he whispers.

Something fractures inside you. He pulls you in—careful, always so careful with you—until your foreheads touch. His breathing ghosts across your lips, and you stay suspended in that space, sharing air and warmth and the indescribable thing that ties soul to soul.

It becomes your new normal.

The calls come at all hours. Sometimes Steve's the one calling, voice carefully controlled: "Can you come? He's asking for you." Sometimes it's Natasha, brusque but not unkind: "Barnes needs you." Once, memorably, it's Tony: "Your touch-starved assassin is having a moment. Also, he may have broken my espresso machine."

You always go.

The team adapts to your presence like you're a new piece of furniture—necessary, functional, occasionally in the way. You learn to read Bucky's tells from across a room: the way his eyes go distant when memory bleeds through, the micro-flinches when sound becomes too much, the careful way he holds himself when he's fragmenting.

But more than that, you learn the language his body speaks when it's seeking yours.

He's always careful at first, tentative as a feral cat learning to accept kindness. A brush of fingers, testing. The barest press of his palm to yours. But once that first contact is made, something in him unravels.

He touches you like he's mapping a new world.

It starts innocuous enough—fingers tangled together during movie nights, his thumb painting absent patterns on your wrist. His hand finds the small of your back when you walk, not possessive but anchoring, like he needs proof you're real. He pulls you between his knees when he's sitting, arms banding around your waist, chin notching over your shoulder while you chat with Sam about nothing important.

But as weeks become months, the touches grow bolder. Hungrier.

"Does it bother you?" he asks one afternoon.

He's had a brutal therapy session—three hours of guided recall that left him shaking and grey-faced. You'd spent the past hour with his head in your lap, your fingers carding through his hair while he pieced himself back together. His flesh hand has found its way under your shirt, palm spread wide over your ribs, and his metal fingers trace delicate patterns on the inside of your wrist.

"Does what bother me?"

"This." He gestures vaguely at the negative space between you that stopped existing weeks ago. "How much I need—" He stops. Swallows. Tries again. "How I can't stop touching you."

The question deserves honesty, so you give it consideration. Think about how your life has restructured itself around these points of contact. How you've started wearing layers just so there's always fabric to push aside, skin to find. How your body anticipates his touch now, turns toward him without conscious thought.

"No," you say finally. "It doesn't bother me."

He studies your face with those searching eyes, looking for the polite lie. You let him look, keeping your expression open.

"I've been thinking," you continue, adjusting so you can see him better. His hand immediately shifts, fingers splaying wider across your ribs like he needs more contact to make up for the movement. "About touch. About deprivation."

A muscle in his jaw ticks.

"Seventy years," you say softly. "Seventy years where touch meant pain. Programming. Violence. Where hands on you meant—"

"Stop." Rough. His hand presses harder against your ribs, feeling your heartbeat.

"—so is it any wonder you're hungry for something else? Something good?"

His exhale shudders out of him. "The doctors say it's codependence."

"The doctors haven't had their souls systematically unmade and remade." You cover his flesh hand with yours, pressing it more firmly against your skin. "You're not codependent, Bucky. You're human. You're healing. And if touch helps—"

"It's not just that it helps." The words come out jagged, confessional. "I want—" His metal hand comes up, traces the line of your throat with one careful finger. "I want to touch you all the time. Want to know the texture of every inch of your skin. Want to map you like territory, like—" He cuts himself off, jaw clenching.

Heat pools low in your stomach, but you keep your voice steady. "Like what?"

"Like you're mine." Barely audible. His eyes won't meet yours. "Like I have any right to—"

"You do." You turn into him more fully, catch his face between your palms. His eyes flutter closed, and he leans into the touch like a man starved. "You have every right. We're soulmates, Bucky. That means something."

"What if I never get better?" Raw, honest. "What if I always need this? Need you?"

"Then you'll always have me."

His eyes snap open, winter-blue and desperate. "You can't promise that."

"Watch me."

The trial is excruciating. You watch from designated seating as Bucky sits statue-still, hair pulled back severe, wearing a suit that makes him look like someone else entirely. They read names, show photographs, detail missions that exist in his memory like shattered glass—some pieces clear, others reflecting nothing but blood.

The days he testifies, he comes to you after.

Never speaks about it. Just shows up at your door looking hollowed out, and you let him in without questions. He wraps himself around you like you're the only solid thing in a tilting world, face buried in the curve of your neck, breathing you in like oxygen.

These are the times his hands grow bold.

Not inappropriate—never that. But searching. He maps you like a cartographer charting new territory. Palms skimming your sides, memorizing the curve of waist to hip. Fingers tracing the ladder of your ribs through thin fabric. Metal thumb finding the hollow of your throat where your pulse flutters hummingbird-quick.

"I need—" he'll say against your skin, words muffled and desperate.

"I know," you always answer. "Take what you need."

So he does. His flesh hand slips under your shirt, finds the warm plane of your stomach, spreads wide like he's trying to absorb your steadiness through osmosis. His metal fingers trace patterns on whatever skin he can find—the inside of your wrist, the nape of your neck, the sensitive spot behind your ear that makes you shiver.

Sometimes you'll find his hand at your sternum, metal fingers splayed over your heartbeat like he's using it to calibrate his own. Sometimes he'll trace the boundary where clothing meets skin, fingertips ghosting under hems and necklines but never pushing further, just needing to know there's softness underneath, that not everything in the world has sharp edges.

"Is this okay?" he asks every time, even as his touch grows more familiar, more certain.

"Yes," you answer every time, even as your skin heats and your breath catches and you want—

You want.

"So are you two fucking yet?"

You choke on your coffee, hot liquid searing your throat. Across the kitchen, Bucky's shoulders go rigid where he's making eggs with the kind of focus usually reserved for defusing explosives.

"Tony," Steve says, warning clear in his voice.

"What? It's a legitimate question. All that touching, the eye-fucking across every room, the way Barnes goes feral if anyone else so much as—"

"We're not." Your face burns. "That's not—we haven't—"

Tony's eyebrows achieve escape velocity. "You're telling me you've been playing the world's most intense game of grabass for three months and haven't—"

"Stark." Bucky's voice is winter-quiet, dangerous in the way that makes smart people reevaluate their life choices.

But Tony's never been accused of survival instincts. "I'm just saying, that level of sexual tension could power—"

The plate in Bucky's metal hand shatters.

Silence rings out, broken only by the drip of egg yolk hitting tile.

"I'll just." Tony backs toward the door, hands raised. "Workshop. Important things. Very important things."

He's gone before anyone can blink, leaving you, Bucky, and Steve in a kitchen that suddenly feels airless. Bucky stares at the ceramic shards in his hand like they've personally betrayed him.

"Buck—" Steve starts.

"I need air."

He's out the door before you can process the movement, leaving you with cooling eggs and Tony's words hanging in the air like smoke.

Steve sighs, the sound of a man who's aged a century in the last minute. "He's an idiot. Tony, I mean. Though Buck's also—" He stops. Runs a hand through his hair. "This is none of my business."

"But?"

"But." Steve fixes you with those earnest eyes that probably ended wars. "He thinks he's protecting you. From himself. From what he's done. He doesn't think he deserves—" A gesture encompasses you, the kitchen, the entire situation.

"That's not his decision to make."

"No," Steve agrees. "But when has that ever stopped him?"

You find Bucky on the roof because of course that's where he goes. He's sitting on the edge, legs dangling over nothing, and your heart does something complicated in your chest.

"Most people have their existential crises at ground level," you say, settling beside him carefully.

His mouth twitches—not quite a smile, but close. "Most people haven't fallen off a train."

"Fair point."

The city spreads below like a circuit board, all light and movement and life. Without looking, his hand finds yours, fingers interlacing with the ease of long practice. The bond settles, that constant thrum of rightness that comes with skin meeting skin.

"Tony's not wrong," he says eventually.

You wait, let him find the words in his own time.

"I think about it." His voice is carefully controlled, but you can feel the tremor in his hand. "Touching you. Not just—not just to ground myself. Not for the bond. I think about touching you because I want to. Because you're—"

He stops. His throat works, and when he speaks again, his voice is rougher. "Because you're beautiful. And kind. And you laugh at my terrible jokes even when they're not funny. You come when I call at 3 AM. You let me put my hands on you even though these same hands have—"

"Bucky—"

"I dream about it." The confession comes out raw. "Dream about kissing you. About how you'd taste. How you'd feel. Wake up with your name in my mouth and my hands reaching for you, and it's not about the bond, it's about—" He turns to look at you then, eyes dark with something that makes your breath catch. "It's about how much I want you. How much I want things I have no right to want."

"What if," you say, voice steadier than your pulse, "I want those same things?"

His breathing stutters. "You don't. You can't."

"Don't tell me what I want." You turn toward him fully, free hand coming up to his jaw. He leans into it helplessly, eyes falling closed. "I know exactly what I want. Who I want."

"I'm held together with duct tape and trauma," he says, but his resolve is crumbling. You can see it in the way he presses harder into your palm. "I can't take you on normal dates. Can't promise I won't have panic attacks. Can't even sleep through the night without—"

"I don't want normal." Your thumb traces his cheekbone, feels him shudder. "I want you. Every piece, every edge, every nightmare and bad day. I want the man who hums old songs when he thinks no one's listening. Who makes terrible eggs but keeps trying. Who touches me like I'm something precious and looks at me like I'm a miracle."

"You are," he breathes. "You're—"

You kiss him.

Or maybe he kisses you.

Maybe you meet in the middle, drawn together by forces older than choice.

The first press of lips is tentative, a question asked and answered in the same breath. His flesh hand comes up to cradle your face, and the tenderness of it makes your chest ache. But then you make a sound—small, needy—and something in him breaks.

Or maybe something in him finally fixes itself.

His metal arm bands around your waist, pulls you against him with desperate strength. The kiss deepens, and oh, you understand now why people write symphonies and wage wars. Because Bucky Barnes kisses like he's drowning and you're air, like he's been starving for seventy years and you're sustenance, like maybe the universe knew exactly what it was doing when it tied your souls together.

He kisses you like he's trying to crawl inside your skin.

His tongue traces the seam of your lips and you open for him without thought, and the sound he makes—broken, grateful—sends heat racing down your spine. He tastes like coffee and something indefinably him, and you chase that taste deeper, hands fisting in his shirt.

He doesn't surface for air. Doesn't pause. Just tilts his head to find a better angle and kisses you deeper, harder, like he's trying to memorize the shape of your mouth, the texture of your sighs. His metal hand spans your lower back, pulling you impossibly closer, while his flesh hand maps your face, thumb stroking your cheek even as his mouth devastates you.

You're half in his lap now, twisted awkwardly on the ledge, and you don't care. Can't care about anything beyond the heat of his mouth, the way he groans when you nip at his lower lip, the way his hands shake where they hold you.

"Wanted this," he gasps against your mouth, not pulling back enough to actually stop kissing you. "Wanted you. Before I even knew you. So long, so fucking long—"

You answer by sliding your hands into his hair, nails scraping his scalp, and he shudders against you, kiss going a little sloppy and desperate. He's not cold, not controlled, not careful. He's burning, pressing against you like he wants to fuse at the molecular level, like the soul bond isn't enough and never could be.

When you finally break apart—only because oxygen is apparently necessary—you're both wrecked. His lips are swollen, eyes dark and dazed. You probably look the same. His forehead drops to yours, and you can feel him trembling against you, all that careful control finally, beautifully shattered.

"Okay?" His voice is destroyed, rough like he's been screaming.

"So far past okay," you manage. "Though your timing—we're on a roof, Barnes."

He laughs, the sound surprised out of him, and presses kisses to your cheeks, your jaw, the corner of your mouth like he can't quite stop now that he's started. "Sorry. I'll plan better next time."

"Next time?" You're going for teasing but it comes out breathless, hopeful.

His eyes find yours, and the intensity there steals any words you might have had. "Every time. Any time. All the time, if you'll—if you want—"

You press your mouth to his again, swallowing whatever self-deprecating thing he was about to say. He makes a noise of pure relief and hauls you closer, and you think maybe Tony Stark has exactly one good point in his entire existence.

Not that you'll ever tell him.

** The science had been clinical, sterile words on a page that you'd skimmed in college while nursing a hangover and trying to make sense of your Behavioral Psych reading.

Enhanced neural connectivity. Synchronized endorphin response. Heightened sensory feedback between bonded pairs.

Academic language that utterly failed to capture this—Bucky's mouth hot and slick and desperate against your throat while his hands relearn territory they've been mapping under cotton and denim for months, each touch sending electricity racing down your spine like lightning seeking ground.

"Fucking finally," he growls against your pulse point, and you feel the words more than hear them, vibrating through skin into bone, into the very marrow of you. His metal hand spans your ribs, each individual plate recalibrating against your skin with tiny whirs and clicks, like even the machinery of him is trying to get closer.

"You know what it's been like? Having you close enough to smell, to taste in the air, but not—Christ, the way you tremble each time I touch you, like you're starving for it—"

You try to form words but he's already peeling your shirt away with hands that shake despite their practiced efficiency, and the first full press of his bare chest to yours—scarred skin against soft, furnace heat against cool air—whites out anything resembling higher thought.

The soul bond doesn't just sing—it screams, every nerve ending recognizing its other half and lighting up like a constellation, like a neural map catching fire.

"Oh," you gasp, and it's inadequate, it's nothing, but Bucky goes rigid above you like you've shot electricity straight through his spine.

"Yeah," he agrees, voice absolutely wrecked. His forehead drops to your shoulder, dog tags dragging cold metal across your overheated chest as he pants against your skin, each exhale making you shiver. "Yeah, that's—fuck, is it always gonna feel like this? Like touching a live wire, just—"

"More," you manage, arching into him until there's no space left between your bodies, and you feel his control splinter like ice under pressure.

His mouth finds yours again, hungry and graceless, all that careful restraint from months of chaste touches finally, blessedly gone. His tongue slides against yours and you taste coffee and something metallic—blood maybe, from where he's been biting his lip. When you nip at his bottom lip he makes a sound like something wounded, something primal, hips rolling into yours with zero finesse, just pure need, his cock hard and insistent through too many layers of fabric.

"Sensitive," he warns against your mouth, but it comes out more like a plea, like he's begging you to understand. "Everything's dialed up to eleven, I can—I can hear your blood moving in your veins. Can feel every place you're warm and wet and—fuck—" His whole body shudders when you rake your nails down his back.

Your fingers find the scarred terrain of his back and he actually whimpers, muscles rolling under your touch like water, like something liquid and desperate. That's when the second revelation hits: whatever you're feeling, he's feeling it magnified. Seventy years of sensory deprivation plus enhanced everything plus a soul bond that's been stretched taut for months—

"Gonna lose my mind," he mutters, mouthing at your jaw, your throat, anywhere he can reach, leaving wet trails that cool in the air and make you shiver. His stubble scrapes against sensitive skin and you gasp, hips bucking up involuntarily. "Already lost it. Lost it the second you touched me in that library. Do you know? Do you have any fucking idea what it's like, having someone reach inside your skull and turn all the lights on? Like going from black and white to color, like—Jesus—"

His flesh hand fumbles with your pants, clumsy with urgency, while his metal hand grips your hip hard enough to leave marks—and god, you hope it does, hope you wear his fingerprints for days. The button pops free and he makes a victorious sound that might be funny if you weren't so desperate, if you weren't already so wet you can feel it soaking through your underwear.

His hand slides lower, fingers slipping beneath elastic, and when he finds you soaked and swollen, the noise that punches out of him is pure animal—a growl that starts in his chest and rumbles through both your bodies where they're pressed together.

"Christ." His fingers slip through wetness, exploratory and reverent, and you can feel the tremor in his hand. "This is—this is for me? You get like this just from—" He circles your clit with his thumb and you cry out, hips jerking. "Fuck, you're dripping. Can feel your pulse in your cunt, baby. So swollen, so ready—"

"From you," you gasp, grinding down against his hand as he slides two fingers inside without warning. The stretch makes you moan, makes your walls clench around him immediately. "Always from you. Only from you."

Something fractures in his expression—something raw and possessive and desperately vulnerable all at once. He hooks his fingers, finding that spot that makes your vision white out, and watches your face like he's cataloging miracles, like he's mapping the geography of your pleasure. "Say that again."

"Only you." It comes out breathless, edged with desperation as he finds a rhythm that has your thighs shaking, has wet sounds filling the air between you. "Only ever you, Bucky, please—"

"No." His thumb finds your clit and circles with devastating precision, pressure just the right side of too much. "Not yet. Not when I've been imagining this for—do you know how many times I've jerked off in the shower thinking about this? About how you'd sound when you're desperate? How you'd taste?" He adds a third finger, stretching you wider, and grins dark and feral when you sob. "Bet you thought about it too. Bet you touched yourself thinking about me, didn't you? Tell me."

"Yes," you admit, face burning, and his pupils blow even wider.

He drops to his knees between your thighs suddenly, metal hand holding you open like something precious, like an offering. The first swipe of his tongue has you jackknifing off the bed, but he just pins you down with his metal arm across your hips and does it again, slower, a long drag from entrance to clit that has you seeing stars.

"Fuckin' knew it," he groans against you, and the vibration of his voice makes you clench around nothing. "Knew you'd taste like heaven. Like mine. Knew you'd shake for me just like this." He spreads you wider with his fingers, looking at you with dark eyes. "So pretty. So perfect." He spits on your cunt, watching it mix with your wetness, and the filthy intimacy of it makes you moan. "Gonna ruin you for anyone else. Gonna make it so you can't come without thinking of my mouth, my fingers, my cock."

His words dissolve into action, mouth working you over with single-minded focus. He eats you out like he's starving, like he's dying, all lips and tongue and just the edge of teeth. The soul bond makes it devastating—you don't just feel the physical sensation, you feel his hunger, his satisfaction at finally being allowed to give pleasure instead of pain. His metal fingers dig into your thigh hard enough to bruise and you hope they do, hope you wear his marks for days, hope everyone who sees them knows exactly who put them there.

"Close," you warn, though he probably knows—can probably taste it in the way your cunt's clenching, feel it in the bond that's gone molten between you. Your thighs are shaking, muscles pulled so tight they hurt, and there's a sound filling the room that you distantly realize is you, making noises you've never made before.

He pulls back just enough to speak, lips glossy with your wetness, chin soaked, eyes wild. "Yeah? You gonna come on my tongue? Gonna let me taste it?" He slides three fingers in, curling with devastating intent, and your back arches off the bed. "Come on, sweetheart. Give it up. Let me have it, don't be greedy."

You shatter with a sound that might be his name, might be pure noise. The orgasm rolls through you in waves, each crest higher than the last, and he works you through it mercilessly, not letting up even when you try to squirm away from oversensitivity. Through the bond you feel his echoing pleasure—not physical, not yet, but something bone-deep and satisfied and proud.

"Atta girl," he murmurs against your inner thigh, pressing kisses to sweat-slick skin while his fingers still move lazily inside you, drawing out aftershocks. "So fucking beautiful. Look at you, all fucked out and soft and mine. Could do this for hours. Will do this for hours. Keep you here, coming apart on my hands, my mouth, until you're so sensitive you cry, until you forget there was ever a time we weren't—"

"Bucky." You tug at his hair, need making your voice rough despite the orgasm still sparking through your nerves. "Get up here. Need you inside me. Need—"

He's moving before you finish, shucking his pants with graceless efficiency. The first glimpse of his cock—thick and long and leaking steadily—makes your mouth water and your cunt clench with fresh want. When you reach for him he catches your wrist, gentle but firm.

"Next time," he promises, reading your intent with unnerving accuracy. His voice is strained, like he's hanging on by a thread. "Let you taste me next time. Let you choke on it, fuck that pretty mouth until you're drooling, until—" He cuts himself off with visible effort, chest heaving. "But right now I need—if I don't get inside you in the next ten seconds I'm gonna fucking die—"

"So do it." You spread your legs wider, shameless, showing him how wet and open you are, how ready. "Come on, sergeant. Follow through."

His control snaps audibly. He's on you between one breath and the next, pinning you down with his weight, cock nudging at your entrance. The head catches on your rim and you both groan, but he stops there, trembling with effort, forehead pressed to yours.

"Look at me." It's not a request—it's a command, rough and desperate. You force your eyes open, meet his gaze—winter blue swallowed by black, raw and vulnerable and fierce. "Need to see you when I—need to know you're here, that you're real, that this is—"

"Real," you confirm, wrapping your legs around his waist, heels digging into his ass to urge him forward. "I'm real. You're real. This is—oh fuck—"

He pushes inside in one long, devastating slide, and the world reconstitutes itself around this moment. Around the stretch and burn and perfect fullness of him, around the broken sound he makes against your throat—half sob, half growl—around the soul bond lighting up like a supernova, like every nerve ending suddenly discovering what it was made for.

"Fuck." His metal hand grips the headboard hard enough to crack wood, splinters raining down. "Fuck, you're—tight. So fucking tight. Hot. Perfect. Can feel—God fucking damn, I can feel everything. Can feel how good it is for you, can feel how your cunt's trying to pull me deeper—" He shifts his hips and hits something devastating inside you, makes you clench around him involuntarily. He laughs, breathless. "Yeah, right there. That's it, isn't it, baby? Right fucking there."

He moves experimentally, just a slow roll of hips, and you both moan at the drag of him inside you, at how your bodies fit together like they were made for this, only this. The angle is perfect—he's reading your body's responses in real-time, adjusting until every thrust has you climbing higher, until you're making noises that would embarrass you if you could think.

"Not gonna last," he warns, rhythm already getting ragged, desperate. Sweat drips from his forehead onto your chest, mixing with the sheen already there. "Not this time. Too much, too long waiting, too—the way you feel—" His flesh hand finds your throat, rests there warm and possessive, thumb pressing just enough to make your pulse flutter. "Like velvet. Like coming home. Like I could fuck you forever and it would never be enough—"

"Don't care." You pull his head down, bite at his jaw hard enough to leave marks just to feel him shudder, to watch his control fracture further. "Just want you. Just need—"

"Tell me." His grip on your throat tightens fractionally, not enough to restrict breathing but enough to make you aware, to make you feel it. "Tell me what you need. Want to give you everything. Want to be so good for you, sweetheart. Want to make up for every night you went to bed empty when you should've been—"

"Full of you," you finish, and his hips stutter, lose rhythm entirely for a moment.

"Yeah?" His thumb presses against your pulse, feeling how fast your heart's racing. "That what you need? Need me to fill you up? Keep you full and fucked out and dripping with my come? Make sure everyone knows you're mine, that I'm the only one who gets to—"

"Yes." You're beyond shame, beyond anything but the building pressure where he's driving into you harder now, each thrust shoving you up the bed. The wet sounds of your bodies meeting fill the room, obscene and perfect. "Yes, Bucky, please—"

"Say my name again." He's fucking you harder now, chasing his release with single-minded intensity. The bed frame creaks ominously with each thrust. "Want to hear it when you come. Want to feel it when you—fuck, you're clenching around me, baby. You close? You gonna come on my cock? Gonna be good for me?"

You nod frantically, words lost to the slide of him inside you, the relentless pressure against that perfect spot, the way his pubic bone grinds against your clit with each thrust. His metal fingers find your clit, cold against overheated flesh, and the contrast makes you scream.

"That's it," he growls, working your clit in tight circles while maintaining that punishing rhythm. "Come for me. Come on my cock like a good girl. Let me feel it, let me—fuck, there it is, I can feel it starting, you're getting so tight—"

You come with his name on your lips, back arching off the bed so hard you think you might snap in half. The orgasm slams through you like a freight train, like dying and being reborn, every muscle locking up as pleasure whites out your vision. The bond makes it circular—your pleasure slamming into him and reflecting back, amplified, until you're both shaking with it, until you can't tell where you end and he begins.

"Oh fuck—" His rhythm breaks entirely, becomes something desperate and animal. "Fuck, I'm gonna—gonna fill you up, gonna—"

"Inside." You dig your nails into his shoulders hard enough to draw blood, hold him deep even as oversensitivity makes you want to squirm away. "Want to feel it. Want all of it."

He comes with a sound that's half your name, half prayer, half roar, hips grinding deep as he spills inside you. You feel it all—not just the physical sensation of his cock pulsing, filling you with warmth, but the emotional avalanche through the bond. Relief and want and mine mine mine and something that feels dangerously close to devotion, to worship, to complete and utter belonging.

He fucks you through it, shallow little thrusts like he can't help himself, like his body won't stop even though he's already given you everything. Each movement makes more come leak out around his cock, makes wet sounds that have you hiding your face in his shoulder, embarrassed and aroused in equal measure.

The aftershocks last forever, little sparks of shared pleasure that have you both gasping, twitching, clutching at each other like lifelines. When he finally stills, he doesn't pull out, just shifts enough that his weight isn't crushing you, keeping you plugged full of him.

"Stay," he mumbles into your neck, words slurred like he's drunk. "Just—stay exactly like this. Please. Need to—need to keep you full. Need to know you're here, that this is real, that I get to—"

"Not going anywhere." You card your fingers through his sweat-damp hair, feel him shiver at the gentle touch after all that intensity. "Never going anywhere. You're stuck with me, Barnes."

His arms tighten around you, and you can feel his smile against your skin, feel the way his cock twitches inside you with renewed interest. "Good. Because now that I know what this feels like, what you feel like—" He rocks his hips experimentally, and you both groan as you feel his come shift inside you, feel how wet and open you are. "We're not leaving this bed for a week. Gonna fuck you in every position I've imagined. Gonna map every inch of your body with my mouth. Gonna find out exactly how many times I can make you come before you beg me to stop—"

"What about—"

He kisses you quiet, slow and thorough and filthy, tongue fucking into your mouth in a pale imitation of what his cock just did. When he pulls back, his eyes are dark with promise and his cock is fully hard inside you again, enhanced recovery time making itself known.

"Nothing else matters," he says simply, starting to move again, slow and deep and devastating. You're so sensitive it borders on too much, but the soul bond floods you with his pleasure, his desperate need, and suddenly you're right there with him again. "Just this. Just us. Just how many times I can make you come before sunrise. How full I can keep you. How loud I can make you scream."

You clench around him involuntarily and his eyes flutter closed, hips stuttering.

"Gonna kill me," he mutters, picking up speed, the wet sounds even more obscene now with his come easing the way. "Seventy years of nothing and now—" A particularly deep thrust has you seeing stars. "Now I've got a soulmate who looks at me like I'm worth something, who touches me like I'm not a weapon, who lets me use her however I need—"

"Who loves you," you interrupt, watching his face crumble and rebuild itself, watching him fight back what looks suspiciously like tears.

"Yeah?" Barely a whisper, so vulnerable it makes your chest ache.

"Yeah." You pull him down for another kiss, pouring everything you can't say into the contact, letting him feel it through the bond. "So much. So long. Even before I knew you, I think I loved you. Think I was waiting for you."

He makes a broken sound and starts fucking you in earnest, like a man possessed, like he's trying to climb inside you and never leave. "Say it again."

"I love you."

"Again." Harder now, each thrust shoving you up the bed.

"I love you, Bucky Barnes."

He fucks you like a promise, like a prayer, like maybe if he does it right the universe will let him keep this. You come apart under him again and again, until time becomes meaningless, until the only reality is where you're joined, where the soul bond burns brightest, where his come leaks out of you with each thrust only to be fucked back in, marking you inside and out as his.

When exhaustion finally claims you both, he's still inside you, still hard, wrapped around you like armor and apology all at once. You're going to be sore tomorrow—hell, you're sore now—but you wouldn't move for anything.

The last thing you feel before sleep takes you is his lips against your temple, his voice rough with wonder and satisfaction:

"Love you too, sweetheart. More than I've got words for. More than I probably should. Gonna spend the rest of my life showing you, if you'll let me. Gonna take such good care of you. My girl. My soulmate. Mine."

"Yours," you mumble, already drifting, clenching around him one last time just to feel him shudder.

His arms tighten, and you feel his smile against your skin, feel the way his cock twitches inside you with interest despite everything.

"Forever," he promises.

"Forever."

Outside, Brooklyn wakes to another morning, unaware that two souls have finally, fully, found their way home.

check out the bonus drabble loose threads ���

[vamplu]

Can i request smut and fluff for bachira where he's ur childhood bsf and he's been secretly pining for u. The reader is going on a first date with another guy so she gets all pretty and dolled up but turns out the guy stood her up. After that she hangs out with bachira and he's lowkey pissed off that any guy would do that to you. He comforts you but it ends up turning into something more..

a/n: thank you for requesting love <33

𝐀𝐋𝐖𝐀𝐘𝐒, 𝐌𝐘 𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐋 (bachira x fem!reader)

including: all characters aged!up, childhood best friends, friends to lovers, unspoken pining, soft possessive Bachira, emotional comfort to smut, jealousy but with heart, tooth rotting fluff, slightly angsty, soft Bachira, dry humping, make out session ⤷ synopsis: Bachira has always been there. Since you were five and fell off your bike and he kissed your scraped knee, swearing it’d get better. But lately, you've been going out with guys, and time after time again he sees you hurt and heartbroken and sadly tonight was no different. word count: 4.4k

You had done your makeup twice.

Hair curled, then recurled. Your best dress, the one that always made you feel pretty—just a little risky, just a little soft.

The guy seemed nice. Normal. Said all the right things, and maybe… maybe you just wanted to try. To see if your heart could stretch around someone new.

But now you were sitting in the back booth of your favorite ramen place. Alone. Again.

You stared down at your untouched tea. Your phone screen glared up at you like a second betrayal:

hey, sorry something came up.

No explanation. No offer to reschedule. Just four hours of getting ready and an empty chair.

You didn’t cry. You just sat there. Blinked. Tried not to think about how stupid you felt, sitting there looking like that—for no one. Again. You didn't even feel the tears begin to roll down your cheek until they hit the wooden table with a soft tap.

Quickly wiping them with the tips of your fingers, you closed your eyes forcing yourself to breathe. People were still around, and it's not that serious. 'Atleast he told you.' Is what you said to yourself as you hesitantly grabbed your phone, opening you clicked on the message.

Fighting back tears as you thought of what to say as your vision blurred.

It's fine, have a nice night.

You wondered if he’d even read it. If he’d feel anything at all.

You left the ramen place quietly, heels clicking hollow on the pavement as you walked fast—too fast—past the glowing windows and laughing couples. Every reflection of yourself in passing glass looked like a mockery.

By the time you got home, the silence of your apartment was too loud. You peeled off your shoes at the door, eyes still blurry but no tears threatening to spill as you walked to your bedroom, pulling out your phone from your purse as you feet padded against the smooth wooden floors.

Tossing the white accessory on your vanity as soon as you passed the threshold, the brightness of your screen the sole form of light in the darkness of your bedroom. Squinting, your fingers fumbled against the screen as you opened the phone app, finding bachira's contact.

With two rings the line picked up,

"Hey! Is it over already? Or do you need me to come pick you up from behind the place?" he asked with a laugh, voice light and teasing like always.

You didn’t say anything at first. Just stood there in the dark, staring at your reflection in the vanity mirror finally flopping down on your bed with a sniff. Gloss still shining on your lips. Curls still in place. And yet you felt like a balloon with the air sucked out. “...He didn’t show,” you said finally. Voice low. Small.

The silence on the other end hit fast and sharp.

“What?” Bachira's voice dropped. All the teasing stripped out in one breath. “Wait—what do you mean he didn’t show? Like, at all?” You opened your mouth to speak but words died in your throat, hot tears finally trickling down your cheeks once more as you choked out, "He canceled on me."

You blinked, with a shaky exhale. Your whole body shuddered as you sniffled, “Where are you right now?” Bachira asked, his voice softer but you could her the tension in it “I just got home,” you managed. “I-I didn’t know who else to call.” You stammered, your voice wavering as you wiped your cheeks with your free hand.

“It's okay,” he said instantly. “You can always call me, okay? Always.”

You nodded in the darkness, swallowing as you breathed, "I know, thank you, meguru." You said softly, a sad smile gracing your lips. Bachira gripped his phone tighter, knuckles blanching white as he stood in the middle of his living room, still in the hoodie you always teased him for buying it a size too big. His heart thudded in his chest.

His eyes had been practically glued to his phone ever since you told. him that you were going on a date tonight. He smiled through it, like always. But now ? all he could picture was you sitting alone, all dressed up for someone who didn’t even have the decency to show.

His jaw clenched.

That guy didn’t even deserve to look at you.

"Do you..." he started, voice low now, gentler—threaded with something a little raw, a little afraid of overstepping. "Do you want me to come over?"

A beat.

You hesitated, just a second too long for his nerves to handle.

"...Yeah," you whispered. “Please.”

Something loosened in his chest. “Okay. Gimme ten minutes.” You could hear him moving already—keys jingling, footsteps. "I'll bring snacks," he added, voice lighter now, "And hugs. Lots of 'em." You let out the tiniest laugh, your first real one of the night. “Okay.”

“Promise. Be there soon.”

The line went quiet, but your fingers lingered against the screen, unwilling to let go of the warmth in his voice just yet. Slowly, you set your phone down on your nightstand and sighed, letting the silence settle in around you again—but this time, it didn’t feel quite as crushing.

You moved to your vanity, flipping on the soft fairy lights strung above the mirror. The room bloomed in gentle amber hues, shadows stretching softly across the walls. Outside, the distant hum of the city buzzed through the window—cars passing, laughter echoing from the corner bar, life still moving even when yours had stilled a bit tonight.

Your gaze fell on the little photo tucked into the edge of your mirror. Faded slightly, corners bent. Meguru at ten, maybe eleven, grinning wide with a soccer ball tucked under one arm and a missing front tooth. You’d taken it after a neighborhood game, when he’d run straight to you after scoring, eyes brighter than the sun.

He’d always run to you. Always been there.

Every scraped knee. Every heartbreak. Every birthday. Every late-night call. You swallowed the lump in your throat, brushing your thumb across the picture frame. Always had some unruly hair too.

Wiping under your eyes one last time before padding quietly toward the bathroom. The mirror there showed someone still hurting—makeup smudged, lips bitten from trying not to cry.

Turning on the water, you let the steam rise and bloom across the mirror as you peeled your dress off, stepping out of your shoes and shedding the night like a second skin. The warm spray hit your shoulders, and finally—finally—you exhaled.

As soon as you stepped out of the bathroom, you got three soft knocks on your front door. "Coming!" You shouted out softly, your feet padding over to the door in your favorite oversized tee and shorts, damp hair clinging lightly to your skin.

Three more soft knocks.

When you opened the door, there he was—Meguru, hoodie half-zipped and hair still messy from rushing over. His arms were full: a tote bag of snacks, a bottle of that fruity soda you both liked, and the soft, familiar smile that always made things feel a little lighter.

But when his eyes landed on you, something shifted.

He paused.

Just for a moment.

Because there you were—no makeup, no doll-up outfit. Just the warm, fresh glow of your skin and the faint scent of soap and vanilla curling toward him in the air like gravity. His breath caught a little in his throat.

He’d seen you a thousand times before, but right now?

You looked soft. You looked real.

And it wrecked him.

“Hey,” you said, voice quiet.

His lips curved into something smaller, more tender. “Hey.”

You stepped aside, and he slipped past you into the apartment, kicking off his shoes like he always did. He didn’t say anything at first, just set the bag down on your coffee table and turned back to you, eyes still tracing over the curve of your cheek, the drop of water trailing from your collarbone down.

“You okay?” he asked, gentler now.

You nodded, “Better now.”

He smiled again, this time with more certainty. “Good. ‘Cause I brought every terrible snack we’ve ever eaten during a movie marathon,” he said, already pulling out chips, candy, and a pack of microwave popcorn like it was treasure.

“And,” he added, grinning wider, “hugs.”

You laughed, soft and a little shy, but it bubbled up genuine. “Gimme one?”

He didn’t need to be told twice. He stepped forward and wrapped his arms around you—arms warm and solid and safe. You pressed your face to his chest and breathed him in: the faint clean scent of his cologne, the warmth of his skin through the hoodie, the steady thump of his heart right beneath your cheek.

“I got you,” he whispered into your hair.

Your eyes fluttered closed as you hugged Bachira back, your fingers curling slightly into the fabric of his hoodie. The much-needed warmth of an embrace helped dissolve the last tight coil in your chest, tension melting from your shoulders with every quiet second you stood there.

But then—there it was.

A flutter.

Subtle at first, low in your stomach. Not the anxiety kind. Not the ache you’d been carrying all night. But something quieter. Warmer. Like the kind that snuck up on you during long summer nights.

His hand rubbed slow circles against your back, and it only made it worse. Or better.

You weren’t sure.

You exhaled against his chest, your breath catching slightly as you became suddenly aware of how close he was. Of the way his voice softened just for you. The way his body curved around yours like it belonged there.

You shifted slightly, just enough to glance up at him—and he was already looking at you. His gaze wasn’t teasing, not like usual. It wasn’t wild or chaotic or loud. It was still. Like he’d been waiting for you to look.

You swallowed. “Thanks for coming tonight.”

His voice was quiet, barely a breath. “Always. Whenever you need me.”

A minute passed of Bachira just holding you, the sound of his heart softly beating in his chest soothing your nerves as you breathed. So much so you unconsciously nuzzled your head further in his chest. Breathing in his scent, the smell of fresh laundry and light cologne wafted in his nose.

Your voice came out softly before you even realized. “Could you stay? The night, I mean. I don’t really wanna be alone.”

Your words quiet, nearly lost in the hum of the city outside the window. And for a second, you wished you could take them back—not because you didn’t mean them, but because they felt like a thread being pulled. One that, if tugged too hard, might unravel everything.

But Bachira didn’t hesitate.

“Y-Yeah,” he said softly. “Of course I can. Whatever you need.” Noticing his nervousness you pulled back slightly, giving him a look as you gazed up at him. "It's okay if you can't, you know that right?" You asked slowly, your hands moving from his back to resting on his shoulders. His now settled near your waist.

Bachira's shoulders dropped slightly as he gave you a soft smile, "I really can, its okay. I promise, nothing is that urgent enough that it could make me leave your side." He stated, his softer tone, words, and genuine smile unknowingly egging on the butterflies in your stomach once more.

You were also now very aware of the placement of his hands.

Letting out a (hopefully not too obvious) nervous laugh, you cleared your throat and gently pulled your hands back from his shoulders, stepping away before your brain did something reckless—like lean in.

“Uhm, so what did you wanna watch tonight?” you asked, voice a little shaky at the edges but still playful as you grabbed the bag of snacks off your wooden table, and moved towards your bedroom.

Bachira blinked once, then followed you with a smile that didn’t quite hide the pink blooming at the tops of his ears. “I think you get full movie-picking rights this time, tonight is about you.” Grabbing the remote from your nightstand you sat on the edge of the bed. “Thanks megs.” Your voice soft.

He flopped onto the bed beside you with zero hesitation, relaxing immediately into the sheets like it was his room. He hummed, a smile still tugging at the corner of his mouth. He stretched out a little, resting his head against your headboard. “But also, I got you some gummy worms. Since I might have ate most of them last time."

You gave him a look, then reached into the bag he’d brought, pulling out the brightly colored package. “Okay, you're forgiven.” He gave you a lazy smile, eyes twinkling like stars as he gazed down at you opening the candy.

The playful banter helped. Grounded you. The tension in your shoulders eased as you finally climbed into bed properly, sitting back against the pillows beside him. Close, but not quite touching.

You flipped through the streaming apps for a few seconds, your mind wandering more to the warmth of him next to you than any movie title. “Something dumb and funny?” you offered.

Bachira gave you a look as if to say 'really?', "Do you even know me at all?" You rolled your eyes with a laugh, "Okay okay, comedy it is."

As the opening scene started to play, you tossed him a blanket from the end of the bed. He caught it with one hand and draped it over both of your legs like it was the most natural thing in the world.

A few minutes passed. Laughter from the screen filled the room, but neither of you were really watching. You felt his thigh brush against yours under the blanket, and when you shifted slightly, his knee gently bumped yours.

He didn’t move away.

And neither did you.

A comfortable silence fell over you both, despite the air seemingly growing thicker with each passing breath. The feeling of his eyes on the side of your face, the way you got more conscious of your movements, the stiffening of your limbs.

You weren’t even sure when it started—the weird, nagging itch under your skin. The ache to lean over, rest your head on his shoulder like you always did on nights like this. It had always been so easy with Bachira. Natural. You used to fall asleep curled up against him without even thinking about it, without worrying what it meant or how long his arm had been around you.

But something felt different.

Your body was fighting itself. Every inch of you wanted to curl into him, bury your face in the soft cotton of his hoodie and just breathe—but your heart was hammering too loud in your chest for you to even consider pretending this was just like before. Because it didn't feel like it. At all.

The way meguru's gaze lingered on your lips, how even the slightest touch left you practically yearning for more- none of this was friend related things. Not in the slightest, though then again you two had always had a close friendship. Cuddling was just a common occurrence between the two of you.

It was arguably more weird that you weren't curled into his side right now.

You bit your lip, fingers fiddling absently with the edge of the blanket. Your eyes stayed glued to the TV screen, even though you couldn’t remember a single joke that had played in the last five minutes. You didn’t dare look at him, too afraid he’d already be looking at you.

And of course, he was.

“Can I ask you something?” Bachira said, his voice low, almost uncertain—something rare for him. You blinked, finally turning to glance his way. “Yeah, of course.” He paused, brows furrowing slightly. Then, so soft you almost didn’t catch it, he asked: “Why'd you keep giving guys like him a chance?”

The words hit you like a drop in your stomach. Heavy and disorienting. You blinked once. Twice. “What do you mean?”

“I mean…” He exhaled a breathy laugh, “You’re you. You’re kind, smarter than most people I know, pretty, weird in the best way, and he couldn’t even show up for you. It's just," His shoulders drooped. " You never really looked—happy with them.” Your heart practically sank, and the look on his face?..Disappointment? Regret?

Now you regret even telling him about this stupid date, just seeing Meguru so..sad like that made your soul ache.

You put your hand on his idle one, resting between the two of you on the blanket. Your gaze fell to your joined hands, slowly in thought. Neither of you moved at first—his palm warm beneath yours, your fingers uncertain but firm, like they needed something to hold onto.

His hand twitched slightly under your touch, but he didn’t pull away.

Opening your mouth to speak, you hesitated for a second before taking a breath and confessing, “You're right I wasn't." A weight seemingly lifted off your chest as the words left your lips, like admitting it out loud finally made it real. You felt a quiet sigh escape him, a subtle shift in his demeanor, as if he too was holding his breath for your honesty.

He silently watched your expression as you continued.

"Honestly, I think part of my problem is desperation," You laughed half heartedly. "I'm so desperate to get someone to like me— to love me, that I don't even realize a relationship for what it is until I get hurt." You confessed, your voice trailing off.

Silence.

It struck the room like a bulldozer as tears dared to water in your eyes, the soft glow of the tv making it harder to force them away. You felt bachira about to say something, knowing him it would've pushed you over the edge and started the waterfall. So, you simply laughed it off, blinking away tears as if you weren't on the verge of breaking down like you were 3 hours ago.

"Don't pity me though, it's my fault for trying to find prince charming on a shitty three star app-"

"I love you."

Your gaze shot back up to his, eyes soft yet flickering with sadness as they watered. Your heart rammed against your chest as you swallowed, "I..love you too megs, but you don't have to say that to make me feel better. It's okay—" He quickly shook his head before turning to face you better and grabbing both your hands. "No, I love you. Like I've- I've been in love with you since the moment I heard you laugh."

Your breath hitched. The words didn’t fully register at first—not because you didn’t hear them, but because your heart was too loud in your chest, pounding against your ribs like it was trying to break out.

Bachira’s hands were warm, gently holding yours like they were the most precious thing he’d ever been allowed to touch. His thumbs brushed your knuckles, his eyes locked to yours with that same stillness from before—quiet, but unwavering. There was no joke in his voice, no grin tugging at his lips to soften the blow of seriousness. Just honesty. Raw and real.

“I didn’t say anything before because I thought maybe you’d figure it out with someone else first. That you’d find someone who made you smile like I always wanted to.” He inhaled shakily. “But every time I saw you the day after a date you just looked, so sad. So disappointed," He inhaled sharply, "And I hated that you were getting so dolled up for other guys when I adore you just like this."

Tears finally slipped down your cheeks. You didn’t sob or shake—you just felt, like your whole body was soaking in the gravity of his words. You had known Meguru Bachira your whole life. He’d been there for scraped knees, for final exams, for birthdays and breakups.

He'd always been there, he'd always felt like this.

"Really? Like you aren't just saying this because you're my bestfriend right?" You asked, voice wavering as you blinked up at Meguru with glossy eyes. His heart shattered at the sight, quickly reassuring you. "No, never! I mean it, y/n. I love you. I always have." Your breath hitched as his eyes locked on yours, "you don't have to say anything back, I know you went through a lot today-"

Leaning forward, you let go of one of his hands to cup his cheek, thumb brushing over the flushed skin there as you pressed a soft kiss to his lips. That same warm feeling blooming in your chest as you kissed him. The jittery but happy sensation that made your heart swoon.

When you pulled back, your forehead hovered just a breath from his. “I can’t say I know exactly what I feel for you right now,” you whispered, breath mingling with his, voice barely above a tremble. “But I know it’s more than friendship, Megs."

The truth hung in the air like a held breath.

Pink bloomed across his cheeks and dusted his ears, lashes fluttering slightly as if he were trying to process it all at once. For a second, he just stared at you, stunned into quiet. Then, slowly—you watched his chest rise and fall, and something in his gaze softened.

“That’s more than enough for me,” Meguru said, voice low, steady. Honest.

This time, he leaned in—deliberate and slow, kissing you back. Not with hesitation, but with care. Gentle but loving kisses were pressed to your lips, eyes fluttering closed as you hummed into it.

A hand slid up your back, while his other gently gripped your waist as your lips moved with his. The kiss deepened gradually, like the two of you were testing the edges of something vast, something overwhelming but safe.

You shifted slightly, a shaky breath leaving you as you moved from your place beside him to straddling his lap. The blanket slipped off your legs, pooling behind you as your thighs bracketed him. Your arms wrapped around his neck, pulling him close, and you could feel the way his breath caught in his throat when your boobs pressed against his chest.

Bachira’s hands froze at your waist for just a second, his eyes flicking up to meet yours as if asking for permission, for reassurance that you wanted this too. You gave it without words—just a soft nod, the curve of your mouth into a gentle smile, and the way your fingers slid into his hair, curling near the nape of his neck.

He exhaled shakily, like the last bit of restraint left him, and pulled you closer. “So pretty,” he murmured, barely audible, like the words weren’t meant for you to hear—just something he couldn’t help but say. Then his lips found yours again, but this time, the kiss grew into something heated. Hungrier.

His hand, once tentative, tightened around your waist with more confidence, anchoring you to him as your bodies pressed together. The air between you two grew hotter, as your lips parted willingly beneath his, taking that as an invitation—bachira's tongue slid softly against yours, coaxing a soft gasp from your throat.

Your hips shifted instinctively, a small, subtle roll forward that sent a jolt straight through him. Bachira shivered beneath you, a sharp inhale caught in his throat. Quickly, you started to slew out apologies as you pulled back, eyes worriedly darting across his face. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“Its okay!,” Bachira interrupted gently, his thumbs brushing soft, soothing circles into your hips. “It’s fine, really. It felt..good." He exhaled slowly, his smile small but sure. “But we don’t have to do anything. Not if you don’t want to. I swear, I don’t expect anything from you!"

The sincerity in his voice tugged at something deep in your chest. No pressure. No expectation. Just Meguru being... him. Always looking out for you, even now, when his hands were still trembling slightly from your closeness. You looked at him, really looked at him—his flushed cheeks, messy hair, those wide golden eyes that held you so gently. The words left before you could second-guess them.

“I want to,” you said, voice steadier than you expected. “With you. I trust you, Megs.”

His eyes widened, a breath catching in his throat as your hands reached up to cradle his face again. “I trust you,” you repeated, softer this time, just before pressing your lips back to his. Doing an experimental roll of your hips, not expecting the new satisfying sensation of having your clothed cunt drag over his bulge.

A cute whimper escaped Meguru at the action, his head practically lolling back from the friction. You giggled at the sight, despite the throbbing in your panties making you wanna rut your hips like a dog in heat. "God that feels so good, cmere angel." He whined, smashing his lips back onto yours as he bucked his hips up into yours. Swallowing a soft moan of yours as you grinded down on the striker.

This was criminally unfair how good you felt. With only a few rolls of your hips you already have him this close to losing it? He secretly wanted to thank the idiots who stood you up—for leading you straight into his arms.

A frantic heat began to build within Meguru with every desperate thrust. The feeling of your fingers pulling against his hair making him groan into your mouth, panted breaths escaping him as he listened to your sinful moans and whimpers. "Feels so good megs,"

God—The way you said his name made blood rush to his cock.

How you breathed, the way your half lidded, glazed over eyes flicked up to his with such desire and love, how sweetly you kissed him despite grinding down on him like you were in a rut. Your cute moans filling his ears like a symphony-

You were heaven on earth. An angel sent to make him loose his fucking mind.

" 'So pretty, so hot, m'gonna cum soon if you keep this up angel." Meguru panted eyes fluttering closed. His words going straight down to your dripping cunt. Your head fallen on his shoulder, as you moaned. The sound alone making him leak an embarrassing amount pre-cum.

"Then cum with me, please megs. 'Wanna feel you," you begged, hips bucking down greedily on his growing bulge, a desperate rhythm building between you. Every frantic thrust from him, every roll of your hips, sent a jolt of pleasure straight to your core. The raw, desperate sound of your plea, of you begging him, sent a fresh wave of fire through his veins, making his restraint fray even more.

"I will angel, I will. I'm here, I'll always be for you."

[vamplu]

With All My Heart

Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader

Summary: You never thought Bucky was the sentimental type, until you found something hidden under his bed.

WC: 3.3k

Tags/Warnings: super fluffy, established relationship, Post Thunderbolts*,Not Beta Read 

A/N: I’ve had this idea for weeks and finally did it. Fun fact, the Polaroids may or may not be inspired by real pictures I took of my best friend and her boyf. Also, yes I have been to the rest stop I mentioned. Sadly I live far away from them and I NEED to go back!

You felt like an idiot looking at your wrist and realizing your watch wasn’t there. 

“Shit,” you mumbled.

“What’s wrong?” Bucky asked you with concern. 

You shook your head, “It’s nothing, I forgot my watch.”

He paused, pondering while he put on his leather jacket. “I think you left it on my nightstand when you took it off last night,” he answered, pointing down the hall. “Do you want to go get it before we leave?” 

You hesitated, “You sure you don’t mind waiting?” 

Bucky shook his head and held out his hand to hold your jacket and purse for you. “Not at all.”

You smiled, handed him your things, and left a kiss on his cheek. “Thanks, be right back.” 

As you walked away the corners of his lips turned up into a soft smile. 

You hurried to Bucky’s room and upon entering a frustrated groan left you. There the nightstand was, with no watch. You searched the drawers in the nightstand and the top of his dresser, still no luck. 

After staring at the nightstand, you wondered if you really did leave it there but maybe it fell. You kneeled down next to the bed and turned on your phone flashlight. A quick scan finally revealed the missing watch. With a relieved sigh you reached for it, when something caught your eye. 

A box. 

A box with your name written on the side of it. 

Your own name was staring back at you as you grabbed the watch. With a careful hand you reached for the box and dragged it out from the bed. 

The box sat in your lap, unopened, unbothered. It was a dark brown cardboard shoe box from one of his pairs of boots. Your name was written in black marker on the side and next to it a tiny messy heart. 

Your gut is telling you not to open it. It might have been hidden for a reason. You have no right to be digging and snooping around Bucky’s things. Finding something he didn’t want found. 

But another part of you was desperate to know what was inside. That small but loud part of your brain that was screaming at you to open it. The voice kept echoing in your ears. Reminding you that your name was on it. 

Why did he have a box with your name on it?

Maybe it wasn’t supposed to be hidden. You kept things under your bed not because you wanted to hide them, but because of storage and safekeeping. Maybe this was like that. 

Maybe. 

God the anticipation was going to kill you. 

Maybe it was a present he put in there for your next anniversary, birthday, or some other reason. 

Well then you should really not open it. Don’t want to ruin any possible surprise he has for you. 

You really shouldn’t open it. You shouldn’t open it. Don’t open it. Don’t open it. Don’t open it. Don’t open it. Open it. Open it. Open it…

Your hands moved on their own. Your fingers peeled back the lid of the box and set it down on the floor next to you. 

You peered inside at the contents of the box with confused curiosity. At first glance it didn’t look like much. It definitely wasn’t a present. There were a bunch of random items, mostly paper ones. 

The first thing that caught your attention was the small plastic wristband. It was at the top of the pile. You picked it up and read the words on the side “Luna Park: Coney Island.” Realization dawned on you that it was Bucky’s wristband from your first date. When he asked you out, there was no specific place in mind yet. But when he told you an old story about him and Steve at Coney Island and you said you had never been there before, he knew where he wanted to take you. 

It was a perfect first date. The weather was clear and warm but not too hot to be uncomfortable, no doubt because of the cool ocean breeze. You went on rides, you played games. And of course Bucky spent 40 bucks to win you a blue stuffed penguin you fawned over and called cute. He was a man on a mission. And now that penguin sat on a chair in your bedroom. 

With a smile you placed the wristband back in the box and picked at the other things inside. 

Your heart swelled at the realization that most of the items were from your old dates with Bucky. There were tickets from your trips to the Metropolitan Museum of Art, Museum of Natural History and one from The New York Aquarium. There had to be at least 5 movie stubs and 3 dinner receipts from dates you went on with him. There was the playbill from the broadway show he took you to for your birthday a few months ago. He surprised you with orchestra seats. 

You dug around more and found a strip of photos from a photo booth you took with Bucky. His eyes shined as he told you about how common they were back in the 30s and how he used to always stop at them with his friends. When you both sat down he stared with wide eyes at the inflated price. 

“Ten dollars? This used to cost a quarter!” 

You giggled at his complaint, “You sound so old when you say stuff like that.” You reached for your purse to grab a ten when he stopped you with a hand on your arm and pulled out his wallet from his pocket. 

“I’m still not going to let you pay for it,” he returned with a sly grin. 

You smiled looking down at the strip of pictures in your hand. The top photo was simple, both you and Bucky smiling at the camera with his arm around you. It was sweet, peaceful. In the second photo you placed a hand under his chin and kissed his cheek. His eyes were closed with wrinkles around them from his smile. His cheeks were more rosy than in the last photo. In the third photo Bucky now had his hand on your neck as he kissed you. The fourth and final photo was of you looking at the camera, mid laugh, while Bucky had a hand on your face and pressed a kiss to your cheek. 

The machine gave you two copies of the pictures. Yours was pinned to a cork board in your room next to other photos. 

You moved on from the photo strip and continued digging through the memory box, throwing caution to the wind. 

As you flipped through the other items a shell fell from behind something, landing in the corner of the box. It was the seashell from when you walked and talked on the beach for what felt like hours because you were so engrossed in conversation with him. The water carried a small shell onto the shore. You picked it out from the water and stared at it in awe. You had asked Bucky to hold onto it because your clutch was full and your outfit didn’t have any pockets. Later that night you forgot about it. 

In fact, you forgot about it until now, weeks later. Your jaw dropped as you ran your fingertips over the ridges of the shell's surface, reminiscing your walk on the beach. His hand in yours and the

The next thing you found were the birthday cards you gave Bucky from his last two birthdays. One card was from a birthday before you started dating, and the other one was after. 

The two year old card was more basic, like you got it from the generic section of the birthday card aisle (because you did). You opened up the old card and read your own handwriting. 

Happy Birthday Bucky

I know you don’t like making a big deal out of your birthday but you still deserve a card :) 

You’re so important to this team and your effort doesn’t go unnoticed. We’re lucky to have you around. I hope you have a great day and that 109 treats you well. (Even though you’re technically not 109 haha) 

You closed it and set it back down in the box before grabbing the one you gave him on his most recent birthday. This one was less generic. You picked out one that had more design and personality. 

Happy Birthday my Love 

I am so grateful to have you by my side. You’re one of the best things to have ever happened to me. I hope you know you are so important and appreciated. I can’t imagine my life or this team without you. 

Happy 110th you old man ;)

I love you with all my heart

Hidden behind the birthday cards was a stack of post-it notes all stuck together. Some of them were old with barely any stickiness left and crinkled edges. Some were new and almost in pristine condition. But all of them were notes from you. You flipped through the stack of sticky notes and saw more of your own handwriting. 

Good morning <3

You make me smile :)

Meet me in the lounge later I have a surprise!

I know you stole my last Pepsi >:( prepare for war

I’m so proud of you 

Have a great day!

And at least 7 more that just say I love you 

Bucky must have saved every single note you left for him.

Your heart almost gave out but thankfully it lasted to see the last few items in the box. 

There were more photos. Two to be exact. Two Polaroids taken from Yelena's camera. 

One of the Polaroids was taken a few months ago. You knew it was taken because you posed for it. It was on your birthday. The team celebrated at the tower with you after the show Bucky surprised you with. You wanted to keep out of the public eye for the rest of your birthday. Spend the night with just friends. And your boyfriend of course. 

Yelena was a few drinks in, wasting her camera film throughout the night. She had a pile of photos on the coffee table that was getting thicker as time went on. Most of them included you. 

This one was of you and Bucky. Everyone was sitting on the couches playing a drinking game. You and Bob returned from the bar with new drinks. A Long Island iced tea for you and a regular iced tea for him. You plopped back down on the couch next to your boyfriend, giggling at whatever outlandish thing Alexei said. After you placed your drink down Bucky wrapped an arm around you and placed a gentle kiss to your cheek. 

“Awe! Wait, that was adorable, do that again!” Yelena exclaimed as she grabbed her camera. 

You rolled your eyes, with no real malice of course. “Yelena,” you laughed. 

“Come on, it’s sweet!” She turned the camera on and looked through the viewfinder. 

“Kiss!” Alexei shouted. 

“Pucker up Barnes!” Ava yelled from the other couch. 

The corners of Bucky’s lips turned up into a grin as he shook his head. A gasp left you as Bucky grabbed your hips and pulled you into his lap. He tightened his arm around you and placed a kiss on your cheek. Your face turned bright red as an airy giggle left your lungs. 

Yelena snapped the image in front of her. Forever frozen in time.

The memory of that night now sat in your hands as you stared down at it. There was a phantom feeling of his lips on your skin as you set the Polaroid back down in the box. 

You picked the other photo up, immediately recognizing when it was taken. Except, you don’t remember it being taken. 

This picture was taken a few short weeks before Bucky asked you out. You knew that because your hair was slightly shorter. It was more grown out now. 

The photo was of you and Bucky on the couch, taken from behind. Your back was to the camera, resting against the couch. Bucky was sitting next to you. Your attention was pulled away somewhere off camera. But Bucky, he looked right at you. 

The thing that really stuck with you was his eyes. His eyes were soft. The kind of soft that people didn't see often from him. His eyes are normally like stone. His stare, usually hard, like rock. It pierces into you. But this look on him was different. He looked at you like you were a work of art. Like he was trying to take in all of you with just his eyes. 

You've seen that look before many times. But didn’t notice it before you started dating. You didn’t realize just how head over heels he was in the weeks leading up to your first date. 

You cautiously placed the pictures back in the box, like they were delicate and fragile. 

Something else you didn’t remember was a napkin with little doodles on it. You recognized it as a napkin from a bar the team occasionally visited. But you can’t remember when you drew flowers and vines on this napkin. 

Bucky seemed to remember it. He kept it and cherished it in his memory box like it was a masterpiece you created and not some drunk sketch. 

Your heart rate slowly grew in speed as your eyes moved to a keychain at the bottom of the box. It was a small, yellow, metal keychain in the shape of Texas with a cartoon beaver on it. 

It was in the middle of the night after a short mission in Texas. You and Ava stopped at the largest rest stop you’d ever seen in your life. The rest stop had a beaver for its mascot and aisles of merch. But what made you buy the keychain for him was the name of the rest stop. Buc-ee’s. 

You almost didn’t buy it for him. This was long before you started dating and you weren’t sure how he would appreciate a random gag gift. 

“I found something for you in Texas.” 

He turned to you and hummed with curiosity. You dug the keychain from your jeans pocket and handed it to him. 

“We found this rest stop called Buc-ee’s and they have this little beaver as their mascot,” you explained, fidgeting with the loops in your jeans. “He’s literally your twin, you're both named Bucky,” you ended with a chuckle, trying to make this one sided conversation any less awkward. 

He continued to silently examine it, his right, flesh hand running over the painted metal. 

“I know it’s stupid, you don’t have to keep it,” you nervously mumbled. You reached forward to grab it back from him, 

He pulled his hand back, not willing to give up the present. “No, it’s not stupid. It’s cute,” he reassured.  

Your cheeks heated up in real time just like they did when he said that. 

He kept it. 

He kept the gag gift you got him. This silly little keychain was so important he kept it in a special keepsake box.

You almost couldn’t believe what you found. All the memories, all the stuff you gave him, all the things he cherished because they reminded him of you. It seemed like this box that sat in your lap held his very own heart and all his love for you. 

You shuffled the items back to how they were in the box when you found it. You assumed that was all there was to find in there. Until three candy wrappers fell out from between the various papers. 

Jolly Ranchers. Your favorite candy. 

You always had them on you. Kinda like an old lady that carries around hard candy. John always jokes that you’re an old woman when you grab a jolly rancher from your pocket or purse. He says you and Bucky are perfect for each other because you both have old person tendencies. 

Speaking of Bucky, because you often had candy on you, you always offered some to him. He always said yes. Here in his shoe box you saw one cherry and two green apple wrappers. 

You froze, staring at the candy wrappers. Even in the silence of his room you couldn’t hear the footsteps approaching. For a moment all you heard was your own heart pounding in your ears. 

The door creaked open. “Hey, you’ve been gone for a while. Did you find your watch?” Bucky asked, walking in the room. 

He stopped a few feet away from you. Your back was to him, the box hidden in your lap. But he knew you had it because he saw the lid on the floor next to you. 

You raised your hand and shook your wrist to show him the watch. “Yeah, I found it,” your voice sounded more hoarse than you expected. You quickly blinked away the tears that collected at your waterline right before he waked in.

Bucky took a few steps closer, and crouched down next to you. He brushed a piece of hair behind your ear. Now that he was close to you, he noticed how glassy your eyes were. 

He held your face in his hand, his thumb stroking your cheek. Your eyes fluttered close. 

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. My watch was under the bed and I found this,” you started rambling. “I saw my name. I know I shouldn’t have opened it-“ 

“Hey, hey it’s okay,” he soothed in a quiet voice. He turned your face towards his. “I’m not mad.” 

You nodded to confirm you understood. You sniffled and glanced between him and the box. 

“You kept all this.”  

“I did.” 

“Why?” 

It was a dumb question and you knew it. Yet the word still flew out of your mouth. 

He took a pause, breathing in. 

“This stuff means a lot to me. You mean a lot to me,” he answered like it was the easiest thing to say in the world. 

“After HYDRA, after all the-” he hesitated- “issues with my memory I started keeping stuff like this. To remember.”

With his free hand he grabbed the other side of your face. Bucky leaned closer, his bright blue eyes stared into yours and bore into your soul. You could’ve sworn they looked a little glassy.

“I want to make sure I remember you.” 

You lip quivered. Bucky leaned forward and captured your lips in a brief, gentle kiss. He rested his forehead against yours. 

“Can I ask about something in the box?”

“Anything.” 

“The napkin. I don’t remember it,” you confessed, voice quiet and curious. “Why did you save it?” 

“It was the team's first time at that bar. You were drunk and bored because they weren’t playing songs you liked. Someone left a pen on the bar and you sat there drawing on a napkin for twenty minutes.” Bucky paused as his lips curled into a smile. “You were so concentrated. The bar, the team, they were all so loud and distracting. But all your attention was on these little drawings. Like you were painting the Mona Lisa.”

He licked his lips, “that night I realized I have feelings for you.” 

A giddy smile snuck its way on your face before you kissed him. Slow and passionate. You poured all your love into that kiss to try and match the amount of devotion and love he had on display for you.

You pulled away, but not too far away. Your lips hovered over his. “I love you with all my heart. You know that right?” 

He lightly chuckled, “I know.” 

Bucky wiped away a stray tear that you didn’t know escaped and ran down your cheek. 

“I love you with all of mine,” he whispered, his voice soft with adoration.

[vamplu]

[REDACTED]

[vamplu]

oh, it's hard to leave you (when i get you everywhere!)

pairing: congressman!bucky barnes x pr manager!reader summary: you tweet one (1) mildly unhinged critique of congressman james buchanan barnes’ pr strategy—something about ghosting the press and weaponizing cheekbones—and three hours later he’s in your dms asking if you want a job. now you manage his social media, his public image, and occasionally his existential spirals. he’s got a metal arm, a rescue cat named alpine, and the digital instincts of a dad trying to facetime from the tv remote. somehow, against all odds, he’s good. earnest. dangerously hot. you're so screwed. word count: 10.6k content warnings: 18+ mdni, fem!reader, soft dom!bucky, sloppy make-out sesh for the win, fingering, oral (f!receiving), face riding, praise kink, unprotected sex, rough sex, size kink, creampie, use of pet names like sweetheart and pretty baby, unprecedented levels of yearning, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, unhinged tweets

You don’t mean to go viral.

You really don’t. It’s not a bit or a career move or a desperate plea to the algorithm gods. It’s just that you were in line for coffee at 8:47 a.m., hungover from exactly one and a half spicy margaritas (because you're a real adult now and your liver hates you), and the man in front of you was vaping indoors. You needed to direct your rage somewhere. That somewhere happened to be Twitter.

Well. That and the soft target of Rep. James B. Barnes.

Your actual tweet really isn't that scathing, in your opinion:

“Not to be rude before 9 a.m., but Rep. James B. Barnes has the digital strategy of a man who thinks ‘radio silence’ is the same as ‘messaging control.’ Ghosting the press isn't mysterious, it's lazy. And the Instagram? Sir, it's giving retired uncle who discovered portrait mode last week. You're hot, sure—but public goodwill isn’t built on brooding black-and-white cat photos and the occasional quote that reads like it was ripped from a thirteen year old's diary. Hire literally anyone.”

You hit post, tuck your phone away, and move on with your morning, which includes trying not to scream during a client call where a fitness influencer earnestly asks if she should “lean into a divorce arc.”

By the time you check Twitter again, it’s… carnage. In the good way.

The notifications are stacked like an avalanche. A dozen quote tweets, then a hundred, then you stop counting because your phone is hot to the touch and your Slack has stopped functioning. You’re about to text your best friend when you see it:

@RepBarnes:

Noted. Would you like to try fixing it?

You stare. Blink. Blink again. Surely not.

Surely the Winter Soldier, now U.S. House Representative for New York’s 9th Congressional District, is not quote-tweeting you like this is a casual Tuesday.

Surely the man who once jumped off a highway overpass and punched a terrorist in the face is not lurking on Twitter Dot Com past midnight, scrolling his name like a sad girl with an ex-boyfriend playlist.

You reread it. 

Then again. And again. Your fingers are shaking a little, like you’ve had three too many shots of espresso, which—fine—you have.

You’re halfway through an existential crisis about how a minor PR manager can possibly be noticed by a former Avenger turned Congressman when your phone starts vibrating off the desk. Nina texts you first:

NINA

DUDE DUDE HE KNOWS WHO YOU ARE do you think he read your pinned tweet where you said you’d marry Thor in a Walgreens parking lot???

You don’t answer. You’re too busy spiraling. Because now your professional website is getting hits. And your LinkedIn. And, insult to injury, your ancient Tumblr blog from college, where you once posted a 2,000-word thinkpiece on how Steve Rogers is a metaphor for millennial burnout. You know this because someone found it and tagged you with a screenshot.

You’re spiraling when your phone pings again.

This time it’s not public.

@RepBarnes has sent you a direct message.

If you’re interested, I could use someone like you. NY/DC split. Health benefits included. Let me know.

You read it once. Then again. Then walk away from your desk, lie down on your kitchen floor, and stare at the ceiling like it might have answers. It does not. It has a water stain from your upstairs neighbor’s failed attempt at DIY plumbing. You feel that deeply.

You, who spent three years post-grad slowly circling the corporate America drain—clutching your Communications degree like it’s a winning lottery ticket while negotiating brand partnerships for YouTubers who think “millennial” means “anyone over 26”—have just been headhunted by Bucky Barnes.

You should probably be flattered. Or terrified. Or calling your mom. Instead, you fire off the only response that makes sense:

are u joking?

His reply comes five minutes later.

No. You’re good. And I’m very tired of people telling me to post more cat content.

You stare at your screen.

You should absolutely say no. This is clearly a trap. At best, a weird stunt. At worst, the kind of surreal pivot that leads to you being mentioned in Politico under “questionable staffing decisions.”

But also… your rent just went up. Again. Your clients are spiraling. You haven’t had health insurance that covers dental since 2021.

And Bucky Barnes wants to hire you?

You exhale. Then type,

i'll clear my schedule. when and where?

A beat.

Meet me in D.C. I’ll have coffee. You bring strategy.

You stare at that last part and—God help you—you start to grin.

You're pretty sure you’ve just accepted a job from the Winter Soldier.

.

Once upon a time, you had hopes.

Real, annoying ones. Back when you still believed in upward mobility and the promise of networking events with warm chardonnay. You were going to climb the ranks. Not to the top, necessarily—you were realistic, not delusional—but to a place with an actual title. "Director" maybe, or "Head of Strategy." Something crisp and important-sounding that could be printed on business cards without irony. You’d wear smart blazers and carry a leather tote that didn’t smell like stale granola bars. You’d have power lunches.

Instead, you’re three years out of grad school with an inbox full of “circling back”s, a calendar that reads like a sacrificial offering to the content gods, and a job that involves convincing lifestyle micro-influencers to stop posting QAnon-adjacent smoothie recipes.

You had dreams. Now you have bills.

Which is why the Bucky Barnes situation feels less like a win and more like a symptom. A brain glitch, maybe. You refresh your inbox. Again. You’ve been doing that for the last hour and a half. The DM is still there, as if it might disappear if you blink too hard.

You open a Google Doc. Title it “Project: Barnes?” with the tentative, quizzical punctuation of someone who is very much not okay. 

And then, like any self-respecting PR person who has just been contacted by a former war hero turned sitting U.S. Representative, you type the most professional research query you can think of:

bucky barnes political platform site:gov

Then:

bucky barnes cat

And then, after five minutes of increasingly weird search results, you cave:

bucky barnes shirtless

For research purposes, obviously. To understand the optics. You are nothing if not committed to analyzing the full spectrum of a person's public persona.

(Also, look. It’s not your fault that James Buchanan Barnes is stupidly, distractingly attractive in a way that should be a federal offense. The man has the bone structure of a war-weary marble statue. The jawline of a vintage cologne ad. And don’t even get started on the arm—the arm—because that’s a whole separate thesis.)

It’s Wakandan tech, sleek and black with gold accents that catch the light like something out of myth. You’ve seen pictures of him at press conferences, sleeves pushed up, glinting like some kind of tactical Greek god. It is, objectively, an optics goldmine. Which makes it even more baffling that his current social strategy is “post like a cryptid and hope people like based on vibes.”

You learn that he’s been in Congress for just under six months. That he ran on a progressive platform with a heavy emphasis on veteran care, climate resilience, and “actually listening to the people,” which, yes, is vague—but less vague than the average politician, so that’s something. You find clips from a debate where he tells a super PAC-backed opponent, with all the calm menace of a man who once fought a Nazi on top of a train, “I didn’t survive a handful of wars to let people like you sell this country for parts.”

It’s not fair. He shouldn’t be allowed to be hot and principled and grumpy in a compelling way. That’s too many character traits. You’re fairly certain it violates some kind of congressional ethics code.

You click out of the tab. Open another. 

Watch a video of him dodging a question on CNN with a non-answer so blunt it circles back around to being honest. He has a dry, clipped delivery. A little awkward. A little old. Not in a cringey, old-man way—but like he hasn’t quite caught up with the TikTokification of discourse. 

You hate how much you want to fix it.

Your fingers twitch. You scroll through his feed. It’s mostly retweets of policy initiatives, local labor union updates, and cat pictures—grainy, candid shots of a very fluffy white feline with the disdainful elegance of old money and the personal boundaries of a cryptid. She’s usually perched somewhere she shouldn’t be: on top of his kitchen cabinets, wedged behind a stack of legislative binders, once half-asleep inside his empty duffel bag. Once in a while, he posts a weirdly poetic thought. Like:

Not all roads lead to war. But I remember the ones that did.

You stare at it.

It has thirty-two retweets, all from mutuals you know to be deeply online. One has responded “who’s running this account and do they need therapy.” Another has written simply: “sir.”

You breathe out a laugh.

You should be panicking. Or preparing. Or calling someone smarter than you. But instead you’re refreshing his feed and scrolling like a girl with a crush. 

Which—no. Nope. Absolutely not. This is research. Professional curiosity. Intellectual rigor.

You check your calendar. Nothing but a call at four with your client who wants to rebrand herself as an “edible wellness guru” and refuses to define what that means. You sigh. Close the tab.

Then reopen it. One more scroll for the road.

In one photo, his cat is curled up in Bucky’s lap, a fluffy white loaf of judgement and chaos, her paw resting on his vibranium arm like she owns both it and the man it’s attached to. The caption reads:

She snored through my security briefing. I wish I could too.

Jesus Christ, you think. I’m in trouble.

.

You spend the next forty-eight hours overthinking everything.

Your research doc is now twenty pages long. You’ve compiled notes on his legislative record, his key voting blocs, public sentiment analysis, and—because you are fundamentally broken—a list of his most viral thirst tweets. There’s one that simply reads “he could kill me and I’d say thank you.” You are not proud to admit it made you snort.

You board the train to D.C. with your headphones in, your anxiety clutched to your chest like a carry-on, and your very best business casual. You don’t even read on the train. You just sit there and wonder what the hell you’re doing.

By the time you arrive, you’re exhausted from spiraling.

The coffee shop is in Capitol Hill—of course it is. Quiet and wood-paneled, with the kind of soft lighting that makes everyone look like they’re about to confess something. 

You’re early. He’s not there yet. You order a black coffee and a croissant you won’t eat and choose the table in the back, where you can see the door.

Five minutes later, he walks in.

And yes, fine. It is a little cinematic.

James Buchanan Barnes in the flesh is not the brooding, hyper-composed figure from press photos. He’s rougher around the edges in person, like someone who never quite got used to peacetime. His hair is slicked back but starting to come undone at the edges. The navy suit jacket he’s wearing is slightly creased, like he’s been rolling up the sleeves and taking it off and putting it back on all morning. No tie. Just the white collar of his shirt open at the throat, exposing the soft brush of stubble across his neck and jaw.

God. This is so unfair.

His eyes land on you and something flickers—recognition, maybe, or skepticism. You can’t tell.

He walks over. You stand too quickly. Your chair makes a horrible screech.

“Hi,” you say, then—because you’re flustered and your brain is full of static—“I almost didn’t recognize you without the strategically vague tweets.”

His brow lifts, just slightly. The corner of his mouth pulls. Could be amusement. Could be confusion.

“You came,” he says, as if the possibility you wouldn’t had been very real.

“Of course,” you reply, forcing a half-smile. “I go where the digital crises call.”

He nods once, slowly. Watches you as you open your laptop and set your coffee down. It’s too quiet for a moment—the hum of the café, the hiss of the espresso machine, the clink of someone stirring sugar behind the counter. You pull up the notes you made at two in the morning while spiral-reading his press history, trying not to fidget.

“I figured,” you offer, “we’d start with a social audit. Clarify some core messaging, maybe put together a soft content strategy for the next two weeks. We’ll do a tone reset, pull the last six months of analytics, identify what’s actually landing—because no offense, but your engagement rates are being carried by your cat.”

A pause.

“I mean, I get it. She’s adorable. But still.”

He huffs something that could be a laugh, if it weren’t so dry. Then leans back slightly, the line between his brows easing as he studies you.

Then he says, slowly, like he’s still feeling out the words: “You actually know what you’re talking about.”

And you blink. ���You thought I didn’t?”

He shrugs, glancing out the window for a beat before returning to you. “I kind of thought you were… just someone online. Making noise.”

You sip your coffee. “I mean. I am. But I also have a master’s in communication strategy and ten thousand hours of dealing with manchildren who think posting a thirst trap is a branding pivot.”

His mouth twitches. “Sounds promising.”

You smile. Tight. “So. What exactly do you really need help with?”

And just like that—you’re in it.

You expect him to start with a question. Or a joke. Or maybe something awkward and vaguely threatening, like “how do you know so much about me?” (You don’t. You just have Wi-Fi and a dangerous relationship with your search bar.)

But instead, Bucky leans back in his chair, crosses his arms, and says, “It’s just not working.”

You blink. “You’ll have to be more specific. What’s not working?”

“My comms strategy. My messaging. All of it.”

He sounds vaguely exasperated, but not angry. Just tired. You get the sense that’s his baseline. He gestures with one hand, the movement sharp and utilitarian. “I’m supposed to be building a digital presence that connects with people. Makes them trust me. Instead I’m getting tagged in memes about how hot I am.”

You nod, solemn. “To be fair, you do look like that.”

He doesn’t laugh, but he quirks an eyebrow like he’s maybe a little impressed you said it. “Thanks.”

You swallow the lump in your throat with a sip of coffee. It’s going lukewarm. “So what was the issue? Your team too old school? Too hands-off?”

He gives you a look that’s equal parts apology and confession. “I don’t really have a team.”

You blink again. “You… don’t have a team.”

“One guy. Used to run PR for a congressman from Montana. Thought hiring someone low-profile would keep things clean.”

You squint. “You’re a former Avenger. There’s no such thing as clean.”

“Yeah,” he says. “Starting to notice that.”

You press your fingers to your temples. “Okay. So let me get this straight. You have no digital strategy lead, no content calendar, no brand consultant, and you’re navigating one of the most publicly scrutinized jobs in America with a guy whose last success story was getting a local paper to stop calling his boss ‘the Beef Tariff Czar.’”

He shifts. Slightly. Doesn’t deny it.

You put your coffee down. Carefully. Deliberately. Then say, as diplomatically as you can:

“With all due respect, Mr. Barnes—this is a disaster.”

He meets your eyes. Dead-on. “That’s why I messaged you.”

It’s almost… earnest. That quiet, unflinching way he says it. Like he knows just how far in over his head he is. Like he doesn’t enjoy asking for help, but he’s smart enough to do it anyway. 

That, more than anything, is what knocks you sideways.

Because the guy sitting across from you does not radiate “competent politician.” He’s stiff in the way people are when they’re always anticipating a fight. He looks like someone who’s only recently stopped treating doorknobs like potential traps. 

But he also looks at you like he’s listening. Like he wants to get this right, even if he doesn’t know how.

And you hate how that pulls at you.

You fold your hands. Steady your tone. “If I take this job, I’m not just managing your Twitter. I’ll need full access—messaging, public statements, policy framing. You’ll have to be okay with me pushing back. Hard.”

He nods. “Understood.”

“And I’ll need to redo everything your current guy’s done.”

“I was hoping you would.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Including the website that looks like it was designed in 2007?”

A ghost of a smirk. “I designed that one myself.”

“Of course you did.”

A beat. Then—quietly, without the usual edge. “I didn’t expect to win. When I ran. It wasn’t about the campaign. I just thought… if I could stand up, maybe someone else would too.”

It’s not a speech. It’s not even polished. But it hits.

You sit with it for a second. Then say, “That’s the part people need to hear.”

He frowns. “What, the not-expecting-to-win part?”

“No. The rest. The standing up.” You pause. “You want to help. And that’s rare. It’s worth something. We can build on that.”

There’s a shift then, subtle but real. He straightens a little. Like your words have landed somewhere deep. Like maybe—maybe—you’re the first person who’s said that in a while.

You don’t say anything else. Neither does he.

But something’s settled between you. A quiet, unspoken agreement.

You’re in. Actually.

God help you.

.

Your first day working for Congressman James Buchanan Barnes begins with a minor existential crisis and a yogurt you eat standing up.

Capitol Hill is less glamorous than it looks on TV. A lot more beige. A lot more linoleum. Everything smells like government-grade carpet and desperation. You get stopped at security twice. First because of your laptop. Then because you muttered “kill me” under your breath in line and a very serious-looking man with an earpiece asked if you were making a threat.

You’re not. But it’s touch and go.

Bucky’s office is on the third floor of the Cannon Building. It’s functional in the same way a DMV is functional—technically operating, but held together by anxiety and one overworked assistant. The plaque outside his door reads:

REP. JAMES BARNES

New York’s 9th District

Inside, it’s… chaos.

Not loud chaos. Weird chaos. Subtle. Like someone tried to copy a normal congressional office from memory but forgot a few key details. There’s a framed photo of Brooklyn from the ‘40s. A desk with approximately forty-nine paperweights—no papers, just the weights. A bowl of wrapped Werther’s Originals. You are immediately suspicious.

Before you can process that, Bucky appears in the doorway, sleeves rolled up, tie in hand like he hasn’t figured out if he’s putting it on or strangling it.

“You made it,” he says. Deadpan.

“No thanks to Homeland Security,” you mutter, stepping inside.

He gives you the tour, if you can call it that. 

There’s the bullpen (three desks, one of which has a sword leaning against it for reasons no one explains), a coffee station with a “don’t drink this, it’s poison” Post-it, and his actual office, which is larger than you expected and somehow still incredibly bare.

You spot a half-empty bookcase, a red file folder labeled “CRISIS?” and a punching bag tucked behind the door.

“Is that for stress relief or intimidation purposes?” you ask, pointing at the bag.

“Yes,” he replies.

The next hour is a whirlwind of introductions, vague directives, and increasingly unhinged email threads. His comms inbox is a minefield. 

You get a badge, a desk, and a monitor that still has a Post-it from your predecessor that just says, Good luck, you’re gonna need it. You also learn that the thermostat in the office only has two settings: Arctic Military Base and Surface of the Sun.

By the end of your first day, your inbox has refreshed for the fifth time and you’ve flagged three crisis-adjacent threads—one involving a scheduling mix-up, one involving a meme account, and one involving a conspiracy theory about cyborgs in Congress.

Maybe, just maybe, this job might be more than you bargained for.

The next week is only slightly less chaotic.

Your—well, his, technically—first press briefing is scheduled for 2 p.m. sharp, but by 1:17 you’re already mentally preparing the post-mortem. You’ve seen the rehearsal footage, such as it was—him standing in front of his desk, arms crossed like a bouncer, muttering responses like they physically pained him.

When you gently suggested he try smiling, he looked at you like you’d asked him to perform open-heart surgery with a spoon.

“It’ll be fine,” An intern chirps, shoving a protein bar in your hand as they breeze past. “He does better under pressure. Like a reverse soufflé.”

“What does that mean,” you whisper, but she’s already gone.

You’re standing behind the curtain in a room that smells like too many folding chairs and not enough trust in government when he walks in, adjusting the cuffs of his shirt. No tie today. He says it feels like a leash. His sleeves are rolled with military precision, though. His hair’s slicked back. He looks more like a man going to war than one about to deliver a ten-minute statement on infrastructure funding.

“You ready?” you ask, clipboard clutched like a lifeline.

“No,” he says. “But I’ll do it anyway.”

You almost smile.

The press corps is already seated, eyes trained, pens poised. He walks out with the focus of someone trained to enter dangerous rooms. You can see the shift in him—quiet alertness, head high, every movement efficient. There’s still something a little stiff in the way he grips the podium, like he doesn’t fully trust it not to fall apart under his hands.

Then he starts to speak.

And damn.

Okay.

You hadn’t expected this.

It’s not polished. He stumbles over a couple phrases. Uses “ain’t” once. Drops a note card and mutters “shit” under his breath into a hot mic.

But he knows his stuff. Not just the numbers. Not just the bill. The context. The human angle. He tells a story about the neighborhood he grew up in, back when it still had corner shops and streetcar tracks. Talks about a single mom who wrote in last week about her building’s pipes freezing every winter. Doesn’t make promises—just outlines what he’s doing and what he won’t let happen again.

And it’s good.

It’s honest.

He doesn’t charm the press. He earns them.

You see it in the way pens pause halfway through notes. Phones lowered. Eyebrows raised. There’s a moment—a beat in the middle of a sentence—where he talks about reconstruction efforts in Red Hook and says, “We don’t need heroes. We need decent plumbing and warm classrooms,” and it lands like a punch.

You feel it, too.

By the end, they’re asking thoughtful questions. Real ones. He handles them with a dry kind of grace. Doesn’t deflect. Doesn’t lie. Says “I don’t know” more than once, but follows it with “I’ll find out.”

When it’s over, he steps backstage, exhales slowly, and immediately unbuttons the top of his shirt like it’s a reward.

You hand him a bottle of water.

He takes it with a nod and says, “Well?”

You blink. “You were… actually incredible?”

He raises an eyebrow. “That so shocking?”

“Yes!” you blurt, then soften. “I mean. A little. You’re not exactly a poster child for press-friendly vibes.”

He leans against the wall, sipping. “Yeah, well. I’m not a fan of the stage.”

“But you like the mission.”

He looks at you. And for once, doesn’t deflect.

“I like helping people. I like when things are fair. And if this is what I gotta do to make that happen…” He shrugs. “Then I do it.”

You file that away. Noted: Bucky Barnes does not enjoy politics, but he endures them for the sake of something bigger.

You offer, “You want to decompress? There’s a decent café two blocks away. You’ve earned, like, three cookies.”

He tilts his head. “You buying?”

“I work for the government now. I’m broke.”

“Fair,” he says. “I’ll buy the cookies.”

You walk the few blocks in relative silence, save for the traffic and your boots scuffing against the pavement. The café is small, warm, full of people with laptops and disillusionment. You order coffee. He orders a black Americano and two oatmeal raisin cookies, like a war crime.

“Don’t judge,” he says, catching your expression. “I like raisins.”

“Of course you do,” you mutter. “You probably eat Bran Flakes and think they’re spicy.”

He gives you a look over the rim of his cup. “Didn’t realize I hired a bully.”

You grin. “Not a bully. Just aggressively helpful.”

He snorts. And you sit there, in the quiet aftermath of his first real public win, watching him pull the napkin apart like it personally wronged him. There's something calming about it—like you’re both still wound a little tight, but not as tight as before. 

You let the silence stretch a beat longer before speaking. “Can I ask you something?”

He glances at you. Shrugs. “You’ve already asked me worse.”

You huff a soft laugh. “Fair.”

He waits.

You roll your cup between your palms. “Why’d you hire me?”

There’s a pause. Not the kind that makes you nervous—just one that feels like he’s actually going to answer. Eventually. When the words are ready.

When he does speak, his voice is low, deliberate. “You were honest.”

You blink. “About what?”

“That tweet,” he says. “About me ghosting the press. Most people either kiss my ass or assume I’m gonna punch them in the face. You didn’t do either.”

You snort. “I did call you hot, though.”

A small tug at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah. That, too.”

Then, quieter, “You said what everyone else was thinking. But you said it like it wasn’t personal. Just... necessary.”

You don’t speak. You’re not sure he’s done.

“I’ve had a lot of people tell me who I am. What I’m supposed to be. Some of them were wrong. Some weren’t. Doesn’t mean I liked hearing it.”

His fingers tap against the cup once. Twice. “But you were right. I didn’t have a handle on any of this. The job, the people watching, the way it all gets twisted. You called it out.”

“And that worked in my favor?” you ask, half-joking.

His gaze flickers to yours. “You didn’t lie to me. That means something.”

It lands heavier than expected.

You look down at your lap. Then, after a second: “I thought you were gonna say it was because I tweeted about your cat.”

He huffs. “That helped.”

You smile, and when you glance back up, he’s watching you. Not like he’s searching for something. More like he’s found something and isn’t sure what to do with it.

“I could tell that you'd keep me grounded,” he says.

It’s simple. Uncomplicated. But your chest goes tight anyway.

“Thanks,” you say softly.

“Don’t get used to the compliments,” he mutters, sipping from his long-cold coffee. “I’ve got a reputation to maintain.”

You nudge his shoulder. “You mean the mysterious, broody one?”

He arches a brow. “Better than ex-assassin with a PR manager.”

“Hey,” you say, mock offended. “I'm rebranding you.”

And this time, his smile is small—but real. The kind that says you’re staying.

.

Briefings, memos, social strategy calls take up the next month. You update his official bio, overhaul his campaign site, start a new newsletter format that doesn’t look like it was designed in the throes of dial-up internet. You start drafting tweets in his voice, but you’re surprised at how often he wants to write them himself.

Sometimes he sends them to you first, via email, labeled “draft?” and rarely punctuated.

The kids who emailed about lunch debt were right. They shouldn’t have to be the ones fixing it.

You write back:

it’s missing caps and grammar and polish …it’s also perfect. i hate you a little

He replies ten minutes later:

Good. Keep hating me. Makes your edits stronger.

You start seeing him more. At first, it’s meetings. Then lunch breaks. Then you’re just… there. 

In his office while he sorts through constituent letters. Sitting across from him on the Capitol steps, scrolling through your phone while he mutters about zoning regulations and offers you the second half of whatever sandwich he’s picked up from the Hill café.

One Thursday, around 6:45 p.m., you’re still at the office. Your laptop’s overheating. Your shoulders ache from the stress of trying to politely tell a PAC liaison that no, Bucky will not be attending the “Patriots for Policy” fundraiser, and no, their “Star-Spangled Selfie Station” is not an appealing incentive.

You lean back in your chair, eyes closed, and say out loud, “If one more intern sends me a Google Doc titled ‘shitposts to own the opposition,’ I’m going to walk into traffic.”

“That bad, huh?” comes Bucky’s voice from the doorway.

You open one eye. He’s holding two cups of coffee. It’s late. His sleeves are rolled again—he does that a lot, like he’s always preparing to do something with his hands. He sets a cup on your desk.

“It’s decaf,” he says. “I’m not trying to kill you.”

You sit up. “Decaf? Wow. You are learning.”

He doesn’t smile, but the corners of his mouth twitch. “Baby steps.”

You sip. It’s good. And quiet stretches out between you. The lights overhead buzz faintly. Someone’s laughing two rooms over. The city is folding in on itself outside, another day’s worth of bad traffic and moral compromises settling over D.C. like a weighted blanket.

.

Another few months pass in a rhythm that starts to feel dangerously like routine.

He insists on responding to every constituent letter about veterans’ benefits himself, even the ones written in glitter gel pen. One morning you find him on the floor of his office, surrounded by stacks of envelopes, Alpine curled up on a pile marked “urgent.”

“Just scanning,” he says, gesturing vaguely at the chaos. “She likes the important stuff.”

You start to learn things about him. Little things, dropped like breadcrumbs.

He hates cilantro. Keeps a dog-eared copy of All the King’s Men on his desk. Organizes his paperwork with military precision but leaves mugs half-finished all over the office. He’s still learning to take a break during the day. Sometimes he doesn’t.

One evening, while you’re both trying to pick a header image for the new landing page (he hates stock photos, insists they feel like “hollow propaganda”), he mutters, “I used to think if I could just disappear, I’d stop hurting people.”

You freeze. “And now?”

He doesn’t look away from the screen. “Now I’m trying to build something instead.”

Your throat tightens. You change the subject. You always do.

The tension between you simmers. Unspoken, unnamed. He starts saying your name more often. You start noticing when he does.

He always says it like it matters.

One Friday, he brings you a donut. Doesn’t mention it. Just leaves it on your desk and walks away like a man who doesn’t realize small gestures are dangerous.

You stare at it for a full minute before a staffer walks by, clocks the look on your face, and mutters, “Oh, you’re gone-gone.”

You pretend not to hear her.

One night, you find yourselves outside a community rec center after a Q&A event, both of you too wired to go home. You walk a few blocks together, hands brushing once. Neither of you acknowledges it.

“You ever think about leaving?” you ask, staring up at the streetlight.

“Sometimes,” he says. “Then I remember I already ran for almost fifty years.”

You laugh. He looks over, soft.

And then, quietly, “Not sure I’d want to go anywhere without you anyway.”

You blink. “You mean… as staff?”

He hums, like he’s choosing not to answer that.

He looks at you too long sometimes. Like he’s memorizing you. You assume it’s habit—old instincts. Soldier’s reflex. You don’t let yourself think about what else it could be.

Because it can’t be. He’s your boss. You’re his PR handler. This is all fine. Normal. Entirely professional, except for when he looks at you like that.

Which is how it builds—slow, steady, suffocating.

Until one night he’s sitting too close. You’re laughing too hard. His hand brushes your knee, and he doesn’t move it. And you still don’t realize.

Not really.

.

It’s a Tuesday night.

Well—technically Wednesday. 1:12 a.m., according to your phone. Your apartment is dark except for the glow of your laptop and the soft blue from the streetlamp outside your window. You should be sleeping. Instead, you’re re-reading policy notes and trying not to think about the email from your landlord marked “urgent.”

The city is quiet, but your mind is loud.

Your phone buzzes.

BUCKY

Are you awake

No punctuation. Of course. You stare at it. It’s not like him to text unprompted—especially not at this hour. You wonder for a second if it’s a mistake. Or if something’s wrong.

You call him.

It only rings once.

“Hey,” he says, voice rough with sleep or something that isn’t quite.

“You okay?” you ask, softly.

A pause. “Yeah. Just… couldn’t sleep.”

You settle back against your pillows. “Bad dream?”

He doesn’t answer right away.

Then, quietly. “More like a bad memory.”

You let the silence stretch, but you don’t fill it. You’ve learned that about him—he’s not afraid of quiet. He just doesn’t always know what to do with it. You hear a faint rustle, like he’s sitting down, maybe at his kitchen table. Maybe the couch. Maybe the floor. He’s the kind of guy who sits on the floor without thinking about it.

“You want to talk about it?” you ask.

“Not really.”

You nod, even though he can’t see it. “Okay.”

A breath. Then, with a strange kind of gentleness: “You ever feel like you’re… still in the middle of something, but everyone else thinks you’re past it?”

You exhale, slow. “Yeah. All the time.”

Another pause. And then: “I thought when the shield went to Sam, that was it. That was my end point. Like I’d done my part and now I could just… blend into the wallpaper. Fix things. Be useful. Pay back some debt I can’t ever really name.”

He exhales.

“But I still wake up and feel like I’m waiting for orders.”

Your throat tightens.

“I’m not a soldier anymore,” he says, like he’s trying to convince himself. “I know that. But sometimes it feels like I lost the war and no one told me.”

You sit with that. It’s a kind of grief, what he’s saying. The loss of purpose. Of identity. You think about what it means to carry history in your body. To be made of violence and guilt and memory, and still try to build something from it.

“You’re not wallpaper,” you say. “And you’re not a soldier. Not unless you decide to be.”

A faint, surprised sound. “You think I can just choose who I am now?”

“I think that’s what healing is,” you say. “It’s not forgetting. It’s choosing who you are in spite of it.”

It’s quiet again. But softer, this time.

“Thank you,” he says, and he means it.

There’s a beat.

Then he says, “You want to come over?”

Your heart stumbles. “Now?”

“I just…” he trails off. “I don’t want to be alone.”

You hesitate. Not because you don’t want to. You do. Too much, maybe.

“I’m in sweatpants,” you warn.

“I don’t care,” he says. “I’m in worse.”

.

Which is—not fair.

He’s in flannel pants and a faded Brooklyn Public Library tee, hair damp like he just stepped out of a shower, like this isn’t his worst week in office or the worst day in months. He looks too human. Too close. Not like Congressman Barnes, not like the Winter Soldier—just like a man who lives here. Alone.

“Hi,” you say, because you’re a coward with a communication degree.

“Hey,” he replies, voice low.

He steps back. You step in.

You move past him. He doesn’t touch you, but he lingers close as you settle onto his couch. There’s a record playing low in the background—something instrumental. Maybe jazz. Maybe something older. He sits next to you. Not quite touching, but near enough that you feel it.

Neither of you says much at first.

You sip the tea he makes you. Let your shoulders drop. And after a while, you’re both leaning back, side by side, staring at the ceiling like maybe it’ll explain something.

“I don’t let people in here much,” he says, out of nowhere.

You glance at him. “Why not?”

He shrugs. “Used to be a habit. Kept things safe. Controlled.”

“And now?”

He looks at you. Really looks. Like he’s cataloguing something important.

“I trust you."

The silence sharpens.

You feel it—somewhere between your chest and your breath and the skin of your palms, warm where they rest against your knees.

He turns toward you, like he’s going to say something. His thigh brushes yours. Your heart skips.

You say his name. Soft.

“Bucky.”

He leans in. Slow. So slow it hurts. His eyes flicker to your mouth.

And then—

He stops.

You’re close enough to feel the warmth of his breath.

Close enough to break.

But he doesn’t kiss you.

He just sits there, tension in his jaw, fingers curling against his leg like he’s holding himself back.

“I don’t want to mess this up,” he says, barely a whisper.

You nod. You understand.

.

You don’t sleep well that night. You don't even know how you got home.

Not because anything happened—and maybe that’s the problem. Something almost did. Something close enough to taste. But close doesn’t keep you up at night. Hope does. Ambiguity. The memory of his breath near your cheek, the exact second he pulled away, and the way your name sounded in his mouth just before it.

You wake up tangled in sheets that smell like lavender detergent and stress. Your shoulder aches from the way you curled in on yourself, as if pretending sleep would solve the question of him.

It hasn’t.

So you do what you always do: you compartmentalize. Ruthlessly. Viciously. Like a goddamn professional.

You slap concealer under your eyes, burn your tongue on gas station coffee, and tell yourself that you’re not thinking about Bucky Barnes. You are not thinking about how he almost kissed you. How his hand hovered at your knee like a promise he wasn’t ready to make. How you wanted him to make it.

No. You’re thinking about agenda items. Press follow-ups. Intern drama. Your inbox, which has gone feral overnight.

You’re halfway through drafting a media roundup from your phone when your car buzzes with an intern's name.

You answer on instinct. “Hey. Yeah, I’m on my way in—”

“Have you seen the op-ed?” they cuts in.

Your fingers still on the steering wheel.

“I—what?”

They don't wait. “I’m sending it now. Check your messages.”

You pull into a spot on the shoulder, the coffee cup sloshing as you brake. Your phone dings.

The link stares back at you. Your thumb hovers.

You already know it’s going to be bad. You can feel it in their voice. In the silence after their breath. You tap anyway.

And there it is.

Is the Winter Soldier Still Lurking Beneath Congressman Barnes?

It’s from a major outlet. Not a fringe blog, not some anonymous account online. It’s written by a seasoned journalist, someone who’s covered politics for two decades. The tone is surgically polite. It doesn’t outright accuse him of anything, but the subtext is razor-sharp: can a man with his past truly be trusted with power?

There’s a pull quote in bold, center-page:

“A reformed weapon is still a weapon. No amount of legislation can erase that history.”

The rest of the article is worse.

It dredges everything. Not just his Hydra years, but the killings. The photo evidence. The old footage. The Wakandan reprogramming is mentioned—briefly, half a paragraph, like it’s a footnote in a larger narrative of violence.

The author's polite language makes it more brutal. Less a hit piece and more… a thesis. Something cold. Inarguable.

You call him. He doesn’t answer.

You call again. Still nothing.

So you go to his apartment.

Bucky answers the door in that old gray sweatshirt and a pair of worn sweatpants that could belong to any decade. His hair’s half-tied, his mouth set. No smile, but no walls up either. His eyes are dark. Tired in a way that goes bone-deep.

He steps aside and lets you in. You don’t say anything about how he looks. You just take off your coat, make yourself at home, and sit down at the kitchen table.

The place is clean, quiet. Too quiet. Alpine is curled on the armrest of the couch like she’s keeping watch. 

“I didn’t read it,” he says eventually. “Didn’t need to.”

“It’s bad.”

He nods.

He doesn’t sit. Just stands there, arms crossed, head bowed like he’s waiting for a verdict.

“You’ve been through worse,” you say. “This is—politics. It’s dirty.”

“It’s not about politics,” he replies, voice flat. “It’s about who I used to be.”

He says it like a fact. Not even bitter—just exhausted.

“I spent so long trying to fix things,” he continues. “Make it right. Every day, I get up and try to be something new. Someone new. And it doesn’t matter. All it takes is one article, one photo, and suddenly I’m the fucking Winter Soldier again.”

His fists are clenched now. You can see the tension in his frame, the way he’s holding himself together like it’s a full-time job.

“They didn’t say anything that isn’t true,” he adds. “That’s the worst part.”

You stand. Cross to him slowly. Carefully. He watches you with that guarded look he gets when he’s bracing for a hit that’s already landed.

“They used the truth to tell a lie,” you say. “You’re not that person anymore.”

“Then why does everyone keep seeing him?” His voice cracks on the last word. It shatters something in you.

You don’t know what to say. Not right away. Because it’s not your job to fix what was done to him.

But maybe it’s your job to remind him what’s changed.

So you touch his arm. The metal one. He flinches—but only for a second.

“You said you didn’t read it,” you say gently. “So you didn’t see the comments.”

His brow furrows.

“Thousands of people,” you say. “Calling it a smear job. Defending you. Saying they trust you more than half the people in office. Veterans. Civilians. Kids who look up to you. People who believe in second chances because of you.”

You feel the shift before you see it. His shoulders slacken, just slightly.

“You’re allowed to be upset,” you add. “You’re allowed to be angry. But you’re not alone in this.”

He looks at you then. Really looks. And whatever wall he was holding up—whatever mask he puts on for C-SPAN and strategy meetings—it drops.

His voice is rough when he finally says, “Can you stay?”

“Yeah,” you say. “Of course."

You stay right where you are—your hand still resting on metal that hums faintly beneath your fingers, warm from him. He’s quiet, but not calm. Not really. There’s tension in the way he breathes, in the slight tremor running down his arm. Like his body still remembers how to brace for impact, even when it’s just words.

Minutes pass like that. Long enough for the quiet to settle around you. For Alpine to leap silently onto the sill and stare out like she’s keeping watch for both of you.

Then he shifts—just slightly—and the couch creaks under the movement. He leans forward, elbows on knees, head bowed. The line of his spine curved like it’s bearing more than just his weight.

“Bucky,” you say, tone softening. “Talk to me.”

He’s not looking at you. His gaze is on the floor. Like if he meets your eyes, it’ll all unravel.

“I say or do one wrong thing,” he says, “and suddenly I’m a threat again.”

That last part is barely above a whisper.

You pause. Let the silence stretch.

“Hey,” you say, carefully. “You’re not a threat. You’re a congressman.”

He lets out a dry laugh. “That doesn’t mean anything.”

“I don’t know how to do this without screwing it up,” he says.

“Then let me help,” you say. “That’s what I’ve been trying to do, Bucky. Every day.”

That’s when his eyes meet yours—really meet them.

“You always come when I need you,” he says.

It’s a simple sentence.

But it lands like a match dropped in a dry field.

You stare at him. His face. The way his hair’s falling loose at the front. The soft curve of his mouth, the line between his brows, the glow of his vibranium arm in the lamplight—gold against black against skin.

You stand, like you’re going to fetch water or pace or do something, but you don’t make it far. You’re near his bookshelf—he’s got a handful of novels, mostly well-worn, a few classics. One spine is cracked down the middle. Another’s bent in half. You reach for one, just to touch something, ground yourself.

“You read a lot,” you say, just to fill the space. Just to breathe.

“Yeah,” Bucky murmurs, and the sound of his voice—that low rasp, Brooklyn tugging at the edges—rakes down your spine. “Helps. When my head’s loud.”

“What’s your favorite?”

There’s a pause.

Then, quietly: “You.”

You blink.

“You,” he says slowly, “you walk into my life and it’s like someone hit the off switch on the noise. Like there’s finally room to think again. To want things.”

Your throat goes tight.

He swallows. You hear it. Feel it.

“I didn’t mean to—” he stops, drags a hand through his hair, fingers brushing over the back of his neck. “I didn’t plan on hiring you. Thought if I kept it distant, maybe I wouldn’t…”

You glance over your shoulder. He’s watching the floor like it holds answers. His jaw is tight, that line above his brow catching the lamplight. He’s flushed high on the cheeks. His hair is curling a little from the heat of the day. It softens him.

You can’t stop looking.

“Wouldn’t what?” you ask.

“Wouldn’t get attached.”

The words fall out of him, too quick, too raw. His accent thickens when he’s like this—unguarded, unraveling.

He looks up at you then. And you swear—swear—you’ve never seen anyone look more exposed.

“I think about you,” he says, voice hoarse. “All the damn time. Your voice. The way you talk when you’re excited. The way you wrinkle your nose when you read something stupid. And I try—believe me, I try—not to want any of it. Because you work with me. And you’re good. And I don’t want to drag you down with my shit.”

“Bucky—” you start, but it breaks apart in your throat.

“But you just kept coming. And you’re kind. And smart. And funny in a way that makes me feel like I’ve been asleep for years. And now I sit in meetings half-listening because I’m wondering if you’re cold. Or if you ate. Or if you still think I’m some idiot with a shiny arm and bad instincts.”

You’re already turning. Reaching for him.

His eyes are so blue. Tired. Beautiful. Like storm glass worn smooth.

And his mouth—God, his mouth—is parted, breathing shallow, like he’s already halfway to ruin.

“I don’t know how to stop,” he whispers.

You don’t want him to.

So you close the space, press your mouth to his like it’s the only thing that makes sense anymore.

He answers in kind. Gentle at first—so careful—but then hungrier, hands finally finding you, clutching like maybe you’re real after all. Like maybe he gets to keep you.

His hands find your waist, one warm, one cool. He breathes you in like it’s the first breath after surfacing. You hold onto him, to the solidness of him, to the truth in everything he just said.

When you part, you rest your forehead against his, breathless.

“I didn’t plan on you either,” you murmur. “But I want this too.”

He opens his eyes. And there’s something there—tentative, but real. Hope, maybe.

You kiss him again, slow and sure, and this time, you don’t stop.

The kiss deepens, and you feel it — the tension of months unspooling all at once. The press briefings, the late-night calls, the shared silences. It’s in the way his mouth moves against yours, all reverence and restraint barely holding.

Then restraint snaps.

​​He groans into your mouth, low and rough, the sound vibrating through your chest. One hand slides to your waist, the other cradling the back of your head, fingers threading into your hair with a kind of reverence that borders on desperate. You gasp when your back hits the edge of the bookshelf, books shifting and thudding behind you. His body presses close, firm and solid, muscle molded to muscle.

You don’t breathe. You inhale him—his scent, his heat, the way his tongue strokes into your mouth like he’s trying to stake a claim.

Your hands are greedy, curled into the soft cotton of his shirt before they slip under, dragging over warm skin and the defined ridges of his back. He shudders, hips pressing forward, and the answering moan that slips from your mouth is embarrassingly loud.

His mouth moves to your throat, hot and open, tongue dragging over the place your pulse stutters wildly. He kisses there once, then again, a third time just to hear the way your breath catches.

The shelves dig into your back, but you don’t care. His mouth is on your throat now, slow, deliberate, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your pulse.

“Bucky,” you whisper.

His breath stutters. His forehead rests against your jaw for a second, and his voice is rough when he speaks.

“You have no idea,” he murmurs, lips brushing your skin. “How long I’ve wanted this.”

Your breath catches. Your hands grip his hoodie like you’re afraid the floor might drop out. There’s a pause—something delicate in the air—and then you say, just to ground yourself:

“Wow. That almost sounded like a line.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you. Eyes dark, lips kiss-bruised. And then—finally—a real smile. Crooked. Devastating.

“You think I say that to everyone I push against my bookshelf?”

You grin. “I don’t know, Barnes. You’ve got a lot of books. Could be a whole system.”

He laughs. Really laughs. And then kisses you again, harder this time, a groan low in his throat when your hands slip under the hem of his sweatshirt. Skin meets skin and he makes a sound that short-circuits your brain.

Somehow, you make it upstairs.

It’s clumsy and desperate in the best way. A trail of clothing, soft gasps, hands mapping territory that’s been off-limits for far too long. He kisses you like you’re something precious and half-forbidden, and you can feel it in every press of his mouth, every whispered praise against your skin.

"Sweetheart, you're killing me," he groans while pressing those lips, those fucking lips, against your collarbone. "Need you to tell me this isn’t a dream.”

By the time you hit the bedroom, you’re breathless. Dizzy. Grinning like an idiot.

And Bucky?

He’s looking at you like he’s just figured out the world’s best-kept secret.

You barely hit the mattress before he’s on you again, mouth dragging down your neck, hands urgent but careful. Like he’s cataloguing every inch of you, filing it away somewhere behind all the noise. His vibranium hand slips beneath your shirt, cool at first but quick to warm against your skin, gliding up your ribcage with reverence that makes you shiver.

“You okay?” he murmurs, breath warm against your cheek.

You nod, maybe too fast. “Yeah. Just—processing.”

He freezes. “Processing what?”

“That I used to mock your social media presence,” you whisper, grinning up at him. “And now I’m about to get railed by the human embodiment of a Roman statue.”

His laugh is choked and surprised. “Jesus.”

“What? You set yourself up for that.”

He drops a kiss to the hinge of your jaw, then your neck, then lower—his stubble scraping just enough to make your breath catch. “Remind me to fire you later.”

“You can’t afford me.”

“Not true,” he says, one hand sliding up the back of your thigh, warm and sure. “You’re already here.”

You open your mouth for a reply, but then his mouth is on you again—tongue tracing a line down your collarbone, fingers tugging at your waistband like he’s been waiting forever.

“Tell me if anything’s too much,” he says, voice low and serious at your ear. “Or if I—”

“You’re not,” you breathe. “You’re perfect.”

That earns you another groan, and then he’s kissing you again, deeper, tongue sliding against yours with filthy precision. You feel him smile against your mouth when you gasp, hands tangling in his hair, thighs bracketing his hips like you were built for this. Built for him.

Clothes disappear in pieces. His sweatshirt, your shirt, the rest in a tangle neither of you cares enough to untangle. And then it’s just skin. Heat. The stretch of him over you, under you, hands braced, mouth hot on your jaw, your throat, your chest. He takes his time. 

"Bucky," You whisper, searching for the right words. "I want you inside me. Please."

He pushes out a sound akin to pain between his teeth. "Getting there." So impatient, goes unsaid.

The moment his hand falls in between your legs, digging past soft cotton and lace, where you're dripping and soft and needy for him, you don't think you'll ever, ever have enough of him. He's slow, at first, just bordering on exploratory. Stroking the pads of his fingers through your wetness until he finds your clit—oh, fuck—and goes to town, making you moan and clench around nothing.

"There you go. That's it," He coos. "You're doing so good."

You close your eyes, his hand pressing in deeper, harder, finding just the right rhythm to drive you insane, switching between your clit and your entrance until you're going mad. Then you hear him spit, the sound obscene and dripping against your skin—then, a slap. "Oh my god," You murmur. "Oh, fuck."

"You're so wet," His brows furrow, like he can hardly believe it. Acting like he's not sinking his fingers inside of you, stretching you open with one, two fingers.  "Soaked. Like I knew you would be, god. You're so tight and I—I bet you'd feel better around my—"

He hits a spot that makes you keen, fast and rough and fucking you open. "Yes, yes, oh my god, please—"

"There?" His breath fans across your cheek. "Right there, huh?"

You nod, delirious and breathless and you black out the rest of the world, lost in the way he looks at you like you're the best damn thing in the world. You clench once, twice around his fingers until you're at the brink and—

Come on my fingers, come on, sweetheart.

And who were you to resist?

For a moment, you just lay in the aftershocks, his fingers granting you enough mercy to slip out. You think that maybe he'll give you a break, maybe just for once second, but then his whole body shifts downwards, momentarily leaving you confused, and then his breath fans across your thighs—"Just want a taste."

Those four words cause something in you to snap.

His mouth is sloppy and hot and wet, more focused on cleaning you up and licking up the remnants of your orgasm, leaving your clit sorely, sorely alone in a way that's too purposeful. In a way that has you bucking against the soft stubble of his face, desperate for any kind of stimulation. 

It doesn't even seem like he's doing it for you, it's like he's doing it for himself. But then you beg and whine, the words reverberating in your throat, "Bucky, please—higher, please, baby, I need you—"

A graze of his teeth and a sharp, tugging suck around your clit then and you cum again. Shaking and sighing and falling apart in his mouth.

When you look down, you can see just how much of a mess you've made, his face glistening with you, even in the dark. And he's looking at you so earnestly, so sweetly, like you've just given him the whole entire world.

"Do you—do you think you can take more?" His eyes look at you, filled with concern, and that's all you need for your legs to start waking up again. "I didn't—I dind't bring a condom and I—"

"I'm clean and I'm on the pill," You smile, lopsided and silly until he's mirroring yours, like he didn't just wrench the two best orgasms of your life out of you. Like he's not about to do it again. Just the way you like it. "And I want you to cum inside me. I wanna feel it. Shut up and get over here."

Bucky clucks his tongue, ever the dutiful man. "Yes, ma'am."

There's a moment—and then he's slotting the head of his cock into your entrance and you try not to be overwhelmed. He's hard and heavy and thick in a way you've never really experienced before, and for a minute, your brain short-circuits, in disbelief. You're doing this. You're really doing this. And suddenly, his cock goes all the way inside you with a pained groan.

His first thrust against you is messy, his hands having to spread your legs wide until you're arching against him. "Jesus, you're so—tight."

Then he's thrusting back in, his hands solid and heavy against your hips, not necessarily like a hammer, but in a way that makes your eyes roll back, slow and steady that you can feel every vein on his cock, lighting you up and finding places that not even your vibrator's been able to reach before. It's mind-numbing, it's relentless, it's perfect.

"Good girl," He whispers, pressing kisses up your neck to soothe the pressure of him inside you. "Taking me so well."

And then, like a reward, his vibranium hand leaves its place on your hip and starts caressing your clit, large fingers made impossibly gentle and finding a rhythm that parallels the way he ruts inside you.

"You're so good to me, so sweet," His words land like a sucker punch, and it makes you clench tighter, his pace faltering just the slightest bit. But he keeps going. "Always looking at me like that, don't know what you do to me, don't know how I can go without this. So much better than my dreams. Fuck."

"Can you come again for me? Pretty baby, can you do it again?"

It takes a harsh, rough swipe against your clit until you arch off the bed, eyes clenched shut and mouth wrenched open in a whine, and you bear down, coming for the third time that night.

And he's right there behind you, it doesn't take long before he speeds up, getting more frantic and desperate, and oh—he's shoving himself inside you as deep as he can go and you can feel him pulse, aching—"God, I love you. I love you so much, take it all for me."

You collapse underneath him, spent and so, so full. So perfect.

.

You go viral again.

Not for a tweet this time, but for a thirty-second clip someone posted from a town hall two weeks later—Bucky leaning in to answer a kid’s question about public transit, earnest as ever, saying something about “freedom meaning more than just car ownership,” with Alpine meowing in the background because she’d escaped her carrier under the table.

The quote is fine. Thoughtful, even. But it’s the look he gives you afterward—off-camera, off-script, soft in a way that has no business being soft—that turns the internet into a firestorm.

The caption?

sir. control yourself. your pr manager is right there.

You wake up to three missed calls, four texts from Nina (two of which are just screaming emojis), and one from your mom:

call me when you’re up

You do. Because you are a good daughter, even when half-asleep and mostly buried in a man’s too-soft duvet that smells like cedar and coffee and very recent sex.

“Morning,” your mom says, casual, like she didn’t text you three times in a row at 6:13 a.m. “How’s the job?”

You blink. “The—job?”

“Yes, the job,” she says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “The one you got after insulting a congressman on the internet.”

You glance over at said congressman, currently shuffling out of the bathroom shirtless and towel-damp, rubbing his head with one hand while Alpine chirps at his feet like she owns him. Which she does.

“Uh,” you say, eloquently. “It’s going… well.”

“Good,” your mom replies. “You should call your aunt. She saw him on TV and keeps asking if he’s single.”

“Mom.”

In the background, a faint beeping. “Gotta go. Someone’s coding. Love you!”

The line goes dead.

You flop back into the pillows, groaning into Bucky’s comforter like it can absorb your entire soul.

“Everything okay?” he asks, voice still rough with sleep.

“Yeah. My mom thinks we’re married now.”

He raises an eyebrow. “We’re not?”

You shoot him a look. He grins.

Then, like it’s nothing: “What are you up to today?”

Technically, he’s your boss. A sitting congressman. You manage his image, his agenda, his occasional tendency to go off-script and say things like “burn it all down and start over” to a room full of journalists.

But now he’s shirtless in grey sweatpants, handing you coffee with Alpine perched on his shoulder like a parrot, and asking you to stay.

Not just for breakfast. For the day. Maybe longer. Maybe always.

It shouldn’t hit you like it does. But it does.

“You’re assuming I can concentrate,” you say, taking the mug like it’s a peace offering. “In your bed. With you. Shirtless. Existing.”

He smiles—that rare, lopsided thing he gives you when he’s caught somewhere between amusement and something gentler. “You’ve worked through worse.”

“True,” you mutter. “Once wrote an op-ed from a TikTok house while one of my clients sobbed over a brand deal and a frat boy tried to deep-fry a toaster.”

“See?” He leans down, presses a kiss to your temple like it’s just another part of your morning routine. “You’ll be fine.”

You look at him. At the man with a metal arm, a rescue cat, and a city full of people who expect him to change the world.

And he’s looking at you like you’re the thing that matters.

You exhale. “You’re lucky I believe in workplace flexibility.”

“Is that what this is?” he says, already walking toward the kitchen, voice full of barely contained laughter. “Workplace flexibility?”

You grin into your mug.

God help you, you’re in so deep.

You open your laptop from the warmth of his bed. Bucky pads away, Alpine trailing behind him like a tiny, loyal shadow. You draft emails. Sip coffee. Watch sunlight crawl across his floors. Like this was always where you were meant to be.

[vamplu]

you, unblurred.

Pairing: Post-Thunderbolts!Bucky x NewAvenger!Reader

Summary: You hated him. You swore you did. Until the dick pics you’d been seeing for months turned out to belong to your mission partner—the man who barely looked at you in daylight.

Disclaimer: 18+ (mdni!), explicit smut content, mutual masturbation (via FaceTime), p in v sex (unprotected), first time sex (reader), dirty talk, breastplay (nipple sucking), wet grinding (clothed and bare), edging (reader), orgasm denial (brief), praise kink, possessive!soft!Bucky vibes, intense intimacy, post-orgasm shaking, soft aftercare cuddling

Word Count: 8.7k

You hadn’t even made it halfway through your first week and you were already public enemy number one in the eyes of Bucky Barnes.

Valentina hadn’t given you much warning. One curt message, no fanfare. Just a quick relocation order and the kind of tone that made it clear you weren’t allowed to say no. You were to report to the newly restructured Watchtower—what used to be the old Avengers Tower, now stripped of its former glory and repurposed for the next wave of heroes. Or, as the media loved to call it: The New Avengers.

But the title never sat well with you.

“New Avengers” sounded like cheap branding. A desperate repackage. Like you were standing in the shadow of gods and legends, trying on their hand-me-downs and pretending they still fit. You didn’t see yourself in that lineup. You didn’t want to. So you clung to something else.

You were Thunderbolts. Raw, messy, cobbled together by circumstance and grief, yes—but still sharp around the edges. Thunderbolts sounded tougher. Grittier. Real. You liked that.

Your first day was already a disaster.

You’d overslept after flying in from a red-eye, scrambled into your navy leggings and cropped black tank, hair still damp from a rushed shower and barely twisted into a low bun. One hand juggled your phone, the other a hot, nearly-overflowing paper cup of coffee. Wedged awkwardly under your arm? A grease-stained paper bag with a very loaded chili dog inside. Extra chili. Always extra chili.

You were running toward the elevator when the doors slid open—and you didn’t realize someone was standing inside until your boot clipped the edge of the hallway runner and you were airborne.

You collided full force with a solid chest, and everything you were holding—coffee, chili, dignity—exploded across the poor bastard who’d been unlucky enough to stand in your path.

Bucky Barnes.

Your coffee soaked the front of his dark red henley. Chili smeared across his chest. A fat drop of sauce slid down the side of his neck, and by some miracle, a single black bean clung to his collarbone like a badge of shame.

His eyes snapped to you—ice-blue and narrowing fast.

You froze. “Oh shit—I’m so sorry, I didn’t see—I’ll clean it, I swear—like, personally. Or I’ll run your errands for the week. Seven days. No questions—”

He didn’t say a word.

Just a hard exhale. A glare sharp enough to slice bone. Then he turned, dripping and silent, and walked off the elevator like he hadn’t just been assaulted by caffeine and chili grease.

You stood there in stunned horror, the doors sliding closed behind him.

By the time you finally made it up to the Watchtower’s main lounge—jittery, sweating, and still slightly smelling like cumin—most of the team had already gathered.

Yelena had taken one look at your half-spilled coffee and chili-smeared shirt and declared, “You look like chaos. I like it.”

John Walker gave you a nod and a raised brow, then returned to sulking over a protein shake.

Alexei had tried to pitch you on his “secret endurance routine” within the first five minutes.

You laughed. Politely declined.

It was messy. Loud. Barely functional. But comforting in a strange way—like finding out the group project you were forced into was at least full of people who didn’t take themselves too seriously.

Then you saw him again.

Bucky entered the lounge a few minutes later, now dressed in his black compression shirt and tactical pants—his training gear. His hair was damp, brushed back behind his ears, and his jaw looked freshly clenched. You straightened up instinctively, wiping your palms on your leggings, then took a breath and stepped toward him.

You opened your mouth to greet him, maybe even introduce yourself properly this time.

He walked past you.

Didn’t look. Didn’t stop. Just kept moving like you weren’t even there.

You heard him grunt—low, sharp, and unmistakably annoyed.

You knew it was meant for you.

A warning shot.

A sign of war.

—

It didn’t end there.

Over the next few days, Bucky made it very clear you were on his shit list. Every time he assigned training rotations, you got the worst of it. Your combat drills were brutal—sparring reps that left your ribs aching and your pride in pieces. While others got to rotate partners, you were stuck running simulations against one of the Widow bots that seemed permanently set to maximum aggression.

The gym sessions? A damn death sentence. Weighted vests. Endurance drills until your lungs felt like they were trying to claw their way out of your chest. No water breaks. No mercy.

He didn’t speak to you. Barely looked at you.

Except when he did, and it was always across the room—like he could smell your failure before he saw it. Like your presence alone was a personal offense.

You tried. You really did. But by week two, your patience ran out.

One late afternoon, you were in the pantry with Yelena, peeling open a protein bar and venting under your breath.

“He’s just—ugh, he’s a grumpy old bastard,” you muttered. “Looks like he hasn’t slept since the Cold War and acts like he’s allergic to joy. Like, take a goddamn nap in a grave already.”

Yelena snorted into her coffee, half-choking.

Unfortunately, you didn’t notice John Walker stepping in through the hallway behind you.

“You know Bucky’s just next door, yeah?” he said casually, leaning against the counter with that smirk he always wore when he was about to stir up some trouble.

You rolled your eyes. “Yeah, so?”

John arched a brow. “And you do know he’s enhanced.”

“So what?”

“So…” He gestured vaguely toward the ceiling. “He can hear all that shit you’re talking. Loud and clear. Pretty sure he’s listening right now.”

You froze mid-bite, mouth still half-open, stomach dropping like a stone.

Yelena widened her eyes in faux horror and whispered, “You’re so dead.”

You considered apologizing. Maybe retreating. Maybe fleeing the country.

But the truth?

You were tired of walking on eggshells. You’d tripped once. It was an accident. You hadn’t meant to spill anything on him. And if the great Sergeant Barnes wanted to crucify you over one clumsy mistake and make your life hell over a chili dog and a coffee?

Then let him.

You swallowed the bite, turned back to your protein bar, and said with zero remorse—

“Good.”

—

You didn’t stop shit-talking Bucky Barnes after that first day.

If anything, you escalated.

Not publicly—well, not all the time. But every night, without fail, you’d unload your frustrations somewhere far safer. Somewhere faceless. Somewhere private.

You had a fling.

Not a lover. Not even a real person, as far as you could prove. You’d met him long before this whole Thunderbolts mess started, back when your life was quieter, lonelier, when everything still felt like it was just slightly out of reach. You were still moving between safe houses and temp assignments then, with no anchor point but your own reflection—and a damn dating app that promised distraction if not affection.

He caught your eye immediately. Not because of the photos—there weren’t many—but the bio. Dry. Hilarious. And oddly sad in a way that curled around your ribs and settled there.

Been cold for a while. Warming up slowly. Thought maybe someone out there had the defrost button.

It made you pause. Laugh. Swipe right.

He matched with you in less than a minute.

The first message was a joke. Obscure, borderline ridiculous, laced in some cryptic code about how hard it was to feel human again in a world that never really waited for you. You responded in kind—half sarcasm, half curiosity. It spiraled from there. Inside jokes layered like bricks. Memes, strange hypotheticals, long nights of talking in half-truths and wry honesty.

And then, somewhere along the line… things turned filthy.

It wasn’t planned. It just happened. Like a switch flipped. One voice note became two. Then came the late-night confessions. The breathy admissions. The images. Not full nudes—he never sent anything that showed his face. But the way he described things? The way he talked? It made your stomach twist and your thighs squeeze together under the sheets.

His voice was low, rough in the corners, always a little tired like he’d recorded it with his head resting on a pillow. But the words were razor-sharp. Soft growls of praise. Dirty commands. Compliments that didn’t sound like he was bluffing, like he actually meant it when he called you his “good girl” or said he’d drop to his knees for you if you just asked.

And then there were the pics.

Oh, the pics.

Awkward angles, yes. But unmistakable. He was filthy thick. Curved slightly to the right. Veiny in a way that made your mouth water. Every photo was captioned with some deadpan comment that made you laugh and ache.

This angle is 90% countertop and 10% cock. Not sorry.

Too cold for dick pics but I suffer for art.

If I die of embarrassment, bury me face down so you can sit on my shame.

You’d called him the King of Come-dick (get it? Comedic Dick?), and he told you that was going in his will.

And even without a name or a face, you felt more seen in those chats than you ever had in real life. He made you laugh. He made you beg. He made you feel good.

But lately, those voice notes had taken on a different flavor.

Because now you were venting.

Every night.

After a day of getting your lungs torched by combat drills and your pride mangled by James freaking Barnes, you’d crawl into bed, roll onto your side, and let it all pour out.

Your messages to the fling started as innocent rants.

You ever met someone who just hates you on sight? Like your existence is their 13th reason?

He’s the human version of stepping barefoot on a plug. Like I’m convinced he’s been possessed by an ancient war ghost who hates fun.

I tripped once. ONCE. Now I’m stuck doing training reps that make my organs feel like they’re auditioning for Cirque du Soleil.

And your online fling—bless him—never once dismissed you. He didn’t ask too many questions. Didn’t push for context. He just listened.

Told you you were strong. That your instincts were good. That whoever was tearing you down probably didn’t deserve to know the real you. That maybe this guy—this “grumpy dickhead on permanent PMS”—just didn’t know how to handle someone like you. Someone bright. Loud. Capable. Free.

And God, those messages always left you warm. Floating. Like he saw you, even without seeing your face.

You never told him you were a Thunderbolt. Never mentioned the Watchtower. You kept it vague—just some asshole colleague with authority issues.

And he never told you where he was either.

You didn’t need names. Didn’t need faces.

It was better this way. Safer. More honest, somehow.

Besides, it wasn’t like you were in love with the guy.

It was just sex.

Just comfort.

Just a voice in the dark whispering that you were worth more than how Bucky Barnes made you feel.

And if, sometimes, that same voice made your breath hitch and your toes curl under the covers, whispering filth that left you gasping into your pillow?

Well.

That was nobody’s business but yours.

—

By now, the tension between you and Bucky Barnes had evolved into something legendary.

It wasn’t subtle. It wasn’t dignified. It was a living, breathing force that stalked every shared hallway, every joint training session, every goddamn mission briefing. You didn’t speak. He didn’t speak. But somehow, every grunt, eye-roll, sigh, and clipped command felt like it echoed through the whole goddamn Watchtower.

The others noticed.

They definitely noticed.

So much so that one morning in the lounge room—barely ten minutes into your coffee—Yelena snapped.

“For fuck’s sake,” she groaned, slamming her mug down a little too hard. “Can someone ask Bob to summon the Void again? I’m serious. Trap them in it. Lock it. Throw away the key.”

Across from her, Bob nearly choked on his protein shake.

He looked up, blinking. “You want me to… what? No. Absolutely not. Do you know how hard I’ve worked to keep that thing buried?”

She narrowed her eyes. “So don’t be the Void. Be Sentry. Throw Bucky somewhere far. Like Antarctica. That should fix it.”

You were already suppressing a laugh, staring into your bowl of cereal like it had the answers to your spiritual collapse.

Bucky, of course, was seated at the end of the long couch—tablet in hand, thumbing through mission briefs with a scowl that seemed surgically attached to his face.

“I heard that, Lena,” he muttered dryly without looking up.

Then he did look up.

Right at you.

The kind of look that scraped across your skin like ice on bare flesh. Not even anger anymore. Just a quiet, simmering disdain. A full-body ugh.

He dragged his finger across the tablet, ignoring everyone else, scrolling like you weren’t worth more than a line item in his day.

You bit the inside of your cheek, hard.

It had been days since you last messaged your fling—missions had kept you busy, bruised, mentally wiped. But today? You needed a lifeline. You needed him.

You reached for your phone under the table and typed, thumbs moving fast, tension bubbling under your skin.

Shitty day at work. Missed you a little more than usual today. Hope you’re alive and not plotting your escape from Earth.

A second later, a ding echoed across the room.

You didn’t look.

But from the corner of your eye… you saw Bucky smile.

Just the ghost of it, but it was there. Quick. Sharp. Subtle enough to vanish in a blink—but unmistakable. The corners of his mouth curved, softening his jaw, lighting up something that should’ve made him look kinder.

Instead, it pissed you off.

How could someone with a smile that beautiful act like such a piece of shit?

Your phone buzzed.

Hey babe. How bad are we talking? On a scale from paper cut to arson?

You nearly melted at the sight of the message. The nickname. The teasing tone. Like your body had been waiting to exhale.

Your fingers flew, fire in your blood as you rose from your seat and power-walked out of the lounge, phone still in hand.

You headed straight for one of the smaller mission debrief rooms—locked the door behind you and threw yourself into the nearest chair like it was a confessional booth.

Same old dickhead being a dickhead again. Just needed your voice or your cock. Either one will do.

It didn’t take long for the response to ping through.

Rough day too. Holding the world together with duct tape and a smile. My shoulders might collapse from all this weight.

You snorted softly, your anger already softening into something warmer, darker, messier. Your thighs pressed together.

Your fingers danced across the screen again.

Maybe a dick pic would help redistribute the emotional labor? 😌

You hit send.

Hot tension unfurled low in your stomach. That fuzzy, heavy pulse building behind your navel. You leaned back in your chair, the silence making your heart beat louder.

A beat passed.

Then the reply:

Not now. Mid-meeting. Bad time.

You pouted, eyes narrowing slightly.

Then your screen lit up.

Image received.

You tapped it open.

It was… tight. Somewhat zoomed in, framed awkwardly from waist down—but unmistakable. The outline of his cock straining against dark, snug tactical pants. Like it was furious to be caged. The bulge was obscene. Rude. Practically throbbing through the screen.

You blinked. Sucked in a breath.

Your pulse jumped.

Mmm, excuse me, bold and nasty? In a meeting?? Someone’s got issues 🫦

No reply.

You waited, but you weren’t upset. He disappeared like this sometimes—usually when work pulled him back under. You understood it. You respected it.

So you looked at the photo again.

Zoomed in a little.

God, it looked so good.

But then… something tugged at your brain. A weird, annoying sense of déjà vu.

The pants.

The texture of the fabric. The way they clung. The slight reinforcement at the side seams. They looked… familiar.

Too familiar.

You frowned.

Hadn’t you seen these somewhere?

But no—no, that was stupid. There were probably ten thousand pairs of pants like that in the world. You were just horny and paranoid.

And horny.

Mostly horny.

You shook the thought away, closed the image, and leaned back with a dreamy sigh.

Whoever your mystery man was… he was your safe space. Your escape.

And there was no way the guy sending you filthy bulge pics from some secret meeting was the same one currently glaring at you every day like you were a plague.

Right?

—

As if things couldn’t get any worse, Valentina had to stick her designer heel right into the wound.

She called it a “strategic adjustment.”

You called it cruel and unusual punishment.

From now on, until further notice—her favorite three words—you were to be partnered with Bucky Barnes. For missions. For sparring. For everything.

Her exact phrasing?

“For God’s sake, Barnes. You’re over a hundred years old. You’ve survived wars, Hydra, cryo, and three near-apocalypses. Fix this shenanigan already. Or I swear, I’ll fix it for you—and neither of you will like my method.”

You wanted to protest.

Bucky didn’t even blink.

Just gave her that flat, dead-eyed look that said he’d rather be in a Siberian prison than listening to this briefing.

So it began.

The first few sparring sessions were nothing short of apocalyptic. Poor coordination, missed cues, accidental hits that didn’t feel that accidental. Zero trust. Zero chemistry. Just bruises, swearing, and thick silence that felt louder than gunfire.

And finally, you snapped.

You threw your gloves across the mat, stormed toward him as he stood there like a statue, and spat the words out like venom.

“What the fuck is your problem, Barnes? Can you say something for once instead of treating me like I’m radioactive?”

His gaze lifted to meet yours. Calm. Unreadable. Stormy blue with something you couldn’t quite name hiding underneath.

He let out a breath.

“This is why,” he muttered, shaking his head slightly.

You blinked. “What the hell does that mean?”

“You’re still a kid.”

The words landed like a slap—sharp and low.

“What the fuck was that supposed to mean?” you shot back, voice rising.

He exhaled sharply, looked away like he was already done with the conversation.

“You’re not in the right headspace for this. Neither am I. Let’s call it for today. I’ll reschedule the gym session.”

He picked up his towel, unbothered, collected his things like your fury was a passing breeze. Then walked out.

Left you standing there. Burning.

You kicked the mat. “Fuck!”

It echoed. Pointless. No one heard.

Except the part of yourself you were trying desperately to ignore.

The part that kept noticing things. Soft, human things about him.

You’d been avoiding him for so long that you accidentally started watching him. Observing. Catching details you didn’t mean to.

Like the way he always knew what the team needed. Quietly. No fuss.

He gifted Bob a stack of niche self-improvement books—nothing preachy, nothing corny. Just thoughtful reads that let Bob’s mind wander somewhere better. Gave him a way out of his own head.

He remembered Yelena’s favorite protein bars. Replaced them in the kitchen when they ran out, even though no one asked.

And the chili dogs.

You didn’t eat lunch one day—too many back-to-back briefings. You hadn’t even said anything.

But there it was, sitting on your desk an hour later: a warm paper bag with a chili dog inside. Extra extra chili. No mustard.

Exactly the way you liked it.

You never told him how you liked it.

And he hated you. Didn’t he?

You laid flat on the training mat, arms spread out, chest rising and falling fast. Not from the sparring. From the confusion. The ache. The messy swirl of wanting and not wanting and wishing he’d just say what the hell he was thinking for once.

It made you miss your other one even more.

Your secret.

Your escape.

Your not-a-lover, not-a-boyfriend—your ghost between the sheets.

And it made you horny as hell.

Maybe it was the adrenaline. The sweat. The anger. Maybe it was the sound of Bucky’s voice still echoing in your ears. Maybe it was the impossible urge to burn everything down and touch yourself through the flames.

You grabbed your phone.

Your thumbs hovered for a second.

Then you typed.

Throbbing for you today. Thinking of trying something new. Facetime tonight? I want to see you. It’s time.

You stared at the message.

Then hit send.

Your heart fluttered like you just disarmed a bomb.

You’d never done it before—not live. Always voice notes. Pictures. Heavy breathing and whispered praise in the dark. But you wanted more. You needed to see him. To watch his mouth when he groaned. To show him your face when you broke.

Your phone buzzed.

One line.

Been waiting for that, babe. Can’t wait for tonight.

You closed your eyes. Smiled.

Something bloomed deep in your chest.

But then…

Bucky’s face flickered in your mind. That last glance he gave you before walking out—not cruel. Not angry.

Not… disgusted.

For the briefest second, it looked like he wanted to say something. Like he was holding back.

And that scared you more than anything.

Because what if?

What if all this time, he wasn’t just avoiding you?

What if he knew exactly what he was doing?

—

Night fell like it had been waiting all day just to wrap around you. Heavy, quiet, almost expectant. Like even the shadows knew what was about to happen.

You’d made the room exactly the way you wanted it—dim, intimate, anonymous. One small lamp by the bed, screen brightness lowered. Location off. Door locked. Twice.

He had your Apple ID now. You’d never given him your number. That felt too personal. Too dangerous. But your old burner email from when you were eight—the one that made you cringe now?

pwinceszz_n0body@yahoo.com.

Yeah. That one.

It made you feel hidden. Untouchable. Like no one could ever guess who you really were behind a name that dumb.

At exactly 9:15 p.m., your phone buzzed in your palm.

Incoming FaceTime call. From an email you’d never seen before—cryptic, strange: wolfhowling3333333333@icloud.com.

Your stomach flipped.

That was new.

You inhaled deeply, thumb hovering. Then tapped accept.

The call connected.

No faces. No hellos. Just dark screens and careful camera angles.

He had his camera angled low—blanket pooled around his hips, the lens tilted toward the rise under thin dark fabric. Boxers. Nothing else.

Yours was already aimed at your chest—lace crop top, black and barely-there, your nipples visible through the sheer. That was the rule. No real names. No faces. Just bodies and breath. Just touch without touching.

“Hey, babe.” His voice was soft tonight. Lower. Warmer. “Your room’s so dark. I can barely see anything.”

You smiled, voice light. “Same here. What are we—covert ops?”

He laughed quietly. “Wouldn’t be the weirdest thing I’ve done.”

There was a pause.

Heavy with something unsaid.

You reached over and adjusted your lamp just enough to cast a golden wash over your skin. Still cropped. Still framed. Just enough for him to see the swell of your chest.

On the screen, his hips shifted. The blanket moved slightly.

He let out a groan. “Fuck… you’re starting with that?”

You tilted your head, teasing. “What? You think I dressed like this for me?”

He chuckled. It sounded a little strangled.

You flipped the camera to the rear, aimed it lower—down your thighs, where the blanket still clung. Slowly, deliberately, you peeled it back. The cool air hit your bare cunt and made you flinch.

You didn’t need to look to know he was watching.

His voice thickened. “Jesus, baby… you’re unreal.”

You stayed quiet. Let him drink it in.

He shifted again. His hand slid down, over the bulge pressing hard against his boxers. You could see it straining—long, thick, clearly aching to be freed.

“You see that?” he murmured. “Already hard for you. Always.”

You moaned softly in response, your fingers teasing between your folds. Dipping slow. Making a mess of yourself just for him.

“God, yes,” you whispered. “You see this? So fucking wet. For you.”

His hand stroked himself through the fabric, slow at first. Measured. Like he was pacing it just for you.

Then—he dropped the phone.

Just for a moment. The screen tilted to black.

You heard a muffled shuffle of fabric. Movement. A grunt. The sound of him exhaling hard.

Then—

He picked the phone back up.

And there it was.

The cock you’d seen in pictures, now in motion. Hard. Heavy. Curved slightly to the right. Veins running along the shaft like paths you wanted to trace with your tongue.

You whimpered, breath catching. “God… your cock looks so fucking good.”

He wrapped his hand around it and stroked slowly, deliberately.

“Stroke it for me,” you begged, eyes fixed on the screen as your own fingers worked faster. “Let me hear you, baby.”

You turned off your camera for a second—adjusted your angle—then turned it back on. Still cropped. Still hidden. But now angled perfectly between your thighs. Slick. Open. Needy.

“See this?” you whispered. “See what you do to me?”

He moaned—deep, rough, just a little breathless.

The call dissolved into heat. Sound. Wetness. Praise. You whispered filth to him like prayer. He groaned your name like he was falling apart just for you. You were close. So close—

Until—

WEE-OO-WEE-OO. WEE-OO-WEE-OO.

The emergency siren shrieked through your phone like a gunshot.

You gasped and jolted upright—until you realized…

It wasn’t just coming from your phone.

It was echoing.

From his side too.

Same pitch. Same frequency.

Watchtower protocol.

Your heart seized.

You stared at the screen—just as he cursed under his breath.

“Shit.”

Then the screen went black.

Call ended. Gone.

Your breath caught in your throat. Your hands still between your legs. Your body raw with need.

But your brain?

Your brain was moving in slow, precise horror.

That siren wasn’t public. It wasn’t general Watchtower protocol.

It was specific.

Each mission pair had their own unique alert—encrypted, untraceable outside their shared comms. And that tone… that exact pitch sequence…

It was yours.

Yours and your assigned partner’s.

And your partner?

Was Bucky Barnes.

Your stomach clenched.

You stared down at your phone, pulse pounding. Your body was still humming from the aftershocks, but the rest of you was unraveling.

You blinked at the dark screen. Tried to breathe.

And then your mind began to pull—thread by thread—backward.

The voice. That low rasp that lived somewhere in his throat. Always a little tired. Always a little rough. You’d heard it in the sparring room. You’d heard it moaning your name in the dark.

The timing. The discipline. The almost militant sharpness of his replies. Always exactly on time. Always controlled.

And then—

The way he touched himself.

One hand.

Always the right.

Every picture. Every clip. Every motion you’d ever seen. Cock in his right hand. Phone in his left. You’d never seen anything else. Never thought to question it.

Until now.

Until you remembered exactly what his left hand was made of.

The vibranium.

Always gloved in daylight. Always held behind his back, or casually resting on his hip like it wasn’t worth using. Always there, but never used—not unless it had to be.

Your breath caught.

The pieces stopped falling.

They just… clicked.

The voice. The siren. The silence. The lack of left hand. The way he moved. The refusal to show his face. The email so purposefully anonymous. The instinct to keep himself hidden—just like you had.

You stared at your reflection in the black screen.

Still damp. Still trembling.

“…no fucking way.”

But there was no more room for doubt.

Because if your gut was right—and every part of you said it was—then the man who had just come for you in the dark…

…was the same man who couldn’t even stand to look at you in the light.

You weren’t just turned on.

You were completely, utterly fucked.

—

“Shit,” Bucky muttered, breath still ragged as he ended the call with a swipe of his thumb.

He was seconds from coming—already flushed, tense, his hand wrapped tight around his cock—when the emergency siren blasted through his phone.

His specific alert. High-pitched, short burst, then a long one.

And then… the echo.

The same damn siren, faint but unmistakable, bleeding through the other end of the call. His caller’s phone.

Your phone.

He froze.

Chest still rising and falling. Sweat on his neck. Mind racing.

It took him three full seconds to understand what it meant.

And when it hit—it hit hard.

You.

You.

The woman he was supposed to protect. Train. Lead. The one who spent every meeting glaring at him like he’d kicked your dog in a past life.

You were the one he’d been jerking off to for the last six months.

The one sending him voice notes at midnight. The one calling him baby and making him laugh without even trying. The one who knew exactly how to pull pleasure out of his body with just the sound of your breath.

He dragged a hand over his face. His heart was still pounding, but now it had nothing to do with arousal.

He leaned back in the chair, stared up at the ceiling, and cursed again under his breath.

He hadn’t known.

He swore he hadn’t known.

—Bucky’s POV—

The memory came back uninvited. That first day.

The elevator.

The hot splash of coffee—steaming, not just warm. It scalded straight through his henley, soaked the skin over his chest and shoulder. He bit the inside of his cheek so hard he tasted blood, just to keep from reacting.

He could’ve cursed. Could’ve snapped. But you were already panicking, mumbling rapid apologies, trying to wipe it off with your sleeve. He’d seen the horror in your eyes—wide and sincere and a little ridiculous, considering the chili dog now sliding down his shirt like it was trying to escape judgment.

So he said nothing.

Just clenched his jaw and stepped out the second those elevator doors opened, beelining to the men’s room. Cold water. Fast scrubbing. Quiet pain.

By the time he’d changed and returned to the lounge, he barely had time to scan the room before John Walker waved him over.

“Bucky,” John had said, holding out a tablet. “Priority situation in the Balkans. You’ll want eyes on this.”

Bucky was halfway across the room before he noticed you were there—standing off to the side, a coffee-stained shirt clinging to your frame, looking small but composed, like you were trying not to exist too loudly.

He hadn’t even realized he’d brushed past you until later.

To be fair, you were… small. He towered over you by nearly three and a half heads. And when his mind was in mission-mode, everything else blurred.

But from that moment on—you were cold. Icy. Guarded. Like he’d somehow declared war just by existing.

—

It wasn’t hate.

Not from his side.

Far from it.

Your file had flagged you as physically promising but slightly under-trained in stamina and real-combat conditioning. So he’d structured your simulations to push you—to meet you at the edge of your capacity.

He wasn’t trying to break you.

He was trying to build you.

And goddamn, you’d risen fast. Quicker than most.

You were smart. Sharp. Focused in a way that made him take notice. Your recovery rate improved. Your reflexes tightened. Your rhythm in combat sparring became beautiful to watch.

And yet, you never gave him anything back but sarcasm, glares, and whispered insults when you thought he wasn’t around.

He had heard you in the pantry that day—grumbling to Yelena.

“Grumpy old bastard,” you’d muttered.

He almost laughed.

Because… yeah.

He was grumpy. He was old.

He didn’t take it personally.

But it confused him.

He’d never insulted you. Never shut you down. Never raised his voice.

Even the damn chili dog—he ordered it because you skipped lunch. And because, after weeks of listening, he knew how you liked it. Extra extra chili. No mustard.

It wasn’t a peace offering. Not exactly.

He just… wanted to talk to you. Properly. Without you frowning at him like he was the plague.

But when he dropped it off at your desk, you didn’t even look up.

—

And now?

Now he couldn’t breathe.

Because the woman who shut down every attempt at conversation—the one who rolled her eyes during briefings, who sparred like she was trying to draw blood—

Was the same woman who sent him a voice note last week whispering “I wish I could ride you until we both black out.”

The same woman who tonight had parted her legs on camera, fingers working between her folds, moaning for him like it was a prayer.

And the worst part?

He liked you.

He already liked you.

Even before tonight’s accidental reveal, there was something about you that got under his skin. Your fire. Your mouth. The way you never let him off the hook.

It drove him crazy.

And now?

Now you were burned into his hands. His sheets. His bloodstream.

He groaned, dragging both hands down his face.

You were going to hate him.

You were going to find out. If you hadn’t already.

And when you did—

He wasn’t sure what would destroy him faster.

Your disgust.

Or your silence.

—POV end—

—

You got dressed fast.

That siren could’ve meant anything—civilian threat, global emergency, interdimensional chaos. You’d heard stories. One time they scrambled a team for a goose that got too close to a Stark satellite. Another time, someone joked it might be Galactus. No one laughed.

Whatever it was, you weren’t risking being the last one to show up.

You tugged on your gear, tied your hair up, and bolted for the elevator.

And then—ding.

The doors slid open.

And there he was.

Bucky.

Fully dressed in tactical gear, all buttoned up and brooding like usual. Black compression shirt, black pants, boots laced with military precision. His eyes flicked to you once—just a glance—and then back to the elevator panel. But the tension? Instant. Thick.

It had only been a few minutes since you were both naked, panting, whispering filth into your screens. You could still feel the echo of his voice in your bones. Still hear the ragged way he said “fuck, baby” like he was breaking.

You kept your eyes forward.

You meant to keep them forward.

But your gaze dipped anyway. Just for a second. A glance.

Black tactical pants.

The same ones.

The exact same fit, the same cut. The same pants from that picture. From when he said he was “in a meeting.”

Your stomach dropped.

Your eyes flicked back up—and met his.

Caught.

He saw it.

He saw you seeing it.

Your head snapped to the side, heat crawling up your neck, burning into your ears.

Shit.

The silence pressed in on all sides, humming with everything neither of you were saying.

Then you forced yourself to speak.

“Can we talk… after this? After whatever this whole thing turns out to be?”

Bucky didn’t move much. Just a slight nod, his voice low and steady.

“Sure thing.”

—

The siren turned out to be a false alarm.

A rat.

A rat had chewed through a critical cable cluster near the ops wing. Short-circuited a core and triggered multiple alerts. It was now extra crispy and mostly unrecognizable.

The debrief was short. Everyone dispersed.

You didn’t even breathe until the elevator doors closed again.

Then, his voice beside you.

“Talk in my room? Or do you want the common area?”

You looked up at him, fingers fidgeting at your side.

“Somewhere private. Your room sounds… nice.”

He nodded once. Wordless again.

You followed him down the hall. Past mission boards and storage units.

When he opened his door and let you in, you were hit with the quiet scent of aftershave and clean cotton. Dim lighting. Neat, except—

Your eyes caught it.

The bed.

Blanket slightly skewed. Pillow dented. The indent of where he’d been sitting when the call came in. Like you could trace the shape of him from the air still hanging around it.

He didn’t say anything about it. Just walked to the small kitchen island and poured a glass of water. One for you. One for him.

You sat down on the stool beside him, fingers wrapping around the glass like it could anchor you.

Silence stretched.

And then he spoke.

“So…”

You looked up. His eyes were on the counter. Then on you.

“I know you probably hate me right now. Or want to kill me. Or both. And I get it,” he said, voice low, careful. “But… I’m not gonna pretend I regret any of it. The voice notes. The pictures. That call.”

That call. The way he said it sent heat crawling up your spine.

“I never hated you,” he added, softer now. “Honestly, I never understood why you hated me.”

You blinked.

Your voice came out quieter than you expected. “What are you talking about?”

He looked at you fully now. Not like a soldier. Not like a leader. Just… Bucky.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” you said, the words coming quicker now. “You assigned me harsher drills than Yelena or Ava. You didn’t look at me. You didn’t talk to me. You treated me like I was on your shit list from day one.”

It wasn’t accusation this time. Just confusion. Honest and aching.

Bucky’s lips twitched—not in amusement. Just… exasperation. At himself.

“I never meant to make you feel that way,” he said. “I thought I was doing my job. Training you based on your stats. You’re… more capable than most, and I didn’t want to hold you back. That was it. And yeah, I’m not great at small talk, but I swear—I wasn’t ignoring you.”

You stared at him. Processing.

“Even the chili dog?” you asked, a faint smile threatening.

He cracked the smallest smirk. “Extra extra chili, no mustard. You looked like you were gonna pass out from hunger. Seemed like the least I could do.”

You looked down at the counter, your fingers inching closer to his. Slowly, purposefully, you touched your fingertips to the edge of his vibranium hand.

He didn’t move.

You swallowed.

“You know, Bucky,” you said, voice quieter now. “I liked what we had. That connection, when we didn’t know who we were. When it was just… voice and breath and instinct. Felt honest in a way nothing else has.”

You met his eyes again.

“I don’t want that to be ruined because I misread you. Because I let my anger get in the way. That’s on me. And I’m sorry.”

Bucky exhaled through his nose. Not annoyed—just like he’d been holding that breath for days.

“I don’t want it to be ruined either.”

There was a pause.

You felt it first.

The shift in the air.

The hum.

Your thighs clenched, your body already remembering the sound of his voice, the weight of his moan, the way he said babe like it was a promise.

You leaned in slightly, just enough.

“In all honesty,” you murmured, “I don’t want it to stop. I don’t want us to stop. I mean, if you’re done with it, I’ll get it. But…”

You tilted your head, your voice a little more playful now.

“I’ve never liked a cock this much in my life. And that cock happened to be yours.”

That did it.

Bucky froze. Blinked. Then his ears went red—just a little. His jaw tightened, but not with anger.

The tension snapped.

And the room started heating up again.

Fast.

—

Your mind could barely register what had happened.

One second, you were sitting on a stool at his kitchen island—nervous fingers tracing your water glass, heart beating louder than the silence.

The next?

You were in his arms.

Your legs wrapped around his waist. Your back against the wall. His mouth on yours—crashing, pulling, devouring.

It was messy. A little rushed. Reverent in its desperation.

Like something ancient had finally been set into motion.

Like this wasn’t just inevitable—it was fated.

You clung to him, hands clutching the collar of his shirt, your mouth parting under his as he kissed you harder, deeper. Tongue slipping past your lips like he already knew what you tasted like.

He walked you backward, blindly, the metal plates of his vibranium arm pressed firm against your thigh. You barely noticed the shift until he sat down at the edge of his bed, dragging you down with him, your thighs straddling his lap like you’d always belonged there.

The kiss never broke.

Only deepened.

Your fingers dove into his hair, tugging hard at the roots, and he groaned into your mouth. His hands were everywhere—the metal one gripping your thigh tight, anchoring you to him, while the warm flesh one came up to cradle your jaw.

His thumb stroked slow, soothing circles into your cheek, a contrast to the way his mouth devoured you.

Then his hand slid lower.

Over your neck.

Down to your chest.

And then—he cupped your breast.

You gasped into the kiss. His thumb brushed over the peak through your shirt. He pulled back just slightly, breath ragged, eyes blown black with need.

“Fuck, doll…” he rasped. “You’re so soft.”

His palm squeezed gently, reverently, like he couldn’t quite believe you were real.

“No bra?” he asked, voice hoarse, lips still grazing yours.

“Non-padded,” you whispered, your fingers finding his vibranium wrist and guiding it higher, sliding it over your other breast.

“Jesus,” he muttered, gripping it with care, the cool metal pressing through your shirt as he kneaded both like they were a goddamn miracle.

You reached down, starting to unbutton your shirt from the bottom.

But he stopped you.

His hand caught yours gently. “Lemme,” he breathed, already slipping the buttons open with a surprising ease, one by one, baring more of your skin with each.

When he pushed the fabric aside and saw the bra—thin, delicate, your nipples barely hidden—he groaned.

“Goddamn,” he whispered. “Been dreaming about this… for way too long.”

He reached around you, unhooking your bra with a flick of his fingers.

And when they spilled free?

He froze for half a second. Jaw tight. Throat flexing.

“Fuck me…” he muttered, his hands sliding back up to cup you properly now—skin to skin.

You were already grinding against him. Slow, controlled, your clothed pussy pressing against the thick ridge in his pants.

He let out a low sound. A growl.

Then dipped his head.

And devoured you.

His mouth latched onto one nipple, tongue swirling, lips sucking hard enough to make you arch into him. His metal hand squeezed the other breast, thumb flicking the peak in lazy circles.

You moaned, loud, fingers gripping his shoulders, nails dragging along the fabric of his shirt.

Every flick of his tongue sent electricity down your spine. Your panties were already soaked. The pressure in your core was unbearable. The need clawing at you from the inside out.

“Bucky—fuck—” you gasped, as he moved to your other nipple, worshipping it with the same urgency, same hunger.

He moaned in response, mouth full, pulling back only to whisper, “You sound even better like this. In real life. On top of me. Falling apart.”

You whimpered.

Because it was too good.

Too perfect.

You’d never had sex—not really. The only thing that ever “took” your virginity was a purple dildo named Tomdildody that lived in a shoebox under your bed.

But this?

This was everything Tomdildody could never be.

This was hot breath and strong hands and the delicious stretch of a man who wanted all of you. Not just your body—but the sounds you made. The way you shivered. The way you whispered his name like it was your final prayer.

Your thighs clenched tighter around him, your hips rolling now, slow but shameless, as his tongue dragged one last, greedy circle around your nipple before he looked up at you.

He was wrecked. Eyes dark. Lips slick. His hands still full of you.

You were already shaking.

And it was only the beginning.

—

You slid off his lap without a word.

Your body moved on instinct now—too hot, too full, too overwhelmed to think. You stood at the edge of the bed and peeled off your pants, one leg at a time, your soaked panties clinging to your folds before you yanked them down and tossed them aside.

Bucky followed your lead, rising from the bed like a force of gravity had pulled him up behind you. He undid his belt with one sharp pull, shoved his tactical pants down, and yanked off his boxers.

You froze for a beat.

They were the exact same ones from the FaceTime. Black. Faintly stretched at the waistband. Familiar in a way that made your stomach twist and your pussy clench with anticipation.

He sat back down—legs spread, cock heavy and flushed between them. Thick. Glistening. Leaking at the tip like he’d been waiting hours for this.

You climbed into his lap again, bare skin on bare skin now, your knees pressing into the mattress as you straddled him. You sank down just enough for your soaked cunt to drag along the length of him, slow and hungry.

Wet, filthy squelches echoed in the quiet room. You both moaned—loud, ragged, desperate.

Your forehead dropped to his shoulder.

“Let me feel you, Bucky,” you begged, your voice shaking. “I need it. I need you. My pussy wants you so fucking bad…”

You rolled your hips against him again, your slick coating him, teasing him. Your walls clenched at nothing—frantic for him, aching to be filled.

His breath stuttered. Then he growled.

“Fuck, baby…”

He gripped your thighs—metal on one side, warm skin on the other—and lifted you just slightly like you weighed nothing. Then with one hand, he angled his cock and pressed the tip against your entrance.

And when he lowered you down?

Plop.

His cock slid in with ease—your body parting like it had been made to take him. Welcoming. Greedy. The stretch made your mouth fall open. He was thick, curved just right, sliding into you like a prayer answered.

Both of you moaned—loud.

Your hands flew to his shoulders, clutching him. His hands stayed firm on your hips, anchoring you, grounding you.

“Jesus,” Bucky whispered, voice wrecked. “This feels so… unreal.”

He pulled out slightly, then slid back in with a guttural groan. “You feel like heaven, sweetheart. Fuck.”

You barely managed a sound—just a gasp, eyes fluttering shut as your walls clenched around him involuntarily.

“God, your pussy feels so good. So fucking good,” he murmured, his forehead dropping to your chest as he rolled his hips into you. “I wanna live here.”

You let out a sob of pleasure.

Because this—this was bliss. The kind of sex that made you forget time, space, rules. The kind that made your thighs shake and your stomach tighten and your soul hum.

You bounced on his lap in slow, messy thrusts. He met every movement with a snap of his hips, driving deeper each time. His cock rubbed every right place inside you, that slight curve hitting your sweetest spot again and again, forcing sounds out of you that you didn’t know you were capable of.

“Fuckfuckfuck—Bucky—oh my god—” you cried out, hands gripping the back of his neck, pulling him close like he could stop your body from combusting.

He moaned your name.

Over and over.

Like he was tasting it. Claiming it. Like it lived in his blood.

“Say it again,” you breathed, dizzy from the rhythm. “Say my name.”

He thrust up into you with purpose—sharp, needy—and whispered it like it was holy.

“Baby…” he gasped, voice shattering at the edges. “God, you feel so fucking good—fuck, I’m not gonna last.”

And then he said it—your name.

Low. Rough. Worshipful.

Like it wasn’t just something to call you, but something etched into him. Something his. He kept saying it, over and over, like it grounded him. Like it was the only thing he could hold onto as he drowned in the feel of you.

You were unraveling.

Clit grinding into the base of his cock with every drop of your hips. Slick running down his thighs. Your body clenching tighter around him with every thrust.

You didn’t care who heard.

You didn’t care who knew.

Because this was the best thing you’d ever done.

The most right thing you’d ever felt.

You were full of him. Wrapped around him. Buried in him. And as your orgasm started to crash through your belly in pulsing, blinding waves—

You knew this was more than just sex.

This was the beginning of everything.

—

You moaned into Bucky’s ear, breath hitching, hands clawing into his back.

“Baby, I’m so fucking close—harder, baby—don’t stop.”

He didn’t.

God, he didn’t.

His grip tightened on your hips, the vibranium fingers splayed with reverent strength, anchoring you to him as he bucked up harder, faster, deeper. The sound of skin meeting skin filled the room—slaps, gasps, choked curses. Heat built between your bodies like friction could burn through time.

And then—

It hit.

Your orgasm shattered through you like something sacred. A wave that cracked your spine and left your mouth falling open in a silent scream. Your body trembled, clenching around him, pulling him deeper even as your climax dragged you under.

Bucky groaned into your shoulder, one final thrust before he pulled out, gasping through his teeth as he spilled across your belly, thick ropes hitting your skin, streaking your thighs. You could feel his chest rising and falling under you, faster than usual. Ragged.

And still—you collapsed against him. Boneless. Wrecked.

He caught you instantly. Wrapped both arms around your waist and held you close like you were something he’d been fighting to protect this whole time. His breathing slowed quickly—thanks to that goddamn serum—but you could feel something different in him. Something deeper than just release.

It wasn’t just sex for him.

It hadn’t been for you either.

You stayed like that for a long while—just breathing, just tangled. Your face buried in his neck, skin warm and slick with sweat and something else you didn’t have the language for yet. Something like peace.

Eventually, your arms slid up to hook around his shoulders, and you lifted your head—only just—to find his eyes. Those steel-blue eyes that always looked like they’d seen too much. But now?

Now they were soft. Glowing. Staring at you like you were some kind of beginning.

“That was…” you started, voice raw, shaky with the aftermath.

You paused.

Then you smiled, just a little.

“That was my first time.”

Bucky blinked. Like he hadn’t heard you right. Like the Earth had tilted sideways under him.

You touched his cheek, thumbing at the stubble there.

“And it was the best,” you whispered.

His throat bobbed. He didn’t say anything right away. Just looked at you, as if the words would never be enough. But you could feel it in his hands—the way he held you tighter. How he kissed your forehead, slow and reverent. Like you’d given him more than just your body.

You let him pull you under the blanket with him. Still bare. Still warm.

You curled into his chest, his arm wrapped snug around your back, your leg draped over his. One of his fingers traced circles into your spine, and he whispered things into your hair you couldn’t quite make out—murmured words like baby and you feel like heaven and can’t believe it was you.

And for once, there were no missions. No sirens. No grudge hanging heavy in the air.

Just the quiet weight of new beginnings.

You closed your eyes against his collarbone, and for the first time since joining this chaotic team, you let yourself rest.

Where it was safe.

Where it was warm.

Where he was.

[vamplu]

Jackass

Summary : Everyone is horrified that Bucky is flirting with a married woman, but then they realise there's a reason why. 

Pairing : Thunderbolts!Bucky Barnes x florist!reader (she/her) 

Warnings/tags : Secret wife trope. Cursing, Injury. Featuring the Thunderbolts*. Bucky kinda gaslights the entire team. Fluff!!!!

Word count : 3k

Note : The next chapter of spoils of war is almost here, but I just need to go over a couple of paragraphs! In the meantime, enjoy!

The Thunderbolts knew a few undeniable truths about Bucky Barnes.

One: He was grumpy.

Two: He was a private person.

Three: He never, ever let anyone see where he lived.

That last one bothered them the most. They’d pieced together the general area; a quiet neighborhood with old brick buildings, modern cafés, and just enough charm to make it feel… vintage. But no one had ever set foot inside his home, no one had even seen him unlock the door to his sanctuary, since he dodged every casual suggestion to hang out at his place with a variation of “I got plans” or another. And, curiously, every time they stopped for coffee in this part of town, Bucky would mysteriously slip into the tiny flower shop beneath a brick apartment building.

That was odd. No one would’ve guessed that Bucky Barnes even liked flowers.

What was even odder was that this infinitely grumpy, emotionally constipated, “I hate people” supersoldier — would be capable of flirting.

With the florist.

With you.

“Are we seeing this right?” Yelena whispered, elbowing Alexei as they peered through the shop window after Bucky made them wait outside. 

They watched as Bucky stood by the counter, leaning in ever so slightly, a charming grin tugging at the corner of his mouth as he watched you wrap a bouquet.

“He’s smiling,” Alexei muttered, horrified.

Inside, Bucky reached for the bouquet you were tying up, his gloved fingers brushing against yours. You playfully smacked his hand away, laughing. He laughed, too, and that was enough to send Yelena spiraling into an existential crisis.

Yelena squinted. “He’s flirting.”

Alexei frowned. “Bucky does not flirt.”

“I know. That’s why I’m freaking out.”

They watched as you handed him the bouquet, and in return, Bucky gave you a wink. And then he turned, walking out like he hadn’t just transformed into a different person.

That was when Yelena, utterly horrified Yelena, caught a flash of gold on your ring finger. She squinted her eyes. It was unmistakable. “Wait a second—”

As soon as he got back to them, Alexei folded his arms. “You were flirting.”

Bucky scoffed. “I was not.”

“She’s married!” Yelena accused, pointing dramatically. “She had a ring! You flirted with a married woman!”

Bucky didn’t even blink. He simply shrugged, tucking the bouquet carefully under his arm. “I didn’t see a ring.”

“She was literally wearing it—”

“I didn’t see a ring,” Bucky insisted, tugging absentmindedly at the chain around his neck— the one that held his dog tags, hidden under his shirt.

Yelena and Alexei exchanged a deeply disturbed look.

Bucky Barnes was flirting with a married florist.

What was the world coming to?

—

Bucky knew he’d fucked up the second he stepped back into Thunderbolts HQ. 

Alexie had just looked confused, while Yelena had been simmering the entire walk back, her arms crossed so tightly over her chest it was a miracle she hadn’t snapped a rib. 

She lasted exactly two seconds before she exploded. “You are jackass, Barnes!”

Bucky barely had time to sigh before she stomped closer.

“What’s so wrong with what I did?” he muttered, placing the bouquet of flowers in an empty vase

Yelena let out an incredulous laugh, pacing in front of him like a caged tiger ready to strike. “What’s wrong?” she echoed, her accent thickening with rage. “You flirted with a married woman! I should punch you in the face on principle!”

From the lounge, John Walker looked up from whatever government-issued nonsense he was pretending to read. His brows immediately furrowed, his eyes twisting into the signature disapproving dad look he’d perfected. “Wait, what?”

Ava, who had been drinking tea in the corner, raised an eyebrow. “This is scandalous,” she murmured, eyes brightening with intrigue.

Alexei, who was now plopped on the couch like some washed-up, Soviet-era king, said, “If a man had flirted with my wife like that, I would have hunt him down and mount his head on wall.” He crossed his arms, nodding to himself in approval. “As is tradition.”

Bucky scowled. “I wasn’t flirting.”

“Oh?” Yelena snorted, “So you were just undressing her with your eyes for fun, then?”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “That’s just how I look at people.”

Alexie shook his head. “So you look at us like that?”

Bucky opened his mouth. Then immediately shut it.

Yelena’s hands curled into fists. “Yeah. Thought so.”

John’s arms crossed over his chest in that holier-than-thou stance that he was so famous for. “Look, man, I’m married. And if someone flirted with my wife, we’d have a problem.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Bucky groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “You guys are making a big deal out of nothing.”

“Nothing?” Yelena threw up her hands. “She’s married, Bucky!”

“Okay, even if I was flirting,” Bucky turned to her, exasperated— “I didn’t see a ring.”

Yelena’s hands flew to her head, fingers digging into her scalp like she was resisting the urge to rip out her own hair. “You probably chose to look away!”

John sighed like a disappointed youth pastor. “This is unbelievable.”

“No,” Bucky still insisted, “I didn’t see a ring.”

Yelena’s jaw dropped. “It was a thick gold band, Barnes. How could you not see it?”

Ava, who was clearly enjoying the drama more than anyone, sighed. “That is inappropriate behaviour, Barnes.”

Alexei shook his head again, “You should apologise.”

“I’m not apologising,” Bucky scoffed, “Because I did nothing wrong.”

His fingers toyed absentmindedly with the chain that led to his dog tags, and Yelena immediately locked onto the movement. Every person has a tell, a habit they did when they were nervous. And being a super spy, Yelena knew this was his.

She narrowed her eyes. “You are gaslighting us,” she muttered, pacing again like she was mentally weighing the pros and cons of strangling a super soldier.

“I didn’t see a ring,” Bucky repeated, his voice steady.

“You’re lying,” she snapped.

He shrugged, maddeningly casual in all of this chaos. “Guess we’ll never know.”

Ava laughed cynically. “I can’t tell if you’re a complete scumbag or if this is just really fun for you.”

Bucky just popped a beer from the fridge, flicking the cap off with his metal hand. “Why not both?”

He took a long sip of his beer, completely unbothered.

And maybe, he looked a little bit too smug.

—

Three weeks later, Bucky led Yelena and John on a mission to take down a high-scale arms dealer.

And, as always, the mission had gone sideways.

It was too late for any shops to be open, too late for anyone with a shred of common sense to be out on the streets. 

Yelena was bleeding, pressing a torn scrap of fabric against a deep gash on her arm. John had a busted lip and a slight limp. Bucky was sporting a few cuts and bruises himself, but nothing he hadn’t shaken off a thousand times before.

“Guys,” Yelena managed a grunt, shifting her grip on her makeshift bandage, “we need to get ourselves patched up before one of us drops dead.”

“We ran out of antiseptics back at HQ,” John reminded them.

Yelena groaned, throwing her head back in despair. “So what are we supposed to do?” She gritted out, “Just bleed out in the street like sad little orphans?”

John scowled. “That’s a little dramatic.”

Yelena turned and glared at him. “Your face is dramatic.”

Bucky let out a deep breath through his nose, running a hand along his damp hair. He glanced around the street, making sure they weren’t being followed before whispering to himself, “Guess we’re doing this now.”

Yelena tilted her head. “Doing what?”

Instead of answering, Bucky turned on his heel and started walking.

John and Yelena gave each other a wary look.

“I don’t like when he does that,” John said.

“No one does,” Yelena agreed, but they both followed anyway. 

It didn’t take long for them to recognise the route— ​​It was the neighbourhood where the team usually got coffee.

But Bucky wasn’t heading to the café.

They rounded the corner, and suddenly John stopped dead in his tracks.

It was a closed florist—the very one where Bucky had, allegedly, been trying to charm his way into a married woman’s bed.

To John’s absolute horror, Bucky walked right up to the door and knocked.

“Bucky.” He said, voice strangled. “What the hell is this?”

Yelena blinked. “I don’t think we need to seduce a married florist to get medical supplies.”

Bucky sighed, rubbing his temples like he was already regretting this decision. He turned to them, leveling them both with a look. “Alright, listen up,” he said through gritted teeth. "The secret’s out now, so you two gotta keep your mouths shut.”

John’s brows furrowed. “What secret?”

Before Bucky could answer, the door to the flower shop clicked open.

And there you were, standing in the doorway, wrapped in one of Bucky’s hoodies, looking exactly how he’d expected: exasperated but unsurprised. He knew you’d still be up, cataloguing the latest floral shipment for tomorrow’s arrangements.

The second your eyes landed on a bruised and bloodied Bucky, and flanked by two wounded Thunderbolts, no less—you let out a sigh.

“James,” you said knowingly, your voice laced with fond irritation. “What did you do?”

Yelena and John froze in their tracks.

James?

James?

No one called Bucky by his first name. No one. Not unless they had a death wish.

Bucky, unfazed, just stepped inside. “We ran out of antiseptics, honey.”

Yelena and John exchanged a wide-eyed look.

Honey?

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Again?”

Bucky shrugged like this was a perfectly normal Thursday night occurrence.

You muttered under your breath, “I should’ve known this would happen when I married an ex-assassin.”

Oh.

Yelena’s mouth opened, closed, then opened again. “Married.” she repeated

John blinked rapidly. “This is why we can never go to your place?”

Bucky could only shrug. Of course it was— they would have seen the evidence of how much love in his home was carved out for just you.

John let out a wheeze.

Yelena pointed between you and Bucky, motioning erratically. “Wait. WAIT. So—so she’s your wife? She married you?”

Bucky nodded. “Yup.”

“Like—actually married?”

“Mhm.”

Yelena gasped, clutching her chest like she’d been personally betrayed. In a way, she had. “And no one knows?”

Bucky thought for a second. “Sam does.”

“And Joaquin,” you added, trying to be helpful.

Bucky nodded. “Right. Joaquin.”

“Oh, and Isaiah and Elijah Bradley.”

“Yeah, they were at the wedding.”

“A teenager knew about this,” John’s eye twitched, “—and we didn’t?”

Bucky could only nod again.

Yelena rubbed a hand down her face, “You gaslit us,” she accused, jabbing a finger at Bucky. “You let us believe you were a homewrecker for weeks—when you were married the whole time?!”

You snorted, glancing at Bucky, who had the audacity to look smug. “Yeah, that sounds like my husband.”

Yelena let out a string of very creative Russian curses.

John looked like he was about to have a stroke. 

“All secrets aside,” you said, welcoming the two disoriented Thunderbolts in and locking the door behind you, “It’s good to finally meet you both.”

John still looked like he was buffering. Yelena, on the other hand, was vibrating with adrenaline, looking like she was trying to solve a conspiracy theory in real time.

“This is—this is insane,” she muttered, pointing aggressively at Bucky, then at you, then back at Bucky. “You’re—you’re so normal.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “I’d like to think so.”

Bucky just hummed. “She’s perfect.”

Yelena actually sputtered like an old car engine.

John made a noise that was somewhere between a groan and a strangled laugh. This was all too much.

But there wasn’t time to let them spiral further. Bucky, gently nudged you toward the others. “Take care of them first, darling. They’ve got worse injuries.”

You frowned, wanting to protest—because, really, Bucky should always be your first priority—but your husband was nothing if not stubborn. You knew better than to argue when he had that look in his eyes— you knew that fighting him on this would only drag things out longer, and right now, time was precious.

You turned your attention to Yelena and John, motioning for them to follow you deeper into the shop. The scent of lavender, roses, and freshly cut stems—clung to the air as you led them toward the back, where your little work table stood tucked in the corner.

Years of practice had made you quick. You moved with quiet efficiency, gathering supplies from neat shelves: you cut and split an aloe vera plant for burns, grabbed bandages, and a mix of balms you’d perfected over your time tending to Bucky. It wasn’t the kind of sterile, military-grade first aid they were used to, but it would have to do for now.

You started tending to Yelena’s arm, gently dabbing the wound with fresh aloe. She hissed through her teeth before narrowing her eyes at you.

“So how long has this been a thing?” she demanded. Bucky, now leaning lazily against the counter with his arms crossed, barely spared her a glance. “A while.”

John scoffed, “A while?”

You bit back a grin as you smoothed a bandage over Yelena’s arm, “Three years.”

Yelena’s jaw dropped.

“Three—” She turned to Bucky so fast it was a miracle she didn’t give herself whiplash. “You’ve been married for three years?!”

John let out a long, defeated groan,This was simply too much to process. “Fuck’s sake.”

Yelena shook her head. “I thought you were a loner who hated people."

Bucky only shrugged, unbothered. 

You chuckled as you pressed the last piece of medical tape into place on Yelena’s arm. “Alright, you’re done.” Then, glancing at John, you motioned for him to sit. “Your turn.”

John sighed but still plopped down. You took his hand gently, turning it over to examine his bruised knuckles before moving to his busted lip.

Meanwhile, they kept peppering you with questions, barely giving you room to breathe.

“How did you meet?”

“How do you put up with Bucky’s brooding?”

“Does he ever actually smile?”

At that last one, you paused, dabbing at John’s lip carefully. “He smiles all the time.”

John let out a scoff. “No, he doesn’t.”

You glanced over at Bucky, knowing he showed that part of him to you and no one else. “Oh, he does.”

And then, finally, it was Bucky’s turn.

You turned to him, your brows knitting together as you studied the little cuts on his cheek, the dried blood near his brows. He looked a little tired, a little worn around the edges. 

Your fingers found his chin, tilting his face toward you as you inspected the damage. Your touch was so featherlight, so incredibly careful. There was no missing the way your thumb brushed over his cheekbone— how incredibly gentle it was.

“You should’ve let me do you first,” you murmured, half-scolding, half-concerned.

Bucky’s lips curved into a small smile, a flicker of mischief lighting his tired blue eyes. “That’s exactly what you said last night, sweetheart.”

John choked.

Yelena groaned, grabbing the nearest pillow from the nearest chair and hurling it at Bucky’s head. “You two are disgusting.”

Bucky caught the pillow effortlessly, giving her a smug grin before setting it aside. When his eyes found yours again, his shit-eating grin turned… lovely. The tension in his brows eased as you dabbed gently at his cut. 

For all the blood, for all the bruises, you handled him like he was glass.

And then, without thinking, you leaned in.

It was meant to be a brief kiss— a quick reassurance, a way of saying I’ve got you. But the moment your lips brushed his, you couldn’t help but linger.

Your fingers curled instinctively against his chin. His hand found your waist without hesitation, as if he needed you closer. As if the world shrank down to just the two of you. 

John and Yelena exchanged a look, the previous horror of their teammate hiding a secret wife momentarily forgotten because this was… weirdly cute.

You giggled as you pulled away, seeing Bucky looking at you like you hung the moon for him. 

“Anywhere else?” you asked, brushing your thumb over his lips.

Bucky hesitated just for a second. Then, a little sheepishly, he said, “Got a cut on my ribs.”

You exhaled, shaking your head. Of course he did. Before he could argue, you reached for the hem of his shirt and tugged.

“Off,” you said simply.

Bucky huffed but didn’t fight you. He lifted his arms, letting you strip the fabric from his skin, and goddamn.

Bucky, half-naked, was unfairly, ridiculously beautiful. Even now, even after all this time, seeing him like this still knocked the breath from your lungs. His body was a roadmap of battles fought and survived, scars carved into the expanse of his chest and ribs that told stories only he could say. 

John made a strangled sound, somewhere between “Jesus Christ” and “I need to leave the room,” but you ignored him completely. Yelena let out a dramatic sigh and whispered “they are one second away from sucking each other’s face off,” to herself.

You tuned them both out, fingers dragging carefully over Bucky’s ribs, searching for the wound. When you found a thin jagged cut just below his ribs— you sighed softer this time and reached for the aloe.

“You need to stop getting hurt, my love,” you said, smoothing the cool gel over his skin.

Bucky’s voice came quieter. “Lucky I have someone to take care of me, then.”

And that’s when Yelena finally noticed it.

The thin chain around Bucky’s neck—one she’d always assumed was just for his dog tags—held something else, too.

A ring.

A simple wedding band that matched yours, worn from years of resting against his skin.

She blinked, realisation hitting her like a freight train. Oh.

That’s why he always played with it.

Every time Bucky was nervous, every time he was uncertain, his fingers would move to that chain—not just to fiddle with his tags, but to remind himself of you.

Maybe he wasn’t a complete jackass after all.

-end.

Note: Hope this doesn't bite me in the ass when the movie comes out.

General Bucky taglist:

@hotlinepanda @snflwr-vol6 @ruexj283 @2honeybees @read-just-cant

 @shanksstrawhat @mystictf @globetrotter28 @thebuckybarnesvault@average-vibe

@winchestert101 @mystictf @globetrotter28 @shanksstrawhat @scariusaquarius

@reckless007 @hextech-bros @daydreamgoddess14 @96jnie @pono-pura-vida

@buckyslove1917 @notsostrangerthing @flow33didontsmoke @qvynrand @blackbirdwitch22

@torntaltos @seventeen-x @ren-ni @iilsenewman @slayerofthevampire

@hiphip-horray @jbbucketlist @melotyy @ethereal-witch24 @samfunko

@lilteef @hi172826 @pklol @average-vibe @shanksstrawhat

@shower-me-with-roses @athenabarnes @scarwidow @thriving-n-jiving @dilfsaresohot

@helloxgoodbi @undf-stuff @sapphirebarnes @hzdhrtss @softhornymess

@samfunko @wh1sp @anonymousreader4d7 @mathcat345 @escapefromrealitylol

@imjusthere1161 @sleepysongbirdsings @fuckybarnes @yn-stories-are-my-life

[vamplu]

heavy in your arms

Summary: Bucky has big arms. And you've been dreaming about losing yourself in them since you saw him for the first time. Inspo: beefy!bucky wrapping his bicep around your neck to pull you flush to his chest while he pounds into you deliciously Pairing: beefy!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader Warnings/tags: smut; porn without plot; breath play (kinda); arm kink; chocking kink; silent play; p in v; unprotected sex; praise kink (reader); no use of Y/N Word count: 2.6k Notes: quick drabble i wrote in like two hours because i couldn't stop thinking about this post by @fckmebarnes

You’re not entirely sure how you got to tonight’s events.

You met Bucky Barnes a few months ago in a local market. He seemed lost. Like buying tomatoes and plums from a sweet vendor on the street was the hardest chore someone could do in a lifetime. You approached. He looked uneasy, pulled away. You spoke, soft and tender. He barely answered. American. 

But you saw each other again. And again. And again, on the same market. At some point, you wondered if he would come just to see you. One day, you invited him to your home. You didn’t think he would say yes, but he did.

You know his name. He’s hiding something dark, deep, and he’s got a shiny metal arm instead of a left human arm. All the rest of him is… normal. He’s quiet, quieter than should be comfortable, but you’re okay with it. And his presence in your home comes like a balm. Becomes a routine. He comes over once a week, you make him his favorite soup. He always looks tired.

Then, tonight, something shifted. You made a comment about his arms. His big fucking arms, because, God, he’s muscular and big, so much bigger than you. And you’ve wondered what it would be like to lose yourself in those arms, to have them wrapped around you as he fucked you into oblivion, until you forgot yourself.

You’re both in the living room, and Bucky is the first to reach forward, towards you. He’s careful in his motion, but firm, his body moving with a certain precision. Flesh hand, warm, wraps around your smaller right wrist and tugs you closer, until your bodies are practically touching. Every inch of him on every inch of you - almost.

His icy blue eyes trail over your features like he’s studying you, learning, memorizing. They are directly locked into your own eyes for a moment, holding your gaze, and you think you detect something behind that look, like he’s about to say something, but decides against it. Then his eyes are on your cheeks, taking in the pinkish tone on your skin, and then lower, on your lips. Plump, a little trembling, as if they are begging to be kissed. To be devoured by his own. You don’t need to ask it out loud. Bucky’s memories are scattered across the continents, but the look on your face - the want - that one he recognizes.

His body towers over yours and he starts to lean down, and you still catch the moment he starts to close his eyes. And then, a hairsbreadth later, his lips are pressing to yours. The kiss isn’t tender, isn’t sweet. You didn’t expect sweetness from him, anyway.

Bucky is hungry and he kisses you exactly like a man starving. When was the last time his lips were on someone else’s willingly? When was the last time he felt like his body really was his own? He’s not sure he remembers, but this, right here, your small, fragile body on his - it feels good.

Your lips move together, hard and hungry, and he tastes like alcohol and fruit and the mixture is strange on your tongue but not unpleasant. He licks over your lips, inviting himself into your mouth before his tongue slides past your lips and tastes all of you. His flesh hand is still holding on to your wrist, but when he kisses you like that you moan and instantly, his hand moves to grip your hip tight. Bucky holds you hard against his body, and already you feel the outline of his hard cock through his jeans. Your hips roll forward, teasing, seeking friction, and he makes a noise into your mouth which you swallow like it’s your own.

Bucky breaks the kiss for a moment to search for air, and he takes in the sight of your flustered face. He seems proud of the work he’s done, metal arm reaching up and craddling your cheek as his thumb rubs over the reddened skin.

“You’re beautiful.”, he says, and his voice is rough with desire. You open your mouth to say something, but Bucky catches your lips in another lustful kiss that leaves you breathless before you can get a word out. Then he’s pulling away again. “No, love. No speaking unless I ask you to.” His head lowers and you think he’s about to kiss you again but instead his head dips between your neck and your shoulder and he licks a strip across your neck. Then, his teeth are digging into the skin before he sucks it into his mouth and that elicits another moan from you. His hand on your hip tightens and he groans in disapproval. “No noises either, love. You don’t make a sound. Do you understand?” You’re a quick learner, because his question doesn’t receive a spoken answer. Instead, you simply nod, your body already slightly trembling under his hold. “Good. Such a good girl for me.”

His words bleed into your ears like acid, burning their way through every inch of your skin, crawling, a brand being placed upon you. Such a good girl for me. It echoes inside of you, and you can imagine that, many moons from now, those words will still be glued to you like they are a part of your core.

Bucky is still kissing your neck, and his teeth graze the skin ever so slightly a couple of times. He’s testing you, testing your restraint. And you provide nothing. Not a single sound, only your eyes rolling into the back of your head, back arching slightly into him. He’s hot and warm and built like a wall - firm, big, his muscles so big they completely crowd your every sense. There is so much of him. Standing tall and strong, the red henley strained against his arms as his muscles flex as he grips you tight. And your mind is spiraling, because you had to be blind to not notice how big he was, but now, this close, you feel so small in comparison, so breakable. And you are sure he could break you if he wanted to. You’re not entirely sure he isn’t doing that, right now, just in an entirely different way.

You almost mewl in disappointment when Bucky momentarily pulls away from you, but you don’t, and he takes notice. You’re being such a good girl, and he’s never been quite this turned on, even though you’ve barely done anything at all. Both his hands move to the hem of your shirt and pull it over your head before discarding it somewhere in the living room. Then he’s walking forward, and you walk backwards, and somehow, you end up with your back against the couch. Bucky is grinning at you. Not a full grin, no, but a delicious half-smile, confident he’s tearing you apart bit by bit. His eyes are skimming over your torso, landing on your black lacy bra and he can’t help but immediately move his flesh hand to massage one of your breasts, grabbing, the size of it perfect in his big palm. His thumb brushes the soft material of the bra to the side, just enough to free your hardened nipple and he plays with it between his fingers. 

You still don’t make a sound. God, it’s the hardest thing you’ve done all your life - not making a sound when he’s teasing you like this. But you’re a good girl. You can be good for him.

“Love-”, Bucky breathes and he kisses over the expanse of your chest. “Tell me how you’re feeling.” His voice isn’t demanding like the rest of his body is right now, but it’s rough enough to make it clear he needs an answer.

“So good.” 

*

A while later, you’re both naked, Bucky stroking your bare back with his fingers as you suck in a breath.

You are slightly bent over your couch, legs spread, and your arousal is slowly dripping down the inside of your thigh. Bucky catches some of it in his fingers and uses it to stroke his cock as he looks at you. 

What a sight to behold. You, spread out for him. Wanting, needing, not making a damn sound, like he asked you to. The imagery makes his cock twitch in his hand and he has to take a deep breath, slow his thoughts, otherwise he’d be gone before this even started. 

Bucky runs his metal hand over your hip, around the base of your back, so close to your ass, and his touch is reverent, like he physically needs to touch every inch of skin to make this perfect. Then, the tip of his cock is pressing against your folds, and the intrusion is most welcomed. Your hips roll back into him, and Bucky rests both hands on your hips to stop your movement.

“Don’t be greedy.”, he breathes, but in the next second he’s slowly sinking himself inside of you. His cock stretches you out and you grip the edges of the couch hard, so hard maybe you’ll leave nail marks afterwards, because it’s the only way you can stop yourself from making a sound. Sweat coats your body, and his, and his metal arm circles your waist, gently pressing against your stomach to keep you pressed tight to him as he sinks deeper, and deeper, until he’s fully seated inside of you.

Bucky groans and it’s the hottest sound you’ve ever heard in your life. He doesn’t remember any other feeling quite like the feeling of being buried so deep inside of you. Your pussy feels divine, wet and warm, gripping him like a vice. It feels like it’s singing to him, a goddamn siren song, and he will never be able to leave again. 

“Oh, fuck, love- so tight.”, Bucky says, half a whimper, and he gives one tentative thrust. And you feel it then - his body shaking against yours. “Tell me this feels good. Tell me you want this.” Bucky’s pleading, a small contrast to the way he’s handling you, and you let out a soft gasp you had been holding on.

“Please, Bucky, I want you. I want you so bad.”, you respond, and the arousal in your voice is confirmation enough that you’re not lying. “Please, your cock feels so fucking good-”

And then your sentence is interrupted, because Bucky slides his flesh arm around your neck, hard bicep wrapped around you as he pulls you flush to his chest. He uses his knee to lift one of your legs from behind, resting it against the back of the couch, and then he starts fucking into you, thrusts slow, hard, deep, his bicep pressed so hard around your neck that you feel almost light headed. The grip of his arm is not enough to take your breath away, but it is enough to hold you in place, to stop you from moving, from doing anything at all. Anything but moan for him. You’re not sure he wants you to right now, but you can’t really hold it back when his cock is buried so deep, hitting every sweet spot, his balls slapping against your ass in a slow, sensual rhythm that sends you flying.

“Bad girl.”, he moans into your ear, but he doesn’t make a move to stop, and instead, fucks you through it, a little harder, a little deeper. “Making noise when I told you to be quiet.”, he continues speaking, voice hoarse, but his hips don’t snap out of their rhythm, and so you still moan. One of your hands comes up from the back of the couch and you drag your nails over his large arm, the one wrapped around your neck, and his hips stutter for half a second. “Naughty. And I fucking love it.”

He angles his hips better, lifts your leg a little higher with his knee and then he’s changing the pace, his cock driving in and out of you a little faster. The noises coming out of you are pure filth, obscene, and you’re glad he isn’t asking you to be quiet now, because you don’t think you could. Bucky’s lips drop to your neck, and he kisses the soft skin as his metal fingers slide down your stomach and start rubbing circles around your clit in time with his thrusts. He feels you trembling in his arms and he tightens the arm around your neck, keeping you more in place.

“I’ve got you, love.”, he moans against your neck, and his metal hand doesn’t stop, his hips don’t stop and the sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, along with your moans. “You’re so amazing. Could stay inside this tight pussy for hours.” Your body shudders against him, teeth digging into your bottom lip as his filthy praise makes his way into you. God, you want, need, more of this, more of him. 

But he has you pressed flush against his chest, against his body, and you’re his to take. He doesn’t let you move anything other than your arms, everything else in his total control. And you love it, you’d beg for it if he made you.

His metal fingers fasten the movements on your clit, and the cold metal feels perfect against the heat of your folds, so perfect. Your stomach feels tight, muscles coiled with the pressure of the orgasm that is building right in the back of your gut, spreading over your every limb, expanding and threatening to make a mess out of you. Bucky feels it, feels your walls clutching around his cock and it only spurs him on. His hips snap faster, fucking you with renewed vigor and his lips trail from your neck to your ear, whispering all the filthy things you seem to love.

“Gonna cum so hard inside this pretty pussy.”, he says and you whimper. He responds to that by thrusting particularly hard inside of you. “So good for me. My favorite girl. You gonna cum for me, love? Gonna cum all over my cock? Let me feel you.” 

Your arms are clawing at the bicep still tightly wrapped around your neck, not because you want him to move it but because you need to hold on to something as you come apart, in all senses of the word. “Bucky, I’m so close- please don’t stop.”

He wasn’t planning to. 

And shortly after, he tips you over the edge. You see white, your mouth opening to let out a strangled gasp as your orgasm washes over you and your whole body trembles against Bucky. He whispers soft praise into your ear as you cum, hold you through every spasm and moan, flush against his chest, and his hips don’t falter. He fucks you fast and hard and hot until you’re going limp in his body, and then he thrusts a couple more times, his rhythm broken, before he curses your name under his breath and spills himself inside of you, his seed filling your pussy to the brim. 

For another minute he just fucks lazily into you, like he’s just making sure no second of his or your orgasm go to waste. His arm around your neck loosens up and it seems like he’s about to move it completely out of the way, but you hold on to it. You feel his gaze on you, almost confused.

“Don’t move.” You ask, a little pleading. Your eyes are closed as you try to get your breathing back to normal. “Stay. For a while.”

He does.

For a while.

[vamplu]

manchild.

pairing. bucky barnes x fem!reader mcu timeline. tfatws. synopsis. bucky can't help but wonder why they always come running to you,, or your living fossil of a roommate disapproves of your taste in men and its totally not because he wants a taste of you. warnings. smut ( pwp, service dom!bucky, unprotected piv, oral sex - f receiving, clothed sex for like a sec, fingering, creampie, tummy bulge, dirty talk, dry humping, possessiveness, dumbification, praise, temperature play, food play, nipple play, pussy pronouns, hair pulling - m receiving, multiple orgasms, consent kink, implied competency kink and cum eating, bucky barnes begs agenda 2025™, both bucky and reader spend the whole fic towing the fine line between horny and pervy ), no use of y/n, angst, fluff, frenemies to lovers, roommate!bucky, cocky+flirty!bucky, also guard dog!bucky ( if that even makes sense ) ( it doesn't ), jealousy, pining, so much bickering, attachment issues, miscommunication bc these two combined have the emotional intelligence of a chihuahua, bucky's hobby is baking bc i said so. reader inclusivity. bucky can pick the reader up ( but he's literally a super soldier so 🧍‍♂️ ), one mention of bucky trying to grab the reader's hair, reader has a nut allergy and does not speak russian ( neither do i, so please forgive the very small amount of google translated russian ) word count. 16.3k hyde’s input. god bless sabrina for saving the summer again. also don't let this flop, it's my birthday tomorrow and i'm not above crying over poorly-received erotica ( i'm joking ) ( no i'm not )

Bucky Barnes is not someone you’d call a friend.

He’s more of a nuisance, really. A fossil, dropped off at your door by one Sam Wilson with a simple request: “Can he crash here for a few days?”

That was four months ago, and Bucky’s still living on your couch.

Which is exactly where he’s sat right now, head buried in a book you barely even remember owning. The pages, so full of neglect, give him hassle as he tries to turn them, catching on one another and refusing to be pried apart by vibranium fingers.

“How do I look?” You ask as you step out from your bedroom, hands fastening an earring into your right ear.

Unfazed by your appearance, he doesn’t bother glancing up from his book as he sardonically replies, “With your eyes, like the rest of us.”

You contemplate plucking one of your heels off and throwing it at his head. Knowing your luck, it will fly right past him and smash your coffee table into pieces. Just like your roommate, it’s vintage. Unlike your roommate, you willingly brought it into your home.

“Ha. Ha.” Rounding the couch, you swat his feet off the table before snapping his book closed. “Now if you’re done playing comedian, would you answer the fucking question?”

“That’s your generation's problem, you know? You swear more than you breathe.”

“Better than waging a world war every few years.”

“Considering the current state of the world, I wouldn’t rest too comfortably on that one,” Bucky rises from his seat and squeezes past you, irritatingly close in a way that makes sure you feel each defined muscle in his chest as it brushes against your shoulder. “Anyway, you look fine, as always.”

“I look fine?” You parrot his words and follow his footsteps over to the kitchen. “Careful Barnes, don’t get too excited, it’s not healthy for a senior citizen’s heart.”

“You know what I mean,” a heavy sigh slips out the soldier’s mouth as he busies himself filling the kettle, glancing back at you from over his shoulder as he continues speaking. “I don’t understand why you worry so much about all of… this.” He gestures at you, water splashing off the tips of his fingers.

“God forbid a woman cares about looking good on a date,” you’re becoming annoyingly aware of the pout on your lips and try your best to correct it, whilst prying open the fridge door and fishing out a bottle of beer. “Gee if only it were still the 40s, then I could slap some mercury on my lips and hit the town with a man ready to buy me off my daddy for the cheap, cheap price of two goats!”

The frustration within you only rises as you struggle with the bottle’s cap, the skin of your hand pinching as you put all your force behind removing it. Since when are twist-tops so damn hard to twist off?

Bucky’s by the kettle, pouring boiling hot water into a mug he’s wrongfully claimed as his and looking irritatingly fine surrounded by steam — which has your mind trailing back to a few weeks ago: an early morning, exiting your bedroom to find your lodger stepping out the bathroom with nothing but a towel around his waist and the remnant dew of a steaming hot shower trailing down his very naked, very defined biceps, and pectorals, and- He’s not even trying to mask the amusement on his face as he indulges in your failure.

“Don’t you think you’re being a little ridiculous?” He asks and pries the bottle out of your hold, effortlessly ripping the cap off with a twist of his left hand. A familiar warmth curls between your legs, awakening a response from you that you’ve sworn, under no circumstances, will happen due to Bucky Barnes. You barely want to exchange air with him, nevermind bodily fluids. “There’s no way you’re worth two goats.”

“Every day I wake up and resist the urge to smother you in your sleep.”

Your vitriol is met with a smirk taking over his lips. Watching as he brings the beer up to his mouth, you catch yourself forgetting to blink as the soldier engages you both in a staring contest, all the while he’s tilting the bottle up to steal the first sip. He presses the cold glass back into your hand. You try not to focus on his tongue, peeking out to swipe over his bottom lip and clean up a remnant drop of beer.

In a move that puts you even more on edge, Bucky shuffles closer to you. Delirium floods your mind as the smell of smoke, and musk, and a just a twinge of sweat floods your nose, a smell so masculine it has you debating setting feminism and your own self-preservation back hundreds of years by nuzzling your face into the pulse point of his neck, like you’re some damn animal being exposed to pheromones. Meanwhile, he appears none the wiser to the negative effect he’s having on you, too busy reaching his arm behind you and into the fridge.

“Those boys you entertain, do they ever pay you any compliments?” His voice is so gentle, you almost wonder if that’s how it would sound whispering in your ear. Luckily, you don’t actually wonder about that. Not at all, not even a little. “Or is that your job too, like the bill?”

As quickly as he caged you in against the fridge, he moves away and leaves the cool air to rush over your skin, dragging your mind back into reality and away from whatever thoughts it keeps trying to tempt you with. You track his movements towards the island counter as he sets down a glass bowl, marked by condensation and filled with a batter of some sorts.

It's becoming more and more common to catch Bucky pottering around in the kitchen, a recipe on his phone screen and a personalised ‘Kiss the Baker’ apron — which Sam bought as a joke for his birthday — tied around his waist. He’ll never admit it, but a part of you believes baking helps him relax, to shut off whatever thoughts are floating around in that disturbingly pretty head of his and let him focus solely on measuring, mixing, and making delicious sugary treats. You can hardly complain when he’s gifting you the privilege of an at-home bakery. Fortunately, he gives you plenty of other reasons to complain. 

“Boys I entertain? Way to make me sound like a stripper,” you huff, sneaking over to dunk a finger into the batter as he turns to grab his coffee. “And I’ll have you know, they do pay me compliments.”

Licking your finger clean, you can’t fight the humm of approval that creeps up your throat nor the way your eyes slip shut as you savour the cold, tangy sweetness of the cake mix. Something warm presses against your left side as Bucky returns to the island, setting down his mug and a cake tin.

“Really? What kinda things do they say?” Just as you go to double dip, he smacks the top of your hand with a wooden spoon, and you nearly freeze at the contact. For a few short seconds, the factory in your mind goes into lockdown as every single one of your brain cells scramble to not conjure up the image of him smacking that utensil on a very different part of you. “Hands off. It’s a lemon cake, not a lemon and your-dirty-fingers cake.”

You silence your thoughts with a swig of beer before putting a safety distance between Bucky and you, unsure whether to be relieved at his obliviousness to the less than ideal affect he’s having on you, or offended by his complete lack of reaction to being so close to you while you’re all dressed up and waiting for another man to take you out.

Not that you want him to be affected by that, or you in general, though.

Your phone lights up with a text from an unsaved number: im hear, r yu coming down or shuld i com up? You shut it off and stuff it into your purse, deciding it's best to keep a man waiting anyway; he’ll appreciate your presence even more once you finally give him it.

Besides, you’ve yet to answer Bucky’s question.

“I’d tell you but I’m too sober to stomach you yelling ‘Heaven to Betsy!’ and giving me a lecture on your medieval dating ethics.”

You earn a genuine laugh, in which his knees bend a little and his head is thrown back, while his vibranium hand winds up splayed across his midriff. The sun is setting beyond the window, lingering shades of orange warmth frame a heavenly glow around Bucky, highlighting a slight curl in his hair and the piercing blue of his eyes. The view is uncomfortably pleasant, so you bring the bottle back to your lips and turn your head away, suddenly utterly fascinated with the eggshell colouring of the kitchen cupboards.

“I think there’s a leak under the sink,” the comment is absentminded, a meager attempt at steering your mind away from the man and his mixing bowl.

Bucky ignores it and drags you right back to the actual topic at hand.

“That’s funny,” there’s a shuffle of tin behind you. You glance back around to find him smoothing batter into the cake mold, wooden spoon clasped in metal fingers spreading the mix evenly. You’ve never noticed how good Bucky is at spreading things. “Cause I swear I remember Sam mentioning something about the last guy moaning his own name in your ear.”

Beer shoots to the back of your throat.

In a spurt of coughing, amidst the burning pain of the carbonated liquid dripping out your nose, you hurry over to the sink. Mouth dropped open in a dry heave, you lean into the basin and try to minimize the mess you make in search of a breath. Heat envelops you from behind and a pair of sock-clad feet come into view next to your maroon heels. You briefly register the cool brush of metal against the back of your neck as he tries to tidy back your hair and, while you appreciate the action, you can’t help note how completely unnecessary it is. Too distracted to care, your attention shoots straight to the weight of his flesh hand pressing into your lower back. Heavy, warm, large, it pollutes your mind with the knowledge of how it feels to have him soothe your skin — even if there is a layer of silk in the way.

The moment air returns to your lungs, you shoot up straight and ache to step away from him and his wandering-to-all-the-wrong-places hands. The battle against his touch is mute, not even one percent of his strength is put behind the way he grips your forearms and turns you to face him.

Bucky’s eyes scan over you, studying your features. You swallow back whatever feeling brings salivation to your mouth. His thumb reaches towards his own and you watch, transfixed, as a pink tongue darts out to greet it, licking a stripe over the pad of it. A splash of cake batter stains his ring finger. You swallow back more saliva; confusingly, your mouth feels drier than ever. Only when he delicately presses his thumb beneath your eye and swipes over your waterline do you realise you’re teary-eyed.

“See how clumsy you are?” There’s a chastising lilt to his voice that sends blood rushing to your face, and then immediately back down to the overwhelmingly empty space between your legs. “Can’t even swallow properly without ruining your mascara.”

You need distance.

You need to move.

You need to leave.

“He’s here!” The words are almost a gasp as you turn out of his hold. The weight of his gaze trails over your legs as you rush around the kitchen island, fishing your keys out of your purse and rambling out the nerves he’s summoned. “Okay, there’s some leftover pasta in the fridge if you’re hungry, and you’re welcome to the beers if you get thirsty. Big remote turns on the TV, the little one changes the channel. Behave and take care of the place while I’m away, okay?”

“Quit talking to me like I’m some kind of guard dog,” he complains as you pull open the front door and cross one foot over the threshold to safety.

“Oh, I’m sorry!” You cheer back, trailing the door behind you as you go. “I wasn’t aware you were going to start contributing rent, I’ll send you my bank details.”

With that, the apartment door slams shut and you head out for a date in which three things will happen: you’ll flirt, you’ll fuck, and you won’t think about your roommate.

Only one of those things ends up happening.

It’s not from lack of an offer that you wind up taking a cab back to your apartment. Your date had been nice… enough. He complimented your outfit, took a sufficient amount of interest in you, and he even bought you flowers — of course, he’d accidentally left them in his parent’s home. Where he lived. In the basement.

And the thing is, you’re not shallow. Time’s are tough, the economy sucks, and the world is still adjusting to the sudden return to half its population post-Blip. So you were more than game to play sneak-me-into-your-bed-without-waking-your-parents, but, as the pair of you waited on a taxi to arrive, his hand found your waist and your treacherous mind noticed something it shouldn’t.

Bucky’s hand was larger. And warmer. And more welcomed against your skin.

Sick to your stomach by your own thoughts, your night ended with you tip-toeing past the familiar figure sleeping on your couch — definitely not pausing to take in the sheer width of his naked shoulders dangling half-off the cushion — and crawling into bed alone, belly full of Thai and mind full of Winter.

When morning comes, the bedroom door creaks as you pry it open, a fist rubbing sleep out your eye and a yawn announcing your arrival.

“Did you eat my ice cream?” Bucky calls out from somewhere, voice muffled and full of accusation.

Despite barely finishing a glass of wine the night before, there’s a throbbing pain beginning in your temples and souring your already bitter mood.

“Wow, good morning to you too,” you stumble more than walk over to the kitchen, in search of the salvation of ice cold water.

That’s where you find him: laid out on his back, grey sweatpants clinging to bent knees, with everything from his shoulders up inside the open cabinet beneath the sink. His arms are inside too, tinkering away at something above his face.

“Good morning. Did you eat my ice cream?” If ever a thing such as a verbal eyeroll were to exist, Bucky would be doing it. From the lack of seeing his eyes, there’s every chance he is literally rolling them.

Your journey toward the fridge is interrupted by the troubling sight of a glass full of water, a plate hosting a slice of lemon sponge cake, and two miscellaneous white pills that anyone who suffers the unusually cruel punishment of a menstrual cycle is likely familiar with. A post-it note with your name written neatly across it sits next to the unexpected care package.

“So what if I did?” The painkillers go down effortlessly, though there’s a lingering chemical taste that has you gulping down an extra sip of water. “What are you doing, anyway?”

“I paid for it!” For all his outrage, he doesn’t care enough to poke his head out as he chastises you. “You said there was a leak, so I’m checking your pipes. I’m quite good with my hands, you know.”

Is he dense, or is he saying this shit on purpose? The double entendre in his words is glaring, yet you haven’t the confidence nor the will-power to address it, to poke the proverbial bear out of fear. Fear of him scolding your dirty mind, or fear of him doubling down on his suggestive wordplay, you’re not quite sure.

You choose to steer clear of the topic and, more importantly, the unexpected twinge in your chest in response to Bucky’s unrequested help.

“And I paid for the freezer you left it in, the electricity that kept it frozen, and the apartment you live in,” you don’t intend to sound so snappy, like a sulking child fighting against their own self-confessed crimes. “So I think you can spare me some goddamn ice cream.”

You’ve taken to joining Bucky on the floor, sitting across from him, cross-legged and back pressed against the cabinets that surround the kitchen island. In your lap lies the slice of cake, a mouthful already missing and melting its tangy sweetness onto your tongue. You almost moan, but it’s unclear whether the sugary treat just tastes that good or the visual of the soldier laid out on his back and tinkering away beneath your sink is just so stimulating.

If you mention the strange noise your car’s engine has been making recently, would he fix that too? You can already picture him slicked in sweat and oil, hands on his hips as he stands over the opened hood and assesses whatever the damage is. You’d have to watch over the whole thing, of course — not out of your own self-interest but on the off chance something goes wrong and Bucky needs help taking off his oil-stained shirt, or pants, or-

“Your date was that good, huh?” You almost jump out of your skin when he speaks.

“He bragged to me about how he and his college roommates used to play pool,” the pause in your sentences seems to capture Bucky’s attention, coaxing him out from beneath the sink. “Using a shotgun instead of cues.”

As he sits up, elbows finding rest upon his knees, you can’t help but note the five-o’clock shadow he’s sporting. For reasons that have nothing to do with the fraying seams of your sanity, you need him to shave.

To Bucky’s credit, he doesn’t laugh. Yes, his lips glitch somewhere between a cheeky grin and a serious frown, but he does not outright laugh like you expect him to. Instead, he nods down at the half-eaten cake and tilts his head — an unspoken question, is it good?, that only weakens his argument about not being a guard-dog. Between the puppy-dog blue eyes and the yearning for approval, you half expect him to sprout a tail and start panting.

Scratch that last thought, actually. Bucky and panting should not coexist in a sentence together, nevermind in your imagination.

“Mind feeding me a bite?” Yes, actually, you would mind, but one glance at his fingertips stained in whatever-the-hell is going on with your sink leaves you no choice but to tear off a corner.

Bringing the piece of cake to meet his awaiting mouth, you brace yourself for the tentative scrape of teeth stealing it out of your hold. The delicate brush of his lips enveloping your fingers throws you off your axis, and the challenge in his eyes as they hold contact with your own has your thighs involuntarily squeezing themselves together.

For a moment, you swear you catch him glance down at your lips.

Then you remember the health insurance your job provides does not cover the cost of being institutionalised, so you stop hallucinating and come back to reality where Bucky Barnes is not so much a flirt as he is a pest, a stray animal abandoned at your doorstep by a friend who decided to take advantage of your good-natured heart.

“Can you give me the exact phrasing your date used to describe this shotgun-pool?” The soldier is gone in the blink of an eye, flat on his back again and continuing his attempt to seal the leak.

“Why?”

“I’m making this list,” he says, and he must shift his hands higher above his head because suddenly the soft cotton of his white shirt has ridden up his torso, presenting your eyes with a golden platter of sun-warmed skin. “I’m calling it ‘the manchild files’.”

“That’s not even funny,” neither is the way he inches deeper into the cabinet, exposing not only the glaringly white tan-line delineating where the band of his boxers should be resting but also the beginning dark curls of a happy trail. 

“Well ‘the stupid files’ sounds so simple, I was worried you’d try to jump into bed with it.”

“Are you seriously about to slut-shame me in my own fucking kitchen?” Whilst slutting yourself out on my floor like your name is Mike and you’re about to show me some magic? is the quiet part you don’t say aloud.

“I’m critical but I’m not hypocritical,” there he does again with that verbal eye-roll. “I wasn’t exactly the image of celibacy when I was your age-”

“Yay, more grandpa lore!” Your interruption earns you a nudge from his leg, but you know it made him laugh because his shoulders gently shake.

“I’m not slut-shaming you, I’m taste-shaming. I swear, being useless must be the precursor to having a chance with you.”

“It is not!” You gasp, yet you’re hardly surprised — Bucky’s not exactly subtle in his disapproval of the men you date.

If there is anything to be thankful for, it’s the alleviation that comes with Bucky shimmying out from the sink again, happy trail redressed and a hand diving into the pocket of his sweatpants. With a dramatic clearing of his throat, he brings his phone up to his face and starts reciting.

“After being told you have a nut allergy, Carter B. said Wait, like, you’re allergic to cum?” You’d always known showing him how to use the notes app would come back to bite you in the ass somehow. “Tommy L. walked into a lampost because he got distracted… watching a squirrel run up a tree. You almost got stood up by Steve K. because he accidentally locked himself inside his own car. Lee B. asked you-”

“Bucky B. is about to lose his other arm if he doesn’t shut up.”

“I rest my case,” and he still has the nerve to open his mouth, awaiting another bite of cake.

You cave with no fight and give it to him.

Because you’re a nice person, not because you want to feel his mouth on you again.

Something cool drips onto the bottom of your naked thighs after Bucky reaches over you and grabs at the glass of water, stealing an obnoxiously large gulp; or is it just exaggerated by your stare zeroing in on the way his Adam’s apple bobs as he drinks?

A thought pops into your mind.

“Did you leave these on the counter because you expected me to be hungover?” Your tone is inoffensive, and unoffended, a simple curiosity you need answered.

“You have a headache, right?”

“Uh-huh,” your eyes narrow skeptically.

“Yeah, I figured you would,” Bucky takes another sip, more condensation trickling down onto your legs. “You always have one after eating Thai food.”

Something inside of you stops.

Your heart, or your lungs, or your mind. Your goddamn liver, for all you know.

This is not supposed to be happening. Bucky is not supposed to fix things just because you mentioned it, once in passing and as a scapegoat from focusing too much on him. And he certainly isn’t supposed to notice things, useless little factoids that not even you know about yourself until he brings them to light. Hell, he’s not even supposed to still be here, sleeping on your couch and criticising your love life.

When the thing inside of you clicks back into place and starts again, a new weight rests atop your conscience.

Maybe it’s not so bad having a roommate, having Bucky be that roommate. Maybe you’re starting to get used to coming home to the smell of baked vanilla and the signature grouchy look he wears as he asks you about your day, about how your co-worker pissed you off, about why you’re home later than usual and not wearing a jacket out in the cold of winter.

“By the way,” he’s calling out from beneath the sink again. “You’ll be happy to know I’m touring an apartment next week.”

“Oh.” The bite you just took turns sour in your mouth. You struggle to swallow it down. “That’s great. Finally! You’re going, and I’m staying here, and I’ll have my apartment back to myself. That’s… Great. It’s great!”

No, really, it’s great.

“You’re joking,” a palm on your lower back guides you to the right, just in time to avoid being trampled beneath a cart.

“I wish,” you say, and saunter over to some colourful packaging that’s captured your eye.

After a moment of inspecting the product in hand from every angle, you put it back on the shelf.

“Let me get this straight,” Bucky pushes the cart along behind you, grabbing that same colourful packaging and dropping it in with the rest of the groceries. “You lean through his window, kiss him goodbye on the cheek and then he just… What, crashed his car?”

“Into a wall with street art of a cliff painted on it,” as you add the most important detail, laughter is already bubbling up your throat. “He literally crashed his car into a cliff without even getting to switch out of first gear!”

The pair of you make up quite the sight.

An entire morning of tiptoeing through the limbo of delirium, after an entire night spent trying to block out the relentless banging from the upstairs neighbours. The door to your bedroom crawled open some time past four and there was Bucky, head poking through the space and looking rather pleased to find you wide awake — despite his claims of just wanting to make sure you were asleep.

Seated on opposite ends of the couch, both of you found a quiet solace in the other’s inability to sleep. While a movie marathon played over the TV, the sex marathon above continued. When exhaustion took claim of your body, you drifted off with your arms resting on the armchair and your head resting on your arms. You awoke atop a pillow and beneath a blanket, legs stretched out over the couch and Bucky curled up on the floor by your feet — like any good guard dog would be.

After a botched attempt to sneak past the soldier, only to have him scare the living daylights out of you by grabbing your ankle as you tried to step over him, you both came to the shocking realisation that the fridge was void of any food.

Which brings you to here: standing in aisle 7, laughing an ache into your ribs over yet another one of your failed dates, with a half-filled cart and matching bags forming under your tired eyes.

“I think it’s time we had an intervention about where you’re finding these men,” Bucky says that last word like it's covered in poison, burning his tongue on the way out.

“They find me!” You say, as he reaches for the box of strawberries you just put down. “As generous as I am, do you want to maybe slow down on how much shit you load into our cart?”

His hand freezes, the box of red fruit clasped in a confusingly delicate grip of vibranium fingers

“You picked it up,” his tone is riddled with confusion. “Don’t you want them?”

“Contrary to popular belief, I’m not made of money.”

“Okay?” He replies, like it’s the most irrelevant piece of information you’ve ever given him — and you once spent an hour ranting to him about the inefficiency of the ink cartridges in your office’s printer. “I’m paying, so do you want it or not?”

“Since when do you have money? Did your pension finally come through? I mean… You are old enough. Also, aren’t you literally a vet?”

 “You managed to say all that in one breath, yet you failed to answer a yes or no question.”

A bubble of silence surrounds you both. Bucky blinks, slowly, exaggeratedly. It’s the perfect opportunity to stare at his face and notice the five o'clock shadow has grown. A gruff ‘excuse me’, followed by a man shoving between you both to grab some strawberries, pops the bubble.

Without a word, you snatch the box and place it in the cart.

Half-way up the fruit aisle, Bucky gets the genius idea to open his mouth again: “You wanna know what my theory is?”

“Nope,” you say, popping the p and glancing back at him over your shoulder. “But you’re going to tell me anyway.”

He looks vexingly domestic like this, wearing a sweater and pushing your shopping around. Thoughts betray you, wandering off into dangerous territory as they begin to question how others perceive you from the outside.

What do strangers see: two roommates that quarrel like it’s a biological need, or a couple doing their weekly shop? Two strangers forced together by a circumstance named Sam Wilson, or two lovers unwilling to voice that the metal container between them is too much distance?

“I think you date idiots because they’re idiots.”

“Gee whiz, grandpa, that’s so insightful. I sure do hope I’m as wise as you when I’m your age, but I’ll probably just be dead.” You feel the cart meet your back in a gentle bump, a non-verbal warning to cut the teasing.

“Dating those incompetent men, it’s like…” he pauses, searching for the right words, and plucks a bunch of bananas from your hand, dropping them in with your mounting pile of fruit. “Jumping out of a plane! You get the thrill of falling but, the moment something a little too real and solid appears on the horizon, you pull out the parachute and, that’s it, you’re safe. No danger of falling flat on your face and getting your feelings hurt.”

“I don’t know when you last jumped out of a plane-”

“Remember that Karli situation a few months ago?”

“But not ejecting your parachute leads to a little more than just falling flat on your face.”

“So my metaphor isn't perfect,” Bucky trails off, eyes staring past you and mind lost in thought. You follow his line of sight and find a couple at the end of the aisle, hands intertwined and smiling at each other like they’re the only two people in the world. An unnamed emotion tugs at the soldier’s lips, but he won’t let it take over his stoic features. “But you get my point. If you were actually looking for something serious, you’d date someone better than those men.”

Unprompted and unwarranted, his words spear your heart.

Memories replay in your head, a kaleidoscope of the featureless faces you let take you out, dine you, wine you, kiss you. A handful of immeasurables: how many times you’ve brushed off mispronounced versions of your name, how many excuses you’ve made for the way they talk to you, how many times you’ve lowered your own standards to help a man feel desired. In your wake lies a graveyard of failed relationships, with no proper funeral nor mourning.

You swallow back the lump in your throat.

“Okay, psychoanalysing me aside, what’s left on the list?” You ask, making your way round to Bucky’s side of the cart.

“Well, I still need to write down Jeff G.’s cliff accident.”

“The other list.” You watch as he struggles to fish out the scrap of paper from his pocket.

“Eggs, pasta, feta, toilet roll,” his brows are furled, his eyes are glaring, and with each item he lists off, his words grow more unsure. “Grapefruit? Your handwriting is shit.”

“I was in a rush!”

“And sitting on a jack-hammer?”

“Gimme that,” you snatch the list, he yields it with no protest. As you scan over the scribbled ink, a frustrating truth comes to light. Bucky’s right, your handwriting is shit. “Is grapefruit even in season?”

“Huh,” it’s the sound of hollow amusement.

“What?”

“Just…” His presence looms over you, infecting your senses with the woodsy smell of his cologne and the arduous heat that radiates off of him. When he nods his head to the right, scoffing out a laugh and poking his tongue into his cheek, you find yourself wrestling between temptations of slapping him or pulling him closer. “You really don’t notice what’s right in front of you, do you?”

Lo and behold, on the right side of the aisle, grapefruits.

You make it through the rest of the shopping list in relative silence, with the occasional side-comment from the super soldier that either rouses a grin onto your lips or has your eyes rolling in faux disagreement. Little by little, you peruse the aisles and fill the cart; and, when Bucky picks out the only ice cream flavour void of nuts, you bite your tongue and choose to say nothing.

“I forgot to ask,” you finally speak, standing in the self-checkout zone and struggling to find something to do with your fidgety hands as Bucky scans each item — you insisted on helping and he insisted he’d get it done quicker alone. “How did the apartment viewing go?”

“Oh. Fine,” you grimace as he says your least favourite f word. “The current lease isn’t up yet, so you’re stuck with me a little longer.”

Are you supposed to feel this relieved?

In theory, you were never supposed to feel anything in regards to Bucky Barnes. In practice, it’s a lot more complicated, a pendulum that seems to swing in constant motion between red hot aggravation and red hot something else you refuse to give a name.

All you know is there are times where you wonder if his back is okay sleeping on the couch, and you contemplate asking him to come meet you during your lunch breaks, and you crave to have the anxious shake in your leg quelled by his daily check-in calls whenever he and Sam go off on another misadventure. Whatever reason lies behind your behaviour, the familiarity of ignorant bliss tempts you away from seeking the answer.

Besides, Bucky will be leaving soon. He’ll no longer be your roommate and you’ll both fall out of whatever routine convenience has forced upon you both.

A series of beeps capture your attention.

At the epicentre of the noise stands an elderly woman, grey hair pristinely curled and an outfit that screams Sunday-bests, struggling with the check-out machine. With no employee in sight and no do-gooder fellow customer stepping out of their way to help, the woman’s distress grows with each beep the machine makes at her.

Knuckles brush down your arm, and there’s Bucky at your side, waiting for you to pay him any mind.

“You mind handling the rest?” He asks, in that softly-spoken tone of his that would make anyone feel like swooning. Maybe that’s why it takes you a few moments to notice the wallet he’s holding out to you. “Cash is in the back pocket. I’ll be a few minutes, okay? Just finish bagging everything, leave the carrying to me.”

There’s no time to get a single word out before you’re staring at the back of his head and watching as he makes his way over to the elderly woman.

For every item you scan, you sneak a glance. The butter beeps onto the screen, and you peek how Bucky has effortlessly become the woman’s personal helper. You pass the strawberries through and reward yourself with the sight of Bucky’s cheeky grin — with the way the elderly lady laughs and swats at his arm, you can only assume he’s made some flirtatious comment. Clicking on the option to pay cash, you nearly give yourself whiplash as you turn to watch them again, Bucky’s just about finishing bagging her groceries while the woman opens her shopping-trolley bag.

Waiting on the receipt to print, your reflection stares back at you on the self-checkout screen: a hue of endearment glowing off your features. The smile quickly melts off your face when you realise that he… Oh no.

Bucky is charming.

Part of you has always known he was handsome — you’re stubborn, not blind — yet the sight of him now, all dashing smiles and twinkling eyes playing rescuer to a woman who, despite the difference in their physical ageing, is closer to his own age than you, it troubles you. The acid burn in your throat is not a manifestation of jealousy, no; it’s the queasy feeling of knowing you’ve never looked across at a date, caught him in a moment of content, and felt the unyielding desire to be the reason behind it.

Someone clears their throat beside you, a man with a wrinkle in his forehead and an agitated look upon his face, so you quickly excuse yourself and, with plastic handles digging into your fingers, you approach Bucky and the elderly lady.

Upon noticing you, Bucky’s quick to tug the bags out your grip, a scolding already falling off his tongue: “I told you to leave these to me.”

“Yeah, well, Mr. Frowny-Magoo over there didn’t appreciate me hogging up the cashier,” the comment is meant as nothing more than a lighthearted joke, yet you swear you see something shift in the soldier’s stance, his shoulders tensing and his jaw clenching as he glances back at the stranger.

Fortunately, the elderly woman interrupts whatever he’s contemplating doing to him.

“Она твоя жена?(Is she your wife?)” She’s looking between you both expectantly, speaking words you don’t understand. “У нее лицо ангела. (She has the face of an angel.)”

Whatever she says, it clearly has an effect on Bucky. His head turns to the side, to you, and a visible softness overcomes his gaze as it traces over your face. His shoulders are relaxing, his jaw is unclenching, and he’s switching the bags over to his metal hand, renewing his grip and freeing up the hand that now hangs right by yours, knuckles gracing over your own in a way that feels like a dare, a challenge, a temptation to lace your fingers together.

You clench your fist shut.

“Я знаю. (I know.)” He says, eyes lingering on you a few moments longer than necessary, before he’s back to smiling at the elderly woman.

Halfway home and doubling your pace to keep up with his effortless stroll, curiosity finally gets the better of you.

“What did she say back there, that lady you helped?”

A stranger rushes past you both, phone glued to their ear and stressing down the speaker. Bucky takes grip of your arm and tugs you closer to him.

“Do you spend your time getting bumped into when I’m not around?” His fingers give your arm a squeeze before releasing you. “And, if you must know, she said I was the most handsome man she’s ever seen.”

Little force is put behind the shove you give his shoulder.

You’re too busy agonising over how much you agree with her.

Bucky leaves.

Not forever, but three weeks away on some stealth mission with Sam sure begins to feel like it.

It happens on a Friday. After the week from hell at work, a friend’s mid-week engagement party, and the unexpected downpour of rain during the journey home, you walk into an unlit apartment and a note stuck to the fridge.

Sam needs me. Be safe, don’t bring strangers home. B. 

The batch of freshly baked cinnamon rolls sweeten your night up, at least.

There’s a quiet that always seems to blanket the house whenever you lose Bucky to missions.

Before he was dumped on your front door, you’d been used to living alone and the peaceful silence that came with it. Independence, the ability to need no one and want nothing, a trait of yours that once brought pride, now brings you nothing but the static sound of a muted television and the hum of the microwave spinning a meal fit for one.

Mornings become a ritual of waking later yet leaving earlier, no one is there to distract you from drinking your coffee. Though the workload is the same, somehow the slow drag of hours still finds a way to pass quicker than ever, the revolving doors of the office building spit you back out onto the streets of New York before you’re fully ready. Your evenings waste away, starved of noise and company, while you run out of shows to watch and books to read, and count the hours down until all that silence becomes necessary for your eyes to close and your mind to rest.

It’s when darkness rules over the sky and the hour is a single digit that the phone finally rings. A blocked number, untraceable, pulling you out the hands of sleep and filling your room with the noise of your ringtone. He never speaks first, not until there’s an echo down the line of your own sleep stained ‘hello?’.

“You can go back to sleep now.”

You never stay on the line long enough to find out how quickly he hangs up after he speaks. Because it’s only ever meant to be a way to let you know he’s safe, alive, somewhere out there doing who-knows-what and stopping who-knows-who. It’s just an unrequested favour he’s granted you, after the incident in which both he and Sam fell-off the grid for five days and you were nearly rounding up a search party. He’s not missed a call since, once a day while he’s away.

So, when he doesn’t call, it’s only natural that you worry.

The alarm bell rings when you wake up to birds chirping, sun spilling through the crack between the curtains, and not a single missed call nor voicemail awaiting you.

It’s Saturday and there’s no work to occupy your mind, so you force down a bagel, toss a tote bag onto your shoulder, and head out to the local market. But there’s no joy in perusing fruit stands without a six foot soldier trailing your heels and muttering to himself about how exotic fruit has gotten, and how ‘back in my day you had your apples, your oranges, and your pears.’

You wind up home by noon, and the dwelling begins to grow, still no call.

There’s a weight on your chest, and a balloon of anxiety that grows in your throat, and an unwarranted agitation burning at your skin as you read over his note again, still very much stuck to the fridge and taunting you — Be safe, says a man who clearly can’t take his own advice. 

Then, why should you?

You agree to go on a date, one you’ve been dancing around agreeing to for a few weeks yet reach for it the moment you decide you’re not pleased with the way Bucky’s lack of a call is ruining your well-earned free time.

And, hey, the guy’s not a complete loser this time. On paper, at least. He’s handsome, tall, and an athlete — ex-athlete, really, but you don’t bother to point that out while he talks about the gymnastic studio he runs. Most importantly, he’s eager to call a cab and get you home, screw Bucky’s warning. If you want to bring a stranger into your home, you’ll do it. 

Brooding, uncalling soldier be damned!

After stumbling through the dark of your apartment into your bedroom, and fumbling with your bra long enough for you to grow tired and just take it off yourself, you and Mister Gymnast tumble into the sheets for a performance so lacklustre, it warrants taking all his medals away. At least your date seems to enjoy himself, spilling onto your stomach and falling asleep the minute his head hits the pillows.

“I finished,” last you checked, he hadn't even started.

You lie awake, staring at the ceiling, and try to will the phone to ring. Encased by a stranger’s snoring and a guilty feeling, you let Lady Sleep whisk you away. When your eyes open next, morning has broken and you’re alone in bed with a remnant trace of warmth on the sheets. But the silence is finally gone.

Beyond your door you hear the faint thud of footsteps, the ding of the fridge being opened, the whistle of the kettle. You almost trip in your rush to get dressed, and nearly rip the hinges off the door as you tear it open. Then the smile falls from your face.

“You’re up!” Everyone’s favourite gymnast is there to greet you, a mug in hand as he goes to pull you in for a kiss. The way you swerve is automatic, unplanned, leaving his lips to land on your cheek. “Uhh, I was hoping you’d sleep a little longer, I wanted to bring you breakfast in bed but-”

“He couldn’t figure out how to boil the kettle.”

And there’s Bucky, leaning back against the kitchen counter with his arms crossed over his chest and a smug look on his face. Aside from the butterfly stitches above his left brow, he looks unharmed. Fine, even. Dressed in all black, with a t-shirt that’s hugging his frame a little too tightly for your liking, the double-combo of his dog-tags and vibranium arm on display. Perfectly safe for a man who couldn’t call.

Your date laughs and sheepishly scratches the back of his head before you get the chance to speak.

“Your brother was kind enough to help me.” It’s unclear who laughs first: Bucky or you. “What’s so funny?”

“Oh, nothing, nothing, just…” Bucky says, shaking the laughter away with a nod of his head. “In what world do me and her look related?”

“Wait, if you’re not her brother then, are you-” Fifty shades of horror spill over the gymnast’s face, his head darting between looking over at Bucky and back at you. “Holy shit, is he your boyfriend?”

“Husband, actually,” the soldier’s all too quick-witted, pushing off the counter and reaching for a mug of brewing coffee. “But don’t worry, we’re open. What do you think of our kitchen lights, by the way? My wife here likes them dim.”

Dumb as he is, your date tilts his head up to inspect the light fixtures.

“Oh, they’re nice!”

That does it for you.

“Bucky, shut up!” You snap, finger pointed over at the menace who’s biting back a smirk and stirring away at his mug, face as innocent as sin. Is this some twisted version of revenge, a punishment for bringing a stranger home? You’d prefer the punishment to be a little more… hands on. Preferably in the form of your slapping that twinkle out of his eyes. “He is not my boyfriend, or my husband. He is the bum that lives on my couch.”

“You see how she treats me, Vince?”

“It’s Lance,” the gymna- Lance corrects him.

Moving towards the kitchen, your eyes check over your roommate once more, as though they expect some previously unseen injury to make an appearance on his skin. Come the end of your search, you’re left looking into a face that is sporting a split brow and a cruel level of entertainment from the situation at hand.

There’s a relief to having him back, and it’s wrestling with the exasperating emotions a single missed call conjured up.

“What are you doing here, anyway? Aren’t you and Sam still meant to be… I don’t know, on a homoerotic getaway, fighting crime?” The questions fire out of you as you slip into one of the island’s stools.

“We finished early,” Bucky appears by your side as though from thin air, hand clasping the back of your seat and pushing you in closer to the counter top.

“Aww, don’t worry, big boy, it happens to the best of you,” you tease, an empathetic pat against his shoulder.

The mockery backfires when you notice his brows shoot up and his stare shifts towards your date, who’s too busy trying to open the sugar jar to notice the dig at his own sexual inabilities.

Wait, when exactly did Bucky get home?

“How do you take your coffee?” One-Thrust-Lance asks you over his shoulder.

Before you can answer, a cup is nudged into your grasp and Bucky looks over you with triumph, metal fingers reaching out to drag over a plate of freshly-baked cookies. The smell of warm vanilla pairs well with the soft musk of his cologne, your eyes nearly roll back inhaling it.

“Mmm,” one sip of your coffee is all you need to know it’s perfect, made exactly to your taste. “Coffee and baked goods… I knew I kept you around for a reason.”

In lieu of any verbal response, the soldier takes to dunking one of the cookies into your mug before stealing a bite out of it. You watch as he chews on the sweet treat, head nodding in approval at his own skills. After he dips a second time, you expect him to take another bite, only to find him offering the chocolate chip goodness up to your mouth. Two eyes, blue as any winter, stare encouragingly while you sink your teeth into the cookie.

Heaven couldn’t taste any sweeter, you think, as the perfect blend of coffee stained dough and the sharpness of the dark chips flood your tastebuds. 

“So messy,” Bucky tuts quietly, his right hand grabbing a steady hold of your chin while his thumb swipes away the crumbs dusting the corner of your mouth.

That thing inside of you stops again as you watch him bring his hand up to his own mouth, a pink tongue poking out to lick his thumb clean.

Arousal thrums through your blood, a pulsing rhythm that spreads straight to your clit. A squeeze of your thighs brings momentary reprieve, yet the ache fights back with renewed force, drying up your throat and knocking the sense right out of you.

Squirming where you sit, your legs switch position until one foot finds itself tucked beneath the opposite thigh, the heel of it sitting perfectly against your clothed core. You find no mercy, no chance to roll your hips forward in search of the balm only friction will bring to your burning skin. Instead there’s simply Bucky, eyes trailing down the length of you and settling on your short-clad legs. As though his behaviour is not cruel enough, he wets his bottom lip with his tongue

“You like that?” More than you’ll ever know, you almost scream until the logical side of your brain takes the wheel again and you notice him pointing down at the half-eaten cookie. Of course he’s enquiring about his baking skills, what else would this scrambled-egg-for-brains senior citizen be talking about? “Are you gonna make me wait all day for an answer?”

Something smashes behind Bucky, just in time to startle away the racy thoughts from your mind.

“My bad!” Your date — who you damn near forgot was even here — is apologising, bending at the waist and trying his best to collect the fractured pieces of a mug off the floor. “Where do you guys keep your dustpan?” 

Bucky pushes away from the island counter, taking the smell of his cologne with him; if you weren’t fully back to your rational senses, you’d miss it.

“I’ll get it, Vince, you just stand there and look pretty.”

“Okay!” Lance, it seems, is just as eager to please the ex-assassin as you almost were a moment ago.

You decide you need to move, to stand up, to stretch your legs. This has nothing to do with the lingering effect of Bucky’s antics, nor the damp patch gathering against your panties.

Slipping off the kitchen stool, you work on chugging down gulps of coffee with every intention of dumping the empty mug into the sink, dashing to your bedroom, and conjuring up the best plan you can come up with to get not only yourself, but also the trash you brought in with you last night out of the apartment and away from an infuriating roommate.

Something on the floor derails you, however, dragging you away from the path to sanctuary. The tiniest red petal, lonesome and neglected upon the cold tile. Three steps over, and there’s another petal. One step until the next petal. You follow the breadcrumb trail all the way over to the garbage can where, with one gentle push of a button, the lid opens up to reveal the unexpected, thrown away like a dirty secret.

A crumpled bouquet of roses.

Everywhere you turn, there’s tension.

In your neck, from sleeping at an unfavourable angle. Within your stomach, where a queasy feeling keeps threatening to spew your guts out onto the bathroom floor. Between you and Bucky, a foreign energy that’s grown over the course of this last week, during which you’ve been avoiding eye contact and his stare is full of accusation.

Retracing your steps, they take you back to the moment Lance left the apartment and you found yourself drowning in Bucky’s company for the first time in weeks. He was barely half-way through poking fun at the choices you made in his absence — most of his focus being on the blubbering fool you brought into your bed — when your patience ran thin and snapped.

Now here you are, bearing the consequence of your own short temper, wiping lipstick off your teeth whilst mentally preparing yourself to go on a second date, planned sheerly out of spite and the need to prove a point.

Poor Lance is none the wiser to his role as pawn in your game of ‘Screw You, Barnes!’.

“Everything okay in there?” Think of the devil and he shall knock on the bathroom door, apparently. “Thought you had your big date at seven.”

The gymnast’s text thread stares back at you, a wall of grey bubbles. You have to swallow down the lump in your throat to speak, “He’s not answering my calls.”

“You’ve been stood up? By that loser?” There’s every chance your storm of emotions is impeding you from thinking straight, but you swear you almost hear a hint of disbelief in Bucky’s voice. Disgust, even.

There’s no point dwelling on the thought.

After a quick wash of your hands, you pry the door open and watch as the soldier leaning against it nearly topples forward before catching himself against the frame. He’s entirely too close for comfort, close enough for you to notice the different shades of blue in his eyes.

“Maybe he broke his phone?” The lack of assurance in your voice has you cringing, the fear of being called out suddenly doubling.

Bucky scoffs, arms crossing over his chest.

“More likely he forgot to charge it.”

Is that what happened to him? Is that why he left you to dwell in the dark over his whereabouts and wellbeing, rendering the usual distraction of a night-time companion useless? Only for you to find him the following morning, right as rain and as annoying as ever, standing in the kitchen and casting judgement-filled glances at your overnight guest?

Thinking about it, about him, brings on an onslaught of anger you’re not willing to address. Not right now.

“Shut up!” It comes across as less independent girlboss and more petulant child, but you’re too busy noticing how firm his chest feels under your palms as you push past him out of the bathroom to care.

Prying open the freezer, you hear the soft click of the toilet door closing. Good, you think, he’s gone away. Out of sight, out of mind. Even if it is only for the short time it takes him to do his business.

That time ends up being even shorter than expected, for only minutes after you’ve dug your spoon into the creamy, frozen goodness of vanilla fudge, the object of both your fascination and your torture is making his way towards the kitchen.

“Didn’t I tell you to stop eating my ice cream?”

“Didn’t I tell you to move out?” Mouth full of vanilla, you shoot him a toothy grin and relish in the grimace it earns you.

Satisfaction melts away when Bucky invades your personal space, metal arm reaching over head and pulling open a cupboard.

“Don’t do that,” you swat at the vibranium bicep, a futile fight that simply makes you all too aware of how smooth it feels beneath your fingertips.

“Do what?” Brain of a caveman, Bucky continues his rustling through the cabinet behind you, features as stoic as a rock as though he’s none the wiser to how your chests brush against one another with each exhale.

“That,” another swat at his arm, though this time he yields. The space between you doesn’t grow, however. It worsens, his attention fully falling onto you now. “Reaching over me like you can’t just ask me to move.”

“Fine, if it really bothers you that much,” are the last words you hear before you’re airborne, two hands squeezing at your hips and moving you two steps over and out of the way.

The soldier doesn’t struggle, not even for a moment, the serum that’s altered his DNA leaving him primed and ready to manoeuvre the most steadfast of objects. Manhandle them, too. Pick them up, turn them over, pin them down, make them scream… Objects, of course, or those big, bad guys he and Sam are always chasing after.

The anger in you is renewed, burning brighter than a star ready to die. You shove his hands off of you and secure another step of distance between you.

“Well aren’t you a ray of sunshine today.” With the rate he’s going at, one would think the soldier makes a living out of deepening the frown on your face. “Is this princess’ first time being stood up?”

You’d slap him, right here and now, if it didn’t mean moving closer and touching his skin; the current top two of your ‘Things To Not Do’ list.

Luckily, the tub of ice cream sits just within reach and your eager fingers take grip of it, sliding it over the counter towards yourself. A mouthful of coolness precedes the burning question on your tongue, “Why didn’t you call?”

“Are you serious?” Now he’s the one scowling and taking a step closer.

“Deadly,” you dig the spoon back into the carton. “Now answer the question.”

“You’re pissy with me for not calling, meanwhile I’m the one who came home to some asshole in your bed?”

He’s moving closer. You try to step backwards.

“Yeah, well, if you’d called like you were supposed to, I wouldn’t have ended up with said asshole.”

Bucky’s eyes narrow, “Oh, so now it’s my fault that you date degenerates?”

The cackle that escapes you could break the soundbarrier.

“Wow! Everybody, give it up for another original dig at my love-life from James Buchanan Barnes!” Voice dripping with seven layers of venomous sarcasm, you give three slow claps of your hands. The cynical smile that overcomes your face feels borderline deranged, something plucked right out of a horror movie. “Okay, yeah, I date losers! Happy? Jesus Christ, Bucky, what do you expect me to do? It’s not exactly like there’s anyone else lining up to date me.”

“I am!” His voice is raised, his eyes are wide, his chest is heaving. “Maybe I’m the biggest idiot, rushing home last week to surprise you. Even brought you flowers.  I just… Fuck!”

You don’t move, don’t blink, don’t breathe.

Bucky runs a hand through his hair, knuckles going white as he pulls on the tresses.

There it is again in his eyes, the accusation.

Even though he’s shaking his head, he steps closer.

The kitchen counter is right behind you, there’s nowhere for you to run.

The heels on your feet almost give out beneath you, you try to steady yourself with your hands.

Bucky has other plans and grips both your forearms.

“I am,” he repeats, softer. Slower. The icy exterior of accusation melts away to reveal vulnerability.

A hand meets your cheek and holds you like you are glass, breakable beneath his touch. Your heart’s in your throat, and there’s a current of electricity running down to your toes, and that neglected hunger in your loins creeps in again. His eyes search your face, while his thumb gently swipes over your bottom lip, prying it out an involuntary capture from your teeth.

It’s unclear who reaches for who first, whether he dips and takes possession of your mouth, or you grab him by the collar of his shirt and lay your claim over him. In a matter of seconds, a tentative press of lips against lips divulges into loss of breath, tongues in mouths, and fevered kisses.

The soldier kisses with starvation, like he has walked through the desert of loneliness and at last stumbled upon an oasis, like a bee seeking every last drop of nectar from a flower dying off with the spring, like a body clings to sleep in the throes of exhaustion. It’s a necessity, a human need, a matter of survival to keep your lips interlocked.

The hand on your face holds you steady as he tilts himself deeper into the kiss. Noses brush against the swells of cheeks, eyelids rest close, feet shuffle closer in search of eradicating the crevice of distance between you two. Metal fingers curl around the nape of your neck, a gesture you reciprocate while your spare hand lays flat-palmed against his beating chest. One of his legs winds up between yours and, as he shifts weight from one foot to another, there’s the faintest relief of friction against your cunt and a whine gets caught between your throat and Bucky’s eager mouth.

Despite how you chase his lips, he pulls back and grants you the sight of pure endearment.

“Look at you, whining already. Where’s all that fire gone?” It’s practically a whisper, spoken with fascination. “Or were you just needing Old Bucky to touch you, huh?”

Second-hand embarrassment burns the tips of your ears, while your own unspoken agreement to his question has your stomach twisting up. Survival instincts, that have never been much of a friend, scream at you to flee this feeling, to throw away Pandora’s box before you risk fully opening it and having it consume you.

Bucky intercepts your attempt to push out of his arms.

“Ah, ah, get back here. Not done kissing you,” his words divulge into a barely coherent mumble as he reconnects your lips.

Beneath the heat of his kiss, the discomfort in your chest turns to ashes. Because, while instinct tells you to run from danger, this is Bucky.

Bucky who fixes cupboard hinges, and sleeps with both eyes on the door. Bucky who carries all the shopping, and holds every door. Bucky who calls to hear your voice while he’s away endangering his life, and brings home the silliest trinkets he finds on missions. Bucky who wakes you when you miss your alarm, and knows if you’ve had a bad day simply from looking at your face.

How could you possibly be in danger when it comes to him?

While you’re overcome with epiphany, he’s taken to tracing his lips over the slope of your jaw and mouthing at the skin of your neck. It’s when he lifts you up onto the kitchen counter that your wandering mind is reeled back in, to the physical present where your legs rest on either side of the soldier and the prized possession of vanilla fudge once again sits within reaching distance.

“Are you stealing my ice cream right now?” His lips tickle your collarbone as he speaks, barely  a moment after you’ve scooped the spoon into your mouth.

“I’m warm, and it's melting,” his head pops up just in time to accept the spoonful of vanilla you deliver. There’s a glow in his eyes, one that has you questioning if it's been there all along or if it's a consequence of touching your skin. “Don’t want it to go to waste.”

His mouth is on yours again, a rush of three chaste kisses seared against you before he replies, “Then let’s cool you down.”

At a teasingly slow pace, you feel his fingers tug down your dress’ straps, leaving the silky fabric to slip down your frame and pool around your hips. Under the golden hue of the kitchen lights, his gaze studies your bare skin like it's a work of art, an eighth wonder of the world, the greatest poem never written woven into it. Yet it still manages to pale against the face that overcomes him as he removes a final layer of lace.

Unlike Vince, he has no trouble removing your bra.

“So responsive,” he talks as though only his ears are meant to hear it, his vibranium palm gently taking hold of your left breast and rolling the hardening nipple between two fingers. 

He’s studying your reaction, bewildered by the goosebumps spreading over your flesh.

When was the last time he truly touched another person? Weeks, months, years, decades? The thought of his hands on a faceless shape makes you sick. First with envy, and then with hypocrisy, an amalgamation of all the men you’ve taken to bed flashing before your eyes. But none of them ever touched you like you were porcelain, and none of them looked at you like you held the key to eternal pleasure. None of them were Bucky.

A chill runs down your spine and a gasp rips out your chest as Bucky swipes the spoon over your skin, leaving a trail of ice cream atop your right breast for his tongue to follow. He plants a garden of kisses along the swell of your chest before pulling away to give the left side equal treatment, another creamy river along your skin for him to clean up.

Moving at their own volition, your hips grind gently against his steady figure as Bucky coats your nipple in vanilla, moaning into your chest as he lays claim over you with his mouth. Spoiling you in his kisses, the soldier begins to yearn for friction, meeting the careful roll of your hips with his own.

Your hand finds his hair and his stare meets yours, intense and all-consuming as he releases your nipple with a scrape of his teeth. You want to soothe his kiss-swollen lips but they’re already wrapping themselves around your other breast, not even patient enough to lather you in the vanilla goodness this time.

Instead, the coldness on your skin stems from metal fingers, perched on your thigh and creeping up the length of it, inch by tormenting inch. A hesitant hand wraps around a vibranium wrist, tightening its grip before you begin guiding his touch inwards, upwards, to where you need it most. Bucky's stronger, more resistant, and holds off your interceptance, left hand continuing its intended path beneath the skirt of your dress and grabbing hold of your naked waist.

He’s everywhere, all over you. Mouthing at your chest, gripping at your hip, rutting into your pussy. The sweet drag of his bulge over your clothed core sires a wet patch against your thong and has your fingers tugging on the roots of his hair, winning you the hair-raising hum of a groan against your breast.

Desperate to feel more, you renew your efforts to lead his hand to the space between your legs and are met with a shake of his head.

“No,” he mutters, and robs you of a hand beneath your dress, using it instead to cradle your jaw while his lips skim over the shell of your ear. “Wanna feel you.”

The warmth of flesh brands your thigh, Bucky’s right arm now leading the charge beneath the silky fabric. With bated breath, you brace yourself against his strong chest and try not to squirm in anticipation of his touch. With one final squeeze at your inner thigh, the soldier’s hand engulfs your clothed cunt and his breath cracks in your ear, a strangled out, feral noise that has your toes curling.

“She’s so wet, darling,” his voice has you delirious, breathy against your ear. His fingers flex against your pussy and a moan catches in your throat. “You gonna let me touch her?”

Something about the way he’s speaking to you, the words he’s choosing, makes you want to fall apart. Your sex-life has always been liberal, you know what it is to have a man’s hands all over you, trying to take ownership of parts of you he thinks belong to him. Men who take, and take, and take, until there is nothing left of you to give, and not once do they care to win your favour, to plead for permission. But Bucky…

“Please, say I can touch her, wanna give her what she needs,” he’s pleading for it, begging for you — wrecked and desperate, breath run ragged from no more than the relief of rolling his groin against your thigh. “Promise I’ll be real sweat, make you feel good.”

Too caught up in his own head, he doesn’t notice you nodding, until you’re granting him salvation verbally, “Touch me, Bucky.”

He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t waste time on taking off your underwear, just moves it to the side and drags the tip of his fingers down the inseam of your pussy. You hear it, more than you feel it, the moment he touches your opening, a sharp inhale at your ear telling you he’s exactly where he wants to be.

As his middle finger slips in, it’s hard to tell which of you reacts louder, both a mess of guttural moans. Once it's fully sheathed within you, he curls it and presses against your soaked walls, grinning against your skin at the reaction it coaxes out of you.

“Don’t hold back,” he chastises you as you bite back another pathetic whimper, a second finger slipping into you. “Let me hear what I’m doing to you.”

He must have a magic touch, you’re sure of it. Thick fingers that fuck into you at a steady pace, curling and teasing at that world-bending spot inside you, while his thumb makes itself useful against your clit, a firm force for your bucking hips to grind up into while you chase the pleasure he’s unleashing on you. In a matter of minutes, the room is alive with your melodic moans, Bucky’s endless hums of approval, and the damn-right embarrassingly loud squelch of him fingering your drooling cunt.

You make the mistake of letting your eyes slip shut, relinquishing yourself to the way he touches you with the rough hands of a soldier yet the delicate stroke of a musician playing his favourite instrument. He must feel the shift in you, for he’s instantly prying his face away from your neck and tightening the metal grip on your jaw, fingertips digging into squished cheeks.

“Look at me,” his words are both a command and a plea. An order you follow and a prayer you answer, eyelashes fluttering open to find his face in front of your own. His lips are a hard line, his brows furrowed in disapproval, and there’s a vein threatening to split down the middle of his forehead, but his eyes. His eyes are affection incarnate, two pools of lust and worship that pose no threat of drowning. “Do you want to cum?”

Never has a more needless question been asked. 

You nod into the force of his vibranium hand, but that’s not what he wants, frown deepening.

“Say it,” needy, helpless, spoken like he’s the one on the brink of ecstasy. “Please.”

“Bucky,” it feels good to say his name like this, brain melting into mush and heart racing in your chest. “I want you to let me cum.”

“Let you?” He’s offended by the word, fingers burying impossibly deeper inside of you while he continues to stare you down. “I beg of you.”

No warning precedes the coil in you snapping. The muscles in your core tense, your back arches into his broad figure, your pussy squeezes at Bucky’s fingers with a death grip. He guides you through it, ignoring the cramp in his wrist in favour of continuing to fuck his hand into you, a smile finally cracking over his face as he watches you fall apart atop the counter, nothing but Bucky, Bucky, Bucky surrounding you.

He tries to give you reprieve, a moment to breathe and savour the buzz in your veins, the hand around your jaw shifting to stroke at your cheek while the hand between your legs soothes you with featherlight touches.

You don’t let him, hand pawing down his torso and gripping at the belt of his jeans, delighting in the familiar clang of a buckle being undone, nimble digits that tear leather out its loop and tug down his zipper. Bucky’s bringing his lips back against yours just as you palm at his bulge, his tongue licking into your mouth when you finally release him from the confines of his boxers.

Fingers coated in your own slick grip at your thigh while the soldier makes it his mission to steal your breath, rendering you blind to the sight of his cock. But you can feel it. The weight of it in your hand, the burn of want ingrained in his skin. The width of it, and the length of it, and the perfectly mushroomed tip that has him keening into your touch as your pointer finger drags over the head.

“Is this what I do to you?” Still lost in the maze of your orgasm, you manage to gain back crumbs of your usual confidence watching Bucky fall mute. When he merely nods, you play him at his own game, fingers back in his hair and forcing him to look you in the eye. “Say it.”

He doesn’t.

He says something much better.

“D’you even realise how many nights I’ve laid on that fucking couch, hard as a rock and willing you to come out your room?”

“That’s your generation's problem, you know?” You whisper teasingly, incapable of fighting off your own laughter. “You swear more than you breathe.”

“C’mere,” he’s rolling his eyes and pulling you in, kissing you like it’s been a milenia and not a minute, hand nudging yours out the way to take a hold of himself.

Your teeth graze over his tongue as he drags the head of his cock through your folds, and he groans into your mouth before pulling back. Resting his forehead against yours, he’s teasing you both as his tip brushes over your hole before continuing its rutt up, bumping against your sensitive clit.

A wicked voice takes control of your mouth.

“Lance would have fucked me by now.”

“Vince would have cum by now, too,” he’s still rocking his hips, no sense of urgency behind the way he soaks himself in you.

Meanwhile, you’re a handful of seconds away from screaming at him to just stick it in already.

“You- Oh!” Prayers answered, hallelujah, his cock finally sinks into you. It’s a shallow thrust, barely more than the tip before he’s retreating, yet it's enough to mess with your head. “You heard us?”

“Unfortunately,” and he means it, the most subtle of pouts forming on his lips before he feeds himself a little deeper into your pussy. “I’m not great when it comes to timing.”

“I only slept with Lance because you-” Right on cue, he fucks into you even deeper and your words dissappear before they can reach your tongue.

“New rule,” a hand rests on your knee and encourages you to spread your legs wider. “No speaking another man’s name when you’re in bed with me.”

“Technically, this is the kitchen counter-” The bastard does it again, cuts you off with his dick — if it didn’t feel so damn good, you’d slap him.

He’s bottomed out at last, buried himself fully in your cunt. Hands snake around your waist, one palm flattening against your lower back while the other rests a little further up and guides your spine to arch into him, closer, like there’s anymore space left between you to devour.

His pace is still slow, teasing. A toe-curling drag of his cock out of you, letting you feel every ridge and vein before his hips promptly snap back into you and send your eyes rolling back, your head falling back — and smacking loudly against the cupboard door behind you.

Bucky freezes, one hand quick to cradle the back of your skull while his eyes scan over you.

“Jesus, doll, you okay?” 

“Please don’t stop,” you plead, ridiculously unfazed by the faint ache when you’ve got him inside of you.

Even though he rolls his eyes, he complies.

“Might have just given you a concussion and all you care about is getting fucked?” He asks, like you could possibly care about anything else when his arms are hooking themselves under your knees and rucking you up off the counter, away from any rogue cupboard that means you harm.

If anything, you’ll gladly shoulder the burden of any possible injury, if it means being granted the sight of his biceps tensing as he effortlessly stands there and fucks you down onto him. Were you in any sane state of mind, you wouldn’t think it, but god bless that super soldier serum.

“You can give me a cockcussion for all I care,” head perched on his shoulder, you watch your nails sink into the fabric of his shirt and wish it would disappear and gift you the naked view of his back.

“Adding that to the list,” he whispers against your forehead, pressing a kiss against it.

Legs bent at the knee, you watch how, with one particularly deep thrust, they bounce at either side of him and one of your heels clatters to the floor.

The room pivots as Bucky turns, you still in his arms and your ankles locked behind his back. At first, you believe he’s aiming to move things into the bedroom, where the only thing your head will be hitting is the mattress when he lays you down. He proves you wrong, however, the cold press of marble against you once more as he settles you down onto the kitchen island.

Much to your chagrin, he slips out of you, cock now sitting pretty against his clothed abdomen and glistening with the sheen of your essence. In the blink of an eye, the soldier is sinking to his knees, metal finger reaching back for your fallen shoe.

The scene plays out like something stripped right out of a morally dubious, low quality pornography retelling of Cinderella, in which Prince Charming has his dick out, Cinderella’s gown is half-way off, and the infamous glass slipper is just a pair of heels you bought on sale.

Bucky is delicate and slow, mouth tickling at your inner knee as he secures the shoe in place. He rests back on his haunches and fully takes in the sight of you, perched upon the counter, hands splayed out on marble, a tangle of silk around your waist, lips parted in search of steady breathing.

There’s an intensity to his gaze, burrowing itself beneath your skin and becoming part of your bloodstream, spreading throughout your body. It makes you want to hide, flee like you do best, but Bucky has other plans.

“The shoes stay on, but this,” Bucky’s fingertips tug lightly on the hem of your dress, exposing a sliver of new skin. “I need this gone. Am I allowed to take it off?”

There he goes again, face the model of innocence while he asks for permission to your body. If you weren’t already dripping against your panties, you would be now. Luckily, he doesn’t push you to verbalise your agreement this time, more than eager to comply the moment you nod your head.

You wiggle your hips as he pulls the fabric out from beneath you, his grip snagging on the waistband of your thong and dragging it away alongside the dress. When your ass cheeks press back down onto the cool of the counter, reality hits you like a freight-train: you’re completely nude, with Bucky on his knees before you, in the middle of the kitchen.

“Buck,” the y of his nickname disappears as you feel him peppering kisses of your leg, inching that little bit higher each press of his mouth. Squeezing your eyes shut, you try to remember where your rational thoughts are stored, conjuring up images of friends, of Sam sitting at this very surface. “I don’t think we should… I mean, people eat off this counter!”

“Don’t worry,” reaching the threshold of your thigh, his kisses seem to speed up, that sauve and composed exterior chipping away to reveal a man who no longer wants to take his time with you. “I intend to eat.”

No sooner than the words reach your ears, Bucky swipes his tongue up your pussy and any fight left in you melts away as you turn to putty beneath his touch, soft and malleable, willing to sit there and take whatever he wants to give.

Give, he most certainly does. Lips latch onto your clit, hands hold your squirming hips in place, tongue dances over your most delicate areas before dipping into your entrance. He drinks from you like you’re the sweetest honey, the richest of red wines, the Holy Grail promising an eternal youth to a man whose time was stolen from him.

“You should see her, doll,” there’s a rasp in Bucky’s voice, a feral undertone to the growl that rests in the back of his throat. One hand tugs his shirt off while the other snakes between your legs, two fingers spreading your lips open in an obscene gesture that has you clamping down on your bottom lip. “She’s drooling for me, all pretty and wet.”

Dropping both your legs over his shoulders, he tugs you right to the edge of the counter and dives back in. You feel his nose bump against your clit and your hand grabs onto your thigh, nails piercing into flesh as your mouth sings a whined symphony.

Vibranium curls around your wrist, prying harm away from your own skin and silently imploring you to hurt him instead, nestling your fingers back into his hair. He’s renewing his effort, a touch that’s more determined than ever to make you fall apart, on his knees and worshipping the altar of your body — fealty and devotion seared into each lap of his tongue, each brush of his lips, each stroke of his fingers.

Who are you to reject his piety? You welcome it, with closed fist and glassy eyes. The soldier shudders — a full-body shiver that shakes down his spine — as the point of your heel digs into his back and your fingers squeeze at his scalp, no mercy shown as you lose yourself in the throes of lust.

When you cum, a silent scream rips through your chest and a burning-too-bright white light turns you blind. He doesn’t let up, tongue still buried in your convulsing walls as your thighs clamp around his head and your feet kick at his back, shoes flying elsewhere into the kitchen. He pays none of it any mind, content to prolong your orgasm for as long as you’ll allow him, slowly rising off his knees with two hands pinning you back against the counter while he continues to feast on your pleasure.

“Ja-mes,” a fractured call of his name is all it takes for him to stop, pupils more black than blue as they stare down at the picture you paint atop the counter: teary-eyes, swollen lips, heaving chest.

He’s hardly the image of composure either, red lines along the expanse of his back, hair a tousled mess, the scruff on his face covered in a sheen of your juices. And, yet, never have you wanted to kiss him so bad.

All you manage, after minutes of floating atop the cloud of your peak, is a cheeky grin and a comment that makes him roll his eyes: “For a fossil, you’re pretty kinky.”

“War camps aren’t exactly known for being fun,” as he speaks, he slowly lowers your legs off his shoulder. “You find ways to keep yourself entertained.”

“Bet you were quite the pleaser, huh?” Trying your best to play it cool, you lay your head fully back on the counter and stare up  at the ceiling, praying he doesn’t notice the hypocritical pit forming in your stomach as you listen to your own words. “Probably had all the prettiest nurses fighting over who gets to tend to your poor, aching, throbbing co-”

“Jealousy looks cute on you,” he interrupts, amused, as his hands soothe over your hips.

“I’m not jealous!” You exclaim, barely believing yourself.

One hand reaching out for him, you watch your fingers intertwine with the prosthetic digits and let him tug you back up, chest to chest when his hand finds your cheek.

“I was,” his confession is crooned whilst staring right into your eyes, the tiniest up-turn to his mouth. “Everytime you walked out the door to go date a new loser.”

“Who knew,” your voice is as gentle as his own, nonchalant as a finger dances down the well-defined muscles of his abdomen and elicits a groan out of him. “All along I had my own loser at home.”

Bucky opts for silence as your hand reaches his groin and pays no mind to his cock, red-tipped and leaking, flushed against his stomach. You’re more interested in his jeans — in removing them, to be exact. It doesn’t take much, a sharp tug at the hem before they’re slipping off, meeting restraint as they cling to his muscled thighs and implore him to finish the job on your behalf, shucking them off blindly to where the rest of your clothes lie.

You must have saved a village in a past life to be rewarded with the view of a completely nude Bucky Barnes, skin stained by lust and laced with gold beneath the kitchen light. You must have saved the rest of the world, too, to watch how his eyes roll back and his mouth falls slack when you take his length in hand and give one slow pump of your wrist, releasing it just to watch it slap back against his abdomen.

As you reach for his dick again, his hand secures itself around your own and guides it up and down the length of it. Once, twice, thrice, till he’s breathing heavily and dripping in pre-cum.

“You must be close,” a statement you make with his own bodily reaction as evidence to back it up, yet there’s still room for doubt — to what extent does that soldier serum interfere with him?

“Put me back down on my knees and I’ll cum to the taste of you,” the soldier certainly makes a tempting offer, one that it almost pains you to refuse.

Almost, if you hadn’t already felt the sweet stretch of him inside you.

“Pretty sure putting you back down on your knees might be considered elder abuse, ole buddy.”

“My age may be a hundred and six but-”

“Exactly my point.”

“But my body isn’t,” he’s using that stare of his, the one Sam always warns you about, while  you’re full-on cheesing, a rush of adrenaline shooting through your veins as you wind him up.

“Remind me, who threw their back out a few weeks ago pulling a tray of muffins out the oven?”

His flesh hand grips behind one of your knees and tugs you right to the edge of the counter, while his left one, still clasped over your own, drags his tip over your folds.

“I don’t remember hearing you complain when you drunkenly ate half the tray and then threw up over the rest,” admittedly, not one of your proudest moments.

“Shut up and fuck me, Barnes.”

“Yes ma’am.”

Just like that, you’re drowning in him again, gasping for breath as you lose yourself in a flood of lust. Bottomed out, stuffing you full, Bucky barely graces your pussy with the chance to adjust to his stretch once more before he’s moving, the sweet graze of every inch being dragged along your sensitive walls.

Your nerves are still reeling from his mouth, a quiet hum of electric pleasure reawakened by his throbbing cock and his vulgar mouth.

“She fits me like a fucking glove,” his hands are pawing at your waist, your breast, your face, never in one place for too long as he begins to settle into a rhythm of thrusts. “Doing so good for me, darling.”

The softness put into his term of endearment births an ache in your chest, one that will accept no medicine other than your arms around his neck and his lips on yours. Mouths tangled in kisses and sweat dripping down your skin, Bucky halts — your hips pressed together, the swell of his balls resting right against your swollen cunt, the head of his cock resting right against your sweet spot — and grinds.

Slow, deliberate, delicious. You whine into his mouth and feel how he swallows it, feasts on your ecstasy with a willing tongue, and a smiling mouth, and possessive teeth that tug at your lip as he pulls back. He stretches out the feeling, grinding a second time as your noses bump against one another.

“Bucky,” his name is an anchor, a paperweight, something to ground you amidst the floaty feeling of being two orgasms deep with a third approaching any time now.

“I know,” he says, and you believe him. Believe that he knows, that he’s known, that he always knows when it comes to you.

You lay your head to rest upon on his left shoulder when he returns to chasing a high between your thighs, a renewed vigor behind each thrust that has your hips rolling to meet his and your nails raking over the straining muscles of his back.

“I lied,” an unprompted confession stumbles out his mouth, fingers flexing into their grip on your waist. “About the apartment viewing. I didn’t go.”

“Bucky,” is all you can manage, branded into his skin with a kiss along his neck.

“Is that all you can say? Huh?” His voice carries a teasing lilt, paired to perfection with the pad of his thumb rubbing at your clit. “I’m giving pivotal revelations here, and you’re just gonna reply with that?”

Another echo of his name, walls fluttering around his dick.

“Bucky, Bucky,” he’s mocking you, a torturer’s laugh as he moans his name into your ear. “Keep going, you sound so pathetic it’s almost cute.”

Beyond words and beyond sense, you give in to the weight of his palm splaying against your stomach and guiding your back down onto the island. The soldier hooks your legs over his elbows, deepening the angle that his cock fucks into you, and you swear you see stars dance along the kitchen ceiling.

A hand smooths over your gut and you look back at Bucky to find adoration in his eyes.

“You see that?” You almost want to cry when his movement switches back to a slow drag — innnnn and outtttt — until you notice it: the smallest hint of movement beneath your flesh, a subtle visual of the outline of his tip bulging against your skin from inside you. “See how full she is, how good I’m making her feel?”

Pressing your hand against it, you can’t help but giggle as you feel him poke at your palm, only to fall back into a puddle of incoherent noises when he keeps pushing at that sweet spot, over and over. Harder and faster with each draw back of his hips, you feel rivulets of your own arousal roll down your ass and onto the marble, tainting the counter forevermore in the sins the soldier commits against you, the sins you welcome with open legs.

You’re near the edge again, and he feels it, pushing you closer and closer as he slowly spirals into a mess of phrases that barely begin before he’s cutting them off with something new.

“Don’t deserve this-” He catches himself, rips the insecurity in his voice out by the roots. “C’mon, let me see it one more time. Need to see you fall apart.”

“Want you to fall apart too,” you manage to beg, unwilling to watch him hold back or pull out before he finishes. “Please!”

Like any good soldier, he obeys.

Crashing over you like a wave, he’s doubled-over by the waist and sandwiching you between the counter and him. You feel him spill into you, hot ropes of cum painting your walls white as a third crescendo washes over your body.

Both of you seek out the other as his thrusts grow languid and your walls spasm, milking him for every last drop he’s got. When your mouths meet, it’s less of a kiss and more of you simply breathing into the other, exchanging air and body heat.

“So,” you croak eventually, exhausted and spent atop the counter yet completely unwilling to relinquish him from blanketing you. “Are you gonna do that every time I steal your ice cream?

Somewhere between jello-ed legs and cold compresses, you wind up in bed.

Skin clammy, lips swollen, lust satiated, you practically melt into the buttery softness of your bed sheets as Bucky lays you down. Despite how you’re still basking in the glow of your third and final orgasm, the soldier seems to think, for a second, you can handle another.

With gentle hands prying open your thighs and a curious tongue diving in for a second helping, licking up the dribble of his own cum spilling out your hole, he’s quick to be corrected when you roll away from his touch with a whine and a plea, “think I might actually die if you make me cum again, Buck.”

He’s unbothered by the rejection, wholly embracing it as he curls up behind you and snakes his arms over your naked skin. It’s you who drags the sheet up and over you both, turning in his arms to plant your head on his chest. His heart races beneath it, but you hold off on teasing — your own isn't any better.

“Sam’s going to kill me,” you whisper out into the room, when moonlight is peeking through your curtains and both of your heartbeats have calmed down.

“I’m sorry,” you feel him shift beneath your head and, though you can’t fully see him, you feel that blue gaze land on you. “Have I not made it clear enough what name you should be saying in bed?”

“There’s a serious chance I’ll die and you’re thinking with your dick,” he squirms as you pinch at his nipple. “You’re no better than the men on your list, Barnes.”

Silence floats back in between you for a moment, peaceful as the slow stroke of his fingers dancing up your spine.

“Why would Sam kill you?” He pauses, hand pressing a little harder down against a knot in your shoulder.  “He knows you have a crazy guard dog.”

Your crazy guard dog just pressed a kiss against your forehead, how frightening.

“He made me swear I wouldn’t get involved with you. He said you weren’t in the headspace for a relationship, that you needed to focus on inner peace first.”

“Turns out inner peace is being inside of you,” you pinch at his nipple again. This time, he doesn’t run from it. This time, you almost swear you hear a little moan creep up his throat. “So, Wilson’s to blame? I can get behind that.”

“To blame for what?”

His hand’s now running up and down the back of your arm, leaving goosebumps wherever its tender touch goes. 

“Why it took you so long to jump my bones.”

“You think I jumped your-” Your head rises off his chest and you stare into the navy darkness of the room, trying to make a concrete shape out where you see shadows of his face. “Wait, so these past few weeks, I’ve not been hallucinating? You’ve been… flirting?”

“It’s been more than a couple weeks, sweetheart,” Bucky seems to have no problem finding you in the dark, hand cupping your cheek and dragging you up to press a chaste kiss against your mouth. “You don’t seriously think I waited until morning to check that sink without hoping to be caught, do you?”

“So you were slutting yourself out on the kitchen floor!”

“Think the kitchen’s seen worse,” worse might be the understatement of the century.

Clothes still lay discarded, counters unwiped, ice cream completely melted. Cleaning you up had been the soldier’s only priority, and you weren’t in the mood or the mindstate to argue with him on that.

A fingertip tickles down the slope of your nose.

“Stop fighting it, you’re tired,” you hear him whisper.

“I want to hear more about your desperate efforts to get my attention,” it’s nothing but a weak protest.

“We have all the time in the world for that. Sleep,” you don’t hesitate to comply when Bucky’s hand presses you back down against the warmth of his chest. “You’re going to need it. Our upstairs neighbours still need a taste of their own medicine.”

+ extra hyde ! · 70% of this fic is just dialogue, these two losers would not stfu! · writing banter + sexual tension feels more exposing than writing literal porn. · lore accurate photo of me whenever bucky barnes exists:

[vamplu]

My Red collection 🖤

okay context for the last pic I was new to the fandom so I didn’t know about the multiple personas thing lol

[vamplu]

Sooo… the morning after, huh? 💖🖤💜

[vamplu]

NDRV3 Hope’s Peak Academy AU [Class 79] (The uniform is based off DR3)

The OT3 lol Group pic of all of them here

[Facebook] [Instagram] [Twitter] [Blogger] [Kofi]

[vamplu]

I beg of you please, PLEASE, a CRUMB of soft/fluff [REDACTED] content p le a se

I just wanna- I just- I wanna- hhhhhhnnnnghh-

(sorry i’ve gone absolutely bonkers, feel free to ignore this!)

⌞♥⌝ I got a bit angsty at the end with this one, sowwie

"That's it. Now move your hand here." With the utmost gentility, your beloved hacker moves your fingers along the fretboard until it's in the correct spot. "Just like that."

He gives you enough space to strum the guitar yourself, though his chin doesn't seem to move from its spot on your shoulder. Cold, blue eyes peer down with a look of pride in them as you fumble around with the strings, and [REDACTED] pays no notice whenever you mess up a note or rush through the tempo. Instead, he gives you an encouraging nod of his head and steadily taps your thigh in an attempt to keep you in time with the rhythm.

Soon enough, [REDACTED]'s bedroom is filled with a soft melody, and you beam up at your partner with a wide, accomplished grin on your face.

"Here," Leaning back into the warmth of his chest, you shift the guitar in your shared laps so that [REDACTED] can easily reach over to grab it. "Why don't you play something for me now?"

A look of genuine consideration pulls at their features before they take you up on your offer — gently pulling you and the guitar closer to his chest before peering over your shoulder once more.

It must've been second nature with how easily his fingers fall into place, and before long, the immediate sound of a soft, haunting song starts to fill the once-empty silence once more. Although you weren't able to see his expression, you could tell that [REDACTED] had found their flow state with the steady rise and fall of his chest, as well as how languid their grip on the instrument seemed to be.

After what feels like hours, his melancholic song soon comes to a slow stop — until the only noises left are your shared breathing and the quiet hum of your partner's PC in the background.

"I used t'play that song for my sister when we were younger." He muses, "It used t'calm her down whenever—"

Almost suddenly, you feel [REDACTED] adjust his position from behind you before his grip on the guitar returns. "Here, d'you wanna learn something else? Why don't I teach you another easy riff?"