It is my absolute 👻favorite👻time of year! Yall better be eating candy and going to parties and marathoning scary movies!
This one is actually a part two that follows one of my stories from last Halloween! So, please read part one “We Fell in Love in October” first!
Warnings: minor reader injury, a little blood, needles
👻🎃💀🧟♀️🦇
Bucky leaned against the kitchen counter, popping pieces of candy corn into his mouth every now and then. He’d been like this for a few long moments, waiting for you to announce the next task. He was completely committed to ensuring that he carried out your vision for this Halloween party to a t; whatever you needed him to do, he’d do it. No complaints. No questions asked.
He was just happy to be with you. Happy to be part of the Halloween party process. Happy to see your eyes light up when you talked about the festivities. Happy to help you plan. And he was happy- thrilled, actually- that you decided against volunteering at the haunted house this year.
He’d never been such an integral piece of the Halloween party puzzle before. But now that you lived together, he was your right hand man. Your second in command. And he never dreamed of having it any other way.
As the days ticked by and the party grew closer, the preparations flew into overdrive, but he didn’t mind the work. He enjoyed spending time with you no matter what, even if it meant assembling a gigantic skeleton you’d purchased from the hardware store on a whim.
Finally, you broke the silence with a forlorn sigh.
“I don’t know, I’m thinking maybe we shouldn’t carve jack-o-lanterns,” you said, eying the long to-do list you’d compiled. “I just don’t think we’re gonna have time and-”
Bucky’s fervent “No!” made you jump.
He flashed you an apologetic smile and shrugged. “I mean, it’s Halloween! We can’t have a Halloween party without jack-o-lanterns.”
A look of concentration slowly stretched across your features as you contemplated his words. Bucky couldn’t help but smile; he loved how seriously you took Halloween. How passionate you were about getting it just right.
He waited on pins and needles for you to come to a conclusion, desperately hoping that he’d been persuasive enough to change your mind. And when you agreed that no Halloween party was complete without jack-o-lanterns, a massive, relieved sigh left his chest.
You shot a glance his way, “Wow, you were really stressed about the jack-o-lanterns, huh?” you teased. “I think that was the biggest sigh of relief I’ve ever heard.”
“I just want everything to be perfect,” he told you. “Plus, I’ve only ever carved one pumpkin. In my entire life.”
“That’s just- it’s blasphemous,” you lamented. “Only one jack-o-lantern in over a hundred years? That just doesn’t sit right with me.”
“That’s why we have to carve them this year,” he said, “So I can have two under my belt.”
It was, unbeknownst to you, a flagrant lie.
Because, while you were under the impression that Bucky had been working late for the last few weeks, he was actually carving pumpkins. A lot of pumpkins. At least two or three a week. He had to practice, had to get it absolutely perfect. He would show up at Sam’s apartment after work and settle into one of his friend’s kitchen chairs, sawing away at the flesh of yet another bright orange pumpkin. Sam said it was overkill, that he didn’t need that much practice. But Bucky disagreed.
If he was going to carve ‘WILL YOU MARRY ME?’ into the side of a pumpkin, it had to be flawless.
“Let’s carve them on…” He pretended to think it over, as if he hadn’t been meticulously planning this for weeks. “How does Friday sound? It’s the day before Halloween, the day before the party- it’s perfect. And that way they’ll be fresh.”
“Sounds good to me.” You dotted a kiss to his cheek and went about your party prep, completely oblivious to Bucky’s covert mission.
When Friday rolled around, you returned home from work to find the kitchen table prepped and ready for pumpkin carving. Bucky had spread newspapers all over the table’s surface and lined up a small army of knives and spoons. A string of twinkling fairly lights had been carefully draped around the perimeter of the ceiling. A large bowl of Halloween candy sat off to the side. Your ‘Halloween Vibes’ playlist played softly from a speaker in the middle of the table, and the entire apartment smelled of hot apple cider. A steaming mug of the stuff rested in your usual spot at the table, waiting for you.
Two large, perfect pumpkins sat atop the layer of newspapers, ready to give their lives for the good of your party. You were simply awestruck by the scene before you. Completely mesmerized by the picture-perfect set up.
Bucky swept into the kitchen just then and wrapped you in a bear hug.
“Hey, sweetheart, how was your-”
“This is incredible, Buck.” With a contented sigh, you leaned into his embrace, “You get me. It’s so-” Just then, one strange detail caught your eye. “What, you didn’t wanna sit next to me?” you teased, gesturing toward the table.
The two pumpkins sat on either side of the table, indicating that you and Bucky would be sitting across from each other. It was a small, yet significant detail that fell far outside the ordinary. The two of you were a “same side of the booth” couple. At restaurants, at home, at friend’s houses- you sat next to each other. Always.
“Is this like an Invasion of the Body Snatchers situation?” you joked. “Who are you and what have you done with my boyfriend?”
Bucky rolled his eyes and captured your lips with his in a kiss that tasted like spiced cider.
“I promise I have not been body snatched,” he confirmed. “I just thought we would sit across from each other so our carvings would be a surprise.”
“Hmmm…” you thought it over for a moment, eying Bucky and then the table.
His heart threatened to beat out of his chest. He’d been nervous all day- all week, really. His hands shook; his stomach was full to the brim with a lively swarm of butterflies. You’d checked in on him a few times over the last few days, asking if he was alright. And he assured you he was fine, just stressed about work.
But with actual proposal only an hour or so away, he felt himself coming apart at the seams. Tiny beads of sweat gathered near the nape of his neck. His throat was bone dry. And he was deathly afraid that you’d notice the small ring box in his pocket. He watched you assess the table and feared that you’d somehow figured out his master plan.
But he breathed a sigh of relief when you gave him a “sounds fun!” and dropped the issue.
He couldn’t wait to ask you to marry him. To give you the dreamy, Halloween-y proposal of your dreams. And he couldn’t wait for your Halloween / engagement party. Of course, you had no idea it was a hybrid event. But Bucky had been putting the details together for weeks. He had a cake to pick up, custom decorations to hang, fancy champagne to unearth from its hiding place. It was going to be the perfect celebration.
Once you’d changed out of your work clothes and the two of you had eaten dinner, it was go-time.
Bucky’s hand shook as he sliced into the pumpkin; no amount of practice could’ve prepared him for just how nervous he was. But he forced himself to take deep, even breaths. Forced himself to appear as normal as possible. He laughed at your jokes and listened to your stories from the workday. He watched with adoration in his eyes as you absentmindedly stuck your tongue while you carved.
“I’m just gonna warn you,” you said, halting your carving for just a moment. “This thing is looking pretty good. Might be better than yours,” you gave him a cocky shrug.
Bucky let out a laugh and glanced down at his pumpkin. The words “WILL YOU MARRY” stared back at him, and he had to admit that he was pretty pleased with his efforts. The letters were crisp and clean, easy to read. The spacing was perfect. All he had to do was add the “ME?” and he’d be ready to pop the question.
“I don’t know, sweetheart,” he said, bringing his attention back to you. “I think mine is gonna be one for the books.”
He couldn’t wait to surprise you. Couldn’t wait to see the look of joyous shock on your face as you realized what he’d been carving. And yet, part of him wished you already knew. He hated keeping things from you, hated telling you white lies and half-truths. You were the first person he called when he had a story to tell. The only person he trusted with his deepest darkest secrets. He told you everything. Every crazy, over the top story from work. Every insignificant, minute detail of his day. Everything. Keeping such a huge secret from you went against his very nature.
But he only had to wait a few more minutes, and then you’d be in the know. With a satisfied smile, he prepared to drag his knife through the pumpkin’s flesh once again- until a strange sound stopped him.
Your knife clattered against the surface of the table. Your hand balled into a tight fist. Your eyes squeezed shut.
“Baby?”
Bucky was out of his seat in a heartbeat. He flew to your side of the table and found blood staining your shirt, the newspaper. It dripped down the surface of your pumpkin and coated the tip of your knife.
At the sight of your blood, all of his grand, romantic proposal plans evaporated into thin air. He was all business now.
He gently reached for your clenched fist, “Can I see?”
You grimaced and slowly opened your eyes- only to close them again when you saw the blood running down your wrist.
“Sweetheart, let me see, okay?” Bucky’s voice was soothing, reassuring. “I just need to look at it.”
Finally, you uncurled your fist and allowed him a long look at your injured hand, though he couldn’t see much. A pool of blood had gathered in your palm, completely obscuring the wound.
“Alright, I don’t- I can’t tell how deep it is. Let’s get you over to the sink so I can get a good look. Okay?”
You nodded but didn’t move. You were frozen. Stuck. Bucky wasn’t sure if it was the pain or your aversion to blood. He gently encouraged you to come with him to the sink as he watched the blood ooze down your forearm and drip off of your elbow. The droplets exploded into macabre little sunbursts at Bucky’s feet as they splashed against the tile. But still, you remained fixed in your chair.
Bucky’s anxiety thrummed. He begged you to move. Pleaded with you. But nothing worked. Nothing freed you from your trance. Eventually, he ran out of options. He couldn’t just watch the blood drain from your body. Couldn’t allow you to go without the medical attention you so obviously needed.
“Alright, I’m picking you up, sweets.”
His strong arms gently lifted you from your chair and carefully carried you to the kitchen sink. He sat you down on the counter and cautiously rinsed your bloodied hand under the faucet. Soothing, encouraging words fell from his lips as he assessed the damage. But it was just as he’d feared: you were going to need stitches.
The only silver lining was that the cold water seemed to snap you back to reality.
“Is it okay?” you said, your voice tremulous. You hadn’t worked up the nerve to look at the carnage yourself
A small sigh of relief left Bucky’s chest at the sound of your voice. For just a moment, he allowed his eyes to drift from your injured hand to your face. He found your brows knit together in pain. Your eyes wide with anxiety. The usual warm glow that radiated off of your skin had been replaced by a sickly gray cast.
He gave you a sympathetic smile that quickly fell into a frown, “You need stitches.”
You frowned right along with him.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart.” He reached over and cupped your face with his clean hand, “How’s the pain?”
You gave a half-hearted shake of your head. His heart broke.
A visit to the emergency room wasn’t exactly part of Bucky’s original plan for the evening, but he couldn’t have been a better partner. He supported you. Constantly checked in on you. He held pressure to your wound in the waiting room and advocated for you when the pain rendered you incapable of speaking. He asked the nurses a million questions and thanked them for their compassion. And when your doctor refused to give you something for the anxiety prior to stitching you up, he had your back.
He was so worried about you, so concerned about your condition and your pain and your aversion to needles. He did everything in his power to comfort you. To be there for you. To be strong for you when you needed a rock.
A rock. ‘Shit,’ he thought.
Your engagement ring was still tucked inside his pocket- or at least, he hoped it was. His hand drifted down to his lap and rested atop the small square, assuring himself that it was safe. The tiniest sigh of relief he could manage slipped from between his lips, only to be overridden by new worries. He feared that you’d notice the box. Or worse, that it would slip out of his pocket and be lost forever.
For the rest of your time in the hospital, he kept the box in his peripheral vision. His hand grazed over it every minute or so, making sure that it was still there. He couldn’t lose it. Couldn’t propose to you without a ring- thisring.
The botched proposal came rushing back to him all at once. His unfinished pumpkin was still on the table with the words “WILL YOU MARRY” carved into its flesh. His jaw tensed. What if you saw it upon arriving home? What if you didn’t get the perfect proposal that you deserved? What if the whole thing was ruined? The thought made Bucky’s stomach turn. But he had more pressing matters to attend to; your injured hand took precedence.
He’d just have to find a way to shield the pumpkin from your view. And how hard could it be? He was an ex-assassin and a current covert agent, for crying out loud. He was certain he could keep this secret under wraps a while longer.
But it proved easier said than done.
Upon arriving home, Bucky carefully led you into the bedroom and helped you change out of your blood-stained clothes. He assumed you’d want to lie down and get some rest after your long, painful evening in the ER. And he planned to use that opportunity to hide his unfinished proposal message. But as soon as you donned clean clothes, you headed for the bedroom door.
“Where are you going?” Bucky asked. He caught up with you and obstructed your path.
He hoped you hadn’t clocked the alarm in his voice, the sheer panic. Only a few feet stood between you and the partial proposal sitting on the kitchen table.
“You’re not actually gonna try and finish carving your pumpkin, are you?” he asked.
“No, definitely not,” you glanced toward your bandaged hand. “I was just gonna go clean up. There’s blood and pumpkin guts and-”
“You’re not cleaning anything up. You need to rest, sweetheart.”
You rolled your eyes, “I can clean with my good hand! I made a huge mess, and I don’t want you to clean it up by yourself.”
Bucky rolled his eyes right back and brushed a kiss against your forehead.
“You need to rest, baby. I can handle the clean up on my own, okay?” He took your good hand in his and led you to the bed. “I appreciate you wanting to help, but I got this one. Just lay down and try to relax. I’ll be right in.”
Begrudgingly, you crawled into bed and let Bucky help you get situated. He dotted another kiss to your forehead and headed for the kitchen, shutting the bedroom door behind him.
With the door closed, he dropped his calm demeanor rushed into the kitchen. He yanked his pumpkin with its incomplete proposal from the kitchen table and searched wildly for a sufficient hiding spot. His eyes landed on the cabinet above the oven- the cabinet that was so high up you’d never been able to reach it- and carefully tucked his pumpkin inside.
With his secret still intact, Bucky made you some tea and put together a snack for you; he wanted to make sure you’d have something in your stomach when you took your pain medication. He poured you a large glass of water and delivered everything to your bedside. Brushing a gentle kiss against your lips, he promised to be back soon.
And then he cleaned up the carnage. It didn’t take him long, but it was more difficult than he thought. He hated seeing your blood pooling on the table, on the floor. He never liked seeing your blood, but it was easier in the moment. Easier when he was concerned about your pain level and getting you to the ER.
But now that the adrenaline had worn off, he found the sight of your blood absolutely gut-wrenching. It was so unsettling, so deeply disturbing. Blood had never made him uncomfortable before, not even when his own spilled from the place where his left arm should’ve been. But yours? He shuddered. Goosebumps crawled across his skin as he cleaned up the macabre scene, but he got it taken care of; he didn’t want you finding a mess in the morning.
And when he’d returned the kitchen to its former glory, he changed out of his bloodied clothes and joined you in bed. With Bucky next to you under the covers, you turned off the tv and got settled in for the night. He flicked off the lamp on his bedside table and kissed you on the forehead like he did every night. You intertwined the fingers of your good hand with Bucky’s as he curved his body around yours.
“Thanks for taking care of me tonight,” you whispered in the dark. “I couldn’t-” a yawn interrupted you, “I couldn’t ask for a better boyfriend.”
“Always, sweetheart,” he dropped a kiss to your shoulder, knowing he wouldn’t be your boyfriend much longer. The word ‘fiancé’ bounced around his skull, nearly escaping and ruining the surprise. But he held it in. All he had to do was keep it contained until tomorrow.
“Get some rest. It was a long night, and tomorrow is gonna be busy.”
Within moments, you were out; the stress of the evening coupled with a prescription pain pill had you on your ass. Bucky listened to your steady breathing for five, ten, fifteen minutes. He waited for it to vary, for you to adjust your position, but you remained still, your breathing even.
“Baby?” he whispered, testing the depth of your sleep. “Hey, baby.”
No answer. Not even a muscle twitch.
Satisfied, Bucky slipped his hand out of yours and snuck carefully out of bed. He padded across the room on his silent Winter Soldier feet and crept through the bedroom door without a sound.
Though he wasn’t going to be gone long— all he had to do was carve the word ‘ME’ and a question mark into his pumpkin— he hated sneaking away like this. Hated leaving you all alone in the bedroom, especially when you were hurt. What if you woke up and needed him? What if you tore your stitches in your sleep?
The endless possibilities ticked by as he made his way to the cabinet above the oven. He stopped in his tracks and considered turning back. He hemmed and hawed for a long, quiet moment in the dark kitchen.
No, you were asleep, dead asleep. He’d have plenty of time to finish his carving. Plenty of time to make your perfect Halloween proposal come true. Soundlessly, he retrieved his pumpkin from its clandestine spot and retrieved a knife from the block.
By the light of his phone, he sliced into his pumpkin once again. All of the nervous energy he’d had earlier returned ten-fold, forcing a slight tremor into his right hand. The words he’d carved prior to your accident were precise, perfectly crisp; he feared that finishing this project in secret and in the dark might ruin what progress he’d already made.
A bead of sweat pricked at his brow. His jaw was clenched; his shoulders grew rock hard with tension. And only when he tasted blood did he realize he’d sunk his teeth into the tender flesh of his cheek. He dragged a deep breath into his lungs and shook the rigidity from his body.
All that was left now was the question mark- the damn question mark.
For some reason, it was the character that gave him the most trouble. Each time he practiced, it came out wonky. Uneven. Crooked. It usually ended up ruining his otherwise perfect pumpkins. His confidence in this plan waned; carving the most difficult portion of this project in the dark had not been wise.
He knew— he hoped— you’d say yes, even if the question mark was a little awkward and warped. But he wanted it to be perfect. It had to be perfect. You were perfect, and you deserved nothing less.
He wasn’t sure how long he held his breath; he was certain it was a new personal record. But it didn’t matter. Because the question mark he deftly carved into the pumpkin’s flesh was flawless. It was crisp. Beautiful. His best one to date.
He stared at his completed pumpkin for a long time, a satisfied smile on his face. Tomorrow, he was going to ask you to marry him. Tomorrow, he was going to make good on a promise he’d made to himself a year in advance.
After one last look, he carefully tucked his pumpkin back into the cabinet and snuck back into the bedroom. You hadn’t moved even a fraction of an inch since he left, and your breathing was still as steady as before. He slithered beneath the covers and dotted a kiss to your head before dozing off. This was the last night you’d spend as boyfriend and girlfriend, and he was more than okay with that.
The next morning, the nervous energy stemming from Bucky’s impending proposal nearly shook him awake. The knots in his stomach twisted and tangled like writhing snakes, and his lungs refused to expand to their full capacity. He would’ve loved to get another hour or two of sleep, but today was the day, and he had lots to do.
He cut a glance toward you, taking inventory of your condition. Your expression was serene; your injured hand rested carefully on your chest. There was no blood leaking through the bandages. No pained sounds escaping from your lips. You were okay. The anxiety in his stomach eased ever so slightly.
With the utmost care, he snuck out of bed and stole your to-do list from your bedside table before heading for the kitchen. He was hellbent on getting as much done as possible before you woke. He wanted to prevent you from doing any work. Wanted to keep your injured hand safe. He’d happily do everything that remained on your list if it saved you any more pain.
But the pile of tasks for the day was daunting. Intimidating, even. And he only had so much time. There was food- and a surprise cake- to pick up, more decorations to hang, drinks to prepare, last-minute cleaning to do. Both you and Bucky had to dress in your costumes. And this was all on top of the proposal.
Once safely in the kitchen, he gave Sam a call.
“You’re really calling me at six in the morning? On a Saturday?” Sam’s voice was rough with sleep.
“I know, I know. Sorry,” Bucky paused for a moment, listening for any evidence that you’d woken up. When he found nothing, he turned his attention back to Sam. “But I need your help, man.”
He told Sam the story of the previous night: your injury, the trip to the ER, his botched proposal. He explained your long to-do list, his increased workload. The impending popping of the question.
Sam listened as Bucky quickly rattled off a hundred different things that needed to be taken care of.
“I’m gonna do everything around here,” Bucky said. “I’m getting a jump start on all of it right now, so hopefully I can get it done early. I just don’t think I can run out and get the food or the cake. I’m not sure I’ll have time, and I don’t really want to leave her here alone when she’s hurt cause-”
“I got it. Don’t worry about that stuff,” Sam said.
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure. Just text me when and where and I’ll pick it up.”
Bucky felt some of the pressure in his chest dissipate, “You’re a lifesaver.”
“I know,” Sam gave a soft laugh. “And you’re gonna get it right this time. Don’t stress, man. Y’all are made for each other.”
A swell of confidence filled Bucky’s chest. He’d been on unsteady footing since last night’s incident. His fear of an imperfect proposal gnawed at him, haunted him in his sleep. But he’d been there for you when it mattered. He’d taken care of you and made you feel safe. And wasn’t that more important than a flawlessly executed proposal? He knew it was.
And with Sam shouldering some of the burden, he felt more certain than ever that things would work out in his favor. He dove into party prep, quietly ticking tasks off your to-do list one by one.
The look of shock on your face when you woke made Bucky beam.
“You did everything?” you asked, snatching the to-do list off the counter. “All of it?”
Most of the items were marked through, signaling their completion.
“Almost all of it,” Bucky amended. “There are a few smaller things I haven’t gotten to yet. And I haven’t picked up the food. But aside from that, yeah. It’s mostly finished.”
He’d put his nose to the grindstone and worked endlessly for the past few hours, getting all of the big things out of the way. All that was left now were the small, easier tasks- plus, the secret jobs he’d put on his own to-do list.
“You didn’t have to do this all by yourself, Buck,” you said. “It’s a lot of work for one person.”
He shrugged, “I didn’t want you to hurt your hand.”
He laughed as you showered him with kisses and buried yourself in his arms.
Together, the two of you ate the breakfast Bucky prepared; he refused to let you help. You watched as he did the dishes; he refused to let you help. And finally, you got started on the smaller, easier tasks he hadn’t quite completed yet; he barely let you help.
“No, no, no- I got it!” Bucky called from across the living room. He rushed to your side and blocked your path to the stepladder. “I got this one, sweetheart.”
You let out a huff, “I can climb on a stepladder- my legs are fine!”
Bucky didn’t agree. “I know, but I don’t want you getting up there. You could fall and tear your stitches. And that would mean another trip to the ER. More needles. More stitches-”
You wrinkled your nose in disgust. “Okay, okay. Fine,” a smile slipped through your annoyed façade. “I guess I’ll go…” you looked around the room, searching for something to do. “I’ll go fill the candy bowls.”
It sounded like a perfectly safe, risk-averse choice to Bucky. And thus, he approved. He allowed any and all harmless tasks that didn’t put your hand at risk-- though he still did most of the work himself, as his nervous energy wouldn’t allow his hands to idle.
By the time late afternoon rolled around, Bucky could hardly contain himself. He was certain you could hear his heart pounding. Certain you could sense his wild anxiety. But you didn’t look at him sideways or inquire about his odd behavior. You simply did what you could to prepare for the party, leaving the more involved tasks to him.
A few minutes after he approved your request to go into the living room and arrange the couch with Halloween pillows, he found you sitting in the armchair near the window. Your head rested against the back of the chair, your eyelids drooped. Every few seconds, you jolted back to reality and blinked a few times, only to be devoured by exhaustion once again.
“Baby, you should lie down,” he sat on the arm of the chair and brushed his fingers gently across your cheek. “Go take a nap, okay?”
You fought the fatigue and forced your eyes open. “I’m okay. I’m good. I’m not ti-” you yawned. “I’m not tired.”
Bucky gave you a skeptical look. “Really? Cause I just found you in here sleeping on the job.”
You gave him a tired laugh.
“Just go take a nap, sweetheart. Pretty much everything is done around here, I can take care of what’s left. And I know the pain meds make you sleepy.”
“But-”
“Don’t you wanna have enough energy for the party tonight?” He asked.
“Yeah… you got me there,” you laughed, followed by a yawn. “Okay, fine. I will take a short nap.”
“Short, long- whatever you need,” Bucky said, though he hoped you’d be asleep for a while.
He walked you to the bedroom and got you situated in bed before pressing a kiss to your forehead. He promised to make sure you were awake with enough time to get ready for the party and left you to rest in peace.
With you sleeping safely in the other room, Bucky prepared his proposal. He’d thought about picking up some orange roses and using their petals to line the hallway, creating some sort of aisle for you to walk down— but it didn’t seem Halloween-y enough to him. Instead, he lined the hall with candy corn that he vowed to clean up before the party guests arrived. He turned on the twinkling lights he’d put up the night before and fetched his pumpkin from the cabinet. It looked perfect sitting in the center of the kitchen table, surrounded by scattered candy corn and tea lights.
Sam arrived just twenty minutes before you were to wake up. He soundlessly entered the apartment with food and cake in hand and couldn’t help but marvel at the scene Bucky had set. He hugged his friend and preemptively congratulated him before slipping out the door.
And then, your alarm sounded. Bucky’s stomach dropped.
He fetched your ring from the cabinet where he’d kept his pumpkin, lowered the kitchen lights, and took his spot just at the end of the hall- at the entrance to the kitchen. He cut a glance to the side and eyed the scene one last time. The soft, romantic light from the candles. The pumpkin. The twinkling string of lights. It was exactly as he imagined it.
After a deep, calming breath, he called out to you.
“Hey, sweetheart, could you come here for a minute?”
“Yeah!” you answered, sounding refreshed and alert.
He heard your footsteps on the bedroom floor. Heard your “what?” as you opened the door and found the candy corn lining the hall.
“Buck, did you drop a bunch of candy corn outside the bedroom?” you called to him.
“Um, yeah,” he called back. “I’m gonna clean it up before everyone gets here, I promise. Can you just come into the kitchen for a minute?”
“He dropped candy corn in two perfectly straight lines?” you muttered quietly to yourself, “What is-”
You turned the corner out of your room and found Bucky standing at the end of the hall in a warm, glowing light.
“Hi,” he said, smiling ear to ear.
“Um, hi,” you smiled back. “What’s going on?”
Bucky shrugged, “Nothing. I just finished carving my jack-o-lantern. Do you want to see it?"
Your eyes lit up, “Yeah!”
As he watched you make your way down the candy corn aisle, all of the nerves vanished. There was nothing scary or anxiety-inducing about this. About asking you to marry him. About taking the first step toward your future together. This was the easiest thing in the world.
Finally, you reached him.
“Hey,” he reached for your good hand and took it in his. “Come on, my pumpkins on the table.”
With a gentle tug, he helped you round the corner into the kitchen. His gaze didn’t leave your face as he waited for you to figure out what he’d been planning. What he’d been hiding. But the puzzle pieces didn’t fall together as quickly as he thought.
“Oh, wow, you carved words?” you chuckled, glancing over the pumpkin. “I thought it was gonna be a-”
And then a sharp gasp filled your lungs as you realized what exactly those words meant. All at once, you rushed to the table— dragging Buck with you— and closely examined the pumpkin.
“Does this mean-” you dragged your eyes from the pumpkin to Bucky. “Are you serious?”
With your hand still in his, Bucky slowly descended until he was resting on one knee.
“Sweetheart…”
Tears were already gathering in your eyes, “Oh my god.”
“The day I met you…” he began.
But the speech he’d carefully prepared over the last month suddenly felt too formal, too rehearsed. He wanted to be his most genuine, authentic self for you. Not the version that was scripted and polished and refined. Not the role he played at briefings and press conferences. Not James Buchanan Barnes. Just Bucky- your Bucky.
With a deep breath, he freed himself from his script and allowed the words to flow from his heart.
“This isn’t something I ever thought I would do- I didn’t think I’d ever get the chance to, you know? When I was drafted, I had this feeling… I don’t know, I had this feeling that I wasn’t coming home. And I was right,” he gave the slightest shake of his head. “And then after I escaped and Shuri fixed me up, I just thought there was nochance it would happen— not for me. I didn’t think anyone would ever see me as me after what I did. And then I met you. And you’re just…”
Tears gathered in his eyes now.
“You’re so warm. And this is… it’s been the honor of my life to be with you. To just be around you. Being your friend felt like winning the lottery, honestly. It was like being friends with the sun. You brought this light and this warmth with you everywhere you went. And I’d been so- I was in the dark for such a long time.” He shrugged, “I didn’t think there was another option- I thought I was gonna be in that darkness for the rest of my life.”
He gripped your hand a bit tighter now, this thumb sweeping circles over your knuckles.
“But you showed me that I could be different- that life could be different. And I knew immediately how lucky I was to just be in your orbit— I still feel that way. Every day. Cause you just… you make the world better. For everyone. And I couldn’t believe you wanted to be around someone who, you know, made the world worse.”
He laughed at your incredulous expression and murmured an apology for the negative self-talk before continuing.
“But I should’ve known that you wouldn’t have any hang ups, cause you’re the last person to judge. You’re the kindest person I’ve ever met. You make everyone feel like they matter. You’re so sweet and you’re thoughtful and you’re loving. You’re so passionate about the things you care about- and you care. You really care about people. You cared about me… you made me feel like a person for the first time in a long, long time.”
He quickly swiped he sleeve across his cheeks, mopping up the tears that breached his lash line.
“I didn’t think things between us would go anywhere. I mean, I wanted them to. But I just never thought- I couldn’t let myself hope that you’d feel anything for me. I never even considered it; it was too unbelievable. And I- I still can’t believe that you want to be on my team. That you want us to be in the same corner. That you’ve been trusted me enough to give me your love. But I’m so… I’m beyond grateful that you took a chance on me, even after I spilled coffee all over your shoes.”
“Well,” you said, your voice shaky, “You bought me pumpkin bread, so I let it slide.”
The two of you laughed together in a soft, breathy sound.
“All this to say,” Bucky took a deep breath. “You’re the love of my life. I want to spend the rest of my days by your side. And I swear on my life that I will protect you and your heart at any cost. I will do anything in my power to make you as happy as you make me. Forever.”
He carefully fished the ring box out of his pocket, opened it, and presented you with the ring he’d worked so hard to hide.
“Baby-”
A quiet gasp filled your lungs, “Is that-”
“Your great grandmother’s,” he nodded. “It’s just that I- you know, I don’t have any family, I don’t have any heirlooms. But I didn’t want to get you just any old ring; I wanted it to be special. So, I reached out to your mom, and she gave me permission to use this one.”
Hot tears streaked down your face and rolled down your neck, dampening your shirt. Bucky could almost hear the your heart pounding in your chest.
“Sweetheart, I’ve been wanting to ask you this for a really, really long time, so…” He took a deep breath. Everything had been leading up to this moment. Every date. Every kiss. Every moment spent together brought the two of you here.
“Will you marry me?”
Not even the enhanced hearing of a super soldier could pick up on your answer; no sound came when you opened your mouth. And so, you resorted to a vehement, borderline-violent nod.
Before Bucky could even remove the ring from its box, you launched yourself at him, sending both of you crashing to the floor. He instinctively wrapped himself around you and took the brunt of the fall, protecting you from the cold, hard tile.
You buried your face in his shirt, and he stroked your back as he felt your happy tears soaking through the fabric. Just for a moment, he allowed his eyes to close. He drank in the felling of your body against his, the sensation of your ecstatic sobs against his chest.
Throughout the planning process, he knew you’d say yes. Knew you’d accept the ring. But the insecure part of him had wondered how happy you could really be. How much excitement could you possibly get from him popping the question? He knew he was still kind of a societal pariah. Still damaged and traumatized and hollow, at times.
And he knew that he couldn’t possibly be your dream guy. Knew that if someone had asked you years ago to build your future husband, you never would’ve described him. You never would’ve outlined a PTSD-riddled ex-assassin with a cybernetic arm and enough blood on his hands to drown a city.
But as you lay there on tip of him, heaving with happy sobs, a satisfied smile stretched across his face. Maybe he wasn’t the blueprint of an ideal man, but you loved him. You wanted him. And that was enough for him. Your happiness was enough for him.
All he truly wanted in life was for you to be happy; nothing else mattered to him.
For the entirety of your relationship, you’d filled him with the most potent, profound joy he’d ever experienced. After the life he’d had, he didn’t believe that such a feeling existed. But you showed him that it was possible. That he was capable of feeling things other than despair. And he did his best to give that same joy back to you every single day. To try and somehow repay you for granting him this new, beautiful life. And as your pulled your face from his chest and flashed a beaming smile his way, he thought maybe he’d done just that.
“So, that’s a yes, right?” He asked once you caught your breath.
“Yes!” you nearly yelled. “Of course!”
Bucky brought the two of you to your feet and carefully slid the generations-old ring onto your finger. It looked at home there, like it belonged. Like it was made for you all those years ago and had been waiting for its chance to be yours. That was exactly how Bucky felt, too. Like he’d been born at the wrong time. Like he’d been designed perfectly for you, just several decades too early. Like he was destined to wait a century until he could truly be yours. He didn’t mind the delay, though, not if it brought him here. To this moment. To you.
The two of you shared your first kiss an engaged couple, and Bucky swore it felt different. Better, somehow. He didn’t think there was any way to improve a kiss from you. But now that you were his fiancée, there was something extra there. Something deeper. Warmer. Something that felt like forever.
“I know you probably want to start getting ready for the party,” He said when your lips parted, “But-”
“I completely forgot about the party,” you laughed. Your gaze drifted from Bucky’s face, down to your ring, and back, “Doesn’t seem important now.”
“Well, it is important, it’s special,” he said. “I think it might be the first ever hybrid Halloween-engagement party… a Halloweengagment!”
“Did you just come up with that?”
He nodded, a satisfied smile on his face. “Come on, I have a surprise for you.”
He gently guided you over to the fridge, where your Halloweengagement cake hid. The black, heart shaped surprise was draped in intricate buttercream ruffles and adorned with a message written in delicate, cursive script.
“Til Death?” you said, reading the flawless lettering.
“Yeah…”
No one said anything for a long, quiet moment. Bucky feared he’d take things too far. That it was too macabre for an engagement celebration.
“Do you like it?” he asked, made uneasy by your silence. “I know it’s gonna stain everyone’s teeth, and that it’s kind of morbid. But I had to keep with the theme, you know?”
“Baby, it’s…” You crushed your mouth to his. “It’s perfect. I love it- I love you.” You leaned into him, pressing your cheek to his chest. “I can’t wait to be your wife.”
He wound his arms around you and pulled you closer.
Wife.
The word pulled Bucky’s lips into a wide smile. He wanted nothing more than to marry you, to be your husband, to spend his life taking care of you. He’d be by your side for anything and everything that came your way, good or bad. He’d be your rock, your shoulder to cry on, your sounding board. Whatever you wanted, whatever you needed from him, he’d be there— nothing was off limits or out of reach. He’d lay down his life for you without giving it a second thought.
“Thank you for doing all of this,” you said. “It’s exactly what I wanted.”
“Thank you for saying yes,” he laughed. “It’s exactly what I wanted.”
The two of you melded together in another long, jubilant kiss. There would surely be many more over the course of the night as friends congratulated the two of you on your news. People would fawn over the ring and ask questions about dates and venues and dresses. But none of that stuff mattered to either of you. It didn’t matter when or where you got married. It wasn’t important what your dress looked like or who made up the wedding party.
All that truly mattered was that you were together. That Bucky was to be your husband, and you, his wife. That you were choosing one another- that you’d continue choosing each other. Every hour. Every day. Til death.
I'm technically a few days early but tbh all of October is Halloween to me (every day of the year is Halloween in my heart if we're being real). Pleas enjoy my second Halloween fic of the year 🧡🖤
Warnings: discussion of Bucky's past
Word Count: 14.1k
Bucky reluctantly drifted through the doors of the tower and boarded the elevator. Being this late wasn’t like him; he wasn’t the type to shirk his responsibilities. But he didn’t even want to attend this particular event, let alone arrive early to help set up. He wasn’t big on parties, wasn’t a fan of Halloween, and a combination of the two was his version of hell. Almost.
“That is not a costume,” Yelena huffed when he made it to the twentieth floor. She was decked out in some kind of haunted doll get up, complete with horrifying make up.
“What? It’s-” Bucky glanced down at his clothes, “Yes, it is. I bought it at a costume shop.”
Yelena was unconvinced, “That’s not a costume- it’s a sweater.”
“But I- it’s that movie, Friday the Thirteenth,” Bucky argued. He pulled on the tattered edge of his green and red sweater to accentuate his point. “I’m Michael Meyers.”
“I think you’re thinking of Freddy Kreuger, man,” John called from behind the bar. He was setting up the liquor and readying the ice, clad in a costume Bucky didn’t recognize. “Freddy Kreuger is from Halloween.”
“He’s actually from Nightmare on Elm Street,” Bob corrected. He wore a simple green shirt and brown pants— Bucky recognized him as Shaggy from Scooby Doo, as Bob had shown him a few episodes— though no one else was dressed as the other members of the Mystery Inc gang. “Michael Meyers is from Halloween, and Jason Voorhees is from Friday the Thirteenth.”
“Whatever,” Bucky sighed. “It’s a costume.”
“Isn’t Freddy Krueger supposed to be all-” Ava gestured to her face, which was painted like a zombie. “Isn’t his face fucked up?”
“And he’s supposed to have a glove made of knives, or something,” John added.
“Metal hand is close enough!” Alexei shot Bucky a look of approval. “Looks cool, man.” He adjusted the cowboy hat he wore and raised a brow at Bucky, hoping to receive the same approval. Bucky granted him a polite nod, though he had no idea who Alexei was supposed to be.
“Freddy also wears a hat…” Bob said, immediately followed by a “Sorry.”
“Alright, well, you guys told me to wear a costume, so I went to a costume shop and- this is my costume,” Bucky ran a hand through his hair. He was already looking forward to the end of the night, and it hadn’t even started yet. “I can either wear this and stay, or I can go.”
“No, it’s fine- you’re staying,” Yelena finally conceded. “And people will be here soon- get to work. Help Alexei with the kegs.”
Bucky aided the team in readying the tower for their Halloween rager. Yelena had somehow swindled the money for the party out of Valentina, and she’d spared no expense—seeing as the cash wasn’t hers. The food was catered and the alcohol top-shelf. The décor clearly came from some specialty store with a knack for all things scary. And the DJ set up rivaled the city’s most exclusive night clubs. Bucky knew, logically, that it would be a great party- all of the ingredients were there. But as someone who detested the entire Halloween season, he couldn’t imagine it being any fun.
He expected to spend the whole night sitting in a corner, sipping on whiskey that wouldn’t get him drunk. What he hadn’t been expecting, however, was you.
“Holy shit…” you muttered under your breath.
The sheer size of the crowd stopped you in your tracks as you exited the elevator. Half of the city must’ve been there, packed tightly into the large space. They formed a pulsing mass on the dance floor, moving in sync with the music. Everyone was decked out for the occasion, sporting costumes from popular horror blockbusters and obscure deep cuts alike.
With the party already in full swing, you were certain you’d find Olivia amongst the masses. And yet, not one familiar face appeared as you scanned the crowd. Part of you wasn’t surprised Olivia hadn’t shown yet; the surprising thing was that she’d agreed to attend at all. It was the mature thing for her to do, you supposed. The adult thing. She was accepting an olive branch from John, allowing him back into her life slowly but surely. And doing so more graciously than you ever would’ve.
You lingered near the elevator, hoping you didn’t look like too much of a wallflower, and fired off a text to Olivia.
“I’m here!”
A gray ellipsis materialized on her side of the conversation before disappearing. It popped up again, then vanished. When it appeared a third time, a message finally followed.
“Don’t be mad at me…” it read.
You sighed, knowing you were going to be frustrated, at the very least.
“Can’t do it. I just wanna hang out at home by myself. I’m sorry!”
Your irritation evaporated.
Could you really blame her? Well, yes, you could. You could blame her for waiting until you were already in the belly of the beast to tell you that she was flaking. But you couldn’t blame her for not wanting to attend. Her relationship with John was rocky these days, to say the least. And though they were attending counseling and working toward reconciling, you weren’t sure they’d make it.
With a sigh, you responded to her text.
“I totally get it! Don’t worry.”
A strong wave of disappointment crested and crashed over you. You’d been looking forward to tonight. To drinking and dancing with Olivia. To celebrating Halloween with your closest friend and endless rounds of expensive booze. But she had to do what was best for her well-being, and you understood.
You opted to do the same, to pursue what was best for your well-being. And as it turned out, what was best for you was getting drunk.
Bucky fought his way through the throngs of people and made his way to the bar for another double whiskey. He passed by countless pairs of eyes—some widened in shock or fear, others narrowed into slits out of hatred or distrust. It seemed that everyone he passed stared at him and subsequently turned their back on him.
It struck him as odd that people chose to shun him at his own party. He knew, of course, that they had plenty of reason to spurn him. To hate him. To fear him. But he wondered why they’d even attend, knowing that he would be involved. Everyone knew he was part of the Thunderbolts—or the New Avengers or whatever the name was now. They knew that he was going to be here. That he was, regardless of his lack of enthusiasm, one of the hosts. If they were so horrified, so disgusted by him, why show up at all?
But as he made it to the bar and eyed the rows and rows of expensive liquor, it made sense.
He eyed his watch. Only an hour had passed since the start of the party, and he knew it had the potential to last until sunrise. Just the thought had him planning to ask for a triple this time. His metal fingers tinked against his glass as he waited for the bartender to look in his direction. And then he heard something.
“So, who are you supposed to be?” A voice asked over the roar of the music.
Surely, this question wasn’t directed at him- was it? He turned to his right and found you staring at him, waiting for an answer. But the question evaporated the second he laid eyes on you. He wasn’t quite sure what you were dressed as— something witchy, maybe?— but it didn’t matter. He found you stunning.
“Um, sorry,” he gave you an apologetic smile. “What?”
“I said, who are you supposed to be?” You asked again, gesturing toward his attempt at a costume. “Sexy Freddy Krueger?”
An instant blush burned his cheeks.
“I um- No, I’m just…” he stumbled over his words, “I’m just Freddy Krueger- regular Freddy Krueger.”
Slowly, you raked your gaze over his form, landing on his face. He was, indeed, wearing Freddy Krueger’s trademarked sweater, but that was where the resemblance stopped. He had a kind smile. Kind eyes. He blushed easily and often.
He seemed out of place here. Like he wasn’t one for parties. Like he wanted to retreat, to disappear. He was too quiet for a place like this. Too still amongst the chaos.
“Are you sure? Freddy Krueger is all-” you motioned toward your face, mimicking Ava’s gesture from a few hours earlier. “And you’re so…” All at once, you lost your nerve, choking on the compliment you intended to give him. “I just mean, you don’t look anything like him. That’s all.”
You feared it was too clunky. Too awkward. Feared that he might think you were criticizing his costume instead of complimenting his dazzling features. But another blaze of warmth tinged his cheeks. Another shy smile stretched across his face. And you figured he got the gist.
“I’m Bucky,” he blurted out. He thrust his right hand in your direction and immediately regretted the too formal gesture. But the embarrassment fell away when the lilt of your magical laugh filled the air and your hand landed in his.
“Yeah, I know who you are,” you laughed.
It sent a cloud of butterflies loose in his stomach. You knew who he was, and by extension what he’d done. But you didn’t seem disturbed or put off by him. Instead, you introduced yourself and— did you scoot closer to him? He was certain you had.
“So, why are you here?” Bucky asked. He gave a shake of his head, fearing it sounded rude; he didn’t mean to come off as rude. “Or, I mean, who invited you?” Still rude. He sighed, “Um, did you-”
“I’m friends with Olivia,” you told him. “John’s wife.”
“Oh,” Bucky gave the room a cursory glance, but he was certain he hadn’t seen Olivia around. He didn’t even know John invited her. Didn’t know they were doing so well. “I didn’t know she was here.”
“She’s not. She backed out last minute,” you sighed. “She wanted me to come with her, since things with John have been…” you grimaced. “Anyway, she texted me last minute and told me that she wasn’t coming, but I was already here. So,” you shrugged, “I figured that I’d drink your fancy liquor for a while before I head out.”
“And you couldn’t waste that great costume,” he said, eyeing your outfit.
He hoped it sounded confident and complimentary, though he had no idea who you were supposed to be. You were dressed head to toe in black, with thick black eyeliner, crimson lipstick, and an array of spooky necklaces. He stared for what he figured was probably a rude amount of time before giving up.
“Are you dressed as, um…” he gave a small shrug, “A goth?” It almost sounded apologetic.
A wide, dazzling smile stretched across his face as you threw your head back in a laugh. Normally, he felt a little self-conscious about his lack of pop culture prowess. He hated not understanding references and hated asking for explanations even more. But you didn’t make him feel stupid for not recognizing your costume.
“Sort of!” your hand brushed against his arm ever so slightly. “I’m Nancy Downs from The Craft. Have you seen it?”
He shook his head, “What’s it about?”
An enthusiastic glint appeared in your eyes as you gave him a summary of the movie’s plot. And from that point on, he didn’t leave your side. The two of you laughed and chatted at the bar a while longer before moving to the plush couches in the corner, completely ignoring the hordes of other partygoers.
The party felt empty suddenly, like everyone else had filed out and left the two of you completely alone. Bucky didn’t notice the noise or the writhing bodies on the dance floor. Didn’t mind the thumping bass. He stopped using his glass like a crutch. Stopped staring down into his whiskey, hoping he’d disappear. He was all encompassed by you: your laugh, your smile, your sense of humor.
He hung on your every word, enchanted by your thoughts and opinions. You were just so charming, so engaging. So sweet and fun and easy to talk to. And your laugh? Intoxicating. He’d asked you so many questions, he almost felt like he was giving you the third degree. But he couldn’t help it. He wanted to know you. Wanted to know everything about you.
When you finally managed to ask him a question of your own, it almost struck him as odd.
What could you possibly want to know about him? He was the ex-assassin turned covert agent. Anyone with internet access knew his story: the draft. The war. The Winter Soldier. What else was there to know? And why would you be interested in details about his life, when you were the far more bewitching one?
But you were interested— really interested. Interested in the man who’d stood alone at the bar, looking like the weight of the world rested on his shoulders. The man who was quiet, yet magnetic. The man who was nothing like the stories.
Of course, you’d heard what the public said about him. Heard people call him a monster. Heard news anchors label him evil and twisted and demented. Heard politicians call for his immediate and permanent imprisonment—or worse.
But he seemed harmless to you. Soft, even. He made you feel comfortable. Safe. And as it turned out, he was just a regular person. There was nothing monstruous or evil about him. He had a warm heart, a kind soul. And a vicious, horrifying past that he didn’t deserve. But he was doing his best to move past it, slowly but surely. He had a cautious laugh, almost like he was waiting for something awful to happen. For the other shoe to drop.
In truth, he was waiting for you to be horrified by him. He was waiting for you to run in fear.
But you didn’t. You listened to him like no one else did. Allowed him room to speak without judgement or harshness. You didn’t grow impatient when his memories fell through the fine mesh of his mind. Didn’t laugh when he came up empty on a modern reference. You asked follow-up questions and empathized with him when his answers pulled the curtain back on pieces of his shadowy past.
He was almost startled by how at home he felt with you. By all definitions, you were a stranger. But there was something about you that made him comfortable. That lowered his defenses. He hadn’t felt like this in years—decades.
He found himself aching to be closer to you. To leave no space between your bodies or souls. He was drawn to you, so much so that he wondered if maybe you actually were a witch. Maybe you’d put a spell on him.
The pull was so strong, he had to make a concerted effort to pull back some. To give you room to breathe. He broke the long gaze you’d been sharing for the last few seconds and chose to eye his drink instead.
“You guys did a great job with the party, by the way,” you glanced around the room at the fancy sound system, the extensive décor, the mood lighting. “It looks amazing in here.”
“Oh, yeah, thanks. But I didn’t do much- just moved some of the heavy stuff. This is mostly Yelena, Ava, and Bob. I’m not really a Halloween guy.”
You choked on your drink.
It was the first time he saw a look of judgement cross your features.
“You don’t like Halloween?” The horror in your expression was almost comical.
“Yeah, no, not really,” he shrugged. “It’s just not for me.”
There was something in his voice that told you this wasn’t just a matter of preference. Something else—something darker—lingered under his surface. But you didn’t pry, didn’t say a word. Instead, you gave him the space to elaborate, if he was comfortable doing so. And he was.
“It’s weird for me. People dress up as me- as a version of me. And it’s not, I mean, it’s not a big deal, I guess. I know I’m not that guy anymore. But when I see people in Winter Soldier costumes, and they’re all covered in fake blood, it’s…” He shook his head a bit. His brow furrowed ever so slightly, his metal hand disappeared into his pocket. “It reminds me that that version of me will exist forever, no matter what I do.”
You remained silent- partially out of respect, partially out of uncertainty. What could you possibly say to make him feel better? To heal his hurt?
He shrugged, growing uneasy in the quiet. “I don’t know if that makes sense.”
“It does,” you assured him. “It’s…” You thought carefully over your words before speaking. “When people take your darkest, most traumatic days and turn them into a costume, it makes light of what you went through. It cheapens your suffering and turns it into some cheesy bit you can buy at Spirit Halloween.”
He considered this for a moment. “Well… I mean, yeah. I guess. But I was always thought more about how it makes light of what I did. The people I hurt. Those things can’t ever be undone.”
You wondered how anyone could ever paint him in a bad light. How anyone could call him a monster. How anyone could call him cold or soulless. He was neck-deep in remorse, drowning in guilt for things that weren’t even his fault. Agonizing over everything he’d done—everything he’d been forced to do. He was in pain, and he didn’t even care; he was too concerned about the pain he caused.
“That makes sense,” you nodded. “Of course, you thought of it that way. Because you’re not selfish. You’re a good person.”
He wasn’t sure you knew who you were talking to. You called him a good person? Of all people? He wondered if maybe you were missing part of his story. If you’d only heard bits and pieces. Maybe you were confused. Maybe you didn’t know just how much blood was really on his hands.
“I’m…” he gave a quiet laugh, tinged with something darker. “I’m not so sure about that.”
“You didn’t choose to do those things,” you said. Your hand found its way to his forearm and gently rested on the sleeve of his Freddy Krueger sweater. The chill of his metal arm seeped through the fabric. “You didn’t choose to be that guy- that version of you was created against your will.”
A sad smile flickered across his face. He wondered how you could feel such empathy for him. How you could be so understanding. How you could see him so clearly, even through the dark, muddy waters of his past. He thought it best not to question it, for fear of jinxing the entire night.
The two of you shared a long look. Usually, he preferred to keep his eyes down. To go unseen. It was force of habit now that he was back, now that people sneered at him on the street every day. But your features didn’t twist in disgust as you stared into his eyes. There was nothing judgmental or scornful in your expression. You saw him. Not the monster people painted him out to be. Not his ghosts. Just him. Only him.
He wanted to live in this moment forever. In this safe, comfortable space where no one else existed. Where he didn’t have to shrink away or fade into the background. Just your eyes endlessly locked on his. He wanted it to last—
But all at once, it was too much. You were too close. Your gaze too deep. He felt too exposed. Too vulnerable. He supposed this is what it was like to be seen- really seen- for the first time in ninety years. It overwhelmed him.
He feared that you might actually be able to see his soul; what if you didn’t like the way it looked?
“Can I um-”He stood suddenly, needing a moment to breathe. “I’ll go- I’ll get you another drink.” He snatched your empty glass from the table, turned on his heel, and vanished into the crowd.
You stared after him, still wearing the ghost of a smile. His departure was so abrupt, so unexpected. You weren’t quite sure what had happened. You’d scared him off, somehow, hadn’t you? Ruined everything? Was it your touch make him uncomfortable? Or were your words to blame? Had you forced him to talk about things he wasn’t ready to discuss? It had taken him some time to open up. Some coaxing here and there. But you hadn’t forced him to return your flirtations. To bare his soul.
Maybe you misinterpreted the entire evening. Maybe he was simply being polite. Maybe he was just being a good host, nothing more. Maybe his interest in you was strictly platonic. Maybe he wasn’t interested at all.
Regret pooled in his chest. He shouldn’t have run like that. Shouldn’t have shied away, especially not when you were so kind to him. He feared that maybe you’d get the wrong idea. That you’d think he wasn’t interested. That you’d leave before he got back from the bar. He turned around, hoping to catch a glimpse of you.
And to his relief, there you were, smiling at him as you locked eyes across the distance. You gave him a small wave. A shy smile tugged at his muscles. He waved back using your empty glass and headed toward the bar, confident that you’d be waiting for him upon his return.
The catastrophizing thoughts you’d had only moments ago melted away. The anxiety pulsing through your veins dissipated. You allowed yourself to lean back against the couch cushions, assured that the evening was still on the right track. That you hadn’t fucked it up. That he was coming right back.
With Bucky absent for the time being, you fished your phone out of your pocket and sent a text to Olivia.
‘Hey! Just checking in, you doing alright?’
Part of you felt guilty for not ditching the party the second she backed out. Maybe you were supposed to go check on her. Maybe she wanted you to spend the evening at her place instead of at her estranged husband’s Halloween party.
But Olivia was a mature adult. She wasn’t the kind of person who expected those around her to read her mind. If she’d wanted you to come over and listen to her vent, she would’ve said so. John was the poor communicator in that relationship, not her.
She responded only a moment later:
‘I’m fine! Watching Scary Movie and eating Twizzlers. All good!’
Her answer provided instant relief. Of course, you were thrilled that your friend was doing well. That she was enjoying her night. But you were even more thrilled that you’d get to stay at the party. That you’d get to stay with Bucky.
Just as you began drafting a follow-up text to Olivia, a familiar voice pulled your focus.
“What are you doing here?”
You looked up to find a few of John’s army buddies approaching. You didn’t know them well; they weren’t the kind of guys you’d ever willingly spend time with. They were loud. Obnoxious. Rude. The way they spoke to Olivia- the way they spoke to you- sent red flags flying at full mast. But you’d been forced into their proximity over the course of your friendship with Olivia. Birthday parties, barbecues, and New Year’s celebrations always included the miserable trio that made up John’s friend group.
And tonight, they’d clearly over-indulged in the free alcohol and seemed to be looking for a fight. For someone to terrorize. But they weren’t worth your trouble. Weren’t worth getting worked up. You couldn’t find it in you to conjure anything stronger than mild annoyance, especially when your night had been nearly perfect so far.
You sighed and dropped your eyes back to your phone. “What do you want, Matt?”
The man was, of course, dressed as Patrick Bateman. He’d surely never read American Psycho, nor had he picked up on the story’s heavy-handed satire.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he spat.
“Yeah, you don’t even like John,” one of the other men said. You were nearly certain his name was Garrett, though you didn’t really care.
“You’re always a bitch to him,” Luke added. “You shouldn’t be at his party.”
Matt rolled his eyes, “You’ve been trying to sabotage John- you’ve been talking shit about him to Olivia for years!”
Finally, you had to speak up.
“Alright, first of all: telling Olivia that she’s allowed to be upset with John after what he’s done is not ‘talking shit’,” you said. “And second: Olivia is an adult. She’s her own person. If she doesn’t want to come to the party, she doesn’t have to.”
Luke shot you a look of disgust, “I bet you’re the reason she decided not to come.”
It was clear that there was no end in sight to the onslaught of their drunken rage. You stood from the couch and figured you’d set off toward the bar. That you’d go find Bucky and leave these losers in the dust.
“You wanted to ruin John’s night,” Garrett took a step toward you, blocking your path. “You wanted to sabotage him- again!”
He launched his beer at you, drenching you to the bone. Two more frigid waves followed as Matt and Luke copied his example. The cold left you in a momentary state of shock, but the obnoxious laughter of the three men yanked you out of your haze. And suddenly, you realized just how thoroughly soaked you were. Beer dripped down your face. Clung to your hair. It saturated your outfit, permeating every layer of clothing, all the way down to your socks.
Bucky’s voice came out of nowhere, “What the fuck?”
You hadn’t noticed him approach. Hadn’t realized he’d walked up behind you mere seconds ago. He, too, had gotten caught in the storm, though he wasn’t nearly as sodden as you. Only one of the sleeves of his red and green sweater was damp; his situation was salvageable. Yours, on the other hand, was not.
He placed a gentle hand on the small of your back, “Are you okay?”
“Yeah I’m-” you shrugged and cast your eyes to the side, hoping to avoid his gaze, “It’s just beer. I’m fine.”
You swiped the back of your hand across your forehead, catching a few rogue drops that trailed from your hairline. This was not how you imagined the night might go. Not how you wanted Bucky to see you. You were certain you looked a mess. Certain you must’ve lost any air of confidence you might’ve had before. The cool, self-assured woman Bucky had gotten to know vanished, leaving her soaking wet, pathetic sister behind. But you forced a smile, hoping he wouldn’t see through the cracks in your façade.
He eyed you for another moment, thoroughly searching your expression. Sure, you had a smile on your face. Sure, you said you were fine. But he could tell that you were shaken. Uncomfortable. And he could tell that you were trying your damnedest to seem unbothered, though he wasn’t sure if you were doing so for your benefit or his.
He dragged his eyes away for a second, shooting daggers at John’s friends, before bringing his gaze back to you.
“Give me one minute, alright?” He waited for you to nod, and then he was gone.
He grabbed the collars of all three men in his metal hand and dragged them toward the door. No amount of struggling or protesting freed them; he was just that strong. You watched from across the room as Yelena intercepted him and asked what he was doing. She clearly thought he was unjustifiably roughing up the party guests. But upon his explanation, she grew just as enraged. She took over for him in ejecting the three obnoxious men, and you could’ve sworn you saw a wicked smile pulling at her lips as she did so.
Bucky made a beeline for you, weaving through the crowd until he arrived at your side.
He rested a hand on your upper arm, “Are you alright? What was that about?”
“Long story,” you sighed, “They’re John’s friends. And they don’t like me because I don’t like him. They think I’m sabotaging his relationship with Olivia- it’s a whole thing.”
He could tell you weren’t that kind of person; you weren’t conniving or manipulative. He knew that the relationship John and Olivia shared was already tenuous; it didn’t need sabotage from some outside force. And he knew that John, like anyone, had his flaws.
“They sound like great guys,” Bucky grimaced. “I’m really sorry about this.”
“It’s- I’m fine,” you lied. “Honestly, it’s not a big deal.”
He gave you a once over and frowned. Beer dripped from your clothing, forming a puddle at your feet. Your eye make-up streaked down your cheeks, leaving smudges in its wake. And in his absence, you’d begun to shiver.
“I can- here, do you want to go to my room? I’ll get you a change of clothes and call you a car, okay?”
You thought it over for a long moment. The strong sting of embarrassment begged you to say no. Begged you to disappear into the crowd. To ditch the party—to ditch Bucky. To call yourself an uber home and never look back. People were staring now. Pointing. Some were even laughing. You found yourself searching for the clearest path to the exit.
Bucky sensed your trepidation, could practically feel the humiliation radiating off of you. He caught you folding your arms over your chest, hugging them tight to your body. Noticed the way you refused to meet his eyeline. It felt all too familiar to him. He, too, adopted these same tendencies when he was embarrassed. When he was ashamed. It happened far too frequently for him to not recognize the signs.
“You don’t have anything to be embarrassed about, you know,” he said. He wished the words had come out a little softer, but he was forced to almost yell over the roar of the speakers. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
Normally, that kind of reassurance didn’t work on you. Every time your well-meaning mother told you not to worry an anxiety-inducing situation, every time your friends told you not to be embarrassed about something humiliating- it made things worse. Maybe because you could sense they didn’t mean it, that they were just saying it to make you feel better.
But Bucky meant it. You could tell. You thought he was quite possibly the sincerest person you’d ever met.
“Come on, let me get you some clothes, okay?” Bucky frowned again at the intense shivers that shook you every few seconds, “You’re freezing.”
And though you still had half a mind to run for the hills, Bucky was right. You were, indeed, freezing. Goosebumps rose along the surface of your skin and if you hadn’t clenched your jaw, your teeth would’ve chattered. And if you were being honest with yourself, nothing—not even life-threatening embarrassment— could drive you from his side. You’d stay in your beer-soaked clothes until sunup if it meant getting to spend more time with him.
“Okay, yeah,” you gave him a weak smile, “Thanks.”
With one arm curved protectively around your back, Bucky pulled you close and ushered you carefully through the crowd. He shot sharp glances at anyone who dared to snicker as you passed. And when your sodden shoes made you slip on the slick floors, he steadied you, never allowing you to fall. He protected you. Kept you safe.
With your body tucked into his side, the sharp chill brought on by the cold beer receded just a bit. Being so close to him warmed your skin and ignited a roaring fire in your chest. But it was instantly snuffed out when you realized that your night with him was over. That you’d have to head home with your clothes in a garbage bag, smelling like Coors Lite. That there was no salvaging the rest of the evening. That there was no possibility of anything happening between the two of you in the future.
It was kind of him to call you a car and provide a change of clothes, but it felt like a consolation prize. Like a bandaid. What you wanted was to talk to him till sunup. To kiss him as the morning light crested over the skyscrapers. To see him again. And again. And again. But you feared that this was the end of the road for the two of you. You reeked like a brewery and had been viciously humiliated in front of a few hundred people— he had plenty reason to avoid you going forward. You were a liability.
Bucky checked in on you every few feet, making sure he wasn’t walking to fast or holding you too tight. He only wished he’d been there to intervene, to prevent you from being harassed and subsequently drenched. But he figured that giving you clean clothes and paying for your ride home was the next best thing.
He couldn’t stop himself from hating those men. For wishing that they’d suffer. He’d wanted to hurt them. To leave them bloody and broken. But he couldn’t risk scaring you. Couldn’t risk showing you that side of him. You’d spent the entire night believing that he wasn’t a monster; he didn’t want to give you a reason to change your mind.
He was just so disappointed. So heartbroken. He hated seeing you so upset. Hated that you were cold and wet and uncomfortable. Hated that shame forced your eyes down. And he hated that his night with you was over. That he wouldn’t get to spend the rest of the evening listening to your stories. Your laugh.
Regardless of the obvious connection you seemed to have, Bucky was convinced that he’d never see you again. That this was his one and only slice of heaven. That you’d slip through his fingers and vanish into the ether, never to be heard from again. Within the context of the party, this chemistry you seemed to share seemed real. Tangible. But he was certain that the spell was broken now. That you’d been shocked back to your senses by the ice-cold beer and realized your mistake. Realized that he was a mistake.
It was a hard pill to swallow. Impossible, really. Though he supposed a few hours spent getting to know you was better than never knowing you at all.
“I appreciate you doing this,” you said as the two of you reached the elevator. “If you’d ditched me back there, I would’ve understood. I’m kind of the pariah of the party now.”
Bucky almost laughed. He could tell that you were dead serious, but the concept was ridiculous. Laughable. You were not the pariah. You were simply the innocent victim of a few drunken assholes. He was the one who got death stares and fearful glances. He was the one people avoided like the plague. Bucky was the pariah. The Other. The outsider.
But he understood your embarrassment. Your humiliation. He’d had plenty of cold beers and hot coffees lobbed at him since his return. He knew just how small you felt.
He gave a shake of his head, “You’re not the-”
Just then, a familiar voice cut through the noise.
“Hey!” John called as he caught up to you, “I saw what happened. Sorry about those guys.”
You shrugged, “It’s fine.”
Part of you thought maybe he chose not to interfere on purpose. Maybe he, too, believed you were the reason for the downfall of his relationship. Maybe he watched with glee as his friends targeted you. Maybe he put them up to it. Maybe he was just as guilty. Or maybe he was only guilty of being friends with assholes.
“Major bummer,” John nodded. “Um, but hey, tell Olivia I missed her tonight.”
Bucky rolled his eyes.
“Um, sure,” you sighed, “Or you could tell her.”
John forced an awkward smile.
A quiet chime announced the elevator’s arrival, and Bucky gently guided you inside.
“You guys have a good night!” John called as the doors closed.
Both you and Bucky let out an exasperated sigh.
“Classic John,” you muttered.
Bucky gave a soft laugh, “He’s… something else.”
Heat scorched your cheeks as the stench of beer permeated the small elevator car. Never before had you wished to be snapped by Thanos. To disappear into the wind. But suddenly, it sounded like the best possible option. And though you had no desire to put any distance between your body and Bucky’s, you took a half step to the side, as though that might stop him from noticing the smell.
It was then that he realized he still had an arm around you. Still had you tucked protectively into his side. He clocked your subtle attempt to free yourself from his grasp and made a move of his own. He quickly took a step away and tucked his hands into his pockets. A wave of guilt doused him.
He should’ve given you your space. Should’ve known that he was making you uncomfortable. Keeping you so close was fine when the danger of getting lost in the crowd was clear and present. But in the safety of the elevator? He should’ve known better. He supposed it was just his instincts and adrenaline working overtime, trying to protect you from any and all possible threats. But that was no excuse.
He fixed his gaze on the numbers above the elevator doors, each one lighting up as the car passed. He couldn’t bring himself to look anywhere else— certainly not at you.
Instantly, you mourned the loss of his touch. Of course, you hoped against hope that the pungent odor left behind by the beer was a little less potent with him standing farther away. But you missed his warmth. Missed the sense of safety his strong frame provided. Missed him— even though he stood only a foot away.
When the elevator arrived on Bucky’s floor, he fought the instinct to place a hand on the small of your back and lead you down the hall. He, instead, kept his hands safely in his pockets. Kept his distance. He directed you toward his bedroom and made a mental note not to close the door when you arrived; he didn’t want you feeling trapped.
“Um, it’s just in here,” he entered first, flipping on the light so you wouldn’t bump into the furniture.
His room was large, but soulless, feeling more like a hotel room than a home. He had the staples: bed, dresser, desk, television. But nothing personal. Nothing warm. There was a sadness to the space. An emptiness. It seemed lonely somehow. Unloved. Maybe, you thought, the room reflected the person. Your heart ached. You wondered how comfortable he could really be here, though you supposed it had to be better than wherever Hydra kept him all those years.
A stack of cardboard boxes in the corner caught your eye, and you wondered if he was moving in or out. Selfishly, you hoped he wasn’t leaving the city.
“Oh, sorry about those,” Bucky nodded toward the boxes. “I just got here about a week ago, and I’m not done unpacking.”
He hadn’t expected company. Hadn’t expected a woman to be in his bedroom, for even the most innocent of reasons. If he’d known that you were coming, he would’ve tried to make the place a little homier. A little cozier. He was certain that his room must look like a serial killer’s lair, or something. It was too organized. Too orderly. Bare. He couldn’t stop himself from wondering what you might be thinking. Were you made uneasy by his sterile, clinical space? Did it fall in line with the stories you’d heard about him?
“I promise I don’t keep my place this…” he gave an awkward laugh, “I have photos- and stuff. I just haven’t gotten everything out yet.”
It was nice to know he had comfort items. Well-loved books. Pictures with friends. Worn blankets. He deserved softness. Warmth. Your heartache dissipated.
“Yeah, I figured,” you fibbed. “It’s-”
Just then, an intense chill rocketed up your spine, shaking your entire body.
“Shit, sorry,” Bucky reached for the panel of switches on the wall and turned off the ceiling fan.
He crossed to the dresser and began rummaging through the drawers, spurred by the goosebumps rising on your skin. But after appraising a few items, he halted his search.
“My stuff’s gonna be too big on you,” he realized, a tinge of disappointment in his voice. “I can go ask Ava or Yelena if they can lend you some-”
“It’s really okay,” you assured him. “I like my clothes a little loose anyway.”
It wasn’t a lie. Technically. You did, indeed, prefer a baggy t-shirt over something skintight. But in truth, you simply wanted to wear his clothes. His t-shirt. His sweatpants. Ava and Yelena seemed great, and they’d probably be willing to loan you something to wear if you asked. But you weren’t about to give up on the chance to curl up in a soft, oversized shirt that smelled like Bucky.
“Are you sure?” he pulled a pair of sweatpants from the drawer and held them up for you to see, “These are gonna be way too long on you, you’ll trip.”
You shrugged, “I can roll them up.”
The smile you shot his way nearly knocked him out. There was this ease in your expression, this comfort. Like you were happy to be there. Like you trusted him. No one had looked at him like that in decades.
And, of course, he found himself staring again. For a long time. Too long. Only when his cheeks began to ache did he realize he was smiling back. Smiling wide. Too wide.
He quickly wiped the grin off his face and turned his attention back to the dresser. He knew he was being too overt. Knew he should be more nonchalant. More chill. But he couldn’t help himself.
He was enchanted by you. Charmed by you. He’d fallen under your spell without protest and had no urge to free himself. He knew it was pathetic, how entranced he was by you. But he didn’t care. He didn’t care that he wasn’t cool. Didn’t care that he might come off as cheesy. He enjoyed your company, was that so wrong?
He dug through his clothes a while longer, searching for something that might be good enough for you. He knew anything he gave you would be fine. Knew you weren’t stuck up. Knew you didn’t expect Gucci sweatpants. And yet, he found himself hoping that something nicer might materialize out of thin air. When nothing of the sort happened, he selected his best offerings, his heart pounding all the while.
Maybe he shouldn’t have been quite so excited at the prospect of you wearing his clothes. Or the prospect of his clothes smelling like you. But after decades of agony and torture and darkness, he figured he was allowed a little excitement. A little hope.
Bucky rounded the bed and made his way to you, clothes in hand. He handed over what he deemed to be his softest shirt and his most comfortable sweatpants— his favorite items in his dresser— and awaited your approval.
“These okay?”
Truth be told, you would’ve accepted anything from him. Burlap sacks. Garbage bags. Anything. But he, of course, hadn’t given you just anything. No, he had taken the time to parse through his clothing. To make specific selections for you.
You’d watched as he seemed to weigh the pros and cons of different items. He appraised their size, the fabric. He even held a few shirts up to the light, checking to see whether they might be too sheer for you. He’d put care— real care— into something as miniscule as loaner clothes, and it nearly made your knees weak. Everything about him seemed to make your knees weak, actually.
He was sweetheart. Soft-spoken, yet funny. Intelligent. Handsome. He had a warm smile and a giving nature. A good heart. He was the total package, really. The type of person you’d been looking for. The type of person you’d been hoping to find. Every birthday candle. Every shooting star. Every dandelion. All of those wishes were for him. And here he was, in the flesh. And metal.
But you were getting carried away. Getting ahead of yourself. You’d only know this man for a few hours; he was still a stranger. And yet, you were looking ahead, envisioning a future together. With a tiny shake of your head, you tried to force the thoughts away. To make them dissipate. But they persisted. And in truth, you were more than okay with that.
Even though you’d just met Bucky, even though you barely knew him, you could tell he wasn’t like anyone you’d ever been with. He was different. He was better.
But it was flat out ridiculous to assume he felt the same way. To assume that he, too, saw you in his future. To assume that he had any interest in dating when he was still sorting through his past. Between the trauma from Hydra and the chaos with the New Avengers, you knew he had a lot on his plate. Knew his priorities probably didn’t include romance. But even if that were the case, you hoped he’d agree to a friendship. Because, even though you’d known him only a short while, you couldn’t imagine what life would be like without him.
Every now and then, a piece of a story about him would pop into your head. You’d hear the buzzwords: Monster. Evil. Dangerous. But when you looked at him, you saw no such thing. The contrast between who he really was and the overblown stories on the internet was stark. Neck-breaking, actually. People painted him as the lowest of the low. The darkest of the dark. Coldest of the cold. But you’d never met anyone warmer.
“Yeah, absolutely,” you took the clothes from him, doing your best not to let them brush against your sopping wet outfit. “Thanks, this is really nice of you.”
“Yeah, no, of course. It’s-” he caught the disgusted look that suddenly flashed across your face. His heart sank.
He didn’t know what he’d done to cause the sudden onset of your revulsion. But he knew deep down he didn’t have to do anything at all to have that affect. His presence, his existence, was enough for some. For most.
He wasn’t sure why he got his hopes up. Why he thought this would be any different. He kicked himself for being even the tiniest bit optimistic. Of course, you were repulsed by him. Sickened. Why wouldn’t you be? Everyone else was.
“Is everything okay?” he asked, knowing it wasn’t. Knowing that you were about to run for the hills.
You grimaced, “Yeah, I’m just all sticky.”
“Wha-”
Before he could finish his sentence, your hand was on his. And it was, indeed, sticky. And though he should’ve been at least slightly grossed out, he couldn’t find it in him. He was too thrilled that you were, technically, holding his hand.
“Feel that?” you asked, “Isn’t it gross?”
He’d never use the word ‘gross’ to describe anything about you, though the sticky sensation was unpleasant.
“It’s… it’s definitely something,” he laughed.
“Would you mind- is it okay if I use your shower?” you asked. “My entire body is sticky- which I know is disgusting and definitely not something I should’ve said out loud,” you cringed. “I’ll be quick- this whole thing is just a sensory nightmare.”
And it was. Your clothes were still sopping wet in some places. Damp in others. The fabric clung to your body, adhering to you in uncomfortable places. Your skin was somehow sticky and clammy at the same time. And the aroma of beer surrounding you was strong enough to actually get you drunk.
“Yeah, please,” he gestured toward the ensuite bathroom. “I’ll get you a clean towel.”
He didn’t want to be optimistic. Didn’t want to get his hopes up. But as he fetched you a towel from the linen closet, he thought maybe— just maybe— this was a good sign. Maybe this meant that you might stay a while longer. That you wanted to get cleaned up so you could hang around for the rest of the night. Of course, he knew you wanted to rid yourself of the sticky, unpleasant sensation. But he hoped that once you were clean and wearing dry clothes, you’d decide to stick around.
Once Bucky delivered your towel—a man with clean towels? This was new for you—you shed your sticky, sopping clothes and rinsed them in his bathroom sink. Every inch of your body was cold and clammy and yearning for the heat of the shower. Yearning for the heat of Bucky’s body on top of yours, actually, but that would have to come later, when you didn’t smell like a dive bar.
Methodically, you scrubbed every inch of your body, freeing yourself from the sticky residue. Part of you wondered if maybe, just maybe, Bucky would be into spending the rest of the night with you. If his interest would be renewed now that you didn’t reek. If you could steer the evening back in the right direction. It was entirely possible that this whole thing would just be a tiny blip in an otherwise perfect night. That Bucky could overlook your pariah-status; he seemed understanding enough.
You quickly toweled off and slipped into the clothes Bucky loaned you, hoping to return to his side as soon as you could. You were, of course, antsy to spend more time with him. But you were just as anxious to mend the damage done by John’s friends. To restore the momentum you and Bucky had gained. To reignite the flame that had been doused in beer.
But first, you simply had to take a moment to revel in the sensation of his clothing against your skin. Instantly, you could tell that his thought and care in selecting each item had paid off. The sweats he gave you were cozy and warm; they chased away any chill left behind by the beer. And you wished the shirt he’d picked out lived in your dresser instead of his. Its soft, well-worn fabric held onto his warm scent, and you allowed yourself a moment to bury yourself in the material.
Bucky couldn’t help but notice the lingering smell of beer he waited for you in the bedroom. He looked around his room, trying to find the source. Maybe your clothes had dripped on the floor. Maybe you’d left a trail of beer droplets in your wake. And then it hit him, just as the beer had: he was the source of the smell. The left sleeve of his sweater was the culprit, its red and green fabric having gotten caught in the spray.
He rolled his eyes and quickly tried to shed his attempt at a costume, but encountered some resistance. His nose wrinkled as he peeled the fabric from the sticky surface of his metal forearm. The vibranium was cloudy, dirtied by the dried beer. He rolled his eyes, though it wasn’t a big deal; nothing that a quick trip to the kitchen couldn’t fix. He made the his way down the hall, gave his arm a thorough wipe down at the sink, and returned to his room before you’d emerged from the bathroom. It was a simple fix.
But he couldn’t stop the annoyance brewing in his chest. Things had been going so well with you. This felt like a genuine connection, his first genuine connection with a stranger in… he wasn’t sure how long. And John’s friends had—purposefully, vindictively—ruined your night. And his, by extension.
He took a deep breath. Carded a hand through his hair. He supposed that maybe, just maybe, the night could be saved. You didn’t seem like the type of person who could be easily dissuaded or deterred. Didn’t seem like the type to give up. If you really wanted to spend more time with him, you would, regardless of the beer incident.
And if he allowed himself to be optimistic—for once—he did think it possible that you enjoyed his company. That you gave him your undivided attention, not out of politeness, but out of interest. Hell, you’d given him your entire night. Given him hours of uninterrupted, deep conversation. That had to be a good sign, didn’t it?
He smiled at the idea. The prospect.
Could it really be this easy? Ever since his return, being around new people had been downright treacherous. But being around you felt safe, like he didn’t have to hide or protect himself. And though he never indulged in daydreams, he allowed himself one glimpse at a possible future with you. And he liked what he saw.
He made another trip to his dresser and fished his second favorite shirt out of one of the drawers. The shower was no longer running, so he figured you’d be out soon. And he didn’t want you to find him here, shirtless, waiting for you in the bedroom. Didn’t want you to think he expected anything. Didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.
But he was too late. The bathroom door flew open just then, and you stood in the doorway, staring. Staring at him. And he knew you were staring at it.
At his scar. At the twisted, gnarled ridge of tissue that fused metal to flesh. At the massive, grotesque patch of thickened skin than ran from shoulder to rib. At the jagged, angry lines that marred his chest.
He wanted desperately to move, to turn, to hide. To do something to obscure his shameful imperfection. But he was frozen. His eyes locked on your face, waiting for repulsion to twist your features.
He waited a long, long time.
As the seconds passed, his hope dwindled. He’d thought that things could be course-corrected after the beer. But there was no saving this. There was no salvaging your interest now that you’d seen how damaged and deformed he really was.
His cheeks burned with embarrassment. With shame. Heat flushed down his neck and across his chest, scorching everything in its wake. He wanted to evaporate.
You couldn’t find it in you to move. To speak. To look elsewhere. No matter your efforts, you couldn’t overcome the stalemate. The staring contest. Your gaze was fixed on Bucky, and his on you, for what seemed like an eternity.
Staring like this felt so rude, so impolite, especially when you’d walked in on him changing. The right thing to do was avert your eyes. To give him a moment to finish getting dressed. He was a stranger, after all. And he was entitled to his privacy.
But he was just so beautiful. So gorgeous. It was like staring into the sun. His muscular, perfectly sculpted body matched his flawless facial features to a T, and it seemed unfair to you that someone was allowed to be this attractive. Had he somehow become more striking in the short time it took you to shower? Or had your memories of him simply not done him justice? You figured both were possible.
The shiny, pink skin caught your attention just then. The scar. The physical evidence of his fall and subsequent imprisonment. His forced servitude. His decades of agony. It bridged the gap between flesh and metal. Between whom he was then and who he was now. And though it was old—decades old—you feared that it hurt. That it was still sore. That it caused him pain even now.
He quickly turned all the way to his left, obscuring his marred flesh from your view.
Finally, you remembered how to speak.
“It’s-sorry,” you said. “I didn’t mean to-”
He threw on his shirt, took a breath to steel himself, and turned to face you once again. But he couldn’t find it in him to make eye contact.
“No, it’s okay,” he said, pulling his phone from his pocket. “I’ll call you an Uber. I would’ve done it sooner, but I don’t know where you live so I didn’t know where to send it.” His eyes remained locked on his Uber app, “Sorry.”
“Oh, no, that’s fine,” you gave a quiet laugh.
Only silence followed. Bucky’s gaze stayed focused on his screen.
Part of you wondered if this was his way of kicking you out without actually saying the words. Wondered if you’d gotten your hopes up for nothing. If your optimism had been in vain. But if that was the case, what did you have to lose? If he really was done with you, what was the risk in being honest?
You took a deep breath, “I um, would it be crazy if I said I didn’t want to leave yet?” you asked.
His head shot up. His eyes finally met yours. A deep line formed between his brows, “What?”
“If you want me to leave, I will. No hard feelings,” you shrugged. “But I was having a good time with you. Before. And I’d like to stay. If that’s alright with you.”
The words didn’t make sense. The sounds became separated from their meanings, turning into nonsense inside Bucky’s head. He fought to put the pieces back together. Fought to translate what you’d said.
But it was just too outlandish. Too unbelievable. You wanted to stay? You were having a good time with him? Was that possible? It was more likely that he’d had some kind of auditory hallucination. That his brain made it all up. But you were standing there, staring at him expectantly with an expression that resembled hope.
He figured it was best to jump at the chance. To say yes before you had the opportunity to change your mind.
“Yeah, that’s- it’s more than alright with me.” The bright smile he wore, the excitement in his eyes—it was almost embarrassing. But he didn’t care. “I was having a good time with you, too.”
Just like that, your worries that you’d misread the situation dissolved. You hadn’t misunderstood things or incorrectly interpreted his signals. And he hadn’t spent his evening with you just to be polite. He really was interested in you. Really enjoyed the time he spent with you. Your heart soared.
“Do you want to go back to the party?” he asked. “I’m sure it’s still going strong.”
Bucky, in truth, had no desire to return to the chaos. But he wanted to make sure that you were comfortable. That you knew you had options. That you knew you didn’t have to stay here. In his bedroom. With him. Just him.
But that was exactly what you wanted.
A warm smile crept across your face, “No, I’m good here.”
He returned your smile tenfold.
“We can just watch a movie, or something,” you said as you climbed up on to his perfectly made bed. Just then, you froze. “Sorry, is it okay if I sit here? I can-”
“Yeah. Yeah, that’s f- it’s okay,” he stuttered.
He found it difficult to form words. To put together coherent thoughts. Everything went out the window at the sight of you wearing his clothes and sitting comfortably on his bed. He stared as you got comfortable amongst his sheets and pillows. Stared as you relaxed with your back against his headboard. Stared as you turned to him, expectant.
“Um, are you gonna join me?” you asked with half a laugh.
Your words snapped him out of his trance. His heart leapt. His breathing hitched. And he realized that, once again, he’d been staring. He just couldn’t believe you were here. In his room. In his bed. Couldn’t believe you were sacrificing free top-shelf booze and a legendary party just for him. You’d chosen him over everything else; it made him blush. Without a word, he climbed into his bed and settled in, his body just inches from yours.
The urge to scoot closer—to press your side to his, to rest your head on his shoulder—was powerful. Too powerful. All consuming, really. His body heat, the smell of his skin, intoxicated you. But you couldn’t just throw yourself at him. The last thing you wanted was to scare him off. To make him uncomfortable. And so, you kept your hands to yourself, tucking them safely into the pockets of your sweatpants.
“So, what should we watch?” Bucky asked, flipping on the tv.
“Well, it is Halloween, so I kinda feel like it has to be a horror movie, right?” Just then, your eyes lit up, “Oh! We could watch Nightmare on Elm Street! That way you can see where your costume in action.”
“Oh, yeah, that’s- good idea,” Bucky gave a half-hearted laugh. “Let me find it.”
You eyed him for a moment. There was something in his expression, like he wasn’t thrilled with your pick.
“You don’t seem too enthusiastic,” you laughed. “We can watch anything! I really don’t care. My Bloody Valentine, House of Wax, The Last House on the Left—whatever you want.”
Bucky stared at the screen for a long moment before turning to you. He seemed so serious all of a sudden, like something was severely wrong. Instantly, you feared you’d upset him somehow. Or irritated him. Or annoyed him to the point that he was going to call you that Uber.
But he didn’t.
“If I’m being honest with you, I really don’t like horror movies,” he sighed.
The way he said it, the huge sigh that followed—it all seemed so intense, like some horrible, shameful confession. Like he was admitting to a murder.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I know it’s Halloween. But horror is just- it’s not my thing.”
“That’s okay,” you shrugged, “We can watch anything you want.”
The smile you gave him was genuine. Reassuring. He knew you were being honest. That you weren’t lying just for his benefit. But he still felt the need to rationalize his feelings to you. Felt the need to explain himself. He wanted to articulate his perspective clearly and intelligently, but the words slipped out of his mouth before he had a chance to perform rewrites.
“My life is kind of a horror movie, you know?”
Silence. The words hung in the air before sinking like a lead balloon.
Bucky cringed. He couldn’t have said it in a more embarrassing way. Couldn’t have been more dramatic. The sentence played on a loop in his head, sounding more ridiculous with each refrain. He quickly tacked a hollow laugh onto the end as though it might make things less awkward. It did not.
Your silence persisted. Once again, you gave him space to elaborate, if he wanted to.
He grew uneasy in the quiet.
“Wow, that was- I didn’t mean to say it like that,” he rolled his eyes at himself. “That was really dramatic. I just mean…” he sighed, unsure how to salvage the moment.
“I think it makes sense, actually,” you said. And you meant it. “The things that happened to you—that’s real horror.”
He didn’t say anything.
You grimaced, “Shit, was that rude? I didn’t mean to-”
“It wasn’t rude,” Bucky laughed. “Thanks for understanding.”
You nodded.
“And I don’t think you’re being dramatic,” you said. “But even if you were, I think you’d be entitled to it, you know? After everything.”
He considered this for a moment, “Yeah, maybe.”
The two of you sat in a comfortable silence for a long moment.
Bucky wondered how he could feel so at ease around someone he’d just met; it wasn’t like him. Usually, he grew extra defensive around new people. He was overly cautious. Guarded. But it was so easy with you. You had this open-mindedness, this way of listening without judgement. You understood where he was coming from, even if he didn’t phrase things perfectly. You had empathy for him; no one else did.
Resisting the urge to wrap him in a hug took all of your strength. His life really had been a horror movie: the trauma of war, the fall, the imprisonment, the torture, the abuse, the brainwashing—it was all straight from the page of A24’s next terrifying flick. And he hadn’t deserved any of it. But even after everything, he was still a good person. A sweetheart. He was thoughtful. Protective. Not even Hydra could strip him of that.
“We can watch anything you want,” you told him again, “Put on something you like.”
It only took a second for Bucky to scroll through a few titles and select an old movie musical.
“Is this okay with you?” he asked as the opening credits rolled, “It’s one of my favorites.”
“Yeah, absolutely.”
He could’ve put on a documentary about paint drying, and you wouldn’t have complained. If it meant you got to spend more time with him, you’d watch anything he wanted.
As Bucky sat next to you humming along with the opening number of a classic movie musical, you almost laughed. It seemed so ridiculous, so absurd that the public feared him. You couldn’t believe that the man sitting next to you—the man bopping his head along to a Fred Astaire song—had been called the antichrist.
The two of you chatted throughout the movie. And at first, it was only about the movie. About the technicolor. About the songs. About the love story. Until eventually, it swirled and changed into real life topics. Your childhood. Bucky’s time in Wakanda. The snap. No subject was off limits. And though you never asked about anything too sensitive, he spoke freely about things he’d planned to take to his grave.
The conversation was just so easy. It flowed naturally. Effortlessly. Comfortable silences came and went. Stories were recounted. Laughs were shared. There was no pretense or performance. It was simple. Comfortable. It seemed like the two of you went back decades, like you’d known each other forever.
“Oh, hey, I’m sorry, by the way, about earlier,” Bucky said, breaking another comfortable silence, “When you had to see all of the-” he gestured toward the left side of his chest, “-my scar.”
“What? Oh, no, you don’t have to apologize for that,” you reassured him, “I mean, I’m the one who walked in on you changing. So, I’m sorry.”
The two of you shared another laugh, and the conversation continued on, alive and well. It wasn’t awkward like Bucky feared it might be. It didn’t die upon his mention of the significant scar that stretched across his chest. Things were still easy. Comfortable. He had a feeling that no topic would change that.
Until a while later, when you asked:
“So, how have things been since you got back?”
“Well,” Bucky gave you a wry smile, “The answer to that question depends on how honest you want me to be.”
“I want you to be as honest as you’re comfortable with.”
He gave a small nod and fell quiet, thinking.
Something in you told you this was the wrong move. It was possible—probable, really—that he didn’t want to go into the details. Sure, he’d told you about a swath of things that he’d gone through in his life, but there were certainly things that were off limits. Things he didn’t want to share with a stranger. And his return was still so recent, so fresh. You wondered if it might be too raw for him to talk about.
But he did, indeed, want to tell you. You’d told him to only share what he was comfortable with, and, in truth, he was comfortable telling you anything. Everything. You were sincere. Ernest. Trustworthy. He was certain you’d listen without judgement. But he simply didn’t know how to put his feelings into words. How to detail the experience of rejoining society after the destruction of his reputation.
He hemmed and hawed over the matter for a while, getting lost in his thoughts. Until finally, his head snapped up. He looked at you with bright eyes, like he’d come up with a brilliant idea. Like he’d realized exactly how to describe the situation.
“So, you said earlier,” he began, “That I’m entitled to be a little dramatic, right?”
You nodded, “Yeah.”
“Okay, so- being back has been… a lot.” He said, “It’s kind of hard to explain the feeling. But lately, I’ve been thinking—I guess the season made me realize it—that my life is Frankenstein.”
“Okay…” you thought about what he’d said. About what it might mean. But you didn’t understand. You kept your tone neutral, free of any judgment. “What do you mean?”
He took a small breath before launching into his explanation.
“It’s this stupid analogy but it feels… kind of accurate,” he shrugged. “I mean, they—Zola, Hydra—turned me into this… into something inhuman, made from human parts. Ripped me apart and put me back together in someone else’s image. Like I was a science experiment. A body to bring back to life. It was like they- they reanimated me into something different. Into this grotesque thing... just because they wanted to.”
A pit opened in your stomach.
“And then, after they’d turned me into this horrifying, disgusting thing,” a dark laugh left his chest, “They were all terrified of me.”
His eyes took on a far away, tormented look. Like the room had filled with ghosts that only he could see.
This wasn’t what you’d expected him to say. In truth, you weren’t sure what you’d expected when he brought up the classic novel. But it wasn’t this.
He sighed, “And I didn’t ask- I didn’t want to be that. You know?” He checked in with you then. His eyes met yours with a new intensity, “I never signed up for it. I didn’t allow it. It just… happened. To me.”
You placed a gentle hand on one of his. “I know,” you assured him. “Of course.”
His gaze softened then, and a soft smile crept slowly across his face. He dropped his eyes down to where your hand rested atop his and allowed himself to drink in the feeling. The sensation of your skin. The warmth. The trust.
“Everyone thinks I’m evil. People look at me like I did the things I did because I wanted to. They see me and they get their torches and pitchforks out, you know? They want to hunt me, to run me out of town,” he rolled his eyes. “They think I’m the monster because I was the one in the mask. I was the one killing people. I’m the one with-” he raised his shiny left hand a bit, examining it in the light of the TV, “With this.”
He slipped his other hand from under yours and tucked it into his pocket. Touching you—being touched by you—felt amazing, but it didn’t feel right. He imagined your skin growing dirty, tainted by the blood soaking his hands.
“But I’m not an empty shell—at least, not anymore. I’m capable of feeling. I’m capable… I’m capable of love. I have that in me. People don’t see it, but… it’s there.”
The two of you locked eyes. There was something so forlorn in his glance. So full of want—of need. You wondered how long it had been since he’d last been cared for. Since he’d last been loved—really loved. The answer nearly made you sick.
He grew bashful suddenly, and averted his eyes. “I mean, I know I did some—a lot—of bad things. I’m not innocent in all of this, but…” he clenched his jaw.
You didn’t quite agree. Had he been the one to hurt people? Yes. But he’d done so under extreme duress. He’d been the victim of brainwashing. Of torture. Of abuse. He’d been a prisoner in his own mind. It never once occurred to you that he wasn’t innocent. That he wasn’t the victim.
“But… Victor Frankenstein was a monster, too, wasn’t he? Wasn’t Zola a monster? He chose to do what he did. And all the people who wiped my mind and forced me to kill for them- they chose that. Aren’t theymonsters, too?”
You nodded.
He gave an empty laugh, “It’s just funny to me, I guess. Cause SHIELD picked up Zola and asked him to work for them, like he was some- like he was just another scientist, you know? Even though they knew what he’d done for Hydra. They knew what kind of person he was.”
He paused a moment and took stock of your expression. There was no judgement. No mocking look. Just openness. Warmth. Understanding. Part of him wondered if he was making things too heavy, too intense. He considered stopping the story here, leaving the rest for another day. But you gave him a small nod, assuring him it was okay to continue. He nodded back.
“And then I get back—I get pardoned, even—but no one wants anything to do with me. I’m fully myself now, but everyone is still so horrified by me. And it just feels like…” he sighed, “Like people will accept Frankenstein but not the monster he created. Like I’m too scary for them. I’m too strange. Everyone accepted Zola into the fold no problem, but I’m where they draw the line?” He huffed, “I didn’t ask for inhuman strength... I didn’t ask to live this long.”
This was the kind of thing no history book could ever offer. No professor could provide. This was the bitter, heart-wrenching, devastating first-hand account of the real James Buchanan Barnes.
“I only did what I did because they forced my hand—literally. I wasn’t in control. I was trapped inside my own mind with no agency. No power. But everyone thinks-” he eyed you, and smiled, “Most people think of me as the only villain in this whole thing. The only criminal.”
You didn’t want to say anything and possibly interrupt his train of thought—and what did you possibly have to add?—but you felt the need to speak up. He had to know that you understood what he was saying. That you were there with him. That you empathized with him.
“They fear the creation, but never even consider that they should fear the creator,” you said.
His brow furrowed just a bit, “Um… yeah.”
There was something resembling disbelief in his tone. He stared at you for a long time—partly out of appreciation, partly out of surprise. He was just so shocked that you understood. It wasn’t that he doubted your intellect. He simply doubted his twisting, turning analogy. His muddy metaphors. His overly complicated thought process. He knew he wasn’t the best at articulating his feelings. Knew he struggled when it came to conversations like these. And he knew that his comparison to Mary Shelley’s novel wasn’t a perfect one-for-one. But clearly, you followed him with ease.
“Anyway, that’s my very convoluted analogy,” he said. “I’m thinking about contacting Mary Shelley’s estate. Maybe they’ll be interested in a sequel to her book.”
He tacked an awkward laugh onto the end of his sentence to alleviate some of the heaviness. The tension. He thought maybe if he acted casual, if he poked fun at himself, you wouldn’t shrink away from his reality. Wouldn’t find his dramatic ramblings cringey or embarrassing.
But you wouldn’t stand for it.
“You don’t have to do that you know,” you said plainly.
He eyed you for a moment, “Do what?”
You were almost stern with him, “You don’t have to make light of your situation to make it more palatable for me.”
He smiled at your intensity. At your passion.
“Right,” he nodded, still smiling. “Yeah. But come on, you see what I meant right? Dramatic.”
You softened then. You knew he was feeling vulnerable. Naked. Exposed. It had to be difficult, opening up about the atrocities he experienced—and doing so with a stranger must’ve been terrifying.
Cautiously, you reached for his hand. He allowed you to take it.
“I don’t think it’s dramatic,” you said, looking deep into his eyes. “What you said is true- all of it. And I think it was actually a pretty good analogy.”
He nodded, “Thanks.”
“I just hate that that’s the book you relate to,” you said. “And I’m sorry, I- I feel like I’m a little out of my depth here.”
He cocked his head to the side a bit, inquisitive.
“I really don’t know how to- I don’t have anything comforting or helpful to say.”
The guilt was eating away at you. Bucky had just bared his soul to you. He’d flayed himself open and showed you everything. Every dark corner. Every ugly truth. Every scar. And you had nothing to offer him.
“You don’t have to say anything.” He held your hand a little tighter, “You can’t fix it—no one can. I just appreciate you listening… being so open. I promise I didn’t plan on dumping all of that on you. I just find you so...” He smiled a bit, “You’re so easy to talk to.”
Your fingers drew lazy circles along his knuckles. You knew you couldn’t change what happened to him. Couldn’t fix his broken pieces. But you wanted to—desperately. He didn’t deserve to bear this burden any longer. He was too good, too kind to be buried under the weight of his past.
“No, don’t apologize. I asked,” you assured him. “I’m really sorry you went through all of that. And I’m sorry people have treated you so poorly ever since you’ve been back,” you felt yourself growing angry at the people who shunned him. “It’s fucked up, and you don’t deserve it.”
He couldn’t help but smile. You seemed so… protective of him. Like you wanted to shield him from anyone who dare look at him the wrong way. It was strange, having someone in his corner. But he loved the company.
“I’m glad you’re back,” you told him. “We’re lucky to have you here and now.”
It was the first time anyone had said that to him since his return. This whole time, he’d felt like people were just putting up with his presence. Like they were trying to tolerate him invading a time and place that wasn’t his. But you made him feel welcome. Made him feel like this was his real homecoming.
“And if it helps at all,” you said, your tone brighter now, “Frankenstein is one of my favorite books.”
A soft laugh pushed past his lips, “You know what, that actually does help a little. Thank you.”
You laughed, too. “You’re welcome.”
His smile faded, leaving in its wake a look of gratitude. Of reverence.
“This whole night has been, great actually. I, well-” his expression soured, “Not the whole night. The beer thing was fucked up. But aside from that, it’s been great. It’s made me feel very…” a shy smile pulled at his lips, “Very normal. Very human. So, thank you.”
The way he looked at you made your stomach fill with butterflies. Made your lungs forget how to fill. And in that moment, you realized just how grateful you were for John’s poor performance as a husband. For Olivia’s last-minute cancellation. For the assholes who doused you in beer. All of it had led you here. To this room. With this person.
You shrugged, “I don’t know, I think the beer thing was worth it.”
Bucky blushed. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. I mean, without it, we might have never ended up here.”
And you were right. He never would’ve invited you to his bedroom, especially not after meeting you only once. But John’s friends had forced his hand. And though he still hated them for what they did, he had to admit that he never would’ve had the guts to ask you to stay. He, instead, would’ve walked you downstairs at the end of the night, called you a car, and maybe asked for your number—if he was feeling particularly brave.
That bravery alluded him now, leaving him paralyzed. He’d noticed the gap between your body and his growing smaller, though he hadn’t moved. Noticed you staring at him with want in your eyes, waiting for him to do something. To kiss you. To meld his lips with yours. And he wanted to—desperately. But the situation seemed so precious. So tenuous. So fragile. And he had a knack for ruining things.
And so, he did nothing at all.
You waited. And waited. Waited for him to close the gap. To make his move. To fulfill the wish you’d made hours ago. But he didn’t move. He just sat there, staring. And eventually, you’d had enough.
Your lips met his in a careful kiss. A chaste kiss. By all standards, it was innocent. Careful. But it set you on fire. Warmth cloaked your body. Every nerve crackled and pulsed with electricity. Your heart pounded. Your breath grew shallow. Even with its PG rating, it was the best kiss you’d ever had.
But Bucky’s mouth didn’t move with yours. He was too overcome with shock to move. To breathe.
You pulled away.
For the second time that night, humiliation swallowed you whole. It crushed you under its impossible weight and forced your eyes down.
“I’m really sorry,” you said, struggling to untangle yourself from the sheets. “I shouldn’t have done that, I-”
All at once, Bucky’s shock wore off. He was forced into the present by the sight of your attempted departure. And finally, he moved.
He took your face in his hands and brought his lips to yours in a kiss far less innocent that before. Your mouths slotted together like puzzle pieces, like they were made for each other. And suddenly, you forgot your embarrassment. The heat of humiliation that rose in your cheeks only moments ago was replaced by desperate, endless want. He made up for his previous hesitation tenfold as lips moved against yours. His hands pulled you closer, his arms held you tighter. His body was—finally—flush with yours.
But you could feel his careful movements. His caution. He didn’t quite let go all the way. Didn’t completely give in. And you knew why. He still saw himself as the monster, the abomination. The creature with inhuman strength.
You pulled away slightly, “There’s no pressure, you know…”
He blushed. He’d hoped that his tension might fly under the radar. That his restraint might go unnoticed. But you’d found him out.
His thumb drifted over your cheek, “You could tell, huh?”
You nodded. “But I get it. It’s okay. I’m not trying to rush anything,” you gazed into his beautiful, anxious eyes, “Good things take time.”
His anxiety lessened; you had that effect on him.
“We can just…” You gestured toward the tv, “We can watch another movie—or, I guess we can talk while another movie plays in the background.”
He gave a quiet laugh and handed you the remote, allowing you to choose this time around. But he didn’t want to watch a movie. He wanted to kiss you. To touch you. To give in to his hunger. He just couldn’t find it in him to give up that control. To release the tight leash on which he kept himself. At least, not yet; he wouldn’t risk hurting you.
But you didn’t seem to consider the possibility that he might leave you with bruises. Or broken bones. You’d given yourself over to him easily, eagerly. There was no fear there—only trust. It filled him with hope.
That hope blossomed as the movie played. As you curled your body into his. As you laid your head on his chest.
Slowly but surely, the conversation faded. Your breathing grew even, rhythmic. And Bucky knew you must’ve fallen asleep. He wound his arm around your back and held you closer, still in shock that you were this comfortable with him. That you trusted him.
“Hey…” you whispered, half-asleep. “If you… if you ever need a Bride of Frankenstein, call me.”
incase u were curious, I just discovered your curvy reader x Bucky fics and it’s currently my oxygen and everything else responsible for keeping oneself alive and functioning 😮💨😮💨😮💨😩😩😩. Thank you for your service 🫡
when i tell you i saw this in my inbox >1 a week ago i was so warm and happy... then i went to the store with my mom to get some halloween candy to hand out in our neighborhood and i wanted a simple halloween costume. are you telling me that i'm supposed to fit into those tiny, cheap costumes??? yeah, that ain't happening on any planet (i ended up buying a headband with a little witch hat and lace so it's all good). anyways, it got me thinking, bucky would be (more) obsessed with you if he saw you squeezed into one of those outfits. so, here's another surprise fic!
warnings/tags: curvy!reader, beefy!bucky, reader is wearing an angel costume, fluff, smut, oral (f!receiving), face sitting, unprotected piv, creampie, aftercare, wrote it in like an hour so i hope it's okay lol
beefy!bucky x curvy!reader masterlist | it's-tober! masterlist
You should’ve known when the tag said “stretch material.” That was a lie. Whatever this costume was made of, it stretched only enough to mock you. The dress—if it could be called that—clung to your curves like a second skin. The hem barely grazed mid-thigh, and the neckline left little to the imagination. White feathers shimmered faintly with glitter under the bedroom light, and the attached wings brushed softly against your shoulders whenever you moved.
“Okay,” you muttered to yourself, tugging uselessly at the hem. “Maybe Wanda and Nat’s fit better. Maybe I just got the short one.”
You caught sight of yourself in the mirror. The sight was… distracting. The sheer fabric hugged your hips, your thighs, every inch of softness you’d rather not accentuate in front of the team. The wings didn’t help. They made you look like you’d fallen from heaven straight into a sizing disaster. That’s when you heard the door open.
“Hey, doll—”
You spun around so fast the wings nearly smacked into the nightstand. “Bucky! Don’t—!”
He froze halfway through the doorway, his hand still on the knob. His eyes flicked up, down, then up again. Slow. Disbelieving. Hungry.
“…Go back,” you said weakly. “Pretend you didn’t see this.”
Bucky blinked once, expression unreadable. Then his mouth curved—slow, deliberate, like he’d just found religion. “Angel,” he murmured, voice gone rough. “You gotta be kiddin’ me.”
“It’s for the Halloween thing,” you said quickly, clutching at the hem like it would magically lengthen. “Wanda’s a witch, Nat’s going as some kind of—don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?” He leaned against the doorframe, all lazy confidence, arms folded over that unfairly broad chest. The black shirt stretched across his shoulders like it was fighting for its life. “You expect me not to look when you’re dressed like temptation itself?”
“It doesn’t even fit right,” you argued, heat crawling up your neck. “It’s tight.”
His brows lifted, eyes tracking the curve of your hips. “Yeah. I noticed.”
“Bucky—”
He pushed off the frame and crossed the room before you could finish. Big hands—warm, calloused—slid to your waist. His thumb brushed over the feathered trim, and you swore the air left your lungs. “You know what’s funny?” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper as his fingers toyed with the hem. “You keep sayin’ it doesn’t fit, but from where I’m standin’… looks perfect.”
Your pulse stuttered. “It’s too short.”
He hummed. “That’s my favorite part.”
You stared up at him, trying to find your footing, but it was useless. His size alone threw off your gravity. The wings fluttered behind you when you moved—light, fragile, nothing like the solid wall of him pressing closer. “Buck,” you breathed, “we’re gonna be late.”
He smiled—slow, sinful, teeth flashing just enough to make your knees weak. “I’ll make it worth your while.”
“You’re supposed to be putting on your costume,” you protested, voice faltering when his hand traced the curve of your hip.
“I think I found somethin’ better to unwrap,” he murmured.
You swatted at his chest, but it was like hitting a brick wall that flirted back. “You’re impossible.”
“Mm. Maybe.” He leaned down, lips grazing your ear. “But admit it—you wore this hopin’ I’d lose my mind a little.”
Your throat went dry. “I did not.”
His laugh rumbled low in his chest. “Sure you didn’t, sweetheart. That’s why you’ve got glitter on your thighs.” You smacked his arm—he didn’t even flinch—and turned to grab your jacket, only for his hand to settle on your waist, stopping you. “Careful,” he warned, eyes dark and amused. “Those wings are delicate.”
“So are my nerves,” you muttered.
He grinned, brushing his thumb along your lower back, dangerously close to the zipper. “Guess I’ll have to help you relax before we go, huh, angel?”
You shot him a look, cheeks burning. “Bucky.”
“Yeah?” He said, carefully pulling your panties down your legs.
“Wanda and Nat are going to kill us if we’re late.”
“Then we better make it worth it.” He never gave you a chance to protest. The way Bucky’s arms wrapped around your waist—solid, unyielding—left you breathless, wings fluttering as he turned you gently, guiding you toward the bed with that wolfish, adoring look that always made you feel smaller than you ever did in your own head. Your thighs brushed the edge of the mattress and his hands settled heavy at your hips, broad enough that his fingers easily spanned you, thumbs caressing over the curve where lace and soft skin met.
“You’re seriously—” your voice caught, not just from nerves but from the heat in his eyes. He pulled you down into his lap, his own body splayed out on the edge of the bed, and the costume bunched further up your thighs, hem riding up scandalously high. His hands splayed out, pressing you to him, a perfect anchor; you could feel his breath on your neck, the way his mouth trailed slow up the line of your jaw.
“You look so damn good,” he murmured, voice gruff, barely holding back. “Don’t hide from me, angel. Not tonight.”
You straddled him, knees sinking into the mattress, feeling that spread—your thighs bracketing his, his thick, muscled legs beneath you, all warmth and power. He kissed you deep, mouth hungry, his tongue sweeping against yours as he pulled you impossibly closer. His hands wandered everywhere—gripping your hips, sliding up your sides, brushing the feathers at your shoulders, tracing every curve with worshipful reverence. You felt huge in his lap and yet, somehow, small under the way he manhandled you, his touch both tender and greedy.
You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, breathless. “Bucky, this costume—”
He grinned, cocky and gentle all at once, letting his flesh hand cup your cheek. “This costume is perfect. ‘specially the way it hugs you, right here…” His metal hand slipped around to squeeze your ass, eliciting a sharp, helpless gasp. “And here,” he continued, lips grazing your jaw, his voice dropping lower, a growl rumbling in his chest. “You’re gorgeous, baby. Too damn gorgeous.”
Your hands tangled in his hair, tugging as he mouthed at your throat, teeth scraping just enough to make you shiver. His grip was steady, guiding your hips against him, making you feel every inch of his own want—hard and thick, straining under his sweats, heat pooling between you as you ground together.
“You know what I want?” His voice was husky, teasing, but there was a sharpness beneath it—an edge. “Want you to let me taste you. Right now.” He leaned back, pulling you with him, settling into the pillows. The wings fluttered, feathers ruffled, halo askew as he coaxed you up, urging you to straddle his chest.
You froze, face flushed, thighs trembling. “Bucky—”
He just grinned, hands smoothing over your thighs, fingers kneading into soft flesh. “C’mon, angel. You think I care about anything but you right now? I want you. All of you. Sit up here for me.” His voice was pure velvet, coaxing, unyielding, hands sliding up to your hips, thumb stroking comfort into your skin.
You shook your head, shy. “You—you really want—?”
He met your gaze, all the cocky bravado gone, replaced by something raw and open. “Been dreamin’ about it,” he admitted, almost a whisper. “Don’t care how much of you there is—I want every bit. I want to drown in you.”
That was all it took for your resistance to crumble. He lifted you, strong and sure, guiding you up until your knees bracketed his head, his hands reassuring on your thighs, encouraging you down even as you trembled with nerves and anticipation.
“Bucky, what if—”
He shushed you with a slow, sweet kiss to your thigh, feather-soft and reverent, as if he was praying to the skin beneath his mouth. “Let me worship you,” he murmured, pressing another kiss higher, lips dragging across the trembling line of your inner thigh. “I want you to feel good. That’s all I care about.”
You couldn’t help the shiver that ran through you, the way your hips twitched as he coaxed you down, your core hovering over his lips, wings arching behind you like a living halo. His breath was hot, desperate, arms locking around your thighs, pinning you in place. The look in his eyes—hungry, adoring, wild—left no room for doubt.
You finally let yourself relax, sinking down, your hands buried in his hair as his mouth found you, reverent and greedy at once. He moaned, low and deep, the vibration thrumming up through your entire body, his tongue teasing, worshipful, savoring every reaction, every shift and gasp, every breathless cry that spilled from your lips, his hands flexing, holding you close as if he’d never let you go.
You ground down, a helpless, involuntary rhythm, and he just groaned again, eyes fluttering shut as he lost himself in the taste of you, the feel of you, the way you arched and shook for him. He didn’t care about your size, didn’t care about anything except the way you felt in his arms, the way you moaned his name, the way you finally, finally let him love you like this.
The wings trembled, your whole body shivering with pleasure as he devoured you, lips and tongue relentless, unashamed, hands everywhere—kneading, stroking, comforting, worshipping. He murmured praise into your skin, words lost in the haze—so sweet, so perfect, you’re mine, angel, mine—until you were gasping, writhing, your body burning with want.
When you finally tried to pull away, he just held you tighter, grinning up at you, face shining with pride and desire. “Not finished with you yet,” he growled, voice wrecked and beautiful. “You’re not going anywhere. Not until you fall apart for me.”
The room was filled with the sound of your panting, the rustle of feathers, the desperate gasp of your own voice as he pulled you down, urging you to give in, to trust him, to let him take you apart and put you back together with nothing but his mouth and his hands.
And when you finally shattered, crying out his name, trembling and undone, he didn’t let you go. He just held you, kissed you, murmured soft, filthy promises into your skin. Your wings were crooked, halo somewhere askew on the pillow, the sheets under your knees wrinkled from your desperate, rocking movements, every inch of your skin still thrumming from the way Bucky’s mouth had utterly ruined you. His hands were still clutching your thighs, broad and steady, grounding you in his lap as you shivered in the afterglow, thighs slick against his jaw, hair a wild mess around your face. His lips were swollen, beard a little damp, the look in his eyes nothing short of worshipful.
He eased you down, coaxing you off his face with gentle hands, guiding you by the hips until you were straddling his lap again—your whole body flushed, spent, still hungry. The costume had ridden high, barely covering anything, and your wings were flared wide behind you, brushing softly at his arms as he pulled you down to sit on his thighs. He was so thick beneath you, cock straining against his sweats, the heat between your bodies nearly unbearable.
Bucky caught your face in his hand, thumb stroking along your cheek, blue eyes drinking you in like he couldn’t get enough. “C’mere, angel,” he rasped, voice still wrecked, and kissed you—slow, deep, the kind of kiss that left no room for doubt about what he wanted. You could taste yourself on his lips, the possessive press of his mouth making your toes curl, your hands sliding up his chest, nails dragging lightly through the fabric of his shirt, feeling the thick muscle bunch and tense under your touch.
You rocked against him, hips circling unconsciously, and he groaned into your mouth, the sound rumbling up from deep in his chest, hands sliding down to cup your ass. He pressed you tighter against him, the line of his cock grinding perfectly against you, making you gasp, your breath hot and ragged as you broke the kiss.
He watched you with a hungry patience, his grip insistent but gentle, his gaze dark and utterly fixed on your face. “You want me?” he asked, low, breath hitching as you rocked harder, grinding down on him. “Want me to fill you up, right here, wings and all?” The possessive thrill in his voice made your pulse skitter.
Your answer was a breathless nod, fingers trembling as you reached down, pushing at his waistband. He helped you—always so eager to give, to let you take what you needed—lifting his hips so you could free him, cock thick and hot and already slick with precome, the flushed head brushing your inner thigh as you lined yourself up, hands braced on his shoulders.
Bucky’s hands moved to your hips, guiding, grounding, thumbs pressing firm into the softness at your waist. “Look at you,” he murmured, reverent, voice low and rough. “So fuckin’ beautiful—can’t believe you’re mine.” He angled his hips, thick head pressing at your entrance, the stretch as you sank down making you both gasp, his fingers flexing hard, knuckles whitening as he tried not to thrust up too fast.
You rocked your hips, slow at first, taking him inch by inch, feeling every thick, delicious push. The wings quivered at your back, feathers tickling his forearms as you leaned forward, hands curling in his hair, breath stuttering as he filled you. “God, Buck,” you whimpered, the fullness overwhelming, the way his hands gripped you, possessive and tender, making you shiver with need.
“Ride me, angel,” he growled, one hand slipping around to your lower back, the other sliding up to cup your breast through the tight, nearly useless fabric of your costume. His thumb brushed your nipple, and you moaned, rolling your hips faster, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing in the dark, messy room. The wings arched with every movement, a living reminder of just how undone you were for him—soft, sinful, and desperately his.
He bucked up into you, mouth catching your moans, the tension building higher and higher as you rode him, thighs burning, breath ragged. He whispered filthy, sweet praise into your mouth, “that’s it, fuck, take it, just like that, you’re perfect, you’re everything, so tight, so good for me, fuck, look at you, my pretty girl.” His words were hot and low, and his hands were everywhere, grounding you, worshipping you, urging you on.
Your bodies moved together, wild and hungry and needy, the bed creaking under your weight, your halo long since forgotten, feathers scattered across the sheets. The pleasure built fast, blinding, his cock hitting deep every time you rocked down, the pressure unbearable and perfect, his voice in your ear as you started to tremble, thighs shaking.
He felt it, groaned, bucked up hard, one arm anchoring you, the other hand fisting in the ruffled feathers at your back, dragging you down for another desperate, hungry kiss. “Gonna come for me?” he panted, breath hot against your mouth, his voice a command and a promise. “Want to feel you—want to see you fall apart, angel, please—”
Your release hit hard, body seizing around him, a cry torn from your throat as you shattered, wings trembling behind you, his name a broken plea on your lips. He held you through it, fucking up into you as you convulsed around him, cursing under his breath, lost in you, the slick heat and desperate clutch of your body all he needed to tip him over the edge. He followed you a heartbeat later, groaning, hips jerking up as he spilled inside you, holding you so tight you thought you’d never break free.
When the aftershocks faded, you collapsed forward, cheek pressed to his shoulder, wings limp, both of you panting, bodies tangled, skin slick with sweat and glitter, the air thick with the scent of sex and the quiet, shaky laughter of people who have found heaven on earth in each other’s arms.
The room was still dim, smelling faintly of sweat and glitter and fabric softener, the only sound your uneven breathing and the faint, metallic rasp of Bucky’s dog tags when he shifted beneath you. You lay half-sprawled over his chest, the steady thud of his heartbeat slowing under your ear. His hands moved up and down your spine in slow, grounding circles until the tremor in your thighs finally eased.
He leaned down, pressed a kiss to your hairline, and whispered, “You good, doll?” The rasp in his voice wasn’t entirely gone, but the edge had softened into pure fondness.
“Yeah,” you murmured, voice still hoarse, “pretty sure I forgot how to walk though.”
That made him laugh—a warm, chest-deep sound that vibrated through you. “Guess that’s my cue to play gentleman.” He sat up, keeping you close while he reached for a towel from the dresser. You felt him fussing quietly, the kind of care that had nothing to prove: hands steady, motions patient, wiping glitter from your shoulders, straightening a bent feather. He caught one of the crooked wings and tried to smooth it, failing miserably. “You’re molting,” he said, amusement thick in his tone.
“Because someone manhandled me,” you muttered into his neck.
He chuckled again. “Can’t be blamed. Angel lands in my bed, wings were bound to take a hit.”
When he finished cleaning the last bit of shimmer from your skin, he pressed a kiss to your bare shoulder and went to fetch fresh water, still shirtless, still glowing faintly under the warm light. The sight of him—sweat drying on his skin, hair a little damp, muscles rolling easily as he moved—made your heart flutter worse than any dirty thing he’d said earlier.
He came back with a bottle of water and that half-sheepish smile that always appeared when the adrenaline drained away. “Hydrate, sweetheart.”
You obeyed, taking a sip, watching the way his eyes softened. “You’re disgustingly responsible for a guy who just—”
“Uh-huh,” he interrupted, smirking, “don’t finish that sentence unless you want me to forget there’s a party downstairs.”
That reminder made you groan and glance toward the pile of fabric that used to be your costume. The dress was wrinkled, the wings slightly off-center, but you tugged it back into shape while he pulled on dark jeans and a black Henley. He looked up as you adjusted your hem and muttered, “You’re still the hottest thing in this building, angel.”
“Even with crooked feathers?”
“Especially with crooked feathers.”
You let him help you with the zipper, his metal hand surprisingly deft. When you turned to face him, he took a second just to look—really look—like he was memorizing the sight of you. Then he reached for his mask, some vague “fallen soldier” thing that Sam had teased him into wearing, and offered you his arm.
“Ready to pretend we’ve been well-behaved all night?” he asked.
“Not remotely.”
He grinned. “Good. Let’s go make Wanda and Nat jealous of my angel.”
The common area was a riot of color and noise by the time you arrived. Paper bats dangled from the ceiling; Tony’s idea of subtlety included fog machines and a playlist that alternated between ‘Monster Mash’ and ‘Disturbia’. Wanda and Nat were near the bar, both in crimson and black, devil horns gleaming.
Wanda caught sight of you first and broke into a grin. “There she is! I was starting to think you’d fallen from grace for real.”
Natasha’s smirk sharpened. “Or that Barnes finally learned what ‘fashionably late’ means.”
Bucky gave a mock salute, sliding an arm around your waist. “Angel needed her halo adjusted.”
The girls exchanged knowing looks. You swatted his chest, muttering, “You are impossible.”
“Mm-hmm,” he said, leaning close enough that his breath tickled your ear, “but you’re smiling.”
You were, and you couldn’t stop. Even when Sam shouted something obscene about Bucky bringing his own guardian angel, even when Tony raised an eyebrow like he’d already guessed what “adjusted” meant, the warmth stayed right under your skin.
Bucky kept a protective hand on your back as you moved through the crowd, fetching you a drink, plucking stray feathers from your hair, whispering small compliments meant for you alone. He made you feel light, almost weightless, like you could still float if you tried.
Later, when the music slowed and the lights dimmed, he drew you out onto the edge of the dance floor. The bass thrummed under your feet, and he pulled you close, one hand low at your waist, the other tracing lazy circles on your back. “Next year,” he murmured, “we’re doing matching costumes.”
“Oh yeah?” you asked, cheek against his shoulder. “What’s the plan?”
He smiled into your hair. “I’m thinkin’ devil to your angel.”
You laughed softly, tilting your head back to meet his eyes. “You already are.”
He kissed your forehead, slow and certain. “Then I guess I’m exactly where I’m meant to be.”
❗️WARNING❗️18+ ONLY! Mentions of fingering, nipple play (for a sec), squirting, not proofread, short, I think thats it.
“Fuck, just look at you, Doll.” Bucky groaned in your ear, “So pretty, so wet, just for me.” He said while nipping at your earlobe making you arch your back. Bucky was sitting on the floor between his legs in front of the big mirror you two have in your room. He wanted to show you how beautiful you are and how amazing you sound, he wanted you to see every little thing he was doing to you.
The sight in front of you made you shiver. Bucky's metal hand on your left breast playing with your hard nipple, while his other hand was massaging small circles against your clit. Seeing the muscles in his arm flex a little every time he rolled his fingers a certain way, made your legs tense. Your eyes never left his hand, but when he started to move his fingers down to your entrance your eyes started to flutter shut. Bucky pulled on your nipple a little harder making you whimper “Open those eyes for me.” You tried your best to open them all the way, but all you could do was get them half open.
Bucky's movements got faster and faster you were so close to your release, except this time it felt a little different. His fingers curled and hit that spongy spot making your back arched even more, his metal hand moved down to your abdomen and put pressure against it. You tightened yourself around his fingers, your own hands gripping onto his thighs and leaving little crescent shaped marks in his skin. Bucky pulled you closer to his body, keeping the speed and putting a little more pressure on your abdomen, “Come on, Doll. Give it to me.” You whined and squirmed until it finally hit you. The orgasm hit harder than any other before, but this one lasted a little longer. Your legs shook as you began to squirt, getting it on the mirror. Bucky moaned at the sight, “So fucking beautiful.” He whispered against your skin “So good for me.” You were panting and laid back on his chest, obviously out of it.
Small kisses were left across your shoulders and on your upper back, little praises being whispered as you finally caught your breath. Bucky looked at you through the mirror and wrapped his arms around your stomach holding you close, “I love you.” You said in a small voice. Bucky smiled against your cheek, “I love you too, Doll.”
munch!bucky who thanks you the first time you let him go down on you.
his fingerprints stain the outside of your thighs, while the burn from his stubble stings the inside. he’s got this hazy smile on his lips and a glossed-over sheen in his eyes akin to a man drunk, peering up at you to say, “thank you, doll. thank you, thank you… gotta taste you again. fuck. wanna get addicted to you, can i?”
munch!bucky who barely uses his hands.
teetering off the edge of the couch, your fingers tangle in the mess of his hair in search of something to stabilise yourself, an anchor for both your body and your mind. bruising his knees against marble flooring, bucky answers every plea for more, for deeper, with the prodding of his tongue into the tight squeeze of your cunt. his fingers are right there, twitching against skin and occasionally giving your clit a teasing pet, yet the soldier persists with his mission to stretch his tongue as far as he can. “honey’s sweeter from the source, baby. just lay there and let me satisfy my sweet-tooth.”
munch!bucky who practically makes out with your cunt.
a peck, that’s what it starts with. subtle, barely a brush of his mouth over those puffy lower lips of yours. it’s his own private ritual, his way of saying hello to his favourite part of you — his favourite part of the world. the slower he moves, the more you squirm, grinding up to meet the increasingly sloppy smack of his lips engulfing your pussy. the descent into messy is gradual — kisses that grow longer and wetter once his tongue joins the picture — in theory you should be eased in to the process enough to not be at a complete loss of words, but can anyone truly be eased in to the sight of bucky barnes, eyes closed and nose pressed to clit, lazily making out with your cunt. “she’s just so soft, wanna run my mouth all over ‘er.”
munch!bucky who gets off on seeing your legs shake.
everything about this scenario is wrong, prohibited, dangerous: you, back pressed against the wall of some hallway, with your dress hiked up over your waist, a leg thrown over bucky’s shoulder, and the constant fear that at any moment someone will round the corner and find where exactly you and bucky had snuck off to. to make matters worse? the congressman is hell-bent on seeing you struggle to stay afloat, his chuckle vibrating against your clit while he watches your knees struggle not to buckle under the desire of wanting to melt into his eager mouth. “that’s it, give in to how i’m makin’ you feel. just stop worrying and sink into my kisses.”
munch!bucky who relieves the stress of a bad day by having you sit on his face.
the frustration had practically been oozing from him the moment he got home. a slammed door, a discarded briefcase, a loosened neck-tie — by the time bucky reached the living room, he was half-congress, half-man. without even getting the chance to ask why he was frowning, he dragged you to the bedroom and forced you to pin your knees to either side of his head. now he’s an hour in, the taste of three orgasms have already flooded his mouth, and he’s showing no sign of letting you go anytime soon; going as far as to slap your thigh if you so much as attempt to flee the over-stimulating lap of his tongue. “ah-ah, what have i told you? sit still and let me relax. ‘s bad enough those idiots in congress won’t listen to me, don’t make me deal with it at home too.”
munch!bucky who always dives in for seconds.
it happens just as you’re starting to relax, body already having sunk face-down into the bed, back finally unarching after letting bucky fold you in two. exhausted and spent from getting fucked within an inch of your life, your eyes slip shut… for all of one glorious second. because they immediately fly open again when bucky forces your tired limbs apart and drags the tip of his tongue up the length of your cunt, collecting the spill of his cum leaking out of you with a satisfied moan. “taste even better like this, d’you know why? cause she tastes like me, like she’s mine. maybe it’s time we let the rest of the world see that, hmm? fuck you nice and full o’ my cum till that little womb of yours has no choice but to swell my baby.”
munch!bucky who ultimately treats eating pussy like it is devotion.
it doesn’t matter where, or when, or how: if bucky can get his mouth on you, he’s going to make it worth both your whiles. you throw on his shirt in the morning? forget the breakfast you cooked, he’d much rather eat you off the table. running late to an event and so you decide to just hop in the shower with him? expect bucky to play dumb when you tell him that is not what you meant when you asked him for the shower-head. tell bucky you have a headache? he’ll make up whatever excuse he needs to convince you that his head between your legs is an instant cure to the pain in your cranium. and if you’re silly enough to complain about this man being down-bad and always eager to get his mouth on you, expect a stern but playful, “what can i say? she’s my main source of happiness. you do want me to be happy baby, don’t you? yeah? well then, open your thighs, let me taste.”
james "bucky" barnes is the type of boyfriend who...
bucky barnes who always puts you first — pulling out your chair, opening doors for you, securing your helmet before offering a hand to help you onto his bike.
bucky barnes who keeps a picture of you in his wallet — it's just some silly candid he took of you laughing, and the edges are a little worn because he always pulls it out when he's missing you.
bucky barnes who lets you call him "jamie," and he melts every damn time even though he would death glare anyone else who tries to call him by his first name.
bucky barnes who must be touching you at all times, whether it's his hand in yours or just your fingertips brushing over a tabletop. he's lost so much, and it's reassuring to just know that you're near.
bucky barnes who only falls asleep once you're in his arms, his body acting as a barrier between you and the door.
bucky barnes who can kiss you soft and slow like he's savoring a gift, but can also kiss you wild and hungry like he could swallow you whole.
bucky barnes who will never let you be alone. he knows loneliness, and when you need him, he is always there — whether he's holding you against his chest or whispering reassurances over a staticky phone call.
bucky barnes who dances in the kitchen with you while dinner simmers on the stove, a sappy love song from the fourties coming from the record player in the living room.
Touch-starved!Bucky who has never been more terrified of such a simple action as touch, and being scared means he's weak.
Touch-starved!Bucky who spent seventy years associating the touch of another with something negative.
Touch-starved!Bucky who still has waking nightmares of stern faces and forceful hands.
Touch-starved!Bucky who, when you met him, seemed to shy away from you because you were too bright and soft for his dull, destructive world.
Any time you tried to have a conversation with him, he'd grunt in response or walk away from you completely. Not because he didn't want to be near you, but because he couldn't stand the thought of corrupting something as flawless as you when he had so many.
Touch-starved!Bucky who eventually lets himself revel in your kindess, and tender touches.
It starts subtly at first. In the Tower's kitchen, you stood in the still of the morning. Light crested off your bare shoulders, giving your skin a velvety quality that he yearned to run his calloused fingers over.
When you finally noticed him, a beaming smile plastered across your lips, you offered him coffee—a straightforward question that had his heart stuttering against his rib cage, regardless of its simplicity.
Touch-starved!Bucky who froze when you handed him the warmed ceramic mug because your fingers brushed. He instantly craved more of those delicate fingers on his murder-stained hands.
Touch-starved!Bucky who started to drift near you, lingering closer just so your elbows might graze one another or your palm might meet his spine as you scoot past him to get a box of cereal from the top shelf.
Touch-starved!Bucky who grew bolder with his touch, even if his hands slightly trembled when he did so. The flesh hand that fell to your back as he walked beside you, or tucking a hair behind your ear, so he get a better glimpse of you as you spoke.
Touch-starved!Bucky who gravitated towards you after he had an awful day, or a nightmare, and couldn't fall back asleep because of the crimson that coated the backs of his eyelids.
Touch-starved!Bucky who would lay his head on your lap unexpectedly. You'd go rigid underneath him as if you weren't expecting such vulnerability. But as your initial shock wore off, your fingers carded through his sweat-dampened hair in an attempt to relax him.
Touch-starved!Bucky who nuzzled into your palm like an abused dog that was hungry for any attention.
Touch-starved!Bucky who tried to keep his feelings at bay, but it was impossible. And when he eventually admitted that he found comfort in you, he held your hand like you were his lifeline, and he was whispering one of his deepest, darkest secrets to you.
Touch-starved!Bucky who, when you started dating, his hands were always on you; he couldn't keep them off of you.
Like when a hand gripped your thigh as he underwent an anxious episode or embracing you from behind as you took on a task, his lips trailing over your pulse point.
Touch-starved!Bucky who didn't know where to put his hands when he drank in your naked form for the first time. Your body was sprawled across silk sheets as his palms hovered over your heated skin, flesh hand twitching and metal arm whirring.
Touch-starved!Bucky who gripped your waist firmly as he thrust into you, breaths mingling in the desire-filled air that floated between you.
Touch-starved!Bucky who was afraid this was all a devastating dream and you'd slip away if he didn't hold you tight enough.
Touch-starved!Bucky who held your hand against the mattress as he muttered soft praises against your lips while you let out sweet moans against his.
Touch-starved!Bucky who cradled you against his chest as your breathing evened out, his hand tracing up and down your back in soothing motions just to feel your skin under the pads of his fingers.
Touch-starved!Bucky who murmured "love you" into your hairline as midnight settled into the hallways like dark ghosts crawling up the walls. Yet, in his bed, a calmness sank into both of your figures, as if this were the thing he had always been missing in his life.
Touch-starved!Bucky who, even though he lives with the trauma Hydra put him through daily, now associates touch as something precious—a gift you gave him. And he'll spend every day treasuring that.
A/N: I had a dream Sebastian was hitting it from the back and only got hornier as I woke up. I think I'm ovulating. PERPETUALLY.
Pairing: Avenger!Bucky x Avenger!Reader
Word count: 11.4k
Warnings: established relationship, SMUT!!!! p in v, oral (m&f), fingering, breeding kink, cumplay?, secret relationship, semi-public sex (fingering in a restaurant), overstim mention, free use mention, somnophilia, size kink, drinking mention, mentions of face fucking?, finger sucking, spit kink, so much smut. like... so much. I'm so, so horny.
Summary: Bucky and you have been sneaking around in secret for a while. Not for any particular reason aside from not wanting all of the questions from the team. But now, your schedules haven't been lining up.
After getting drafted, spending 90 years going from fight after fight, and going to therapy, one could say James Barnes was a little uptight. He liked his routine. Some semblance of normalcy in the midst of the whole brainwashed super soldier arc life put on him.
So of course he'd be drawn to you.
Your chaotic personality and dry humor pulled him in like the ocean tide would pull a boat. Almost imperceptible, until you found yourself stranded in the middle of the ocean having sun poisoning-induced hallucinations.
It took him exactly 68 days of maladaptive daydreaming about ruining you in every humanly possible way, and some inhumanly ones, for his restrain to snap like a twig under the sheer strength of your gaze.
That night at the safe house after a particularly gnarly getaway, where you committed 3 traffic felonies and broke a few other trespassing laws, playing some stupid pop song on the radio like you were going to get your ears pierced at Claire's, not evading an actual gang.
When you closed the door behind you at the safe house, you were buzzing. Your pupils were dilated, you were shaking, and you bounced on your feet like Duracell contracted you to be their newest bunny.
"Did you see that, Buck?!" The faint light gleamed off of your eyes, smile so bright it made his chest hurt. "Oh my God, I feel high right now." The little giddiness in your voice made his cock join his heart in its aching for you. "They couldn't even—"
He didn't let you finish.
Well, he did. But not that sentence.
He grabbed your face and kissed you so hard you thought he'd leave fingertip shaped bruises on your cheeks. His tongue exploring the inside of your mouth and hands roaming over you, undressing in hurry and want, relishing in the taste of your moans spilling into his mouth like he'd never have the chance to again.
But he did. About 3 times that night.
You didn't mean for it to stay a secret. It started out that way because neither of you knew exactly what was gonna come out of it, at first it was all sneaking into each other's rooms late at night and leaving in the morning, teasing the hell out of him over the phone when he was away and paying for it when he got back, and defiling every surface of every safe house you stepped foot in.
But a few weeks into it, his heart ached to leave you every morning, and your chest felt hollowed out every time he was away on a mission without you.
“I know we said no labels or whatever, but… I like this.” He gestures between you, the table, this world you only step into once a week. “I like… bein’ here. With you. Not just the hotel. Not just—y’know.”
You know. Oh, you very much know.
“And I hate that I have to wait all goddamn week just to—” He stops, shakes his head. Starts again more carefully. “…Just to sit across from you and watch you steal my fries.”
Your lips part. You didn’t mean for it to hit this deep. You didn’t mean for your chest to ache with it.
“…Buck,” you say quietly.
His eyes flick up to yours, open, vulnerable, still a little scared.
“I just wanted you to know,” he finishes, voice low. “’Cause I think… Thursday’s startin’ to feel like the only time I can breathe.”
Then it stayed a secret because you didn't want prying eyes or nosy questions, you just wanted the weight of his body on top of yours to lull you to sleep every night.
Every Thursday when possible, though, you'd find yourselves in the same sort of situation: a reservation under an alias in an obscure little restaurant that didn't allow pictures, followed by a king-sized bedroom reserved at the nearest fancy hotel.
Your weekly getaway from the madness you liked to call the Avengers compound.
You slid into your usual booth at the back—a deep burgundy semicircle that practically swallows you both into privacy. Candlelight flickered faintly between you, reflecting in Bucky’s eyes as he leaned back, one arm stretched across the back of the booth, watching you like he’s checking in on his favorite sight.
You pretended you didn’t notice how his gaze softened the moment he saw you in something that wasn’t tactical gear. Deep, plunging neckline of your top is accompanied by no sleeves under your coat, a delicate leather belt with gold hardware holding the black miniskirt in place.
“You clean up nice, Sarge.” you murmured, unfolding your napkin over your lap.
He smirked slowly, eyes lingering over you just a second too long. “You say that every Thursday.”
“Yeah, well. I'm pleasantly surprised by the increasing levels of hot every week.”
His lips twitched—and for a moment it’s easy. Familiar. Thursday. It's like you don't have a super security compound to call home, or like aliens weren't the assignment four days ago.
The waiter comes and goes. You order something light. He orders steak, medium rare, because even off-duty he eats like a soldier who might deploy at any moment.
But there was something different that night. Because between bites, he keeps doing it.
Looking at you.
Not in the usual “I’m gonna wreck you the second we leave” way.
In a “I’m thinking about something dangerous” way. Dangerous could mean a lot of things, specially for superheroes. But the softness in his eyes told you that it was dangerous because it was fragile, precious, and way too normal.
You swore the restaurant’s lighting was designed specifically for him—warm and golden, catching on the scruff along his jaw and the silver of his dog tags tucked under an open henley collar. He didn’t even bother with a jacket tonight. Cocky bastard. He knows what he does to you.
Your knee bumped his under the table. Not an accident. Not even close.
The waiter appears just long enough for you to order another whiskey and a glass of red wine, then disappears into the shadows again.
Bucky settled back, one arm along the back of the booth, “New rule,” he said casually.
“Oh? We have rules now?”
“Just one. No teasing me when I’m away on missions unless you’re ready to deal with the consequences when I get back.”
You widen your eyes innocently. “Consequences? Sergeant Barnes, I have no idea what you’re talking about.” You shifted and only slightly sat on your side facing him, one bare leg sliding over the other and crossing, your foot sliding the YSL hardware of your heels up and down his calf.
"I was merely being supportive and making sure a very highly estimated Avenger made it home safely."
He leans in, voice a sinful whisper, “You know what’s not supportive?”
“Mhm?” You bite your lower lip, gaze never straying away from his face.
“When you tell me on comms that you’re wearing those lace panties I like.”
“That was once.”
“Twice.”
“Tomato, tomahto.” You waved a hand in dismissal and grabbed your glass, sipping the wine.
He reaches for his whiskey, takes a slow sip, eyes never leaving you. “Let me guess. You’re wearin’ them now?”
You refuse to respond in words. Only humming in denial behind your glass before clicking your tongue behind your teeth. "None, actually."
He stills and the glass pauses halfway to the table. His gaze dropped—just for a split second—to where your legs met, even though your skirt left barely anything to imagination.
He swallows, thumb tapping once against the glass like he’s recalibrating. “Lemme get this straight,” he says slowly, quietly, eyes darkening, “you’ve been sittin’ across from me for—” he checks his watch, “—twenty-three minutes… with nothing on under that skirt?”
You take another sip, crossing your legs again—slowly, letting your knee brush deliberately higher up his thigh. “Technically it’s been longer. I didn’t wear any in the car either.”
“Jesus Christ…” He was leaning forward now, forearm braced on the table, staring at you like you’re the mission and he’s seconds from breaching.
His metal arm stays stretched along the booth behind you like it has been all night—casual, protective—but now his flesh hand slides under the tablecloth, rests on your knee.
“Thought you’d maintain professionalism, Sergeant,” you teased softly, eyes fluttering when his hand squeezes just slightly.
“Honey, I left professionalism back at the compound the second I smelled your perfume tonight.” His fingers drift higher. Inch by slow, agonizing inch.
You try to take another sip of wine, but your hand trembles just slightly. You hoped he wouldn’t notice.
But it's Bucky, he absolutely notices and hums to himself while you bite your lip with that horny look in your eyes that make your eyelids sit heavy like you could eat him alive. And he'd let you.
You feel his smirk against your ear before you hear it in his voice. “Nervous?”
“Hardly.” But it comes out breathier than intended.
He continues upward. Your pulse spikes. His fingertips stop just under the hem of your skirt, brushing the sensitive inside of your thigh. You grip the edge of the table with your free hand.
“You’re trembling,” he whispers, amused.
“There’s an air vent,” you lie. His fingers slip further beneath the hem, in the direction of where you wanted him the most.
“Oh yeah?” he hums. “Think this vent reaches between your thighs too?”
You nearly choke when his fingertips brush the bare, hot skin there. His breath hitches quietly—barely audible. If you didn’t know every sound he made, you might’ve missed it.
“You’re already so warm,” he notes, turning his head slightly so his lips ghost your cheek without touching. His fingers finally slide up and press gently—right there.
Your breath stops.
He smiles against your skin. “There she is.” Your nails dig into the table. “Think I can make you come before the waiter brings dessert?” he whispers silkily. You smile tightly at him through clenched teeth.
“I think you should try.”
He chuckled, low and almost mean, and pushed two fingers inside the wet slick he had been salivating after every time you were apart. James Buchanan Barnes is a loverboy at his core, and a menace who enjoys the process.
It's not like you could get caught and be arrested for public indecency at any second.
His fingers keep tracing delicate, lazy shapes just inside, making sure to keep his palm or any source of friction away from where you need him most until you’re squirming almost imperceptibly.
“Settle,” he murmurs in your ear, a quiet, firm command.
You freeze, thighs trembling slightly as you force yourself still. He rewards you with one slow, deliberate circle of his thumb right over your clit.
Your breath hitched audibly and he smirked. “Good girl.”
You tried not to whine. If you did, you know he’d make it worse. He’d stop. Or go even slower. You don’t know which was worse and you’re not sure which one you wanted more.
Minutes pass. Agonizing minutes.
Each pass of his fingers is maddeningly controlled—never too fast, never too direct. Each stroke tells you he knows your body better than anyone alive. He avoids giving you the rhythm you want, changing speed just before you can catch it.
You’re flushed now, half from the wine and mostly from him. Your thighs are tense, fighting the urge to grind subtly against his hand.
“Relax,” he murmurs, and his vibranium arm shifts behind your shoulders, holding you back into him protectively as if you’re not on the verge of shaking apart.
The waiter appears to bring your entrees and you hold back a whine when Bucky pulls his hand away from the heat between your legs.
You answer his polite “How are the first couple of bites?” with a steady, “Perfect, thank you.” and he walks away to attend to other tables.
Bucky, however, lets his fork rest steady on his plate, and barely lets you recover from the slick mess you're making on the back of your skirt before his fingers find you again. He chuckles into your hair, voice like hot honey. “You’re fuckin’ incredible.”
“You’re fucking evil,” you breathe, barely moving your lips.
“Maybe.” His pace increases—not by much, but enough that the twisting heat in your belly starts coiling faster.
“Buck—” you whisper, desperate.
“I know, baby.” He murmurs soothingly. “Almost there.”
But when your thighs start to tighten in anticipation—he stops. Completely. Your head snaps toward him in disbelief.
He leans in, lips brushing your ear. “Keep your legs open.”
You do, because if you don’t, he’ll make you.
He clicks his tongue once in mock disappointment. “Oh, sweetheart,” he hums, withdrawing his hand completely and casually lifting it to his mouth. He sucks one glistening finger clean, eyes locked onto yours with sinful delight. “This is gonna be a long dinner for you.”
Your pulse pounds in your ears. Your body aches, throbbing with every second he refuses to touch you again.
“You’re shaking,” he says under his breath, amused.
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
To say you didn't give a fuck about the chocolate lava cake was an understatement. You don’t remember how your back hit the hotel room door—only that Bucky barely got it shut before he had you pinned against it, one hand cupping your jaw and the other sliding under your skirt, shoving it up past your hips like he had something to prove to both of you.
But somewhere between your desperate gasps and his low moans, something shifts.
It happens quietly.
Accidentally.
You moved on top of him, breathless and messy, nails dragging down his chest. The rhythm was hot, frantic—but when he caught your hips and slowed you down, forcing you to roll instead of bounce, the tone shifted.
“Yeah,” he groans, guiding your hips, “ride me nice and slow—like we’ve got nowhere to be tomorrow.”
You blink—because that’s not how this usually goes.
He keeps going.
“Like we’re not being sent on calls at 3 a.m. to save the world,” he breathes, watching your face. “Like it’s a Saturday. Like we sleep in.”
You swallow hard. The thrusts get deeper. Less rushed. More… emotional.
“Maybe we don’t even live in New York,” you whisper, falling into it before you can stop yourself.
His grip tightens.
“Yeah?” he murmurs, voice softer, needier. “Where we livin’, baby?”
“Some small apartment in Chicago,” you gasp, leaning forward so your foreheads touch. “Or maybe a townhouse in Portland.”
He nodded slowly, grinding up into you. “Yeah. I like that. We don’t save the world. I work construction or some shit. Come home covered in sawdust.”
His hands on your hips tighten just a bit more tenderly, like he’s anchoring himself. Your fingers brush his chest and linger too long.
And then in the middle of your hips slapping down against his, his head falls back and he breathes, brokenly, “Fuck—I’d come home to you like this every night if I could.”
So you lean down, lips brushing his for a second before you bit his chin and let it go with a graze of your teeth, breath shaky. “Yeah? You’d come home dirty and throw me on the bed like this?”
He groaned—deep, guttural, hands squeezing your waist as you kept moving, feeling him get even harder inside of you if that was even possible.
His voice gets rougher. “Wouldn’t even make it to the bed. I’d fuck you on the kitchen counter while dinner burns on the stove.”
He thrusts up suddenly, hard. “Fuck—Bucky!”
He grips your jaw and makes you look at him. “You’d leave me little notes on the fridge before you go on early runs. Tellin’ me to eat breakfast. Like a fuckin’ wife.”
Your breath stutters, something sharp and warm in your chest. You whimper, hips stuttering for a second at the idea of wearing a ring that signifies his last name.
He doesn’t miss it.
“Oh, you like that?” he whispers darkly, sitting up so your chests press together, still inside you. “You wanna wear my ring, honey? Want the whole damn world to know you’re mine?”
You shudder, nails clawing his back. “Yes…”
He thrusts up hard. “Say it clearer.”
“I want it,” you breathe, trembling. “Want your ring.”
He kisses you like it hurts. Like he’s drowning and you're the only breath of oxygen his lungs would ever recognize while fully submerged.
Maybe that’s why he suddenly grips your waist and flips you onto your back with a rough, almost desperate exhale—like he needs to bury himself deeper in this illusion before it slips away.
He settles between your legs, pushing back in with a guttural groan, forehead pressed to yours.
“And maybe…” his voice drops further, wrecked and reverent, “…maybe one night I wouldn’t pull out.”
Your breath stutters—eyes fluttering open to meet his. The air crackles. He watches your reaction like a predator watching prey tremble.
“Maybe I’d just stay inside you,” he murmurs against your lips, thrusts deep enough to make the headboard creak softly. “Fill you up… right there in our shitty little apartment.”
A weak sound escapes you.
“You’d yell at me in the morning,” he murmurs, kissing you slow and deep, “say we weren’t trying. That we weren’t ready. But I’d look at you in one of my old shirts, barefoot in the kitchen makin’ pancakes… and I’d want it all over again.”
Your fingers tangle in his hair, pulling him down as you arch into him.
He groans into your neck. “Wouldn’t let you outta bed that weekend. I’d keep fuckin’ you full of me… hopin’ it’d take. Hopin’ I get to walk by you in the mirror and see your belly round with my kid.”
You gasp his name like wishing on a star.
He thrusts deeper—slower—like he’s savoring the image burned into his mind.
“Imagine it,” he whispers, voice shaking with how bad he wants it—even if he pretends it’s still just talk. “You, pregnant with my baby. Nothin’ else in the world but us. No Hydra. No missions. Just… you carryin’ something I gave you. Somethin’ ours.”
You nearly sob at how intensely it hits you.
His forehead presses to yours as his voice falls to a wrecked whisper. “Tell me you’d want it.”
“I’d want it,” you breathe, almost crying. “Bucky, I want it so bad.”
He groans—filthy, tortured, adoring—as he thrusts harder now, chasing something that feels far bigger than pleasure. And that’s how you fall apart beneath him—his whispered fantasies of a quiet life, a warm bed, and a round belly turning into the dirtiest, most intimate thing anyone has ever given you.
Life, however, doesn’t care about what happened in that hotel bed.
It throws missions at both of you like grenades.
First, he gets deployed with Sam to Europe for weeks, chasing arms dealers who won’t stay in one place. You get stuck in Southeast Asia with Nat and Wanda for a hostage op that turns into a two-week storm of adrenaline and zero sleep.
Time differences ruined your ability to talk. Sometimes you'd send a three-word text. Sometimes he likes it six hours later. Sometimes he sends a picture of a shitty cup of coffee with a single: miss yours.
Back on base, you miss him in hallways by hours. He leaves briefing rooms five minutes before you enter them. If you're off, he's not, and vice versa.
A racy picture here, a breathless phone call there, and neither of you being left alone for the same 10 minutes to do anything about it.
Until it marks almost two months since the night at the hotel.
Your body was sore, all you wanted was to wash your hair, get a face mark on, and sleep in your fuzzy robe until about 11pm when he'd sneak into your room. But as you walked through the compound, your phone pinged.
From: Buck
📍 43.7126° N, 110.6751° W
Your stomach lurched in your tummy, and you felt a surge of warmth spread over you as you bit your lip, grinning at the screen. Your footsteps got quicker on the way to your room, an everything shower and barely any packing in your mind.
Seconds later, your phone buzzes again.
From: Buck
I need you.
On the other side of the compound, Bucky tightens the straps on his duffel slung across his back. There is not a sleeping bag, tent, hiking boot, or single piece of wilderness survival gear in sight. He was wearing jeans and a henley he fucks in—not fishes in.
“Where you off to, Tin Man?” He didn't have to turn around to know it was Sam, accompanied by Steve, approaching his bike.
“Camping. Out of state. Off-grid a couple days.”
Sam raises an eyebrow. “Since when do you camp?”
Bucky smirks. “Since now.”
Steve blinked slowly, knowing there’s more to this but being too emotionally mature or exhausted to pry. “You got gear?”
Bucky slides on his helmet like the question doesn’t exist. “I’ve survived worse without a tent.”
He revs the engine and leaves before anyone can point out that two shirts and a half-empty Dopp kit don’t equal “camping.”
Your hair is styled. You’re moisturizing. Your bag is small enough to pass as a purse. Inside? A toothbrush, skincare, three pairs of lingerie, and zero hoodies, shirt, thermal leggings, hiking socks, or flannel.
You were walking down the hall to the elevator, an SUV with seat warmers waiting for you in the garage when you heard Nat's voice from behind you. "I'd ask you what's all that but its... not much."
"Heading out for the weekend.”
“Where?”
You keep your tone fluffy. “Camping. In Wyoming. With… college friends.”
Nat blinks. Once. Twice.
Her gaze slides from your perfectly blow-dried hair… to your freshly glossed lips… to the very much not outdoorsy clothes you’re wearing and the perfume that would definitely attract bears.
"Camping?"
“Yeah. Gonna… sit by a lake. Look at trees. Bond with nature. Be one with dirt.”
She’s silent for a full ten seconds. Then… she smiles. She lets you go with no fuss, immediately marching towards the kitchen like she's mid op.
“They’re going camping.”
Sam looks up. “Who is?” Nat folds her hands on the table. Smiles like the cat that ate the canary.
“Your favorite brooding senior citizen and our little chaos gremlin.”
“Barnes does not strike me as a s’mores guy unless s’mores is a sex position.” Joaquin piped up from a mouthful of Nerd Clusters.
Steve exhales. “They have been… weird lately.”
Sam leans back, dramatic gasp loading. “They’re sneakin’ off to a love shack.”
“In the woods. They will return pregnant or emotionally damaged.” Yelena seems more excited about the first one.
Joaquin chuckled. “Or both.”
Snow crunched under your tires as you pulled onto the secluded dirt road. Pines rise on either side like silent sentries. The sun is dipping low, staining the Wyoming sky a molten gold that glows against the frost. Your stomach tightens as the cabin comes into view—secluded, quiet, the lake beyond it frozen still as glass.
And then there’s him.
Bucky Barnes stands outside like he’s been waiting forever—leaning casually against his bike parked near the porch, breath fogging the air in slow, steady clouds. His henley stretches obscenely over his chest and arms, leather jacket hanging open like he’s daring the cold to challenge him. His jeans hug his thighs in a way that should be illegal.
He looks like 225 pounds of pure, coiled heat.
You step out of the car, shoes meeting the crunchy top layer of snow. The cold air bites your cheeks, makes your breath visible. He straightens from the bike, eyes fixed on you—calm, certain, but dark with something that’s been starving for weeks.
Every step toward one another is soaked in tension. You meet about halfway.
You drop your bag dramatically at his feet. It’s small. Embarrassingly small. More purse than luggage, really.
His gaze flicks to it, then to you—brow arching, equal parts question and disbelief. “That’s it?” he asks quietly, voice deep and scratchy with restrained amusement.
You meet his eyes head-on and smirk. “That’s all I packed.”
A slow grin curves along his mouth. He nods once—like he’s both amused and dangerously pleased.
Then, before you can blink, he grabs the bag with one hand and hooks the other behind your knees, hauling you clean over his shoulder in one effortless motion.
You squeal his name, half laughing, half breathless.
Your view was upside-down: him holding your bag in his metal hand, your ass supported easily by his other arm, boots swinging as he walks toward the cabin door with confidence that says he already knows exactly what’s about to happen once you’re inside.
The cold air bites at your thighs through the hem of your dress, but his grip is hot enough to make up for it.
Bucky walks into the cabin and your lungs fill with the scent of wood burning, wine, and that amber resin that only comes from blankets that have been stored for a while.
He sets you down with the utmost care in the world, and you take in the effort he put into this weekend already. The fireplace was lit, throw blankets on the fur rug like a love-nest, and next to it, a wooden coffee table with two wine glasses already resting on it.
You raise a brow slowly, smirking. “Wow. This some kind of plan, Bucky? Get me drunk so you can take advantage of me?”
Bucky just snorts, stepping forward with that lazy swagger that says he’s already got you right where he wants you.
“Take advantage of you?” he echoes, amused. “Sweetheart, you climb me like a tree when you’re sober. When you’re drunk, you’re like a damn jaguar in heat.”
You gape, offended and amused at the same time.
He nods once, dead serious. “A horny jaguar that thinks humping me is a personality trait.”
“Excuse me?” you sputter, crossing your arms even as heat crawls up your neck.
His lips twitch. “You know how many times I’ve woken up on a mission night to you half-asleep grinding on my thigh like you were tryin’ to assert dominance?”
You refuse to confirm or deny, rolling your eyes as you mutter, “Maybe you shouldn’t sleep so close.”
He tilted his head in that same infuriating way whenever he was right. “Maybe you shouldn’t sleep so needy.”
“Maybe you should—”
You don’t finish the sentence, because he’s already ducking his head to pepper slow, teasing kisses along the side of your neck. He lingers at that spot just under your ear, humming with satisfaction when your breath hitches.
“C’mere,” he says, voice dropping an octave as he steps backward toward the rug by the fire and lowers himself down, back pressed against the couch. He tugs you gently forward until you’re standing between his legs.
He guides you onto his lap effortlessly, hands sliding to your hips as you straddle him, your knees sinking into the thick fur while your body settles against his chest like it remembers the place.
Bucky pushed a strand of hair behind your ear and held your face in both hands, looking into your eyes like he was deciphering the hieroglyphs needed to read your soul.
Like he hadn't unraveled every secret you had and kept them in a drawer in his room, tucked with changes of underwear and a pair of soft shorts, along with a shirt you definitely stole from him.
He kisses you like you’re a memory he’s been clinging to for eight goddamn weeks—urgent, deep, almost grateful. His hands grip your thighs, anchoring you, as your fingers tangle in his hair and tug.
You press into him instinctively, your hips rolling once out of sheer muscle memory.
He groans into your mouth. “There she is,” he mutters, breath rough, lips brushing yours. “My little jaguar.”
You gasp a breathless laugh, "Shut up." That turns into a quiet moan into his mouth as his hands press your hips forward again, encouraging the friction you didn’t even realize you were fully chasing until now.
The friction starts slow, guided by his grip and your desperation. You’re both still half-dressed, clothes scraping together, breaths getting messier as the pressure builds and the world narrows to heat, motion, and the soft crackle of the fire.
Your hands move slowly to the hem of his shirt, fingers tracing his skin first—softly—before pushing it up. His hands leave your body just long enough to let you pull the fabric over his head, exposing his torso. Warm and taut, all muscle and some scarring, the hair on his chest tickling under your fingertips.
When he pulls your sweater and dress over your head in one motion, he does it carefully— like he’s unwrapping something he missed holding.
You watch him watching you, that intensity making your stomach twist in ways entirely unrelated to the heat between your thighs. You don’t feel bared — you feel seen.
His eyes linger over your white lace lingerie — one of the three you packed just for him. “…You wore this for me?”
You smirk, though your hum comes out softer than planned. Nodding and biting your lip, already leaning in for another kiss. When his hands grip your ass, yours fumble with the button and zipper of his jeans, pushing your hand past the hem of his underwear and stroking his cock inside of his jeans.
“See?” he rasps, voice cracked with need. “Didn’t even take a full minute before you went straight for it.”
You grind down against him deliberately. “You complaining?”
You stroke him again, slow, teasing, just to hear that sound again. His eyes flutter half-lidded as he exhales like he’s been waiting two months just to feel your hand on him again.
“Fuck,” he mutters, jaw tight. “You have any idea how bad I’ve needed this?”
Your pulse kicks at that. “Oh yeah?”
He nods slowly, gaze fixed on your lips. “Been thinkin’ about you touchin’ me like this every damn night. Hands under my clothes, whisperin’ in my ear while you use me how you want.”
You swallow, heat flaring hot in your chest.
You’re stroking him just enough to make him need more, watching his jaw clench like he’s trying not to lose it too fast. His grip on your hips turns almost bruising.
“Fuck—” he mutters, eyes squeezing shut for one second as your thumb drags along his waistband, tempting. “You really think I’m just gonna let you sit here and torture me?”
You raise an eyebrow. “Sounds like you’re handling it just fine.”
His eyes snap open—dark, glassy, amused.
“Sweetheart,” he says, voice low and ruined, “I’ve been handling it for eight goddamn weeks.”
And before you can get another word out, he moves.
His hands lock under your thighs, and in one fast, fluid motion, he shifts up onto his knees and throws you back onto the thick fur rug beneath you with a soft thud and a breathless squeal from your lips.
You blink up at him, caught between laughing and panting.
He hovers over you now, hair falling slightly into his face, breathing heavy, jeans still half open, your dress gone, lace soft against the rug.
His metal hand braced beside your head. His flesh one sliding slowly up your bare thigh, deliberate. He’s looking at you like something he’s been hunting and cherishing in equal measure.
His lips ghost your jaw.
“I pictured your face,” he goes on, slow, steady, voice a hot whisper. “Right when you’re about to get loud. When you’re trying so hard to hold it in for me but you just… can’t.”
You clutch at his henley, pulling him closer.
“You think I didn’t go crazy picturing this lace?” he teases hungrily, gaze dropping to what you’re wearing. “Knew it’d look good stretched over you while you beg me to touch you.”
Your back arches involuntarily.
“I missed you talking like this,” you whisper quickly—too honest, too needy.
He grins against your skin, breathing hard now. You whimper quietly as his fingers trace closer—waiting, teasing.
“And I missed watching you fall apart,” he breathes. “I missed making your eyes roll back. I missed you diggin’ your nails into my shoulders. I missed fuckin’ you so good you forget your own name until all you remember is mine.”
His mouth drags heat along your collarbone, your chest, lower still, as his hands coax your thighs further apart with gentle but unyielding pressure.
He looks up once, taking in your face right before he drives you up the wall, and then he lowers himself fully between your thighs, settling there like he plans to stay until he pulls every remembered sound from your throat—slow, steady, incredibly focused. Lace long forgotten in a pile of clothing that wouldn’t touch your body for 48 hours at least.
Your back arches at the first real contact, breath hitching as your grip in his hair tightens when he licks a strip up your slit and circles your clit with his tongue.
"F-fuck, baby..."
He hummed in quiet satisfaction against you, like he was tasting something he’d been dying without, and nuzzled his face further into you, lapping your juices up and down while his nose bumped your clit.
He breathes out a quiet, low laugh — pleased, intimate. “There we go. Look at you… can’t stay still, can you?” His voice is low, not mocking — proud.
“Bucky—” your voice catches when his tongue finds rhythm again, slow and focused.
“Say my name again,” he murmurs, eyes darting up to catch your expression. His voice is steady, coaxing. “C’mon, doll. Let me hear how bad you missed me.”
And you do. Because there's no nosy super spies listening in the vents, and no training sessions, briefings, or meetings to pull this thirsty man away from the oasis between your legs.
“There you go…” he whispers, closing his eyes for a second like he feels it as deeply as you do. “God, I missed how pretty you sound.”
“Please don’t stop,” you gasp, chest rising and falling faster. “Don’t stop—I’ve needed you so bad.”
His tongue roughens against you, responding to your voice as much as your body.
“You always know exactly how to—” Your breath breaks on a wavering sound when he thrusts his tongue in. “God, Bucky… you’re the only one who knows how to make it feel like this.”
His tongue works faster and his lips wrap around your clit, sucking the nerves and sending you into orbit. Your hips raised off the rug while your legs clamped around his head, big hands holding you down through your orgasm, working you through it.
You’re still shaking slightly, body flushed and oversensitized, yet aching in a new, overwhelming way that has nothing to do with just physical need.
So you reach for him.
You cup his face with both hands and pull him down into a kiss that’s not frantic — but full. Deep. His hand finds your hip, thumb stroking gently as if grounding himself in the reality of you.
When you pull back, you rest your forehead against his, breathing unevenly. “Bucky…” you whisper, voice soft but trembling with urgency.
He hums in response, thumb sweeping slowly along your cheekbone, waiting for whatever you need to say next.
“I need you,” you breathe — and the tone in your voice leaves nothing to interpretation. It comes out broken and wanting. “I need you inside me. Right now.”
Your hand gripped the length of him and lined him up with your pussy, neither of you breaking eye contact as he pushed the thick head in, not rushing but not giving you time to adjust either.
“Holy shit…” he mutters, eyes screwed shut for one second as he breathes through it. “I swear… you get tighter every time I’m away.”
Your lips part on a broken sound, heat flooding your chest. You roll your hips impatiently, needing more. “Bucky—”
“You feel that?” he murmurs against your cheek, voice thick and filthy. “That’s how tight you're choking me right now and I’m not even all the way in. You gonna let me all the way, baby? Gonna take all of me?”
“Y-yes,” you whisper, breath shaking. “Please.”
He laughs low — smug and a little breathless. “Begging already? Didn’t even give you the good part yet.”
“You’re such an ass—”
“Yeah, but you still want it,” he interrupts, kissing you hard — messy, teeth and tongue and desperation — before pulling back just enough to watch your face as he sinks in deeper, slow and deliberate. You gasp, nails digging into his shoulders.
He groans loud, head tipping back as he mutters, “Fuck. That’s it. Take me… just like that. Wanted this so bad it hurt.”
Your fingers scramble at his back, trying to hold onto something solid as your rhythm falls apart under him. “Harder,” you whisper — it sounds more like a plea than a demand.
He exhales sharply through his nose, satisfied. “Fuck, I love when you beg.”
“I’m not—” you try, but the protest cuts off when he does exactly what you asked. Your head tilts back, lips parted as an uncontrolled sound tears free.
“Mhm,” he hums, smug. “Yeah, you are.” He leans in close again, breath hot against your jaw. “Look at me,” he murmurs, voice wrecked.
You force your eyes open — and the second your glazed eyes lock with his, something shifts. You see how undone he is too — chest heaving, jaw slack, pupils blown wide with hunger and love tangled up together.
You feel a tremor ripple through you, and he sees it instantly. “There it is,” he rasps, grin gone now, replaced by raw intensity. “Feel it hittin’ you? Feel how good I’m making you feel?”
You nod, whimpering, fingers clawing at his shoulders.
“That’s right,” he whispers, voice gravel. “Only me. Nobody else gets to pull those sounds out of you.”
“Bucky—” his name leaves you like a prayer and a warning and something close to worship.
He kissed you hard, swallowing your breath. “I got you. Let go.”
His hand finds yours, fingers interlacing against the rug as you move together, breathless, desperate, claimed.
He finds a rhythm that's nothing like before—harder, faster, wrecked—and suddenly you’re not thinking in words or even sounds, just reactions.
“Fuck—”
“Yeah?” he pants, voice nearly a growl now, hips moving rougher, chasing something even he can’t hide from anymore. “Say my name—say it—”
“Bucky—oh God—”
“Louder,” he breathes, losing all rhythm for a second as you clench around him. “Let me fucking hear you—”
“I can’t—I—I—”
“Yes, you can,” he insists, voice wrecked, raw. His hand slides to your jaw, holding your face toward him. His eyes are wild now.
You meet his gaze—and the look on his face destroys you. His jaw is clenched, sweat dampening his temple, lips parted as he gives in to instinct. He looks desperate. Gone. Like if you asked him to die for you right now, he’d say yes.
“I’m close,” you admit in a broken whisper. “Don’t stop—don’t fucking stop—” You choke on a sobbing moan. “Harder—please—”
That word unravels him.
“Fuck—oh my God—you’re killing me,” he curses, slamming his forehead against yours, movements turning almost frantic, chasing the edge with you. “Come on, baby—give it to me—give it—come with me—”
"Bucky— oh God, please, please, please cum in me."
He cums first—just a moment, a hitched breath, a curse hissed against your neck that sounds like your name torn in half—and the heat of him spilling inside of you is all it takes for your world to snap, heat flooding through you like freefall.
He stays inside you. He doesn’t move away. He just breathes there, face buried in your neck as you both try to remember how lungs are supposed to work.
You made it to bed after a couple glasses of wine, a grilled cheese, and teasing him some more, falling asleep on your stomach with him draped over you like the worlds warmest — and oldest — weighted blanket.
Whatever dream you were having, Bucky woke up to your ass rubbing against him like you were short on rent. He was still a little sensitive from the road you just had right before bed, and the clock on the nightstand on your side showed something along the lines of 2:43am.
He felt himself get hard and your body rubbed harder against him if that was even possible. He groaned quietly, and his hand went under the covers to find your bare pussy drooling, absolutely crying for him.
"Bucky..." The little breathless whimper you let out told him you were crying for him too.
He bit his lip and didn't have much ceremony. You were so wet anyway he'd probably slide right in. He pushed his boxers down, and up sprang his leaking cock.
He turned on his side, almost draped all the way over you, aligned himself, and pushed in.
The first thing you become aware of is the weight.
Heavy, solid, familiar — draped over your back like he promised he always would be. Bucky sleeps like a furnace, arm slung around your waist, leg hooked lazily over yours like he’s making sure you can’t vanish in the night.
You were dreaming something warm… fuzzy… something with his voice in your ear.
You breathed his name again, groggy and fluttering, barely louder than when you were fully asleep. “Bucky…?”
His breath catches like a snapped wire, hips momentarily freezing against you. For a second you think he’s going to stop. Then his forehead presses into your shoulder and he lets out a groan that sounds like a confession.
“Fuck—sorry—’m trying—trying to be good,” he mutters, voice thick, wrecked from sleep and need. “Woke up with you grinding against me—couldn’t stop thinking about…” His breath stutters as his hips twitch again helplessly. “...about how wet you get when I wake you like this.”
A memory echoes in your mind—your voice from weeks ago, breathless, whispering in the dark with saliva and cum dripping down your chin after he thoroughly bruised the back of your throat.
If you ever wake up like that again… you don’t have to wait for me to wake up.
“Bucky,” you murmur, fully awake now, voice softer but lower. You shift back into him, deliberately this time. “You’re not doing anything wrong.”
There's a soft schlick schlick schlick of his body driving itself into you that drives you crazy. It's muffled by the comforter like its dirty, naughty, something you shouldn't be doing.
Something hushed and feral and needy that is required to happen, otherwise you feel like you're gonna explode.
“Don’t hold back,” you whisper, voice trembling with something hungry. “Please.”
A low sound escapes him — half relief, half feral praise. “Yeah?” he breathes, moving again, more certain now. “You want it this bad, huh? Needed me even in your sleep?”
You bite back a soft whimper as your body reacts, your thighs pressing together instinctively even though his hand is between them. Every roll of his hips sends heat curling up your spine.
He hears the broken sound you make when you try to steady your breathing.
And that’s it. His restraint snaps.
His mouth crashes against your shoulder, open, desperate, needy, teeth scraping lightly as he moans into your skin.
“That’s it… fuck, that’s it. Push back on me, c’mon,” he urges, tone filthy, forehead pressing to your neck as his rhythm builds. “Grind on me, baby, just like you were when you were out.”
You follow instinct, rocking your hips back into him, dizzy with how much you suddenly need this, need him. The friction is rough and perfect and not nearly enough — but his voice makes it feel like everything.
“That’s my girl,” he growls. “Rubbin’ that perfect little ass on me like you’re starving for it. You tryin’ to make me lose my mind first thing in the morning?”
You gasp into the pillow, fingers gripping the sheet. “I—God—I missed you,” you breathe, shaky. “Missed how you make me feel—needed this—”
“That’s right,” he whispers, voice thick, rhythm steady and possessive, every grind punctuated by a breathy curse.
You’re nearly sobbing now, hips moving helplessly in sync with his. “Bucky… I’m gonna—”
“Do it,” he pants. “Do it for me—come on, pretty girl, let me feel it.”
You break.
The pleasure comes in waves that steal your breath, your sound, everything but his name. You’re trembling, clutching the sheets like they’re the only thing anchoring you. His arm wraps around you, holding you firmly against him as you shake, riding it out. He breathes through a deep groan into your shoulder, almost like your release drags him to the edge too, but he doesn’t let go—he just clings harder.
“Well damn,” he whispers after a few long, quiet seconds, still pressed tight against you. You're pliant and hazy, boneless against him. “That’s my good girl.”
Your breath is still uneven, but your eyes are heavy again. He kisses a slow, almost apologetic line along your shoulder blade.
“You okay?” he asks softly. You hum something that sounds like yes, still catching your breath.
He shifts just enough to pull the blanket up over both of you, but not an inch further. His hold doesn’t loosen, his arm tightens around your waist, like he’s anchoring himself there.
“Gonna stay here,” he mutters into your hair, voice thick and low. “Don’t want to leave you. Not even to move.”
You’re too tired to fully answer, but you thread your fingers through his where his hand rests on your stomach, lacing them together. He lets out a shaky, content exhale.
One last soft kiss to the back of your shoulder.
“Go back to sleep, baby. I’ll be right here.”
And he was.
Pressed close, breathing warm and steady against your neck, wrapped around you like a shield. You fell asleep again with a weak smile and his weight still holding you down in the safest way you’ve ever known.
A few hours later, you woke up sore. The sky was still a deep indigo outside, the sort of dark that doesn't feel terrifying, just comforting. Like the world was standing still just for a few moments, just for you.
You turned, whining at the loss of him, just to be met with the most beautiful sleeping face you've ever seen.
He always sleeps deeper after he’s completely spent. You know that. You also know he fades into that soft, vulnerable state only you get to see—jaw unclenched, lips parted, lashes dark against his cheeks, chest rising steady and warm under your ear.
And you love him so much in this quiet, unguarded moment… you almost want to cry.
Bucky's breaths came out in soft puffs out of his mouth, his conscience somewhere in a dream land far away. Your gaze dropped to his neck, a couple marks on there left by your teeth, but they'd fade before any questioning eyes back at the compound could ask any questions.
His chest was uncovered by the thick blanket, the quilt only covering up to his waist, and the unmistakable tent under it grabbing your attention immediately.
It would be so mean of you to not give him a hand... or a mouth.
Your fingers slide slowly down his stomach, barely brushing along defined muscle. He shifts slightly in his sleep, a soft breath escaping him. The kind that sounds like the beginning of a moan. So you slip under the blankets. Settle between his thighs. And lower your mouth to him.
He stiffens almost immediately, hips twitching subconsciously, a groan rumbling low in his chest as his hand spasms against the sheet. You keep going, slow and controlled, every motion soaked in a mix of reverence and filth.
“Jesus…” His voice is sleep-rough when it finally breaks out of him. His hips jerk once, a shocked gasp leaving him as his hand drops into your hair on instinct. “Oh my—baby—fuck, are you—”
You hummed around him in response, not stopping.
“Holy—shit—” His head falls back on the pillow, voice cracking, breath stuttering as consciousness snaps fully into place. “You—you waking me up like this?”
You squeeze his thigh gently in affirmation.
He lets out a helpless, needy groan, chest heaving as he pushes up on his elbows to watch you under the blanket.
“Look at you,” he pants, voice completely wrecked already. “So hungry you couldn’t even wait for me to wake up properly.”
You don’t stop. You can’t stop. The sounds he’s making are addicting—sharp intakes of air, shaky groans, words turning to curses. He drops one hand over his face like he can’t take it, then moves it to your hair again, fingers curling as his breathing gets frantic.
“Shit—slow down or I’m—I’m not gonna last,” he warns, but his hips are already moving, rolling unconsciously into your rhythm.
You grip his hip to steady him—not to stop him.
He gets the message. “Fuck,” he whispers, voice dropping dangerously low. “You wanna make me lose it in your mouth, huh?”
You hum again, hot and breathy.
He laughs once, broken and disbelieving. “God, I’m so fucked for you.”
His breathing turns ragged. His grip in your hair tightens. His voice goes soft and frantic. “Don’t stop—don’t stop—please, don’t stop—”
You don’t.
He swears louder, hips snapping once as he loses the battle for control entirely. “That’s it—oh God, baby—fuck—“
And then he comes apart with a groan so raw it shoots straight through you, his head tossing back, chest arching, thighs trembling as he curses your name like it breaks him.
You stay with him through it, easing him down gently with soft breath and steady hands until he collapses back onto the mattress, breathing like he ran miles.
“Holy shit,” he exhales shakily, dragging a hand over his face. He sounds totally, helplessly gone.
You crawl up his body, settling on laying completely on top of him with your hands under your chin and on his chest, still warm with aftershocks. He wraps his arms around you immediately, dragging you in and holding you there like you belong pressed against his heart.
When he catches your mouth in a kiss, he groans softly into it.
When you pull away, both of you were smiling like this was it. Like being tangled in a blanket in the middle of nowhere was what you were put on this earth to do.
You got up to make breakfast, or whatever you could call waffles and fruit and a snack here and there. And when Bucky found himself leaning on the doorway, looking at you humming the same tune from that first night he wondered if this was always where he was supposed to be.
If he was meant to fall from that train to do more than assassinations and intel, if he was meant to do more than keep Steve alive long enough to save the world a couple of times.
If he was meant to be tortured and picked apart for 70 years just to find himself wrapped in a sheet watching you steal chocolate chips from the brownie recipe you were making, moving around the kitchen enough that he saw when you winced the slightest bit when you leaned down.
He could accept that, if it meant he could have you.
“Okay, they look like bad cubism work, but i tried to make smiley faces with the chocolate chips and i think it could’ve been way worse.” Yeah, he was never letting you go.
The rest of the day unfolds like time has been loosened around the edges.
It starts with what was supposed to be breakfast dishes. You’re laughing while rinsing out a bowl when Bucky crowds you against the counter, kisses turning needy fast. One moment you’re teasing him for burning waffles, the next you’re bent over the counter with his breath hot against your ear and his hands firm around your hips, both of you too lost in each other to care about anything else.
A couple of hours later, you both manage to put on clothes long enough to walk into the nearby woods. The air is crisp, pine-scented, grounding. Your fingers stay laced with his the entire time. He doesn’t talk much — just keeps looking at you like the sunlight was invented specifically to bounce off your smile.
The shower afterward is meant to be recovery. It isn’t. He pins you lightly against the tiles, kissing the water from your lips and laughing when you nearly melt into the stream just from his hands on your waist.
After dinner, a very nice marry-me chicken recipe Bucky had to watch multiple TikToks of to master, you found yourself in the bedroom, with tear stained cheeks, sticky, marked thighs hanging spread off the bed, with a super soldier standing naked in between them.
The lights were all off aside from the gleaming firelight coming from the living room, barely making through the ajar door, moonlight catching on the wet tears on your cheek and the spit gleaming on your lips from having him in your mouth not too long ago.
Not many people would call Bucky a sap, but if they knew how his heart cracked open every time you looked at him like this, they might.
His hand came to cradle your face, and you nuzzled into it, looking at him with such sheer and unadulterated adoration in your eyes, it felt like you wanted him to pull you apart thread by thread just so he could be the one to stitch you back together.
A thumb traced the wetness on your lips and you engulfed it in between the plush flesh, earning a groan from deep inside of his chest. When you hummed around his digit, the vibration went straight to his cock, twitching in muscle memory.
“M’girl looks like she was made to be fucked open for me.” He moved his hand and grabbed your jaw, still sticky with saliva, a silent demand for you to open your mouth, which you gladly complied, sticking out your tongue.
The hot, wet feeling of his spit landing on your tastebuds came not long after, and you swallowed with a smirk.
Bucky pushed you down the bed with his body, tongue demanding against yours, while his hands gripped your thighs to scoot you up. He ground his hips against yours, coating him in more of your slick, before pushing in.
You gasped against his mouth, and he leaned down just slightly to get his arms under your legs and throw it over his shoulders, leaning in to press your knees out and as close to your chest as physically possible.
"Oh, God, Bucky..." Your eyes rolled back. "Fuck. You’re… you’re so big,” you breathe, voice shaky as your thighs tense reflexively, body already bracing around him even before anything more happens. “Always feels… like too much.”
He gives a quiet, devastatingly confident hum, like your overwhelmed confession is the sweetest thing he’s ever heard.
“Yeah?” His voice is low, warm, full of pride. “That right, baby?” His thumb strokes the inside of your leg in a slow, grounding sweep. “Thought you liked me being too much.”
Your breath catches when he presses his weight down just enough to make you feel it everywhere, the pressure firm and consuming. You whimper and nod, head tipping back against the pillow as your fingers curl around his arm.
“I do,” you whisper, nearly gasping, your voice cracking under the strain of how full his presence makes you feel. “Feels like you’re—stretching me out… every time.”
Your legs tremble in his grasp, but he holds them steady, firm but careful, folding you deeper into the bed, a breathy cry slips out when the pressure increases, not painful—just intense. Deep. Inescapable.
“Bucky—” it spills out in a shaken whisper, your chest rising in quick, unsteady pulls of air. “Feels like you’re… everywhere. I can’t—I can’t breathe when you’re this deep.”
His head dips, eyes locked on yours as his breathing grows heavier. “Yes, you can.” he says gently, firmly, "You love feeling this full. Admit it.”
You’re stuttering, already arching into him even as overwhelmed tears prick at your eyes. “I do,” you gasp. “God, I do—it’s so much—”
And he makes it be even more with a thumb on your clit as he drives into you like he wants the only thing inside of your veins to be him. He feels you clench so tight around him you swear your insides are embossed with the veins of his cock.
You come gasping his name with your bottom lip between his teeth, his cum leaking out of your thoroughly spent cunt.
"Mmm, I love you." It's said in a haze, with the room spinning around your lightheadedness, but he knows it doesn't make it any less true.
You woke up with his arm is still wrapped around your waist, hand spread low over your stomach like a claim he made in his sleep. His chest was pressed against your back, slow breaths brushing the nape of your neck. He didn’t move far — if he moved at all. It’s like even in dreams, he held on.
You shifted slightly and realized your body was sore in a way that felt like remembering. He was already hard against you, silent and steady, like his body woke up wanting before his mind did.
He made a quiet sound in his sleep when you curled back into him instinctively. When you rolled your hips just a little — not even on purpose — his breath stuttered.
“Don’t start somethin’ y'can’t finish,” he murmured, voice deep, rough with sleep.
“I’m not starting anything,” you whispered, but your voice gives you away.
His hand tightened on your waist. “Uh-huh.” Silence stretches — soft, warm, waiting.
“I don't wanna leave today,” you said eventually, voice quiet.
He exhaled slowly into your shoulder, like the thought physically ached. “I know. Let's not move. Not yet.”
He shifted behind you, pressing in closer, and you felt it — the way he wanted you, slow and unhurried, like he had all morning to remind you your body is his favorite place to be in.
When he moved inside of you, it was gentle at first — lazy, testing, his lips brushing your shoulder. You breathed out shakily, already melting, already arching back into him.
“Still sore?” he asked quietly against your skin, smug in a way that only an utterly in love James Barnes could be.
“Yeah,” you breathed. “Still want you.”
He groaned low, like that undoes something in him. He kept you on your side, drawn tight against his chest, his hand guiding your thigh to hook over his. The movement was slow, intimate — more about closeness than urgency. His breathing deepened behind you; you could feel each exhale between your shoulder and your neck.
There wasn't rush, no frantic pace this time. Just heavy warmth, quiet praise, his lips brushing your ear while your fingers clutch at his forearm and soft sounds slip from your throat.
It’s a claiming that feels less like breaking and more like sealing something in place. By the time you both went still again, breath uneven, bodies pressed close under the covers, neither of you spoke. Not right away.
He stays inside the circle of your body like he belongs there — not rushing to pull away, not shifting to leave. Like maybe, just maybe, if he doesn’t move, morning won’t happen.
Eventually, in a low voice that sounded almost reluctant, he murmured, “We should start getting ready in a few.”
You hummed, not agreeing. He pressed one last kiss to your shoulder, lingering there before adding, “Five more minutes.”
You don’t tell him you’re giving him ten.
You don’t make it very far once you’re out of the bedroom.
He had you on the couch next — laughter dissolving into breathy moans as he pulls you onto all fours and sinks into a rhythm that leaves you pressed against worn cushions, his voice low and praising in your ear as the old cabin furniture creaks beneath you, feeling him etch his name in every corner of your soul so good that you had to bite down on the couch cushions to not be too loud, a feat you were much too accustomed to in the confined of both of your rooms.
The drive back was colder than the drive to. Maybe because the heat of anticipation wasn't there anymore, and you were getting back to sneaking around and your sacred Thursdays.
You took a longer route, to pretend you had to wait at the airport. By the time you reached the garage, you saw his bike parked right next to your spot.
The common room was occupied by Nat, Steve, Yelena, and the redhead's eyes traced an invisible string between you and Bucky.
"So.. How was camping?"
"Good." Neither of you meant to respond at the same time.
"Too cold?"
"Warm in the morning, cold at ni-" You glared at him like he was solely to blame for you two absolutely getting caught red handed and sore right then and there.
Natasha smirked. "Welcome back, not-so-stelthy super spies."
At first, no one wants to assume anything when the noise starts. It’s 3:24 A.M. Maybe someone’s just doing an aggressive nighttime workout. Pushing a dresser around. Wrestling a demon. Practicing taekwondo on the wall.
But then the bedframe starts slamming rhythmically against the wall like it’s trying to communicate in Morse code.
And someone gasps way too high-pitched and breathless for this to be cardio-related.
Sam wakes up and pads down to the kitchen to find that he's been the last one to be pulled from his REM sleep by a horny centenarian and his insatiable, inappropriately young girlfriend.
Steve has his head in his hands like he's trying to muffle his ears, forehead resting on the cool table.
THUD. THUD. THUD.
They could hear Bucky's low "Sweetheart, fuck— keep—" followed by a grunt. And what sounded like some hard object dropping to the floor.
Yelena looked at the ceiling in horror when they heard your muffled whines, "Bucky—oh God!" pleading him not to stop.
Sam climbed on a countertop and got his mouth close to the vents. “WE KNOW IT’S BUCKY, WE KNOW, PLEASE.”
And in the symphony of your moans and his grunts, Natasha just piped up from behind her coffee mug. "Does anyone miss when they were sneaking around?"
Every single person in that room raised their hands.
a/n: this was fun to write, can you tell I went home last night and cracked my husband like a woman possessed?
Pairing: New Avengers Bucky Barnes x Female Reader
Summary: Bucky Barnes always taught you to respect the cold. But now, stranded together after a mission gone wrong, you learn exactly what happens when you don't heed his warnings.
Warnings/Tags: 18+ MDNI, porn with a delectable plot to feast on first, friends to lovers, mutual yearning, some angst, some fluff, lots of smut, hurt/comfort (for safety, i don't think it is?), drunk reader, mentor!Bucky, forced proximity, hypothermia symptoms, there's only one bed sleeping bag, fingering, unprotected p in v in multiple positions (please wrap it before you tap it), no use of y/n, no descriptors that i'm aware of (please let me know if that's false). Nicknames used: rookie, sweetheart, sweet girl, good girl, perfect angel, solnyshko (you'll see what it means, but it is sweet)
Word Count: 11k
Chirps: I've been kicking around this idea for awhile, but it is a mix of a few different WIPs I had going. I genuinely don't have much to say about it, except this pairing has my entire heart. If you enjoy them, come yell at me so I can write a sequel that is sitting in my WIP folder.
Dedication: @miraclediviner for the beta read, even though they have a million other things going on. who single handedly stopped me from putting my head through a wall after I reread this too many times and about gave up. you're a real one, mecca 🩵 love you pookie
Honorable Mention: I'd like to thank the glorious @houseofhyde for putting me on Mentor!Bucky. If you haven't read their stuff, what on earth are you doing here?!?! Go forth and read their work, everything they put out is a masterpiece. Though my take on him is a bit different, that man has (and could get me) in a chokehold, quite literally.
I'll stop yapping now. On to the story!
Bucky Barnes had taught you many things since you were placed under his wing as a New Avenger.
Ibuprofen and water will fix 90% of injuries. Sleep and eat whenever you feel safe — you never know when you will be able to again.
And always, always, always respect the cold.
Those words had settled under your skin the moment you touched down in the Swiss Alps for this mission. When someone who used to hold the moniker of Winter Soldier tells you to respect the cold, that was something that stuck with you. Even though you hadn't begun the mission anticipating this would be the outcome.
Waking up in a pitch black room, the cold gnawing at your skin, like it had been circling you while you slept and had finally pounced at the first sign of vulnerability. Seeping into every crack of your body, through the thin fabric of the sleeping bag you were currently wrapped in, permeating your still damp clothing and maneuvering down to the marrow of your bones.
The fire must have gone out sometime after you had both gone to sleep. The final gut punch in the entirety of a mission gone wrong.
"Bucky," you called. But your voice came out sluggish and foreign. Like it didn't belong on your tongue or falling from your numbed lips even though his name was a cornerstone of your speech most days.
He didn't stir, a soft snore coming from where you had watched him make himself comfortable. Directly between you and the door, just in case this safe house, too, was compromised.
"James," you tried again, voice edged in panic you hoped he'd hear. Trying to force the urgency into every syllable. Your pulse was hammering under your ribs, the distinct feeling that something was wildly, wildly wrong. But your brain couldn't focus on anything past how cold you were.
Always respect the cold.
Had you somehow caused the god of winter displeasure? Maybe it was when you complained the entire hike here how snow and ice was getting into your boots, saturating your second to last dry pair of socks you packed for this trip. Excuse you for not being grateful for the winter wonderland after almost dying in a shootout.
"Bucky," you called again, as loud as your voice could go, words sticking oddly to the back of your throat. You fumbled with the zipper of your sleeping bag, attempting to find him in the darkness. Your muscles had apparently decided now was a great time to stop working. To shiver so uncontrollably every move felt like you were being electrocuted.
You crawled to his sleeping bag, pushing on his shoulder. "Buck…it's — the fire's out," you stammered as your teeth chattered.
That finally got him to stir, rolling over in the darkness. "Alright, rookie. What's the first thing you do when you wake up cold on a mission?"
It was always a teaching moment with him. "Uhm…" you paused, searching for the right words. Which was ridiculous, you knew what to do. In some corner of your brain that was just frozen over and needed to defrost. "I…wake you up so I don't turn into a Popsicle?"
Bucky chuckled, the sound still rough with the edges of sleep. But it's brief. Like he was waiting for the actual answer beyond the sarcastic comment. But it didn't come. It couldn't form in the haze you were currently swimming in.
For a moment you felt almost bad for waking him up. Because truly, you would not have survived the mission without him in the first place, and so he did deserve rest. Not to be woken up by his trainee who couldn't focus beyond the way her teeth were chattering and how her skin felt oddly prickly.
"Nice try, what would you do if I wasn't here?" he asked gently, turning his back to you, stoking the small embers in the fireplace in an attempt to get it started again.
You paused, momentarily mesmerized by how the orange and gold glowing lights of the coals danced in the darkness. You blinked against the hypnotic scene. Brain working overtime, screaming that he asked a question, but the words coming from his mouth sounded like he was talking underwater.
"You're always…here though. And 'm…too tired." You tried talking past your aching jaw, past the tightness in your chest that felt like you were drowning, past the sharp sting every time you took a breath, but it wasn't working. All those years spent training just seemed to be futile in this very narrow moment. Was your vision going now too? Flames danced in front of your eyes as it sparked back to life. Maybe you just needed to sleep now that the fire was going. Yeah…that — that sounded like a plan.
You wanted to crack a joke. Usually that would've been so easy. The kind of half-muttered banter that always coaxed a laugh from the normally stoic soldier. But your tongue felt too thick, the cold running too deep to think of a punchline.
Bucky's entire being stiffened as he suddenly turned to face you, features shadowed in the dim light the small flame was producing. "Hey, are you okay? What's going on?"
He was in front of you in a blur of motion, everything slowed down as you looked at your trembling hands. "'m fine, I think. S'just….little cold. Can't really….feel my fingers."
His brow creased as he examined you, shaking like a leaf even though the fire was starting to heat the small room. Past the fogginess of his tired brain, he could see the paleness of your lips, and the ashen sheen your skin had taken. And those things brought his alertness front and center.
His hands never shook, not even now with fear crawling up his throat. But his voice was hoarse when he spoke. Like he'd been screaming into the void for hours. "Fuck."
The back of his hand pressed against your forehead. Burning against your skin, a strange kind of warmth, almost painful after all that cold. His touch softer than you expected as it moved to your cheek. He muttered something, words you couldn't quite catch before his fingers skimmed down to your wrist.
"When's the last time you ate?" he asked, voice even but you heard the edge beneath it. Was it…concern? For what? You were just a little tired and cold from the fire going out.
You tried to laugh it off, but the sound got caught in your throat. "Uh…'m a lil fuzzy on the…probably before the firefight? On the jet?"
"Not good enough, you know better."
He knew better. As the sole person responsible for your safety, he should've watched you closer. Should've realized that you had just changed clothes and curled into the sleeping bag.
His hands didn't stop moving. He checked your clothes finding nothing but cold fabric. Some of it still damp. Your pack must have gotten soaked when you ran from the chaos. With nothing else dry, you just made do.
Nothing about you was warm.
You weakly tried to bat his hands away, but it felt like you were encased in quicksand. Your hand just barely made it to his forearm. "Stop fussing. Was tired…you — you made me hike up a mountain, Barnes."
"Yeah, yup. You're right. This is a hundred percent on me." He would gladly shoulder the blame at this point if it meant you kept talking. Talking meant you were still coherent enough to make it through without medical intervention. His hand easily caught yours, holding it steady despite how you still shivered. His thumb tried to rub warmth into your cold knuckles.
You caught the hitch in his breath as he threw a threadbare blanket around you, his jaw clenched tight enough you could see the muscles protruding from his cheek. The only form of body language betraying his fear.
"You're such a bad sergeant letting your rookie get this cold," you tried to tease, but the words came out punctured in the wrong spots, syllables falling over each other.
He didn't laugh like you expected when you teased him. Why? Instead, his hands were back, moving with trained urgency on your body, faster than you could comprehend. Pushing the sleeve of your shirt up to check your elbows, the base of your neck. Anywhere a pulse would be. His movements controlled, careful, unrelenting no matter how much you tried to get away from his coddling.
Bucky tucked the blanket further around you and was immediately ripping through his pack, a checklist already forming in his mind. Food first, if he could even get you to eat past the way your teeth were clacking together. Warm clothes next, if he had any. But he didn't and neither did you.
Because this was not how the mission was supposed to go.
He found a granola bar, a warmer blanket, still cursing himself for being unprepared and watching the consequences of it play out in real time.
"Alright you — eat this," he gently set the bar in your lap, turning to stoke the fire. The last thing he needed was for it to go out again.
You tried to pick it up, but it was clear your motor functions had taken a sabbatical. "B-Bucky, I — I can't…" you muttered, fingers tugging helplessly at the wrapper, your hands trembling so hard the bar nearly fell to the floor. But you could not for the life of you summon the strength to pull the foil apart.
"Shit, I'm sorry, sweetheart," Bucky was in front of you faster than your brain could comprehend. He shook his head, easily discarding the wrapping, throwing it directly into the fire. The coals hissed and crackled at the intrusion. "C'mon, now, open up."
"N-no airplane sounds?" you teased, trying to find the humor past the way your vision was tunneling. Your jaw shook violently, muscles continuing to spasm as your body worked overtime to heat up.
He smiled weakly, but the blue of his irises held no humor. "Not right now, just try to chew, okay? I don't need you choking on me."
The granola felt like sandpaper in your mouth, rough, coarse, wrong. Bucky's hand slid to the back of your head, holding you firm. Fingers worked at the knots in your neck, trying to ease the tension from the jitters, but you barely registered the warmth.
His touch should have been startling, bare skin on bare skin, heat seeping into you like sunlight after a year of rain. Instead, you couldn't feel it. Couldn't feel anything at all. Just the soft press of his palm against you, the gentle drag of his thumb across your wrist, sending little sparks of sensation to places that were slowly going dark.
Everything felt distant, your hands, your mouth, even your own voice. Your consciousness felt like it was being pulled further and further out to sea, while your body stayed on the shore.
Every time you had to force yourself to swallow it felt like dragging yourself uphill.
"Atta girl, just a little more for me." Bucky's voice sounded close and far away all at once.
You tried to reach for him, hoping he could anchor you in this fog that was settling in your mind. But you missed, fingers flailing as they landed clumsily on his arm. Your tongue was too heavy to form words, you couldn't even ask for what you needed. Not that you even knew, your brain going fuzzier even as you managed the last bite of the granola bar. Words lost before they even had a chance to form.
"Alright rookie, we gotta get these layers off before this really sets in." It almost sounded like a plea. "I'll scold you later for not changing into something drier."
Before what sets in? Thoughts ebbed and flowed through your brain, but none of them could conjure up what that meant. Before you could even protest, his hands were on you. Moving carefully, but without hesitation. Lifting your arms, peeling your shirt up and over your head. The small warmth of the fire prickled at your bare skin like tiny needles.
You wanted to make a joke about him needing to at least buy you dinner first before he undressed you, but it wouldn't come. Maybe that was for the better. Your brain couldn't keep up with your mouth anyway.
"I'm sorry," he apologized quietly. So soft you thought your ears were deceiving you as he moved your limbs more, stripping off your socks and pants, laying them by the fire.
You weren't even sure if the apology was more for your benefit or for his. And what was he apologizing for? The mission? The fire going out? Undressing you when you really didn't know what the problem was? But your trust in him ran deep enough in your psyche you didn't question why it was happening. Bucky Barnes was a man of many things, but taking advantage of you while you were barely comprehending your movements was not one of them.
In a blur, he was shucking off his own shirt and pants, movements hurried. You watched his breath fog in the air. And why was he suddenly getting undressed? Not that…you were complaining. If you could get the synapses of your brain to connect, you'd likely tell him that all he was succeeding at was giving you heart palpitations at the new expanse of muscle in front of you. But your body felt like it was floating into the night with the smoke of the fire and up the chimney.
"Okay, c'mon," Bucky coaxed. "We're doing this the old-fashioned way with body heat." You felt the brush of the sleeping bag as he opened it wide, bringing it under your legs.
You couldn't fight him. You didn't want to. Not when the single thought you were holding onto was that Bucky was safe. He was going to keep you safe, no matter what.
He guided you in, tucking your limbs close as he followed, the scent of him wrapping around you mixed with smoke and cold air and something sharp and familiar. Home. This is what home and safety smelled like, you continued to remind yourself.
He pressed his forehead gently to yours, just for a second and you felt his breath — warm and real and present — grounding you when everything else felt like it was spinning away. He tucked your head under his chin, shifting so you could lay on the warmth of his arm. You hummed weakly in contentment even while you still shook from the cold.
You wanted to apologize for acting like this, to tell him that this was eons better than being in a sleeping bag alone, but you couldn't control the tremors jarring your muscles. The zipper's soft rasp suddenly sounded impossibly loud in the small room as he sealed you both into the bag, trapping all of the heat between you
"Keep talking to me, sweetheart," he whispered, the words fell around the crown of your head as he brought you in as close as he could. Big arms wrapped around your body until there wasn't an inch of skin left untouched by his.
"Your bicep makes the best pillow…" you finally conjured around your clacking teeth, settling against his chest. The warmth of him and the sleeping bag was faint at first, but soon all encompassing, effective at melting the polar ice caps that seemed to have settled over your being.
You felt him laugh, soft and disbelieving that that was the first thing out of your mouth after asking for airplane noises. His arms wound impossibly tighter around you while his hands traced gentle lines along your spine. "Yeah," his voice was thick with an emotion you couldn't quite place. "You've told me that before."
Your first real mission with the New Avengers ended in some dive bar, which felt like a test and a celebration all rolled into one. Yelena Belova and Ava Starr challenged you to a drinking contest, something about an initiation for all new members after their first successful mission. You really should have known better. Considering you were the only new member after the press conference announcement. But you'd spent most of the past few months trying to prove you belonged. And it was hard to say no when everyone was watching you.
So you succumbed to the peer pressure. You lost track after the fifth or sixth shot or fuck, maybe even seventh. You vaguely remember announcing your intention to climb onto the bar for a Coyote Ugly routine — something you would have regretted for the rest of your life.
And you would have, if Bucky hadn't stopped you just as your foot was about to grace the bar top.
His arm slipped around your waist, steady and warm, lifting you easily and anchoring you to the floor before you could embarrass yourself.
"No ya don't. Let's get you back to the Watchtower." His deep voice cut through your vodka fueled idea with enough authority you gave a mock salute.
You let him steer you through the crowd, clinging to his side like a drunken kitten. It was just easier to have Bucky take the lead. After all, Valentina had assigned you to him ever since she scoped you out to join the team. Supposedly so you could 'learn from the best', but all you seemed to be learning was how to trail after him like a shadow.
You knew how to fight, knew how to cling to the darkness and sneak around, knew how to fire a weapon with ease. Why else would Valentina have plucked you off the streets to join the team?
So what was there to learn? Not much in terms of weapons and defense. Instead, you watched. Absorbed as much as you could about your new teammates so you could fit in and learn the order of things.
Often wishing the person you called a mentor would see you as something more than just his rookie or responsibility in the days since you had been introduced.
It was easy to fall for someone who pulled you out of danger and put himself in harm's way without a second thought, whether that be gunfire, scolding from Valentina, or you just getting caught in the cross hairs of an argument between Walker and Bob. Easy to fall for someone who carried you to the med wing even if it was just for a scratch. Easy to love someone that made you laugh even while in the middle of enemy fire. Who called you "rookie" like it was both an insult and a secret term of endearment that was meant only for you.
Harder, though, to believe he'd ever see you as anything but another problem to manage.
You were halfway to serenading a streetlight with likely the worst "Singin' in the Rain" impression in New York history when Bucky caught your wrist. Even then, some part of you was afraid he'd let you go. Let you embarrass yourself. But Bucky never did. Never left you to weather the worst of yourself alone.
"Come on, solnyshko," he said, rolling his eyes but softening the words with a smile. "Let's get you home before you start professing your undying love to the street lamps."
That stopped you, one hand still wrapped around the cold metal pole. That nickname was new. And even as your eyes met his, through your hazy mind, you could almost see the flash of shock on his features that it had slipped out so easily.
"Why would I profess my love for an inanimate object?" you slurred as he tugged you toward a waiting taxi. "Lampposts don't call me sweet names in languages I barely understand. Or keep me from passing out in alleys. Or save me from myself in public. People who do those things are much more worthy of my love."
Bucky only shook his head, muttering something he knew you wouldn't understand in Russian as he guided you into the backseat.
Solnyshko, he had called you. The word lingering in your foggy mind, warming the hollow places you'd almost convinced yourself would be empty forever.
The cab pulled away from the curb, city lights blurring outside in a mix of greens and yellows. He settled beside you, keeping a measured, protective distance you couldn't help but close, resting your head against his shoulder. Normally, you were careful to give him space. Respecting invisible boundaries he never needed to say out loud, but you seemed to realize anyway.
But tonight, between his warmth, your exhaustion, and the vodka Yelena all but poured down your throat, you let yourself lean in, feeling his steady presence more than anything else. You felt him tense for all of half a heartbeat before his arm raised to drape around your shoulders, allowing you to get closer, and relax.
"It means 'little sun'," Bucky said softly, his voice low over the cab noise. The words curling into your mind like a cat finding a comfortable spot in a sliver of light.
You hummed in response, letting your eyes close. Breathing in the safety you found only with his presence, and under the warmth of his attention. "I think I like that better than 'rookie'. Even if I can't pronounce it right now."
The cab ride blurred into a shiny elevator, rising and falling beneath your unsteady feet, then into dimly lit hallways echoing your laughter that tangled with Bucky's patient shushing. At some point, he pressed a hand over your mouth to keep you quiet, but you both dissolved into helpless giggles in the hush of the Tower.
Your memory blinked in and out, every time you opened your eyes in what you swore was a millisecond, scenes shifted in front of you. The next thing you knew, you were perched on the edge of Bucky's bed.
You had never been afforded the luxury of being in his room before, but it seemed to match his entire being. Private, precise, everything in its place — except for you, out of place, dizzy, and so tired. Bucky was kneeling at your feet, unlacing your boots with the same care he handled a weapon on the battlefield. His touch so gentle it made something in your throat ache.
"You're awake again," he said in amusement, his eyes catching yours as he set your boots beside his by the door. Your jacket was folded neatly on an armchair, ready for your inevitable walk of shame in the morning.
Bucky never allowed chaos, and yet…here you were. Chaos incarnate wrapped in too many shots, bad decisions, and poor impulse control.
"Why am I in here?" The words slipping out before you could stop them, loose and honest, every filter you normally had in place gone with the vodka.
He only smiled, still kneeling in front of you. His arms were braced on either side of your hips. "And leave you to wake up hungover and confused? What kind of leader would I be if I left you to your own devices after you tried to drink Yelena and Ava under the table?"
You looked down at your knees, now a little embarrassed. "Not my finest moment, I suppose."
Bucky laughed, soft and private, like it was a sound he only ever saved just for you. "It's okay. I'll scold them for taking advantage of my rookie later."
My rookie. The way he said it made your heart swell even though it shouldn't, equal parts comfort and ache. Because that's all you were. Always his responsibility, never just his.
He cleared his throat, as if he could hear the alcohol-addled thoughts swirling in your mind, and suddenly decided space was the best course of action for them. "Now, do you want something to change into?"
You nodded, suddenly very aware of the scratch of denim against your skin and the way the events of the night had seeped into your outfit. Even as sleep tugged at your eyelids, you knew you would regret drifting off in his clean sheets in your street clothes.
He pressed a simple black t-shirt into your hands. It was well worn, soft and smelling so unmistakably like him it made you feel dizzier than that lost shot of vodka. You wondered if he had any idea what it meant, handing you something of his. The fabric feeling more like an answer to a question you'd never dare ask out loud. "Bathroom's over there. Try not to pass out before you change, okay?"
"Think I'll manage," you mumbled, yet the world tilted unpleasantly as you made your way to the door. You steadied yourself against the wall still clutching the shirt like a lifeline.
The smell of it so familiar it ached. Sandalwood, leather, and the barest hint of gunpowder. If you were blindfolded, you'd probably be able to find your way to him by scent alone. Your senses so attuned to the idea he meant safety, nothing else ever mattered.
You changed, clumsy but ultimately triumphant as your limbs worked past the increased blood alcohol haze. You padded back to the bedroom, the oversized shirt reaching just to mid thigh, swishing around your legs as you moved.
The room was dimmer now, save for a light on the bedside table casting the room in a glow that felt entirely too romantic for what this was meant to be. A platonic sleepover. Another problem you were having Bucky solve in the mess that was you.
In this honeyed light, it softened the sharp lines of Bucky's silhouette as he leaned against the couch. He'd changed too while you had fought with your clothes. Sweatpants, a t-shirt that matched yours, looking entirely too vulnerable for someone you'd personally watched break jaws without flinching.
He gave you a lazy half-smile. "Congratulations, you didn't pass out. Gold star, rookie."
You snorted. "Ha, thanks. Was a bit touch and go for a minute."
"You take the bed, I'll just be on the couch," he said, already moving to pull the covers back for you.
You sat on the edge of the mattress, feeling the cool, soft sheets against your bare skin, and the urge hit you. Sudden, sharp, maybe a little puerile, but so, so honest after the echo of the team's laughter in a crowded bar had faded. This was the only kind of honesty you could muster. Asking him to stay not because you were drunk, but because you couldn't bear the thought of drifting alone in the quiet after so much noise.
"No," you blurted as he turned away. Your hand shooting out to catch his wrist, surprising even yourself. "Don't…don't go over there."
Bucky wavered, caught off guard at your request. "You…you want me to —?"
You nodded in earnest, fingers still holding him like you were worried he would slip away. For a moment, you thought he'd refuse. Draw one of the invisible boundaries you always tried so hard not to cross with him. Your heart stuttered, bracing for disappointment already.
It wasn't the drinks or the exhaustion of the mission making your chest ache. It was the weight of having done everything right and still feeling like the floor might drop out at any moment. Success was supposed to feel like safety, but all it did was remind you that people were watching you now like they never had before. Waiting for you to prove you were worthy enough for a place on this team.
You wanted something easy, something soft, something inviolable. And right now, that meant Bucky. "Please, I don't…I don't want to be alone."
Bucky wanted — should have — protested. To say that no, you were drunk and you wouldn't remember why you were waking up next to him in the morning. Even if nothing was going to happen.
But your eyes were big and glossy, pleading in a way that was breaking down every single piece of armor he carefully crafted when it came to you.
He hesitated, but ultimately relented, climbing into bed beside you, letting you fold into his side. You immediately curled against him, finally feeling at rest. The ache in your chest easing as the world narrowed to the safe harbor of his arms and the smell of clean cotton and sandalwood.
You told yourself you'd forget in the morning. Chalk it up to the alcohol causing you to be so clingy and make a self deprecating joke. But even as sleep tugged at you, some stubborn, hopeful part of you just knew. That this was the kind of night you'd press between the pages of your memory and keep forever.
In the hush of the room, you drifted, half-awake, feeling his arm settle lightly on your shoulder. And, because the vodka clearly had you saying whatever jumped to the forefront, you mumbled into his chest: "Your bicep makes the best pillow."
A low laugh rumbled beneath you as he pulled you closer, tucking the sheets around your tangled limbs. You wondered if he understood the way you meant it, the kind of truth that only spilled out in the dark, when you were too tired to be afraid of what you wanted. As sleep pulled you under, you thought you could hear him whisper, barely audible, right at your ear: "Goodnight, solnyshko."
The memory flickered, gone as quickly as it had come, leaving only the ache of warmth receding and the harsh reality of cold settling in again. Bucky's arms held you tighter, willing heat back into your body with every pass of his hands up and down your spine.
You felt the tremor in his breath before you heard it. A shiver rippling through his nervous system that had nothing to do with the cold. His voice was no longer the steady thing you were used to. Taking on a raw vulnerability you had only heard once when you had somehow jumped in front of a bullet for him.
"Stay with me, solnyshko. Please."
The nickname sounded different now. No longer a gentle tease used to get you away from off-key singing to a street lamp, but a plea. He was saying it like it was a prayer, landing in the space between you like an invocation.
"You gotta be okay. You don't get to check out on me now. Not after everything. I — I still need my little sun."
Your shivering had slowed from the slow warmth, but your vision was still fuzzy. Your tongue still felt too heavy and lopsided in your mouth. Instead of answering, you focused on the weight of the blankets and the sleeping bag at your side, the press of his chest, the rhythm of his voice.
You let yourself drift, clinging to the sensation of being held. Every sweep of his hands over your back grounded you, calling you back from a freezing darkness that was threatening to swallow you whole.
Your fingers tapped where they were pressed against his skin, a silent acknowledgement that you were still here, just stuck behind plate glass and fog for a short while longer.
The convulsions that had racked your muscles now came in fits and bursts, replaced by a strange aching warmth as feeling returned. It almost hurt, the way your nerves fired back to life one by one, like stepping into a hot shower after too long in a freezing pool of water.
Bucky kept talking, threading stories between breaths, pulling you back toward consciousness while your head was tucked underneath his chin, his hand curling at the base of your neck to hold you in place.
"Hey," he murmured, thumb tracing circles against your back, "you remember Paris? You let it slip that you hadn't seen Casablanca, and I had to fix that."
Your head nodded, nose brushing against his collarbone with each pass.
"I pulled it up on my phone in that terrible little hotel room with the threadbare sheets. I really didn't expect you to cry."
A shaky laugh escaped you, quiet and strangled, but real. Your lips curled up, just a little. "You cried," you managed, but the words were as slurred and soft as they were teasingly accusatory.
Even now, the memory was fuzzy at the edges, but you remembered the way he'd found tissues and pressed them into your hands. While also pretending not to wipe his own eyes. You remembered how you'd felt safe enough to let yourself be that sensitive. It wasn't the first time and it certainly wouldn't be the last in his presence. How your head had fallen onto his shoulder once the movie ended, safe enough to let your true self be seen.
You felt his fingers tighten at the nape of your neck when he heard your voice, his bicep flexing underneath your ear, and something akin to relief gently roll through him. His touch steadied you. You could feel his pulse now, thudding beneath your cheek. A lifeline you didn't know you needed.
"I did," he continued, though he had vehemently denied it when it happened. Threatening bodily injury upon you if you so much as whispered it to your teammates. "It had been so long since I saw it. Didn't think it would hit me as hard as it did."
He kept talking, voice low and steady as the room grew warmer. "You hogged all the blankets on that mission. It wasn't the first time. Or the only time I let you."
You hummed, eyes fluttering through another shiver the more your body temperature came back to normal. Your limbs felt tingly the warmer you got, uncomfortable in a way you couldn't quite describe. The pins and needles feeling more like static shock through your whole body.
You winced at the strange, electric sensation running through your limbs. It was agony and comfort tangled in one. But every time he touched you — his palm against your back, his arm curved around your waist — it was easier to stay here than let the frozen tundra claim you. Tethered to the present, to him.
"You're okay, I know it hurts now. Just means you're coming back."
A pathetic noise escaped you as your fingers tapped a steady motion on the hard planes of his chest. It hurt to talk; your jaw still ached from how hard your teeth had knocked together from the cold.
"Strange how you always seek me out to sleep next to in those missions. Especially when you complain that I snore."
"You do snore," you mumbled as another involuntary spasm ran the length of your body, your muscles rebelling at the warmth they were relearning to hold.
"Yeah, well, you're not so innocent yourself, rookie. I've still got a bruise from when you somehow kicked me off of that tiny twin mattress we had to share in Belarus."
"I'm blaming that on Walker, he took the one good bed. Asshole."
Another deep sigh left him, and you could feel the tension in his body continuing to bleed out of the sleeping bag. Like in the grand scheme of things you calling John Walker an asshole was the signal that you were almost out of the woods.
His hands never stopped moving. Circling warmth into your skin, keeping you secured to the present. When Bucky spoke again, his voice was quieter. Devoid of the humor from earlier, but not the warmth.
You felt the atmosphere change, the way his next words landed heavy and true in the small space between you. There was something in the way he held you that your brain was just now comprehending. Like he was afraid to let go.
"Can't put all the blame on you I don't think. Sometimes it was me. Sneaking into your bed. Just…easier. Sleeping next to you."
"I get it," you whisper, finally feeling the fog break in your mind. Your eyes blinked open again, the world still blurry at the edges, but slowly coming into focus. "My bed feels too big without you in it."
You didn't mean for it to sound like a confession, but it came out that way anyway. The truth of all those nights you had spent wrapped in each other slipping out as you thawed.
Your head tipped back as far as the confines of the sleeping bag and Bucky's iron grip at your back would allow. Just enough to meet his eyes in the low light of the fire. Your heart fluttered like a caged bird when you saw the worry in the depths, etched across every line and plane of his face.
Even in the dim glow you could see the relief sweep through him, the telltale softening at the corners of his eyes, the subtle tilt of his brows.
You wondered if he knew how much you needed him. That you were only here right now because of him. How much of your bravado was just a cover for how safe he made you feel.
"There you are." His thumb traced the apple of your cheek in a move so gentle it would have brought tears to your eyes if you could figure out how to summon them. "You have no idea how worried I was. Still am. Don't do that again."
His voice was too raw for comfort. Gone was the tone he used when he gave you commands on the battlefield. Replaced instead with a broken whisper. You'd never heard him sound like that before. The sound made your throat ache, made you want to match the way his hand was cupping your face, but you were still working out how to move in your thawing body.
You let out a breath of laughter, unfurling into the cold air like a pale flag. "I didn't mean to. But I'm nothing special, Buck. You would've done the same for anyone on the team."
"You really think that? You really think I'd be half naked in a sleeping bag with any of them? Least of all Walker? And you know Yelena would've stabbed me before I even tried."
"Quite the visual you're painting, Barnes."
His grip tightened, like he could make you believe his words through his touch alone. "Don't. Don't you dare say you're nothing special."
"Bucky —"
"No, just —" he let out a frustrated half-laugh, half-sob. "Let me get this out before I lose my nerve."
It felt like moving through wet cement, but you mustered the strength to let your hand drift up his chest, clumsy, searching for anything to anchor him to you. The warmth of his skin seeped into your fingertips, a sharp contrast to the dull ache still lingering in your bones.
He leaned in closer, just barely, like he was afraid you were still swimming in the icy depths and wouldn't resurface.
"I've been tongue tied by you since day one," he said. The words stumbled out, rough and honest, nothing like the easy confidence he wore as armor for the world. "I know I don't say things right. I really never have. Not with you. But I remember every damn thing you say to me. Every time you call me by my name my heart skips a beat. Every time you laugh at my terrible jokes. Every time you look at me like I'm worth something more than I am."
Your chest tightened at his words, part disbelief, part relief, and all surrounded by a dizzying hope you tried so hard to smother. No one had ever looked at you the way he was looking at you now. Like you were the first glimpse of the sunrise over a snowy mountaintop.
His eyes searched your face, desperate, unguarded. You felt the weight of everything he'd never dared to say pressing down between you.
He shifted, just enough that the sleeping bag crinkled around both of you as his knee slid between yours so there was no more space left between you. This close, you could see the way his jaw clenched, feel the slight tremor in his hand as he held you steady in the reality of the moment.
"Do you know why I called you solnyshko? That night you got drunk?"
You shook your head, rendered speechless as the dam of his emotions broke free into the world. It was terrifying, being on the receiving end of so much honesty, but you let yourself be swept away in it. Spellbound by the hypnotic blue of his eyes.
The memory of that night flashed before you. Your mingled laughter, the city lights blurring past while he let you melt into his side, the Russian endearment he'd let slip that meant more to you than you'd ever said. You'd tucked away every piece as it came back in the hangover that followed, never daring to hope it meant as much to him as it did to you. And now here he was, tearing down every wall you'd carefully built.
"You're not just some rookie I'm supposed to look after. Not just another Avenger on the team. You're —"
He broke off, inhaling a shaky breath, and you felt him gather himself beneath your touch. Shoulders hunching forward into your body, eyes pleading for you to understand.
You wanted to tell him that you did. That you'd been waiting for this, for him, ever since you joined the team. Your heart was pounding against your chest so hard it hurt, but raw and alive. Louder than the fire crackling or the wind outside.
"You're the brightest thing in my life, little sun. The only thing that makes any of this — any of me — make sense. I know I'm supposed to be your mentor, the one teaching you how to survive all of this, but the truth is I'm the one that needs you. I need you to always come back to me. To make me laugh when the world feels like it's about to collapse. I need you to know you're special, because I…" His voice faltered, almost letting the words evaporate into the dark, but he continued.
"I don't want to imagine a world where you're not in it. I can't. I love you, okay? I've loved you for so long I don't remember what it was like to live before you."
The words slammed into you one by one. Too much, too astounding, too everything. You wanted to laugh. To cry. Maybe do both. Instead, you were left shell shocked more than when you woke up in the cold darkness, drinking in the sight of him in this new light. Hair mussed from your fingers running through it, eyes bright and open and so defenseless it hurt. This was Bucky Barnes, all of him, and he was handing himself over to you.
His confession hung in the air, raw and trembling. But ultimately so, so real. The heat between you was no longer just a matter of survival. It was something that could burn down this tiny safe house if you let it.
He dropped his forehead to yours, voice barely more than a breath. "You're my sun. My warmth in the coldest winter. My solnyshko. Please don't ever think you're nothing. You're everything to me."
You closed your eyes, forehead pressed to his, letting the silence say everything you couldn't yet. Basking in the warmth of both his body and confession. You wanted to remember this moment forever. The feel of his skin, the sound of his voice, the knowledge that after months of yearning and finding little pieces of solace in his company where you could, his feelings for you matched the ones you had been harboring but never speaking out loud.
You didn't even realize you're moving until you're already there. Lips pressed to his, fingers knotted in his hair, clumsy as your limbs were still coming into their warmth. Dizzy with relief and hunger, but then his hand finds your jaw, cradling you like you're something breakable and precious. For a moment, all you know is heat. Him, the fire, the wild beat of your heart.
He kissed you back, just as fierce, just as desperate. His arm slipped around your waist, drawing you in, almost encouraging the slow roll of your hips on his knee you couldn't stop, all tangled limbs with breathless want. You could feel him shaking under your touch, not from the cold, but from the force of everything he's ever held back.
You deepen the kiss with a soft sigh, pouring every ounce of feeling you've tried to bury into him. The scrape of his stubble on your skin sends a zap of electricity straight through your belly, heat pooling where he was pressing you into his thigh. A soft sound escaped him that made you tug him closer, arms looping around his neck. Everything else melts away. The mission gone sideways, the trek up the mountain, your close brush with fatality. It no longer matters. What does is you and Bucky and the promise of something that's been simmering between you for far too long.
Almost all at once, something began to shift with each breath you shared. It started as a low ache when you feel the hard press of him against your hip, when it spirals into urgency. Need overtakes any caution, sharp and sudden. Your hands tug at his hair, his lips ghost over your jaw, nipping below your ear drawing a sharp gasp that turns into a moaned expletive when it hits you. That this isn't a dream brought on hypothermia. It isn't just about gratitude or adrenaline. It's about the want that neither of you ever dared to act on.
Your pulse is thunder to the storm of his touch as he roamed lower, fingers pushing the hem of your tank top up to explore skin he's never had the privilege of feeling. One more inch, one more movement of bravery, and there's no going back.
Then just as quickly, he pulls away, breath ragged and chest rising and falling rapidly. Both of his hands come to frame your face, and he's now looking at you with worry. With fear.
For a fleeting moment, you wonder if you've gone too far. If this is the part where he stops, where the spell breaks and you're just friends again, and he's just your mentor. But his hands are gentle and grounding, his eyes burning with heat, his lips parted and glossy from your kisses.
"Hey," he whispers, voice rough. "Are…we don't have to. You just — you almost…" he trails off like he can't bring himself to say the words, thumb brushing your cheek. "I don't want to cross a line if you're not okay. If it's just the adrenaline—" His voice breaks, and you can feel how much he's fighting himself. "I need you to want this…me. Not just because I almost lost you tonight."
The words catch in your throat, not because you don't know what you want. But because how are you meant to follow up his declaration of love?
Your hands wrap around his wrists, thumbs stroking his knuckles. "I've wanted this for so long," you whisper, voice trembling with hope. "You have no idea how long I've wanted this. I love you, Bucky. Not just because you saved me tonight, but because you always have. I'm yours, if…if you want me. I've always been yours."
The relief in his eyes is blinding while your body aches with his absence, every nerve firing with longing until his mouth is on yours again. Hungrier, fiercer than before — full of all the things you've both been too scared to say and trying to make up for every second he'd held back.
He’s everywhere at once…hands, lips, breath. The sleeping bag forces you even closer, trapping heat and longing, nowhere to go but into each other. His hands push your tank top up, clumsy and reverent, and you have to pull away for a second so he can drag it off over your head, flinging it somewhere behind you. You shiver, not from cold, but from the ache of his gaze as he takes you in.
His fingers find your bra clasp with a confidence that surprises you; his mouth sears a line of kisses down your neck and across your collarbone that has heat pouring into your belly and your hips rolling for purchase against his thigh placed just so. There’s a quick, practiced flick and suddenly you feel the band loosen, straps sliding down your arms.
You can’t help it, really. A laugh bursts out, small and incredulous, nerves and desire swirling together. “Where the hell did you learn to do that?”
Bucky huffs a breathless laugh, his hands already cupping and kneading your breasts, gentle yet greedy. “You really want me to answer that right now?”
He pinched your nipple softly, rolling his thumb, and a gasp escapes before you can stop it. Sharp, unguarded, punched from somewhere deep in your chest. You bury your face in his shoulder, smelling the familiar scent of him now mixed with a musk of desire. Still grinning, dazed with disbelief and hunger. “Actually, no. Never mind.”
The more his touch explored your body, the brighter your need burned. The thin fabric of your panties was already dripping, you could feel the slide of it along the ridge of his thigh. The warm heat seeping through both layers of cotton, causing gasps and moans to tumble from your lips. Made worse as Bucky shifted his own form, dragging your hips in a languid pace. Every so often you would brush against his cock, straining hard against his boxers.
Your touch grew adventurous, moving down Bucky's torso, fingers dipping below his waistband. Keen on alleviating the twitching length of him currently pressed to your belly. But just before you could explore further, his hand caught your wrist. He brought it between you to land on his chest, his pulse beating steady underneath the hard muscle.
"Just feel what you're doing to me, here, sweetheart," he rasped in your ear, drawing the lobe between his teeth and biting.
He interlaced his fingers with yours, securing them as a bridge between your two hearts. His thigh was damp with your arousal when he pulled it away, your whimper respondent and desperate with the loss of friction.
"Don't worry, sweet girl, I've got you," his lips ghosted over your forehead as he strained against the walls of the sleeping bag. His fingers found the edge of your panties, rolling them down slowly, like he was waiting for you to protest. When you didn't, instead shifting your hips to help get then off, Bucky let out a small sound of approval.
His movements are measured, careful in the way he always is with you. He drags his fingers down your stomach, igniting a fire in their wake on your skin. Until his touch finally brushes your clit in one torturously slow motion. It's barely more than a whisper of pressure, but it's enough to make your hips jolt into him, and elicit a needy whimper from your lips.
You try to wriggle free, aching to touch him, to give back even half of what he's giving you. But one arm is trapped around his neck, pinned by his weight, and the other is still captured in his grip, pressed to his heart so you can feel just how wild it beats beneath his chest.
"Bucky…"
"Shhh, it's okay. Let me take care of you." His voice is rough, hungry and full of promise.
His fingers grow bolder, tracing tight, slow circles over your clit, coaxing out every soft, desperate sound from your lips. He kisses you again, drinking in your moans like he needs them to breathe.
You tangle your fingers in his hair, pulling him closer as your hips roll into his hand, chasing pleasure as it blooms low and hot in your belly. "Feels so good, Buck…" you mumble against his mouth, voice trembling with another broken gasp.
His answer is to slip lower, gathering the slick arousal with his fingers until he presses one inside, filling you with a slow deliberate push. His thumb finds your clit again, drawing practiced circles, every movement calculated to undo you.
He groans, low and steady against your throat. "You're so tight… squeezing my fingers. Kinda worried about the next steps I had planned."
You laugh, a shivery breathless sound that melts into a moan as he thrusts deeper. "Just — just please don't stop. We'll figure it out."
He slides in a second finger, working you open, stretching you for him. He curls against that soft, sensitive spot deep inside as his thumb never lets up.
"Buck, I'm…God…right there, please."
He kisses your neck, your cheek, and in response his voice is a gentle command. "Let go for me, solnyshko. I've got you."
The pleasure crests. Sharp, shattering, impossibly good. Heat rushes through your limbs, stealing your breath, and leaving you trembling in his arms. He keeps working you, coaxing every last tremor out of your muscles, until you finally sag, boneless and shaking against his chest.
He brings his hand to your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek, still keeping your hand pressed against his racing heart. His lips find your forehead, your eyelids, the tip of your nose, and finally your mouth. Like he's counting your pulse, making sure you're still here and breathing.
"You okay?" he murmurs against your hairline. "Do you want to keep going, sweetheart? We can stop. Whatever you need."
You nod, frazzled, breathless. "Definitely keep going…." you whisper.
Bucky releases your hand, pushing his boxers down to join your panties at the bottom of the sleeping bag.
His touch is gentle as he shifts, hiking your thigh up over his hip so the head of his cock nudges at your entrance. "Gonna have to improvise, can't risk opening the bag." There's worry in his eyes, even behind the lust.
You reach for his jaw, thumb brushing the stubble on his cheek. "It's okay. I want this. I'm not going anywhere," you whisper, and roll your hips dragging the tip of him through your slick, catching your clit with every pass. Your need already back, despite still trembling from release.
He groans, head falling backward as his hand splays across your lower back, fingers digging into the swell of your ass like he can't decide if he wants to stop you or urge you on.
"Bucky…"
The way you moan his name makes him dizzy with memories All those times you'd ever said his name before. To get his attention. When he made you laugh so hard you couldn't hold back. In the heat of a battle to check on his position.
But this? With you needy, whimpering, drawing out your own pleasure from his body? Was by far his favorite. He was already cataloguing it away. Memorizing every tremor that left you with the sound of his name on your lips.
And he realized as you continued to slowly fuck yourself on his cock that was so hard it was making his vision tunnel, all control that he thought he had over this situation was fading with each sound you make. "God, sweetheart, look at you…"
He brought your thighs to straddle either side of his hips, adjusting himself on the hard floor that was cutting through the too thin sleeping bag. But it doesn't matter. Not when you're wet and pulsing, your bare pussy gliding over his thick length making him shudder with every pass.
He's throbbing against you as you roll your hips in slow hungry circles. Your forearms brace on either side of his head, unable to sit up much further as the zipper of the sleeping bag groans in protest.
Your clit catches on his swollen head, until you're gasping, whimpering, using your teeth against his neck to stop from crying out in pleasure. Your legs burning at trying to keep up.
"Bucky please…"
He was wrong before. That was his favorite way you said his name. Begging, pleading, in a voice that only he would ever get to hear when it was just the two of you.
"You don't have to beg for anything from me, just take it," he growls, breathless, mesmerized by the way your weight feels on him. "I'm yours, just…just take what you need."
You try, fuck you try. Your hips shift in a desperate attempt to line yourself up, to take him in, but the damn sleeping bag has you trapped. There's no room. Your elbow bumps the side, your hand getting wedged awkwardly between your bodies before it even makes it halfway to where you need it to be.
With a frustrated sigh, you drop your forehead to his shoulder. "Can you, uh, help me out here, Sarge? I can't move in this fucking thing." And you knew better than to ask to open it when you're finally warm and so close to being together.
A deep chuckle leaves his mouth, as he adjusts beneath you, his hands guiding you, patient and gentle even in his desperation. "Should've known you'd use my rank against me," he teases, angling you just right. Then he lines himself up, the swollen head of his cock nudging at your entrance once more.
A thumb and forefinger nudge your chin towards him and away from the crook of his neck, a silent request for him to be granted to watch the pleasure that's about to unfold cross your features. He nods once, in silent reassurance.
Then oh so slowly, you sink down, Shuddering from the fullness, the stretch, the weight of what this means and what you now can't take back. His fingers flex on your hip, and you can feel his restraint beneath your touch. The way his muscles have all gone rigid except for the softness of his face that is looking up at you with reverie and adoration.
"That's it — fuck…" he chokes, eyelids fluttering as you take him all the way in. You swear you can feel him cleaving you in two, pressing so deep you forget how to breathe. Until everything tunnels to the beating of your hearts and where you're joined.
Or maybe it's just the angle, the tightness, the sheer overwhelming sensation as your hips begin to rock, dragging him out and in with a slow, needy grind. "And…you were worried it — fuck — wasn't going to fit," you breathe out, forearms shaking as you lost yourself in the bliss.
He let out a huff of laughter, turning into a groan with another drag of your hips. "Shouldn't have doubted you. You've never let me down, not once. Look at you now, taking me so well. That's my good girl."
You shudder at the praise, your whole body tightening around him. You hold still for a moment, just to feel the stretch and the way he fills you, so impossibly deep you can feel the pulse of his heartbeat nudging next to yours. His hands slide up your sides, thumbs drawing lazy circles on your skin like he wants to memorize every inch.
You try to set a rhythm, slow at first to savor the feeling, but your thighs tremble from effort and anticipation. Each rock is a sweet torture, dragging him out almost to the tip before sinking back down again, savoring every inch. The sleeping bag creaks as heat and sweat slicks between your bodies. You bite your lip, chasing a breath as a whimper escapes.
"Look at me. Let me see you fall apart for me, sweetheart." Bucky murmurs, one hand catching your jaw, tilting your face so you can't hide from his gaze.
His words in that tone, the steady pressure of his hips rolling up to meet yours — it's almost too much. Your fingers clutch at his chest, nails digging into muscle, needing to anchor yourself to something real as the pleasure winds tighter and tighter. Bucky moves with you, meeting every thrust, his own restraint starting to crumble.
"So beautiful," he rasps, eyes never leaving yours. "My perfect angel, so fucking good —"
The praise shot straight from his mouth, voice rough with need, to where your climax was already building past the point of no return. Your movements became more fervent as you chased your release, feeling it bloom like a ball of light, fragmenting your soul.
Your orgasm rips through you, blinding and bright. Sounds of pleasure you've never made before reverberate off the walls of the safe house, while you pulse and flutter around him. You slump forward, boneless, sated without a second thought. Forearms too weak to hold yourself up as you tuck yourself into the safety of Bucky's embrace.
His hands are shaking on your hips, his chest heaving under yours. You've barely had a chance to catch your breath before he starts whispering in your ear, voice wrecked in a way you have never heard it. "You don't know what you do to me, solnyshko. Fuck, you have no idea. Every time you crawled into bed with me I nearly lost my mind I —"
He's moving before you can answer, gentle but urgent as he tries to maneuver you. But the sleeping bag soon becomes a battlefield of tangled limbs and crinkling fabric, laughter escaping your mouth faster than you can catch it at his frantic movements.
"Hold on — sorry — I'm usually better at this, " he groans, finally managing to shift you beneath him managing to keep you joined, one hand guiding your leg around his hip. Your nails scrambling for purchase on his arms as you tremble beneath him.
"It's been pretty good so far, I'm not complaining," you exhaled, still trying to catch your breath.
"Yeah?" He grins, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "Wait until I get you back to the Tower and have more room."
Your heart stutters when you realize…there's going to be a next time. But you barely have time to register that admission when his hand comes to rest beside your head and you feel the full weight of his stare. His eyes are wild in the light of the fire, pupils blown wide as his nose brushes yours before pulling you in for a bruising kiss that is all tongue and lips and raw unfiltered passion.
He slowly thrusts into you again, the angle makes him go deeper than you expect, his control shredding as he chases his own relief. The sleeping bag scuffs across the floor and you're fairly certain if he wasn't bracing his vibranium arm so hard into the wood it groaned, you would be skidding into the wall by now.
"You feel so fuckin' perfect, can't believe I get to have you like this."
Your lips part to say something but you're lost in a flurry of sensation. His warmth, his words, the way he's so careful to not crush you.
"Never let myself believe I could have something as good as you. You're all I'll ever want."
He thrusts into you, every muscle in his body trembling with the effort of holding back. "It's always been you. Every damn time, it's you in my head. You have no idea how many nights I dreamed about this while you were laying in my arms."
His pace falters as the words spill out. You're helpless beneath him, caught in the hurricane of his confessions and the long drag of his cock against your still fluttering walls. "Didn't want to fuck up what we had. Our friendship, but fuck you feel like you were made for me."
"Always wanted you," you gasp, finally finding your voice, rolling your hips up to meet him. "Only you."
He loses his rhythm, driving into you with desperate thrusts, all restraint gone. His words tumble out between gasps, half-prayer, half-plea. "Can't believe I almost lost you. Don't ever scare me like that again, please — I'm — "
Your hands find his face pulling him down, your lips catching his and all of his words he's pouring into the night, just as he falls apart above you. Shuddering, groaning your name, holding you like a lifeline as his release tears through him.
He pulses inside of you, pulling a small aftershock of your own free at the sensation. He fills you so completely, so thoroughly, with yet another rough confession of his love.
His face buries into your neck, breath hot against your skin. "You're everything," he whispers, voice breaking, as he relaxes into you.
Even as his tremors slow, he hauls you closer, maneuvering your bodies side by side. Limbs tangle again in the confines of the sleeping bag that you absolutely cannot wait to trade for a bed.
You press a kiss to his neck, letting your fingers drift across his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his pulse beneath your palm. He curls an arm under your head, pulling you in closer, tucking you into the curve of his body like you're the only thing that matters in the world.
You shift against him, nose brushing the underside of his jaw, inhaling his scent that means home. "Hey Bucky?" you whisper past the drowsiness that's tugs at you.
"Yeah, sweetheart?"
"I'm not cold anymore."
His arms wrap tighter around you like he was trying to make sure. "Good. I plan to keep it that way," he says with a small, shaky laugh.
In the quiet that settles between you, it's easy to forget the blizzard, the botched mission, the hypothermia, the world outside these four walls. All that's left is the safety of his arms, the scent of sandalwood, the afterglow, the soft ache that promises so much more than you ever could have imagined.
Exhaustion pulls you under, the warmth of his body anchoring you through the night. Tomorrow there may be chaos again, but tonight, you let yourself rest in the only place you've ever truly belonged.
Not as his rookie. Not just a teammate.
Just his.
At last.
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summary: for as long as you'd been with bucky he'd never been much of a social person, not that you ever minded, but when he suggested the two of you go to Tony's annual pool party out of the blue you couldn't help but feel there was an ulterior motive at play.
pairing: beefy!bucky x gf!reader
warnings: established relationship, smut, p in v, unprotected sex, skinny dipping, praise kink, edging, oral f receiving, pool sex so ie semi public sex, orgasm denial, plot what plot, pet names, hair pulling, mutual masturbation, spanking, not beta read we die like men, idk what else
prompts: skinny dipping / edging / praise
w/c: 5k
bwatober masterlist || previous work
"For the last time Tony, no."
He groaned and slunk into his chair, hand covering his face like a child hiding from a scolding.
"Cmon The Manchurian Candidate can't loosen his reins for one night?"
Your head had never whipped around so fast, eyes narrowed like blades. "And what exactly is that supposed to mean?"
"I'm just saying, the man is never not within five feet of you, I'm surprised he hasn't popped out around the corner yet."
Mouth parted in shock you just shake your head, not willing the energy into dealing with Tony and his pot stirring shenanigans.
"I'm not doing it Tony, end of story." You repeat for what had felt like the millionth time before you get up from the couch and head towards the kitchen.
"I just need one more girl, all you have to do is wear the costume and some heels with the wings. Please?"
His words stop you dead in your tracks, well one word in particular. Please.
Tony never says please, because truly he doesn't have to, so he is either turning a new leaf or is scraping the bottom of the barrel desperate.
You'd bet on the latter.
"Fine. But I have to talk to Bucky first."
It wasn't hard to find Bucky, he stuck to a pretty simple routine and right about now he would be in the gym.
"Hey you," You called out as you walked over to the bench press he was sat at, eyes proudly lingering over his sweaty form. "Just started or finished?"
He took the towel that was hung around his neck and wiped each side of his face with it before throwing a small smirk up at you. "Finished. What's up?"
"So…"
"Oh no."
"Stop just hear me out," You held your hands out before he could get off the bench, moving in front of him to block his way, even though you both knew if he wanted to leave he very well could. "Tony is throwing his Halloween party tonight and one of the bottle girls called in sick."
He doesn't reply but the furrow of his brows says enough.
"So he asked if I would fill in for her. Just for tonight, four hours tops and the costume is included."
"Costume?"
You sucked in a slow breath through your teeth, now for the hard part.
"Yeah he has this whole scheme, Angels are serving non alcoholic or light drinks and the Devils serve hard liquor."
"Which one does he want you to be?"
"…Angel."
A small quiet falls between you two and if anyone else had looked in on the conversation it would seem that Bucky was thinking on a hundred different ways to tell you off for agreeing to such a stupid idea.
"I know you didn't want to go in the first place and I'm not saying you have to go now, I just told Tony I'd ask but trust me I have no issue telling him to buzz off."
"Four hours huh?"
"Practically nothing. I wouldn't being doing much either, just walking around back and forth from the bar."
Another small silence. This one heavier than the last.
"Sounds fun, let's do it."
If you didn't know any better you would think you just stepped into an alternate universe in which Bucky thinks a party would be fun, your face no doubt betraying your confusion as you looked down at him.
"Are you sure? I know this… kinda stuff isn't really your thing."
He just shrugs a shoulder as if you two were discussing the news, nothing out of the ordinary going on other than your infamous recluse of a boyfriend being so suddenly on board for a Tony Stark party.
"Like I said, sounds fun." His words seem final but you can't help but question the air around them, before you can get another assuring word out he cuts you off.
"I wanna see the costume before you go." His voice drops as his metal reaches out for yours, brushing the steel plates against the soft squish of your palm. "Gotta know how much of my angel I'm showing off."
You let out a small laugh with a nod of your head. "Alright. You'll be the first one to see, okay?"
"Okay." He tugs your hand and brings you in for a kiss, the salt of the sweat from his upper lip making you shudder as you do your best to shove it down, no time for that.
Beside, you're an Angel tonight, the notion of purity. And angels don't have such thoughts.
The party was somehow crazier and calmer than you expected.
Bodies milling about, bass thumping all around as you made your way through the crowd, slow and steady with the tray of drinks in your hand.
It was surprisingly easy, most people started off with a light drink, mainly beers or a few cocktails but after an hour they were all moving on to shots and straight ups so as the night went on you had less and less to do.
The pool patio was packed, supermodels playing in the shallow ends, Halloween themed beach balls flying around as laughter echoed all around, the water carrying the sound tenfold. Tony was off with Goldstein his DJ while the rest of the team was scattered around, Steve no doubt inside with Sam nursing a few beers and making nonsensical bets over the pool table and the rest of them disappeared in the crowd.
But Bucky, he was your shadow.
Every trip you made back and forth from the bar he was there, just lingering some 30 feet away, enough to miss him if you weren't looking.
He watched you walk through the crowd, your white bodysuit leaving nothing to the imagination with the glittering white feather wings you wore. He had overhead Tony talking to some guys about how he got the clothes and wings from Victoria's Secret, whoever she was she must have a very limited awareness of modesty.
Every part of him wanted to shield you, stand in front of anyone's lingering eyes and remind them all just who you belong to, but he promised himself that he would be good. After all is was his idea to come here, to watch you prance around in those ridiculous shoes and sparkly little headband, smiling so sweetly at anyone who glances your way.
Four hours, he reminded himself. And every minute that went by Bucky sunk further and further in the shadows of the party with his eyes glued to you waiting for the second he can get his hands on you.
You sat next to Bucky curled up on the patio loveseat, the sunset skipping a golden glow across the pools reflection, warming both the water and the exposed skin from your 'costume'.
Leave it to Tony to be completely tasteless in his Halloween pursuits.
"You looked good out there today." His voice mumbled in your ear as he pulled you in closer.
"I look like I belonged on a corner."
A breathy laugh pushed out from both of you but Bucky's hand tightens around your waist, cold metal fingers pressing into your skin making you shiver.
"You look irresistible. You know how hard it was to watch you prance around in this little thing? Watching all those men stare at you? At what's mine?"
You love when his voice drops an octave, to that low gravelly tone that unravels you from the inside out, it's like watching a physical switch be flipped within him.
"Bucky.." Your soft murmur is quieted with the press of his lips against yours, eyes closed and body lax from his touch.
Kissing Bucky was like a fire was put to your bones, like your soul had been returned to water and every part of you that came from a dead star was alive again as his tongue swiped across your bottom lip, pushing past into the warm heat of you mouth.
You didn't even realize he had pulled you into his lap until your hands found the nape of his neck, tugging the soft hair from its looped tie and carding your fingers through it.
Bucky was never super verbal about things that he liked, he was much more of an 'actions speak louder than words' kind of guy, so when you pulled his hair for the first time and he bit your lip so hard it bled you learned that day that his body will always tell you how he's feeling.
And right now? It's needy.
His fingers tracing the soft skin in the small of your back, index pads tracing down the divoted line of your spine as he slowly guides your hips back and forth on top of him, muddling your mind even further as the grit from his jeans drags across the thin latex of your costume.
You would have stayed there forever, grinding down into Bucky's lap without a care for the world around you, but a sudden summer wind blows across your skin, sending a reminder that you're still outside in the public eye.
"Buck.." You mutter against his lips. "Let's go to the room."
It's no secret that you and Bucky are together, but you're not the most publicly affectionate couple so the thought of one of the team members, or anyone wandering strays from the party, walking out to see you and Bucky dry humping each other on the couch makes you want to curl up into a ball and shrivel away.
Bucky however, doesn't seem to want to shrivel up. Or maybe he just doesn't care about being caught like you do, which sends a worrying yet thrilling of a rush through your veins.
"I'm fine right here." He kisses the words into your neck as if feeling them will make you agree. "Besides we didn't get to go swimming earlier, remember?"
You do remember, while you were passing drinks out and caught Bucky's eye out the corner of yours, watching them glance at the pool then back to you. You'd thrown him a wink with a sweet as can be smile on top before you'd disappeared back into the crowd, the unspoken promise lingering in the air.
"We don't have our bathing suits on." You tried in defense, but the way Bucky's hands were warming your skin, the scattered little pinches he gave to the exposed skin of your hips were eagerly chipping away at any reasonable denial.
His hands traced up your waist and ribcage to the zipper in the front, pulling it down with a smooth ease and pushing the sleeves down. It wasn't pretty or sexy, the skin tight latex proving to be a difficult fabric to remove, but the heavy lidded eyed look Bucky was giving you made it clear that intentional or not, you were still the sexiest woman he's seen in a lifetime.
"Who said anything about bathing suits?"
Before you could argue the rest of your costume was off, leaving you in your pearl white heels with matching underwear and the silly little halo headband.
"I'm not getting in the pool in my underwear Bucky, these were $40."
His eyes fell to said underwear, a small shake of his head at the ludicrous price of them before he hooked his thumb into the side of the waistband, tugging them down just enough for you to get the hint.
"You're not serious.." You breathed out, a shaky tentative smile spreading across your face, not from fear but from something far warmer blooming in the deep pit of your lower stomach.
Bucky didn't say anything, he just let his body do the talking. His hands left you only for a moments notice to pull his own shirt off before they were back against your skin, the contrasting hot and cold making you dizzy for more.
He gently lifts you off of his lap, helping you to stand before he slips off the couch and sinks onto his knees down onto the ground. Eyes locked on you he slowly lifts your heel donned ankle, lifting it up and gently pulling the zipper down until it hangs loosely off you.
With a soft kiss to the space above your heel he pulls it off, peppering a few more kisses up your calf before lightly setting your leg down and doing the same to the other.
It leaves you completely breathless, watching the way his big and broad shoulders curl in when he bends down, how he holds you so delicately in his strong hands, like a diamond that would shatter with the wrong touch.
Still on his knees he undoes his own belt buckle, pulling the leather out each loop before tossing it aside and moving down to his button and zipper of his jeans. You slowly realize he's not stopping, and the moment he's left in his boxers reality hits you like a truck, your hands itching at your sides to cover yourself up.
"It's okay baby, it's just us." He reassures you as he stands up, his fingers tracing the lace edge of your underwear before slowly pushing them down your thighs, letting them fall as you lift your legs to step out of them.
Once bare he takes your hands and brings them to his own boxers, an olive branch. "Just us," You echo quietly, hooking your thumbs into the elastic band and pulling them down, your eyes locked onto his as you bend over sightly to get the fabric over his thick thighs.
The second he's free from his material confines he leads you towards the pool, eyes locked and fingers laced together. He gets in first, stepping backwards into the water and guiding you down the stairs. The water greets your skin with a warm welcome, the heated jets keeping it a notch above tepid, not too hot for the warm summer night but not too cold either.
He brings you in far enough to keep everything below your shoulders underwater yet your feet still flat on the ground, hands wade through to find your skin dropping down to your ass and pulling you flush against his chest as his lips meet yours.
There's an added layer to this kiss, the way the water makes you feel weightless around him, the warmth spreading from your thighs to your chest as he kisses you numb. He slowly backs you against the pool wall, the cold tile edge pressing against your skin making you hiss into Bucky's lips, he lets you catch your breath as he kisses down your jaw and neck.
It's almost funny how worried you were about this and not even five minutes of having Bucky's hands and lips on you, you're on the verge of begging for more, and he knows it.
"Tell me what you want baby." He mumbles into the crook of your neck, his metal hand gripping your hip and holding you against the wall while his flesh one smooths the back of your hair down with some water.
You're already spinning from his touch, the gentleness of his hand in your hair and the tight grasp on your hip. "You, just you. Anyway I can have you."
"Mm that's sweet baby," His voice has that teasing lilt that you're painfully used to, the one he uses when he'll having you sweating and crying for more to no avail. "Tell me or I'll choose myself."
A soft whine leaves your lips, hips rutting against his and sending ripples throughout the pool. "Please Bucky I just want all of you."
"You know I'd give it to you baby," You shudder as his flesh hand lowers to the valley between your breasts, splaying out and pushing down to feel the thud of your racing heart. "But you didn't tell Bucky what you want, so now he gets to choose what you get."
He grabs you by the waist and hoists you up onto the edge of the pool, splashing water onto the floor behind you as he stands between your thighs. "And you're going to take every little thing I give you, isn't that right?"
"James…" His name is a pleading whimper as your hands brace against the edge of the pool, white knuckled grip as he wraps his arms under your thighs and holds them apart, sinking down level to your cunt.
Every part of you is soaked, but the mess between your legs isn't from the pool. Slick stuck to the creases of your inner thighs makes Bucky groan inwardly, unable to help himself as he leans in and licks a slow stripe from bottom to the top of your pussy.
A small yelp leaves your lips echoes around the patio, reminding you once again that you are not in the comfortable privacy of your bedroom, but sitting on the edge of Tony's pool looking out across the infinity edge to the twinkling city skyline.
"Keep those little noises quiet for me baby."
Biting into your lip you forced your eyes shut, the sight of Bucky's slicked back hair as he kitten licked the soft petals of your wet slit was too much to handle, your thighs parting farther for him on instinct as you kept quiet.
"There's my good girl," His voice is muffled by another long lick, adding his own wetness to yours, creating a silken mess as he teasingly kissed your aching clit, the contact makes you shudder and jut your hips against his lips. "Tsk, you stay still baby, you're gonna be good for me remember?"
With a fervent nod you forced your ass down against the tile, the water slowly drying on your body making you shiver with each passing gust of wind, bringing your nipples to a sharp peak.
"Mm so pretty like this." He continued with his teasing ministrations, tongue just barely pushing into your molten core before swiping back over your clit, each feeling was too light on their own but combined together had the coil inside wound tight, just needing that one gentle push to snap.
You so badly wanted to chase it, the slow up and coming high, your greed taking on a physical form that you have to fight down.
Bucky sees your struggle, sees the way your eyes have screwed shut, lip indented with the marks of your teeth in them. "Doing so good for me baby," He praises, dropping his metal hand from your hips and slipping under his jaw, gently circling around your wet center before pushing his middle finger in.
The mix of the metal and the pool water made his fingers feel ice cold as he filled you, the metal digit curling up as if to reach up into the softest part of you and tug the edge of the string that is holding you together. "That's it baby, squeeze those thighs around me, hold me in nice and close."
"Bucky.." You mutter breathlessly, hips straining to stay still as your head lulls back. "Please.. feels so good."
You could feel him grin against you between your thighs as he gave you a succinct thrust of his fingers, the steel plates of his wrist shifting with the movement making that soft whir that you love so much.
"Does it? Mm good," He hummed as he kissed and gently licked the ache away on your desperate clit, the slick heat of his tongue and cold curl of his fingers making your body shudder on the precipice of coming undone. "Be a shame if someone came out here and I had to—"
He pulls away from you completely, a sinful smile on his face as he watched you cry out and pout, your eyes now open and pleading as you looked down at him.
"You're mean." You sulk with a cross of your arms, doing your best to keep a strong face despite the searing heat in your lower tummy slowly fading away.
"Poor baby," He pouts mockingly, scooping you up off the edge and bringing you back down into the water with him, the temperature change making you shiver as he holds you close. "Want Bucky to make it up to you?"
You nod solemnly, your hands tucked against your chest as you curl up into his arms. He presses a few soft kisses to your temple as he lifts your legs up and wraps them around his waist while he carries you into the shallow end, backing you up to the wall.
There is nothing in this world more all-consuming than kissing Bucky, his lips on yours, soft breath fanning across your face with the gentle groan in his chest as your nails dig and scratch down his back and chest.
"Bucky…" You mumble against his lips and when he doesn't let up you take matters into your own hands, drifting them down his abs and into the water, feeling the slight twitch in his hips when you wrap your hand around his cock and gently squeeze.
He moans into your mouth and slowly ruts forward into your hand as he pulls away and rests his hands on either side of you, mouthing at the edge of your jaw and nipping the skin. "Greedy girl, just can't get enough can you?"
You shake your head shamelessly, because it's true, you would never be able to get enough of him. The way his brows pinch together as he keeps rolling his hips forward, pushing his thick cock through your hand as you twist and squeeze at every ridge you know he loves.
It's all too good, the soft gasps that escape his lips when your thumb runs over the seam under his tip contrasting to the deep groans the echo across the water when you pull while he pushes, that familiar heat building in your stomach clawing for attention.
In any other setting it would have been discreet, the quiet slip of your freehand down between your thighs, but the ripples that get sent across the pool give you away.
"I see you," Bucky pants out, his lips at the curve of your ears he leans into you. "That pussy aching for more already?
"Please Buck, I can't— I need it."
He scoffs but there's no malice behind it, rather pride at how easily you'll melt when needy. "Shh don't worry baby, Bucky's got you."
His hand quickly replaces yours, running his middle and ring finger gently along the seam of your cunt, just teasing until you let out a frustrated whimper and push against his hand. For once he doesn't tease you longer, doesn't give you any slick quips, just presses his palm flat against you as he slides both fingers in.
The feeling is everything you've been needed, pulling a deep sighing moan from your throat as you double down on your efforts around his cock. It doesn't take long before you're both moving in sync with each other, his fingers curling when your wrist twists as both your hips rut into each others touch.
It didn't take long for you to feel that familiar coil winding in your stomach, thighs tense and trembling as you did your best to keep up with him, but Bucky knew you too well.
"Feel that baby? Feel how tight you're getting? Mm I feel it, feel how badly she wants to cum for me."
You've long abandoned the motions with your hand, just keeping it tightly closed as Bucky fucks into it, head lulling back as staggered snatched breaths left your lips followed by mindless begging.
"Please Bucky, god don't stop, please don't stop— fuck I'm so close."
With a deep groan Bucky pulls away, your body flush cold from his lack of touch as you nearly fall into tears. "No.. please baby I can't…"
"Shh it's okay pretty girl, I got you." He mumbled as he turned you around, your body whiny putty in his hands, teeth grazing the curve of your shoulder as you feel the press of his cock against your ass. "Had to stop myself, feeling that wet little cunt squeezing my fingers almost made me cum, can't have that now can we?"
You lean your head down onto pool edge, the cold press of the tile sending chills down your spine as you jut your hips out for him, presenting yourself so freely as you know he loves. He lets out a hum of approval as his hands settle at the dip of your waist, thumbs brushing soft circles into the skin under the water with a gentleness that you're sure you won't see until you're done.
He caged himself around you, arms on either side as his slid deep inside you with one final thrust. You couldn't keep quiet if you wanted to, with every inch of him filling you to complete brim you can't help but let out a piteous moan that echoed off the tiles and into the air.
"Gotta stay quiet for me remember? Wouldn't want someone to hear us and make me stop again would you?" You shake your head fervently and dig your teeth into your bottom lip, the thought of Bucky teasing you and leaving you empty again making tears well up in your eyes. "Good girl."
For a moment he didn't move much, just pressing himself deeper into you with a slight rolls of his hips that make you whimper for more.
And Bucky, like always, gives it to you.
His hips snap into yours, starting a steady pace that send small waves up the edge of the pool and lightly spill around you as you fight not to melt, knees buckling in the water with the wall being the only thing supporting you up.
Yet it was impossible to not want more, your own body pushing back into him to meet every thrust, each muffled moan slipping past your clamped shut lips only egging him on.
"There she is," He praised with a breathless laugh as he noticed you matching his rhythm. "My beautiful girl always so good for me, always taking my cock so good."
"James." You barely mumbled, not wanting to leave your mouth open any longer lest you cry out for him.
"So fuckin' good baby." Bucky's voice was so low you would think he was talking to himself as he leaned back to watch the water ripple with the bounce of your ass as his picked up pace. "God look at you, so pretty and sweet. My Angel."
He punctuates his adoration with a slight slap to you ass, the water spraying across your back as he reached up into your hair, pulling you away from the edge into his chest as his metal hand slipped down between your thighs, not even the pool water could wash away the silky wet mess that smeared across your skin.
The cold of his fingers made you gasp, his hand leaving your hair to clamp over your mouth. "Ah ah," He chided playfully, tilting his hips up just enough to piston at that perfect spot deep inside of you. "Gotta be good for me baby, gotta keep this little mouth shut."
Echoing sounds of skin on skin, water sloshing and muffled whimpers and moans filled the air and Bucky went on rambling praiseful little nothings in your ear. "Always take me so well pretty girl, lookin so good all fucked out and trembling for me.
"C-close," You mutter against his palm, repeating yourself when he pulls it away. "God 'm so close Buck…"
He let out a soft curse as your body showed what your lips just said, walls clenching and fluttering around him. "That's it baby, give it to, let me have it. Be Bucky's good girl and cum all over yourself and his cock, I know you can do it."
Sweet, hot pleasure flooded over your body and consumed every inch of you as you writhed against Bucky's chest, every synapse on fire as little lightning like aftershocks run across your skin. "God, fuck baby— shit, you feel so fuckin good. Can't… not gonna…"
His words die off with a guttural groan, his hips stuttering as they slammed into you with a final stroke that knocks the air out of both your lungs, his hot seed spilling into you contrasting with the cool pool water.
Quiet settles over the both of you, the water around you stilling as Bucky's chin tucked into the crook of your neck as your head fell back against his shoulder, if it wasn't for the soft hum of the midnight lamps turning on you would have stayed there all night.
"Mm cmon baby, we gotta get you cleaned up and to bed."
You groaned but complied, gently prying yourself away from him with a small hiss, your body already missing the warmth and stretch of his as you turn around to face him.
"I don't know how we're gonna explain this to Tony."
"Explain what?" Speak of the devil and he shall appear.
Bucky quickly pulls you to his chest, keeping any indecent part of you covered. "Nothing we're just…"
"Skinny dipping." You finish for him, throwing a sheepish smile over your shoulder to Tony in hopes he won't prod any further.
He just huffs out a laugh and grabs whatever it was he came out here for, waving back at you two as he leaves. "Just don't make it a habit!"
Bucky throws up a thumbs-up and hawk watches him walk out, a soft breath leaving his lips when he was gone from sight. "Close call."
"Too close." You echo out as you look up at him, his slicked back hair letting the reflection of the water dance in his eyes making you smile.
"Let's get inside," You lean up and press a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth before muttering softly. "And I can pay you back for all that teasing."
Summary: Weeks apart on separate missions leave you and Bucky Barnes aching, desperate, and one heartbeat away from unraveling. The reunion? Eighteen hours of pure, breathless release.
Disclaimer: 18+ (mdni!), explicit smut content, p in v, multiple rounds, overstimulation, edging, mutual desperation, shower sex, window sex, kitchen counter sex, use of restraints (soft), masturbation mention, lingerie tease, squirting (f), super soldier stamina, mild teasing from tb* members
It started like any other assignment.
A sharp morning. Polished boots. Steel chairs arranged around the Watchtower’s mission table. The kind of day where even the light felt clinical—too white, too bright, too final.
Valentina entered with a clipboard in hand and that usual glint in her eye, the one that said she already knew something you didn’t want to hear.
“Barnes, Yelena, Alexei, Bob—Bucharest first. Bogotá by week three. Rotating safehouses. No crossovers.”
You stiffened.
“Walker, Ava, and…”
She looked straight at you.
“You—Algeria. Then east through Istanbul. Targets on the move. You’re expected to stay mobile and out of range.”
The silence afterward said everything.
That pause before your name wasn’t a slip.
It was surgical.
Across the table, Bucky’s jaw tensed. He didn’t look at you, but his shoulders rolled tight. His metal hand flexed once, resting flat on the table like he was physically grounding himself.
This wasn’t routine.
This was designed.
The room shifted. Teams gathered their gear. Orders confirmed.
But neither of you moved.
Bucky brushed your fingers beneath the table—the kind of small, hidden touch that wasn’t meant to say goodbye. It was a promise.
We’ll find each other.
However we can.
—
Packing was mechanical.
Weapons, suits, coordinates, clearances.
Everyone was buzzing around the hangar level, focused on countdowns and jet fuel. But Bucky caught your wrist with a glance that made your breath hitch—then gently steered you down a side corridor.
He didn’t stop until you ducked into a quiet auxiliary room—once used for archive storage, now mostly forgotten. The lights were dim. A narrow bench ran along the wall. A few old mission files sat boxed in the corner.
He shut the door behind you.
“Just for a minute,” he said, voice low. “Just wanna be where you are.”
You barely nodded before he pulled you into his chest. He held you like he needed it—not tight or desperate, but complete. His warmth poured into you as you buried your face into the space between his neck and shoulder.
You ended up straddling his lap on the bench, both of you half-armored, half-undressed—hands roaming like you were trying to memorize every line, every scar, every breath.
“I hate this,” you muttered into his neck.
“I know.” His voice was steady. Anchoring. “But we’ll be okay.”
His mouth found the slope of your shoulder. Then your collarbone. Then lower—teeth grazing before lips closed around your skin and sucked.
You gasped—part surprise, part pure heat.
“Bucky—”
“Gonna leave a few. Let ‘em wonder how many more are where they can’t see.”
He left another. And another. The bruises bloomed warm beneath your skin—high enough that your tactical suit wouldn’t cover all of them.
When he pulled back to look at you, his pupils were blown wide, lips kiss-bitten and breath ragged.
“You’re mine,” he murmured. “Even if they split us across the damn planet.”
You ran your hands up under his shirt, nails scratching lightly across his ribs—grounding yourself in the solidity of him.
“You’ll text me when you can?”
“Every chance I get.”
“Even if it’s just one word?”
“Even if it’s just a photo.”
You smirked. “Of what?”
He grinned, leaning back like he had all the time in the world—even though you both knew better.
“I’m waiting for boob pics, love. Minimum one per timezone.”
You laughed into his neck and kissed his jaw, soft and smiling.
“You’re such a menace.”
“You love it.”
“Unfortunately.”
When the comm finally buzzed for final departure prep, you lingered another moment, forehead pressed to his.
“We’re good?”
“Always.”
And then you slipped out—his warmth still clinging to your skin, and his hickeys hidden beneath your collar like the loudest secret in the world.
—
The first few days weren’t unbearable.
Busy hours blurred the worst of it—briefings, drone recon, field scans. The kind of missions that demanded your hands stay full and your focus sharp. You told yourself it helped. That staying in motion kept the ache at bay.
But the nights were something else entirely.
By the third night, sleep wouldn’t come. The cot beneath you was too narrow, too cold. You rolled over instinctively and reached for the other side—empty. Your palm flattened against the mattress like it could summon him there.
It didn’t.
You’d already stripped out of your tactical suit, skin flushed from a lukewarm shower and a restlessness that refused to settle. The mirror over the sink caught your reflection just as the last of the sun dipped beneath the window—warm dusk light casting gold across your damp collarbone, your bare shoulder.
You grabbed your comm. Lifted your phone.
Pulled down your undershirt just enough to let the neckline dip low—sweat clinging to the curve of your breasts, a faint bruise from his mouth peeking out beneath the edge of the fabric.
The angle was deliberate.
Head tilted back. Lips parted. Not a full reveal. But it said everything.
Still thinking about the way your hands fit around my waist.
Bet you’d wreck me if you were here.
You hit send before you could talk yourself out of it.
—
His reply came six hours later. No text. Just an image.
The lighting was shit—whatever rooftop he was on barely lit by the glow of city spill—but it didn’t matter.
He was shirtless.
Dog tags heavy and low over his chest.
Hair a little messier than usual, as if he’d just run a hand through it before taking the shot.
But the part that made your thighs press together?
His sweatpants.
Slung low. Way too low. Obscene, really—the waistband clinging just above the vee of his hips, and beneath it? A thick, unmistakable bulge pressing upward. Not subtle. Not suggestive.
Hard. Veined. Heavy. Angry.
Like he’d taken the photo mid-thought, right before palming himself. Like maybe he had.
Your name was probably still on his tongue when he snapped it.
You sucked in a breath, cheeks hot, and held the screen to your chest like it could warm the parts of you he was supposed to be touching.
This was manageable, you told yourself.
Just teasing. Just playing.
It would pass.
—
It got worse.
What started as playful—just a little edge, a little fun—turned into something raw. Unbearable. Every picture, every breathy message only twisted the knife deeper.
Bucky cracked first.
The signal finally held long enough for him to send a voice note.
You were mid-gear check when it came through, tucked into a corner of the safehouse with your earbuds in.
“Woke up with my hand around my cock,” he rasped, voice low, wrecked. “Thought it was you at first. Swear to God, I could feel you there. Your breath on my neck, your legs wrapped around me. Then I realized I was alone again.”
A pause. A harsh exhale.
“And fuck, baby… I nearly lost it.”
You played it three times.
Nearly dropped your comm on the third.
—
You didn’t just tease back. You retaliated.
The next photo was a mirror shot—deliberately filthy. You stood in the dim light of your bunk, chest bare, your breasts fully visible this time, no shame. One hand was sunk into your panties, fingers clearly pressing against the soaked fabric. The other held your phone steady, angled to catch the full view: your messy hair, parted lips, heavy-lidded eyes, and the slick glint of sweat on your chest. No caption. Just raw hunger in pixels.
This help you sleep tonight? Or should I take more?
He didn’t respond immediately. But when he did, it was short.
You’re not playing fair.
My cock’s been hard since sunrise. Haven’t touched it. Saving every second of this for you.
You sent a quick clip later—just a few seconds long. You didn’t even speak in it.
Just six seconds. The camera angled low—your hand slipping beneath the blanket between your thighs. No real view, just the movement. The blanket shifted slightly with every circle you traced over your clit. Soft moans escaped—broken, breathy, like you were trying to stay quiet. Then a whimper—his name, trembling from your lips. No skin shown. No climax caught. Just the sound and the hint and the promise of you falling apart.
Bucky watched it on repeat like it was the only thing keeping him alive.
—
Then came Ava.
You’d crashed hard that night—exhausted, sweaty, and stripped down to just your lingerie. The maroon lace set he liked. The same one he’d picked out. It had become a habit—wearing it when you missed him. A reminder. A tether.
Ava had been reviewing footage by the window for perimeter movement when she caught it.
The camera was focused outward. But the mic had picked up your sleep sounds in the background.
She wasn’t trying to be cruel when she played it back.
She just raised an eyebrow and pressed play—a grin tugging at her lips as the soft moans filled the air. You were murmuring his name. Restless. Breathless. Like you were dreaming of him—no, feeling him.
Your voice cracked on the last word, a sharp gasp like you were right on the edge.
You could’ve died.
“Jesus,” Ava had laughed, not unkind. “Want me to send it to him? Y’know, for motivation?”
You didn’t answer fast enough. She already hit send.
—
He didn’t laugh.
He didn’t even text back. Just disappeared for a few hours.
Locked himself in the bathroom of the Bogotá safehouse, palms braced on the sink, sweat dripping from his temple to his jaw. The floor was cold. His cock throbbed painfully in the tight grip of his tactical jeans, already slick with precum from the sound of your voice in his ear—played over and over again like a goddamn drug.
He groaned low, forehead resting against the mirror as he finally undid his fly—reached in and freed himself with a hissed curse.
Hard. Angry. Red at the tip and twitching. His hand flexed uselessly beside him, trembling from restraint.
He closed his eyes and whispered, “Fuck, baby… what are you doing to me…”
But he didn’t stroke.
Didn’t move.
Didn’t dare.
Not without your hands.
Not without your thighs tight around his hips.
Not without your voice whispering that he could let go.
So he tucked himself away again—biting down hard on the side of his fist until it bruised, his pulse roaring like a storm.
Later, when the signal held again, he finally texted:
This was supposed to help.
All these videos. These fucking pictures.
It’s making everything worse, doll.
I need you so bad, I swear I’m gonna lose my mind.
—
He stopped sleeping properly.
The circles under his eyes were darker now, sharp enough to draw questions if anyone had the nerve. His mouth was constantly pressed into a tight, agitated line. The usual post-mission calm he carried—that calculated, steady presence of command—was cracking.
Every time he sat down to write up route plans, his hands twitched. His left hand—the metal one—wouldn’t stop flexing. Clenching. Releasing. Like he was trying to ground himself in anything that wasn’t your voice moaning his name.
The last time he tried to issue orders midbriefing, he nearly snapped a comm tablet in half.
“Safehouse Delta’s too close to the highway,” he muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. “We’ll reroute south. Four klicks. We’ll—”
He trailed off.
Everyone stared at the map table, then at Bucky—who was clearly no longer looking at anything but the wall. Or rather, through it.
His jaw clenched again. He tried to redirect.
“We’ll send Bob first to—”
But Bob was already looking sideways at him.
“You gonna pass out?”
“No.”
“You look like your brain’s buffering.”
“I said I’m fine.”
But his voice had cracked. Just slightly.
Yelena leaned back in her seat with a dramatic sigh, chewing on the end of a protein bar like this was better than Netflix.
“Alright,” she announced loudly, “I’m just gonna say what everyone else is thinking.”
Bucky didn’t even turn his head.
She kept going.
“You’re clearly about three days from spontaneously combusting from blue balls. You’ve been staring at walls, misreading maps, and grinding your teeth like it’s a fetish. Which—respectfully—gross.”
Alexei smothered a laugh. Bob coughed loudly into his fist.
“You need to jerk off or jump off a building,” Yelena finished, deadpan. “Pick one.”
Bucky finally looked up.
His eyes were bloodshot. His voice was tight when he replied.
“I’m not jerking off.”
That shut them up.
Yelena blinked. “…Okay. That’s not where I thought that was going.”
“I’m saving it. All of it.” His hand twitched again. “She deserves every goddamn second of it.”
A pause. The silence stretched—not awkward, just charged.
Even Alexei nodded solemnly, as if that was the only acceptable answer.
Yelena rolled her eyes but muttered, “Romantic. Disgusting. Continue suffering, I guess.”
—
Later that night, Bucky paced the rooftop alone. Fingers twitching. Breath uneven.
He pulled up your last photo again.
Your hand between your thighs. Lips parted. That little text below it:
I’d spread for you right here on this cot if you were with me.
He groaned into his palm.
Pressed the heel of his hand against the painful bulge in his pants.
Didn’t move. Didn’t stroke. Just gritted his teeth and endured.
“You better be ready for what I’m gonna do to you,” he muttered into the dark.
—
It was just after 7:00PM when the jet touched down.
The sky above the Watchtower was bruised in golds and fading gray, clouds curling low like dusk had rolled in too early. Your shoulders ached. Muscles stiff from too many hours strapped in gear, too many days sleeping with one eye open.
Your boots hit the floor with more weight than usual—the kind that didn’t come from exhaustion alone. It was something else. Something thick in your chest, pressing behind your ribs.
Inside the compound, it was unusually quiet.
Operatives passed by in pairs. Brief nods. No chatter.
Ava veered off toward medical, threw a wink over her shoulder, and mouthed, “Go get your man.”
You didn’t smile. Not yet.
Not until your fingers brushed the key panel of your shared room, and the door clicked open beneath your touch.
Something shifted the moment you stepped inside.
The air smelled like candle wax, clean linens, and something warmer underneath—musk and sandalwood, with a trace of vanilla. The room glowed gold in low light. Flickering candles burned on the desk, by the bed, and one small one beside the bathroom mirror.
It was quiet. But not empty.
He was there.
And the second he saw you, his face lit up.
“Hey,” Bucky breathed, already halfway to his feet. His voice was low but clear, as if speaking pulled breath right back into his lungs. “You’re home.”
That ache—the one locked in your chest—snapped clean open.
You dropped your duffel just as he reached you, arms wrapping tight around your waist, your cheek pressed against his collarbone. He smelled like soap and steel and something distinctly him—warm skin, freshly showered, a hint of cologne that clung to his shirt.
He didn’t devour you. Didn’t grope, didn’t rush.
He just held you.
One arm around your back, the other cradling the back of your head. His lips brushed the top of your hair.
You clung back like it might hold you together.
His hand ran slowly down your spine. You could feel the control in it—the way his chest rose hard against yours, like he was barely keeping the rest of him contained.
“I changed the sheets,” he murmured softly. “Lit a few candles. Put your shampoo out. Thought maybe you’d want a hot shower first.”
Your heart cracked, melted, rebuilt itself.
You nodded against him, cheek brushing the curve of his neck.
“You remembered.”
“Of course I did.” His smile touched his voice, even as his hand lingered low on your back. “You always say you wanna feel clean before we get dirty.”
That earned a small laugh from you—quiet, but real.
He pulled back just enough to look at you, cupping your cheek in one hand. His thumb brushed gently beneath your eye, like he was checking you for damage.
“I missed you,” he said. “Like breathing stopped.”
You kissed him, soft and slow—lips barely parting, just enough to feel the warmth of him beneath the quiet.
“Missed you more.”
He didn’t rush you when you stepped out of your gear. Just watched with quiet reverence, helping peel the layers off your shoulders and arms. He kissed your shoulder once—right over the old bruise he left weeks ago—and whispered:
“I’ve been thinking about this moment for 36 days. But I’m not rushing it. Not until you’re ready.”
Then he took your hand, kissed the inside of your wrist, and nodded toward the bathroom.
“Go on. I’ll be right here.”
—
You hadn’t even closed the door behind you.
The steam was already thick, curling from the shower where hot water slammed against tile. You peeled your clothes off slowly, shaking the last of the travel dust from your skin, limbs heavy from the mission—but your chest felt lighter. He was here. You were home.
You stepped into the spray and let it hit you.
Heat flooded your shoulders. Rolled down your spine.
The ache you’d ignored for weeks cracked wide open across your bones.
You arched slightly under the pressure of the water, fingers dragging slowly down your stomach. Your thighs pressed together at the memory of his voice—his lips on your neck, his hands gripping your hips like they belonged there.
You knelt briefly to grab a bottle you knocked over. Bent forward. Stretched.
And then—
“Mmh…”
Just a sound. A breath.
But it came from somewhere deep—unconscious, raw, and aching. It slipped from your throat like his name was caught beneath it.
The floor creaked.
You turned, startled—and everything inside you tightened.
He was there.
Bucky Barnes. Standing in the doorway of the bathroom like something ancient and carved from firelight. His chest rose fast, hard, like he’d sprinted across the room. Hair damp with sweat, not water. Shoulders tight. Fists clenched at his sides.
And he was naked.
Completely.
You hadn’t even heard him undress. But there he stood—broad, solid, his cock achingly hard and already slick with precum, flushed dark and twitching with every strained breath he took.
His eyes drank you in.
Steam wrapped around his body, clinging to every line of him. You watched his jaw twitch, chest heave. His cock twitched again—another thick drop of precum beading at the tip.
“Baby…”
His voice cracked. A breath. A prayer. Hoarse and wrecked.
“Please…”
“Please stop torturing me.”
But he didn’t move. Not yet.
Like he was waiting for your permission—even now, even while unraveling at the seams.
You reached for him.
One hand. Simple. Open. You pressed your palm to the center of his chest—felt the hammering heartbeat beneath it, the way his breath hitched.
He whimpered.
The sound broke from his lips like it had been fighting its way out for days. He stepped forward, cupped your waist, then your jaw, thumb trembling against your cheek.
“You’re real,” he whispered. “Fuck—you’re here.”
You smiled softly. Nodded.
He stepped into the shower with you—no hesitation this time.
The water soaked him instantly, but he didn’t care. He was already soaked in you. The scent. The need.
His hands were everywhere. One warm, the other metal, both reverent. They dragged up your spine, gripped your hips, held your face like it was holy.
“Missed you,” he rasped between frantic kisses.
“Missed your mouth. Your voice. Your thighs. The way you sound when I’m inside you—fuck, baby, I’ve been dying.”
Your back hit the tile with a dull thud. His body pressed into yours, all solid heat and desperation.
His cock bumped against your stomach—hot, heavy, leaking.
He gasped. “Touch me… please, just—let me feel you.”
You did more than touch.
Your hand curled around the base of him, felt him throb in your palm. He swore low against your neck, forehead pressing to yours as his hands skimmed lower, between your thighs.
“Jesus, sweetheart—”
His fingers slid through the slick between your legs.
“You’re soaked…”
He groaned. Slid two fingers inside you.
You gasped, walls clenching hard around the intrusion.
“Fuck,” he hissed. “Tight… tighter than I remember. You really waited for me?”
You bit his jaw. “I didn’t even let myself finish, Bucky. You ruined me.”
That was all it took.
He gripped your thighs, lifted you off the ground like you weighed nothing, and pinned you to the shower wall. You wrapped your legs around his waist, arms around his neck.
“Hold on to me,” he breathed. “That’s it… Good girl.”
He lined himself up. Slick head pressed against your entrance. And then—
He sank in.
One thrust. Deep. Full.
You both cried out—voices echoing in the tile and steam.
The stretch. The heat. The sudden, perfect fullness.
He fucked into you with short, desperate thrusts—buried all the way, hips snapping with precision. You met him every time, nails clawing his back, gasping against his mouth.
Your orgasm ripped through you without warning—sharp, wet, loud.
“James, I—I’m coming!”
“I’ve got you. Let go. Soak me, baby.”
You did. You clenched so hard around him he almost collapsed.
He followed seconds after—buried deep, groaning your name as he came hard inside you, hips jerking, forehead pressed to your shoulder. His body trembled with the force of it. He held you there, still wrapped around him, his cock twitching inside your pulsing heat.
“You’re mine,” he whispered. “Not letting you out of this room for days.”
You kissed him through the fog, smiling against his lips.
“Good. I’m not going anywhere.”
—
Your legs were still shaking when he carried you out of the bathroom.
No towel. No words. Just the heat of his arms around you, the steady thump of his heart against your ribs, and the way the air between you still crackled like static. You smelled like him. He smelled like you. It wasn’t over. It had only begun.
He laid you on the bed like something sacred.
Candles glowed around the room, casting golden halos over damp sheets and flushed skin. The maroon lace slip sat untouched where he’d left it—delicate, sheer, wicked.
You reached for it with trembling fingers.
But Bucky caught your wrist gently. “Let me,” he said.
His voice was lower now. Hoarse. Reverent.
He lifted the slip over your head slowly, letting the lace fall like a whisper down your body. It hugged your hips, clung to your breasts just enough to tease—translucent and sinful. His lips brushed your spine as he adjusted the straps, hands shaking.
“I thought about this every night,” he murmured, lips brushing your shoulder.
“Fantasized about it. About you, straddling me in this. Had to lie there with my fists clenched, cock aching, just—breathing through it. Didn’t touch myself. Not once.”
His voice cracked. “Didn’t want to waste a single drop that wasn’t for you.”
You whimpered.
He hovered above you now—fully naked, flushed, his cock already hard again. Veined and glistening, twitching with the pulse of how badly he needed to be inside you.
But he didn’t rush.
Didn’t even move until you cupped his jaw and pulled him down into a kiss.
Mouths met softly, then harder.
Tongues sliding slow.
His body sinking into yours, heat to heat, heartbeat to heartbeat.
You grabbed the back of his neck and whispered against his lips, “Come here. Let me ruin you.”
He groaned, deep in his throat, and you flipped him onto his back, straddling his hips with shaking thighs. The lace slip rode up your thighs, leaving nothing in the way when his cock pressed hot and heavy against your dripping heat.
“Fuck, baby,” he gasped. “You’re soaked through.”
You leaned down, your breasts brushing his chest, and ground your hips against his length. “You did this,” you whispered. “With every text. Every picture. Every breath.”
He was gone. Let you take full control.
You gathered the hem of the lace slip, just enough to bare yourself to him, and guided him in—sinking down slowly, inch by agonizing inch, until he was buried to the hilt.
Both of you moaned, raw and open, mouths slack with need.
“Jesus Christ,” he groaned, head thrown back, fists clenched in the sheets.
“Still so tight, baby. Still fucking perfect.”
You started to move—slow at first, grinding your hips in deep, lazy circles that dragged the tip of his cock right against your most sensitive spot. His hands clamped hard on your thighs, trying to keep his control, but you didn’t make it easy.
“You gonna come again just from riding me?” he asked, breathless.
You nodded. “Already close.”
He groaned, slipping one hand between your bodies to rub firm, precise circles over your clit.
“There you go… let me feel you. Let go for me.”
And you did.
Your second orgasm hit like a goddamn wave—crashing through your spine, stealing your breath, squeezing around his cock so tight he choked on a moan.
He didn’t last much longer.
You kept grinding, whispering filth into his ear—how full he made you feel, how wrecked you were for him, how you still weren’t done.
That tipped him.
He came hard with a strangled moan, cock pulsing deep inside you, hips jerking as he flooded you for the second time. His arms locked around your waist as he gasped into the crook of your neck, trembling from the force of it.
You stayed like that, slumped against his chest, bodies stuck together with sweat and slick and heat.
“You alright?” he asked, voice scratchy.
“I’m feral,” you whispered back. “And I’m not finished.”
He chuckled, still panting. “Good. ‘Cause I’m not tapping out anytime soon.”
—
Later.
The wine sat untouched on the desk.
The lace slip lay discarded in a crumpled pile on the floor.
The candles had burned halfway down, wax pooling thick at the base.
And you?
You were flushed. Sweaty. Trembling.
Knees sinking into the mattress as you straddled his thighs once more, this time with your back to him—hips hovering, your whole body tingling.
He leaned against the headboard, sweat shining on his chest, watching you like a man possessed.
“You sure?” he rasped, voice ragged and frayed.
You didn’t answer.
You just reached back, gripped his cock at the base, and lowered yourself onto him slowly—inch by inch until he was buried to the hilt inside you.
Both of you moaned. Loud.
Deep.
Almost pained.
Your hands braced against his shins behind you for leverage, thighs spread wide as you rode him hard—your ass slapping against his hips, slick and flushed with every bounce.
“Oh, fuck—”
His hands gripped your waist like he was anchoring himself.
“Jesus, sweetheart—you’re still so fuckin’ tight…”
You started to move—slow, heavy grinds, rolling your hips like you needed every inch of him rooted inside you. Bucky gasped behind you, his hands traveling from your hips to your thighs to your breasts, groping, squeezing, completely feral.
“You ride me like it’s the only thing keeping you alive,” he growled.
“Look at that ass—fuck, I can see it bounce every time you fucking slam down.”
You moaned—head tilted back, chest rising and falling—sweat glistening between your breasts.
And then—his fingers slid between your thighs from behind. Two of them, circling your clit with ruthless precision.
“I wanna feel you come again, baby. Let me feel you fucking gush on my cock.”
Your thighs trembled. Muscles locked. Your core started to spasm.
“Bucky, I—I think I—fuck, I’m gonna—”
“Do it. Come on, baby. You’re dripping, you’re so fucking close—let it happen.”
You broke with a cry.
Legs shaking. Hands digging into his thighs.
Your pussy clamped down hard, and then it hit—
You squirted.
Hard.
Hot wetness sprayed between your thighs, down over his cock, soaking the sheets. Bucky let out a strangled moan, clutching your waist like he was going to lose his mind.
“Goddamn—fuck, look at you. You’re gonna make a fucking mess, aren’t you, baby?”
He didn’t stop.
He snapped his hips up into you, relentless now—grinding deep as your soaked cunt fluttered around him, so overstimulated your vision blurred.
“Still want more?” he panted, thrusting up again, angling perfectly.
“I can feel how much you need it. So greedy for me—so fucking full of my cum, and still not satisfied.”
You couldn’t answer. You just moaned, nodding wildly, nails dragging down his thighs, thighs shaking uncontrollably.
“That’s it,” he whispered, his breath hot on your shoulder as he leaned forward, one hand now wrapped tight around your throat.
“You gonna come for me again? Gonna make a mess on my cock one more time?”
“Yes—James, please—”
And you did.
A second wave slammed into you.
You screamed, back arching, body locking as you squirted again—wetter this time, gushing down over his balls, onto the sheets, soaking everything beneath you.
Bucky lost it.
“Shitshitshit— I’m coming—fuck, baby—I’m—”
He grunted, jerking up into you with three final brutal thrusts as his cock pulsed deep inside you, filling you again, so hot you felt it flood your walls.
You collapsed forward onto the mattress, his arms catching you just before you slumped completely. He held you tight from behind, your body still twitching, both of you covered in sweat, slick, and release.
“Holy fuck,” he breathed, voice dazed, completely gone.
“You just… soaked me, baby.”
You half-laughed, half-whimpered. “I couldn’t help it. You broke me.”
“Good,” he growled, kissing your neck. “You can break me next.”
—
You should’ve been done.
You should’ve been shaking, satisfied, breathless from three rounds and nothing left to give.
But you weren’t.
The ache still lived in your bones.
The emptiness still throbbed between your legs.
And when Bucky’s lips brushed your temple—slow, tender, trembling—you felt it in him too.
He needed more.
You both did.
The sheets beneath you were damp. Your thighs were slick. Your chest rose with every sharp breath, nipples flushed and sensitive, body still twitching from your last orgasm. And still… the hunger hadn’t dulled.
“You okay?” he whispered against your throat.
“No,” you rasped, voice cracking.
“I need you again. Right fucking now.”
Bucky exhaled a shaky breath. His cock twitched against your thigh—already stiffening again.
“Jesus, doll… you’re insatiable.”
He kissed your jaw. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”
Then he shifted—slow but deliberate—and suddenly, your wrists were gathered above your head. You gasped at the motion, but his grip was careful, tender. He reached for the discarded shirt at the foot of the bed and looped it around your wrists—soft, warm, not tight.
“Just wanna keep you here,” he murmured, kissing your palms one at a time.
“Let me take care of you.”
Your stomach fluttered. Your thighs clenched.
And when he dropped between your legs, your breath hitched so hard your back arched off the bed.
“James—”
“Shhh,” he purred, brushing his stubble along the inside of your thigh.
“Gonna keep you right here, sweetheart. Gonna make you come until your body forgets what rest feels like.”
His tongue dragged through your folds—slow, warm, filthy.
The first flick over your clit sent your hips off the bed—but he was already holding you down, fingers firm, spreading you open like he was fucking home.
“You’re so fucking wet,” he growled into your cunt, voice rough with disbelief.
“Jesus, baby, you taste like both of us… fuck. You’re perfect.”
He devoured you.
Long, slow licks that lapped up his own cum still leaking from you. Wet, obscene noises filled the room—every slurp, every moan against your pussy like it was the only thing that ever mattered.
You whined. Cried out. Legs trembling.
His mouth worked faster, tongue flicking your clit with maddening precision—soft then hard, gentle then firm, always changing, always knowing exactly how to ruin you.
“Bucky—fuck—baby I—”
Your voice broke.
Your hips bucked.
You were so close again, already, already—
He pulled back.
“Not yet,” he rasped, lips wet and eyes dark.
“Not until you beg for it.”
You sobbed—from the overstimulation, from the ache, from how badly you needed to fall apart.
“Please—please, baby, I can’t—just let me—let me come, please—!”
That broke him.
He groaned, deep and guttural, and latched onto your clit with his mouth wide and relentless—tongue flat, dragging fast and rough, his fingers digging bruises into your thighs.
You exploded.
A scream ripped from your throat as your orgasm hit like a strike of lightning—your whole body shook, fists clenched, toes curled, thighs trembling. You gasped so hard your ribs ached. The headboard thudded behind you.
“Good girl,” he murmured, voice soaked in reverence.
“One more, baby. Just one more for me.”
You didn’t even get to respond.
Didn’t even breathe.
Because his tongue never stopped.
He kept sucking—soft at first, then harder—until another wave curled sharp behind your ribs. You sobbed his name, pulled at the binds, tried to run but couldn’t move.
You came again.
Harder.
Legs seizing, slick gushing between your thighs, soaking his face, your body curling from the sheer force of it.
He kissed your trembling thighs through the aftershocks.
Pressed his forehead to your belly.
“You okay?” he whispered.
“I don’t even know where I am,” you panted.
“And I think I like it.”
—
Later—
Maybe thirty minutes.
Maybe five.
Time had stopped meaning anything.
It warped, curled, bled together beneath the hum of overstimulation and breathless ache.
You lay curled on your side, one leg bent, sheets tangled around your calves. Sweat cooled on your skin in sticky rivulets. Your breathing had started to even out, but your body still pulsed from the inside—too full, too stretched, too tender to be still.
And then—
The mattress dipped behind you.
You felt his warmth before you felt his hands.
He slid in close—chest to your back, thighs pressed to yours, breath curling against your neck.
His lips brushed your shoulder.
“Still want me?” he asked, voice soft as fog.
You answered with a sigh. Reached back without looking, your palm wrapping around the hard length of him, thick and hot and already twitching against your fingers.
“Always.”
You rocked your hips back, slotting yourself perfectly into him.
He kissed your spine.
Tucked his face into the crook of your neck, and whispered like a man undone.
“I’ll never stop wanting you.”
One hand lifted your top leg, just slightly—fingers gliding over your thigh. His other arm wrapped low around your waist. You felt the weight of him, the warm press of his tip teasing at your entrance—slow, so fucking slow—until he finally pushed inside.
“Jesus Christ,” he gasped, as if the heat of you had burned him.
“You’re still tight. Still fluttering around me.”
You whimpered.
He thrust deep.
Steady. Gentle.
Every movement an unspoken prayer.
No rhythm. No pace. Just a rolling, molten motion—his cock dragging deep and slow, slick with everything you’d already shared, stroking right against the spot that still trembled.
“I could live here,” he breathed. “I want to live here.”
Your hand gripped his forearm where it wrapped across your middle. He pulled you back against him with every gentle thrust, grounding you in the heat of his body, his breath stuttering where it ghosted along your neck.
“You’re so good to me,” he murmured. “So fucking good.”
“Still feels like a dream,” you whispered.
“Then don’t wake up. Just… stay right here. Let me have you like this.”
Your eyes fluttered shut. Tears stung, soft and sudden. It wasn’t pain—it was too much pleasure. Too much love. The way he moved inside you like your body was a temple. Like every inch of you was his.
“Tell me you’re mine again,” he whispered, voice breaking.
You choked on a moan.
“I’m yours, James. Always.”
You came first—slow and quiet. A gentle quake that rippled from your core outward, your body trembling against him as your inner walls clamped down tight. You gasped softly, a sob in your throat, your hands fisting in the sheets.
“That’s it,” he murmured, kissing your shoulder.
“Let go, doll. Let me feel you.”
He wasn’t far behind.
He buried himself deep, groaning low into your hair, his whole body taut as his release surged inside you again—slow and warm, his cock pulsing deep as he held still, hips locked to yours.
You lay there, body slack and soft, his cock still inside you.
He didn’t move. Didn’t pull away.
His fingers traced lazy shapes on your belly, his lips pressing soft, almost absent kisses to your damp shoulder, your neck, your cheekbone.
“You okay?” he asked eventually, voice quiet.
You nodded.
“I think I’m in love with you again.”
He smiled against your skin. “Good. I never stopped.”
—
Your body was trembling again.
Not with the sharp, writhing spasms of climax—but the deeper, low-grade tremor of exhaustion.
The kind that came after too many orgasms and too little rest.
Muscles fluttering, breath short, limbs weak. You felt boneless and heavy, like your body had melted halfway into the mattress.
And yet—
Your core still throbbed.
Your nipples still ached.
Your cunt still ached for him.
He noticed. Of course he did.
Bucky sat back on his heels beside you, eyes trailing over your form with something like worship—something like worry.
His hand reached out slowly. Brushed your sweat-slicked hair off your forehead. Pressed a soft kiss there.
“Hey,” he murmured, voice gentling. “You with me, sweetheart?”
You nodded once, eyes glassy. Your throat was too dry to speak right away.
“Breathe for me. C’mon.”
His thumb stroked your cheek.
“You look wrecked.”
“I am…”
Your voice came out hoarse.
“I’m so tired.”
That broke his heart a little—you could see it in the way his brows creased. His jaw clenched like he was trying to talk himself down from his own feral hunger.
“Then let’s stop, okay?” he offered softly. “Let me clean you up, hold you for a bit. You need rest.”
But your hand was already moving.
Shaky, slow—but determined.
You reached between his legs and wrapped your fingers around the base of his cock.
Still hard.
Still thick and flushed and leaking at the tip like he’d never finished.
His breath caught.
“Baby—”
“Don’t stop,” you whispered, tears suddenly springing to your lashes.
“Please, don’t stop. I need you.”
He looked stricken.
“I don’t wanna hurt you,” he murmured. “I don’t wanna take too much.”
“Then be gentle,” you gasped, stroking him slowly.
“But don’t pull away. I need more. I want you again. I want you.”
His restraint cracked like glass.
With a low, ragged sound, Bucky leaned down to kiss you—soft, shaky, like a prayer being answered. He whispered against your lips.
“Tell me when to stop, baby. Or I won’t.”
You nodded.
Wrapped your arms around his neck.
Pulled him into you.
He guided your legs open with reverent hands—watching your face the entire time, watching for any flinch or hesitation. You were sensitive. Sore. Spent.
But not done.
“I love you,” he said quietly, kissing the inside of your thigh.
“So much it hurts.”
You barely had breath left to answer.
“Then have me,” you whispered. “Take what’s already yours.”
His cock slid into you slow—so slow—inch by inch, the stretch deep and aching, but your body welcomed him like he’d never left.
He moaned into your throat.
“Fuck, baby… still so tight. I can feel your pulse around me.”
He moved gently. Just the slow grind of his hips, the full drag of his cock over soaked, sensitive walls. His hand slid under your back, pulling you flush to his chest.
“You tell me when to stop. You hear me?”
“Don’t stop,” you whimpered. “Just keep giving me all of you.”
And so he did.
With every thrust, he kissed you. With every shift of his hips, he whispered your name. His fingers stroked your side, your hip, your waist—every inch of skin he could reach. You shook beneath him, moaning soft and high each time he bottomed out.
“You’re incredible,” he rasped. “You’re still taking me like it’s the first time. My perfect girl.”
Your orgasm crept in like fog, soft and wet and overwhelming.
You came with a shuddered cry, barely able to hold him, but your body squeezed around him tight—fluttering, spasming, claiming him all over again.
“That's my girl,” he whispered, voice shaking. “So fucking good for me.”
And then he followed—hips stuttering, forehead pressed to yours as he groaned your name like a benediction. His cock throbbed deep inside, spilling more warmth into the mess already flooding between your legs.
He collapsed next to you, immediately pulling you into his arms. Your body was trembling. His thumb stroked your cheek.
“No more unless you ask,” he murmured against your hair.
“I’ll only give you what you want.”
—
The sky was beginning to lighten.
A dusky indigo bled into grey, softening the skyline behind the Watchtower’s windows. But inside the room, time was a blur of candlelight, heat, and the thick, dizzying scent of sweat and sex.
You couldn’t remember the last time you’d fully caught your breath.
Your whole body felt glass-thin. Shivering. Sensitive. The sheets clung to your skin with sweat, and your legs barely worked. But the ache was still there. Nestled low. Pulsing. It didn’t fade.
Bucky’s palm slid over your thigh—soft, slow, as if testing your response.
His voice came a moment later, raspy and hesitant. “Sweetheart… we can stop. You need rest. I can wait.”
But you turned to him, eyes half-lidded, lips parted. Your fingers found his, laced through them.
“I want more,” you whispered. “Please… take me there.”
He exhaled like you’d just saved his life.
Guiding you gently toward the windows—your legs shaky, but moving—he kissed your shoulder and whispered, “I’ll be gentle. Just let me see you.”
The whole room swam around you, golden in candlelight and glimmering sweat.
The skyline stretched before you. Towering buildings, distant lights. No eyes. Just your reflection—flushed, ruined, hair damp and tangled across your shoulders.
“Fuck,” Bucky exhaled when he saw you.
“Look at yourself, baby. Look what I’ve done to you.”
You braced your palms against the cool glass, breasts pressing to it as your body arched. The contrast of heat and chill made you gasp. Bucky moved in behind you, spreading your thighs with his knee. One hand on your hip. The other wrapped around his cock, dragging the head through your soaked folds.
“Still dripping,” he muttered. “Even now. Jesus, you never stop, do you?”
“I need it,” you whispered. “Still need you.”
He didn’t make you wait.
Not this time.
He slid into you with one deep, brutal thrust—your bodies colliding with a smack so loud it echoed off the glass. Your moan fogged the window instantly, your hands flattening harder against it.
“Bucky—fuck—”
He set a hard rhythm, pulling your hips back to meet every thrust, the wet sound of your bodies filling the room. You could barely stand, legs shaking, forehead pressed to the glass.
“That’s it. Just like that,” he groaned. “So fucking perfect like this. My girl. My pussy.”
His hand slid around your throat—not squeezing, just holding, grounding. His mouth hovered by your ear.
“You were made for me,” he said. “Fucking built for this.”
“Harder,” you begged. “Please—please don’t stop.”
“Look at your reflection,” he rasped. “Look how good you look. Look how you’re taking me.”
You opened your eyes—and the sight of yourself, cock-stuffed, sweat-slick, wild-eyed, flushed and wrecked against the window, nearly sent you over the edge.
He thrust harder. Faster. Your thighs trembled violently.
“Gonna come,” you sobbed. “Can’t—Bucky—I can’t hold it—”
“Then don’t,” he growled. “Come for me, baby. Come with the whole fucking city watching.”
You shattered.
Legs giving out.
A scream ripped from your throat as your orgasm slammed through you like lightning. Your vision blurred. Your body buckled. Bucky caught you before you hit the ground—arm locking around your waist as he kept moving, groaning into your neck.
“Fuck—fuck—gonna fill you again—”
His hips snapped hard, once, twice—and then he came with a guttural sound, spilling inside you with a heat that pushed out around the edges. His head dropped to your shoulder, body shuddering as he emptied himself again.
You stood there for a long time—pressed to the glass, panting, twitching. Your hands limp against the windowpane. Bucky held you like you were breakable.
“You okay?” he whispered.
You nodded faintly.
“Good. ‘Cause we’re not done.”
—
The sun was climbing now.
Pale gold spilled across the Watchtower skyline, casting long streaks of light onto the floor like it was forgiving the sins you were still committing.
Your whole body ached—but not in the way that begged for rest.
It was a deep, needy pulse. Faint, but still there. A hunger that wouldn’t let go.
You stumbled barefoot into the kitchenette, still bare, still slick between your thighs, wearing nothing but Bucky’s hickeys. Your hair was tangled. Your lips were swollen. Your legs trembled with every step.
Your hand landed on a protein bar. You peeled it open with shaking fingers and leaned on the counter for support.
“You better be looking for food,” you said over your shoulder, breathless and hoarse.
You heard the footsteps.
But they didn’t head for the fridge.
Bucky’s body pressed into you from behind—solid, burning hot, and still hard. He slid one arm around your waist, the other reaching up to gently move your hair aside so he could press a kiss to your neck.
“I am hungry,” he rasped, his voice low and feral.
“Just not for that.”
“Bucky,” you groaned, half-laughing, half-destroyed. “I can’t even feel my legs—”
“Good,” he whispered. “You don’t need ‘em.”
Before you could blink, he bent you over the kitchen island.
Your palms slapped down on the cold countertop, and you gasped as your bare nipples brushed the smooth marble.
You didn’t even get the chance to speak.
He lined himself up and pushed in fast—no prep, no warning, just the slick glide of his cock stretching you open again, sliding back into your wrecked body like it was home.
“Fuck, Bucky—!”
“Still so wet,” he growled behind you.
“Still squeezing me like you want more.”
His hands slid to your hips, gripping tight, pulling you back against him with every hard thrust.
This wasn’t slow.
This wasn’t tender.
It was filthy, frantic, barely-in-control fucking. Not because he didn’t care—but because he still needed you that badly.
The sound of skin slapping echoed in the tiny space. The sticky squelch of your soaked cunt taking him again and again filled the air. Your moans bounced off stainless steel and tiled walls.
You dropped your head onto your forearm.
“We… already did this—eight times,” you whimpered.
“I know,” he growled, fucking into you deeper.
“And you’re still fuckin’ perfect. Still taking it all.”
“You’re gonna kill me—”
“Then what a fucking way to go, sweetheart.”
He slid a hand around your front, fingers seeking out your clit, stroking with maddening precision. The way he touched you was still worshipful—even in this chaos.
Your whole body clenched.
“You want one more?” he asked, voice thick, rough, hungry.
“You got one more in you for me, doll?”
“Yes—yes—please—just one more—!”
You came hard. Your scream was ragged, echoing through the kitchen, and your knees nearly gave out from the force of it. The overstimulation blurred your vision with white-hot static, but your body still took every inch of him.
Bucky groaned deep and low, hips jerking as he spilled inside you one last time—his cock pulsing, his chest pressed to your back as he moaned your name like a blessing.
He didn’t sag against you. Didn’t drop.
He stayed upright, body still buzzing, cock still twitching inside you. You could feel him—full, ready again. You were the one shaking. Not him.
“Jesus Christ,” you whispered. “You’re still hard.”
“Told you,” he murmured, breath warm against your ear.
“I could do this for days.”
“James…”
He slid his arms around your waist from behind and pulled you upright, holding you there with his cock still buried deep.
“I’ll stop if you need me to,” he whispered.
“Just say the word.”
You leaned your head back against his shoulder, heart thudding weakly.
“…I think my soul already came twice.”
Bucky laughed softly. Kissed the crown of your head.
“Rest, baby. I’ll still be here when you wake up. Hard as a fucking rock.”
—
You didn’t know what time it was when you finally woke.
Only that the light outside was warmer. Honey-gold, slipping through the windows in slow streaks. The world felt distant. Blurry. But the weight behind you wasn’t.
Bucky’s arm was still around your waist, his chest pressed along your back. Warm. Steady. His breath ghosted over the back of your neck in a soft, familiar rhythm.
Your body ached in the best ways—sore thighs, puffy lips, bruised hips—but it was the ache in your chest that hummed the loudest.
You blinked. Shifted slowly.
He stirred.
“Hey,” he murmured, voice still sleep-rough.
“You okay?”
You turned to face him—carefully, slowly—and found his eyes already open, watching you.
“Mhm. Everything hurts,” you whispered. “In a good way.”
Bucky smiled. Just a little. One of those soft, private smiles he saved for no one but you.
“Told you I’d wreck you.”
“You did. Multiple times.”
He chuckled, then leaned forward to kiss you.
No tongue. No hunger. Just warmth. Lips brushing yours with slow reverence, like he was re-learning your taste now that the storm had passed.
You melted into it.
Pressed your forehead to his.
His fingers traced lazy lines across your spine, slow and aimless.
“Missed this,” he whispered. “Missed you.”
You whispered it back. Quiet. Honest.
Then let the silence settle over you both for a while—safe, sacred, slow.
Eventually, after a second nap and a shower where no one tried to fuck anyone against the tiles (God bless you), you both managed to drag yourselves into clothes and make your way toward the common area.
Bucky wore a black tee and gray sweatpants that left absolutely nothing to the imagination. You were in a loose hoodie and biker shorts—though judging by the soreness between your thighs, sitting might be a challenge.
His arm was around your waist the whole walk.
Your legs still wobbled slightly, and he adjusted his pace to match yours. Not a word about it. Just his warm palm pressing steady against your hipbone like a grounding wire.
—
The squad was already gathered around the Watchtower’s long dining table.
It was pasta night.
Yelena sat at the end, spooning pesto onto her plate with war-like intensity. Ava nursed a glass of wine. Bob looked half-asleep. Alexei was double-fisting garlic bread.
John Walker looked up the moment you stepped into view.
“Oh look,” he said dryly. “It lives.”
You flipped him off without stopping.
“Someone got their back blown out,” Ava added sweetly, raising her glass.
✮ synopsis: the soulmate au where touch is everything.
✮ pairing: catws!bucky x soulmate!reader; catws!steve x soulmate!reader
✮ warnings: fem!reader, soulmate au, violence/action sequences, descriptions of torture/memory wiping, PTSD, panic attacks, dissociation, past trauma, hurt/comfort, angst with happy ending, (18+) MDNI: explicit sexual content (marked with a **)
✮ a/n: only ever planned for the one-shot but i'm having too much fun with drabbles so alas. a landing page. (currently taking requests!)
mains:
touch and go (14.3k)—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.) bucky x reader, (18+) MDNI
phantom limb (17.2k)—steve rogers has spent two years keeping you at arm's length. but when a mission goes wrong and his skin meets yours, suddenly every wall he's built starts crumbling. (or: the soulmate fic where touch is the one thing captain america can't fight.) steve x reader, (18+) MDNI
drabbles:
loose threads (2.4k)—two years later. nightmares & healing.
bucky x reader, (18+) MDNI
overkill (1.5k)—you get hurt. bucky absolutely does not overreact. bucky x reader
✮ 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 1
bonus drabble 2
series 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:
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.
"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.
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.
summary: during a storm, you rescue a stray kitten and spend the next week trying to keep her hidden from your boyfriend.
word count: 2k
author's note: i love cats and dogs, genuinely would run a little zoo of my own if i could. enjoy my loves and stay safe out there! please drop a like or a reblog if you enjoyed! <3333
based on this request
i love soft!bucky with my whole heart
It started with a storm and a pair of very, very round blue eyes.
You hadn’t meant to adopt a cat.
The plan was simple. Boring, even.
Drop off your mission report to Val, grab a too-sweet latte with Yelena while listening to her complain about Walker’s latest disaster, and then spend the evening wrapped in your favourite blanket, bingeing your comfort show for the fifth, okay, seventh time.
That was it. No drama. No interruptions. Definitely no unexpected pets.
But fate, and a suspiciously open cardboard box near the alley dumpsters behind your usual deli—had other plans.
That’s where you found her.
Or rather, that’s where she found you.
You hadn’t even noticed the box at first. You were halfway through texting Yelena about her ridiculous idea for matching leather jackets when a faint sound stopped you cold.
A mewl, soft, reedy, desperate. You turned, heart already twisting, and there she was.
Soaked. Shivering.
All fluff and no fight.
Her white fur was a grimy, matted mess, stained gray from the rain and dirt. She couldn’t have been more than a few months old—tiny and fragile, huddled against the crumpled side of the box like it might still protect her.
When your shadow fell over her, she didn’t flinch. She just blinked up at you with those huge, too-wise eyes, let out one pitiful little cry, and tucked her nose into her paw like she was already giving up.
And that was it. You were done for.
You crouched without thinking, hands already moving before logic caught up. She was cold, so cold you swore you could feel it through your fingertips when you scooped her up and tucked her against your chest.
Your jacket came off next, hastily unzipped and wrapped around her as you stood, shielding her from the steady drizzle like instinct had overridden every ounce of your common sense.
She didn’t struggle. Didn’t even try to claw or hiss. Just curled tighter against your chest, her body trembling as a soft, tentative purr vibrated against your sternum.
You looked down. She looked up.
That was the moment.
You didn’t have a name for her yet. You didn’t have a plan. Hell, you didn’t even know if pets were allowed at the compound.
But none of that mattered.
You walked the rest of the way with one arm wrapped around your jacket, cradling a soggy, wide-eyed ball of fur like she was the most precious thing in the world.
You didn’t even make it two steps into the building before Bob spotted you and said, flatly, “You’re keeping it.”
You didn’t argue. Because he was right.
You hadn’t meant to adopt a cat.
But it turns out, she’d already adopted you.
"Your name is Alpine," you whispered as you tiptoed into your shared bedroom with Bucky, cradling the tiny fluff ball like a state secret.
She was warm in your arms, damp fur already drying against the softness of your shirt, her little body nestled in like she belonged there. "And you, my girl, are a secret agent."
Alpine blinked up at you with slow, sleepy eyes. Then she let out the tiniest sneeze, her whole body jolting with the force of it.
You smiled, tucking her closer. “We’ll work on stealth.”
Operation Hide-The-Cat was officially underway.
You were surgical in your efforts. Strategic. Diligent. The litter box went in the back of your closet, camouflaged behind a wall of boots and a perfectly draped robe. Her food and water bowls were slipped into a lower drawer you’d emptied and converted into a makeshift dining nook, lined with a towel and everything.
You bought a ridiculous amount of pet wipes and dry shampoo to keep her from smelling too obviously like cat. Her toys were buried between pillows and blankets, and her treats were stashed behind rows of books on your shelves, labeled as "protein bars" in case anyone peeked.
Alpine had more square footage and amenities than some junior agents in the compound.
You even rigged the air vents with dryer sheets to mask the scent, knowing full well Ava liked to crawl through them when she was bored—or looking to scare the shit out of someone. If she found out about Alpine, it would be game over.
Not because Ava would snitch.
But because she’d absolutely try to recruit her into the team.
The first few days were a breeze. Alpine slept for hours, nestled in the crook of your arm or burrowed into the soft blankets you arranged like a throne.
She ate delicately, gave you tiny headbutts whenever you reached for your phone, and purred like a small engine when you read aloud at night. It was like living with a warm, sleepy marshmallow who occasionally attacked your socks.
Then she discovered Bucky’s jacket.
It was just hanging there—carelessly draped over the back of your chair, like he always left it when he stayed over in your room.
Dark blue, soft with wear, the kind of thing he grumbled about losing but never actually took back. It smelled like him—pine and clean soap and just a trace of that cologne he insisted he didn’t wear.
The same jacket he’d left behind after that quiet night in, when the two of you had curled up on your bed with takeout and old black-and-white movies. You’d fallen asleep on his chest halfway through Casablanca, and he hadn’t moved a muscle until morning.
You never gave it back.
Apparently, neither could Alpine.
You caught her the first time while brushing your teeth, half-asleep, groggy, and wondering what the soft thump-thump-thump was behind you.
There she was, in all her tiny glory, rolling back and forth on the jacket like she’d claimed it in the name of the feline empire.
You watched in disbelief as she kneaded her little paws into it—making biscuits like it was hers, purring so loud it echoed off the tiles.
From that point on, it was a losing battle.
Every time you turned around, there she was—wrapped in it like a burrito, dragging it off the chair like a victorious hunter, or burrowed into its folds with her head poking out like royalty in a four-poster bed.
You tried to relocate it. Hang it up. Even hide it. Somehow, she always found it.
You started picking fur off it obsessively, lint rolling like your life depended on it—every sleeve, every seam, every goddamn inch of it.
But it was too late.
Because when Bucky walked in three nights later, gaze sharp and mouth already forming some sarcastic comment about your tendency to “hog all the blankets,” he paused mid-step. His eyes dropped to the chair. His brows furrowed.
Then he picked up the jacket.
Held it at arm’s length.
And pulled one long white hair off the collar.
You froze.
Alpine, traitor that she was, chose that exact moment to sneeze again—from under your bed.
Day Seven.
You were in the kitchen reheating leftovers, Alpine nestled warm and content inside Bucky's jacket like a smug little stowaway.
She’d made herself a nest just under the zip, her tiny head poking out beneath your chin, her soft purr vibrating gently against your sternum.
Her paws were tucked against your chest, and her tail flicked lazily beneath the fabric, occasionally brushing your ribs like a mischievous secret waiting to be exposed.
You stirred the pasta one-handed, trying not to disturb her. She’d been sleepy and clingy all morning, refusing to be left alone in the pile of blankets you’d made for her on the bed.
You’d tried sneaking away twice, once for the bathroom, once for food, and both times she’d meowed like you’d abandoned her forever.
So here you were, cooking one-handed with a clingy fur baby zipped into your jacket like the world’s neediest hot water bottle.
That’s when your boyfriend walked in.
Fresh from training. His shirt clinging to him like a second skin, damp with sweat in all the distracting places.
He had that casual, unbothered look about him—like he didn’t even realise how effortlessly distracting he was.
He paused the second he saw you.
His brows drew together, subtle but sharp. “Hey,” he said, voice low as he crossed to the cabinet for a mug.
“Hey,” you echoed, far too casually, heart skipping when Alpine’s tail twitched right as he passed behind you. You subtly shifted your stance to hide the movement.
Bucky glanced over his shoulder, frowning faintly. “...You purring?”
You blinked. “What?”
He tilted his head, mug in hand, a smirk just barely beginning to tug at his mouth. “I swear I just heard purring.”
“No you didn’t.”
He stepped closer, eyes narrowing slightly, “Are you purring?”
“Why would I purr?” you asked. "That’s not even something people do.”
“Not usually, no,” he said slowly, taking another step forward, eyes dropping briefly to the suspicious lump in your hoodie.
You held your ground. “I’m cold.”
“In June?”
You cursed the climate-controlled compound.
Couldn’t they have made it slightly more believable?
And then—of course—Alpine chose that exact moment to stretch.
A soft meow slipped out of her as she extended one paw toward your zipper like she was participating in the worst game of peekaboo. Her little white head pushed through next, blinking sleepily at the sudden light.
There was a long beat of silence.
Bucky just stared.
Alpine blinked up at him, completely unbothered, tail flicking like she was proud of herself.
And Bucky—
He smiled.
Not a smirk. Not one of his usual crooked, knowing grins. A real smile. Slow and soft and a little stunned, like it had crept up on him without warning. Like he hadn’t expected it. Like he hadn’t expected you.
“You adopted a cat,” he said quietly.
“Rescued a cat,” you corrected quickly, your hand already stroking her head out of pure guilt. “I didn’t mean to. She was just... there. In a box. In the rain. She looked at me. And sneezed. I didn’t stand a chance.”
Bucky stepped closer, something unreadable in his eyes. “She yours?”
You nodded. “Technically, she’s off the books. Like… extremely off the books.”
He crouched slightly, careful and deliberate as he reached out and scratched behind Alpine’s ear.
She melted instantly. Eyes fluttering shut. Purr ramping up like a motor.
You watched, heart thudding.
“Well,” he murmured, not looking away from her, “she’s got good taste.”
“In jackets?” you teased, a little breathless.
“In people,” he said, finally meeting your eyes.
Your breath caught in your throat.
Alpine let out a pleased little chirp, completely oblivious to the tension she’d just wandered into.
You exhaled slowly. “Guess the secret’s out.”
Bucky chuckled. “Wasn’t much of a secret. Pretty sure Yelena saw her yesterday licking marinara off the kitchen counter.”
You groaned, leaning your head back against the fridge. “Of course she did.”
“She took a video,” Bucky added, laughing now.
You covered your face with your hand. “She’s never letting this go.”
“Relax,” he said, voice warm. “No one’s kicking her out. She’s... kind of perfect. A little menace. Like you.”
You looked at him then. Really looked. His expression was open, easier than you’d seen it in days. Like Alpine’s very presence had cracked something in him.
“You mean that?” you asked.
He nodded. “Yeah. She can stay.”
You grinned. “But she has to share the jacket?”
He raised an eyebrow. “You mean my jacket that you permanently borrowed?”
“You left it here, technically.”
He leaned in and kissed your temple. “Semantics, sweetheart.”
Later that night, when you wandered into the living room with a book in one hand and Alpine’s new toy in the other, you stopped in the doorway.
There they were.
Bucky was stretched out on the couch, hair still damp from his post-shower rinse. One arm tucked behind his head, mouth parted slightly in sleep. And curled right on top of him, nestled into the center of his chest like she’d been born to be there—Alpine. Her tiny paws rose and fell with his breathing, purring so loud you could hear it across the room.
Neither stirred.
You didn’t say anything.
Just stood there, smiling softly, heart full and warm in a way you hadn’t expected when this week started.
soft and shy y/n treating bucky's wounds and him being all flirty and smug... would love to see that 😁❤️
While you didn’t go on missions with the rest of the team, you did lots of other things, the reports, the debriefing, meetings, all that business shazam. The biggest and most important thing you were, was Bucky’s precious girlfriend, no one ever thought you would end up together considering you were a ball of sunshine— soft, sweet, gentle while Bucky was a big brooding doberman.
The team had just come back from a mission in Vienna, you were in your office during that time until a message from Sam come through on your phone.
Sam
scratches and scraps, only one wound, he’s being stubborn.
You frowned knowing how your boyfriend was. Without hesitation you left your office before finding Bucky walking down the hall, he looks up at before he can say any thing you’re guiding him to the bathroom.
“Baby—“ “No bucky.” You said, cutting him off. Guiding him to sit on the edge of the bathtub, already pulling out a first aid kit.
Bucky watched you, his body immediately relaxing at your touch, watching your eyebrows furrow in concentration, your cute lips in a pout. His face had tiny scratches, a few near his eyebrow, a cut lip, a wound on his abdomen.
He was in love with you.
“Look at my sweet girl.” He mused, smirking, “Takin’ care of me, you my nurse now baby?”
Your cheeks felt warm as you bit back a shy smile, cleaning his cuts.
“Bucky..”
His larger hands settled on your waist, squeezing gently, “I’d get hurt every day just to have you take care of me baby..” His hands slipping underneath your blouse.
“James Buchanan! M’tryn’ help you and you’re flirting.” You said, giggling softly.
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x avenger!Fem!Reader (y/n)
Genre: Fluff - Angst - Reader hurt - Lies
Word count: 1888
Summary: Bucky spent years feeling guilty for what he was and what he did. Y/N, his girlfriend was the only thing that reminded him how good life can be. Having a metal arm was difficult and when he accidentally hit her, his world collapsed. Y/N found a easy way to make him change his mind
The common room echoed with laughter. You were curled up at one end of the couch, half-covered by a thrown blanket, giggling at something Sam had said while Bucky sat beside you, a rare grin stretched across his usually guarded face. His vibranium arm was slung lazily across the back of the couch, his whole posture relaxed in a way you didn’t see often.
Now alone, you were teasing him. Something about his outdated music taste when he chuckled, leaning back and waving that metal arm in mock offense. And then it happened. A sharp but light tap on your upper arm. You didn’t even register it at first. It wasn’t painful. Just surprising, like bumping into a doorknob you hadn’t noticed. Your laughter barely faltered. But he did. Bucky went still. Utterly, terrifyingly still. His smile faded instantly. His eyes locked onto your arm, wide and full of alarm. He pulled back like he’d touched fire.
“Bucky?” you asked, tone gentle, brows furrowing when you saw his expression.
“I-I didn’t mean to,” he said quickly, his voice barely audible. “I didn’t see where you were-God, I didn’t mean-did I hurt you?”
You blinked, confused at first. “What? No-wait, is that what you’re-?”
But he was already retreating, both physically and emotionally. That wall he worked so hard to keep down around you started building itself back up brick by brick. He rubbed his flesh hand over his face and muttered, more to himself than to you, “Damn it. I wasn’t paying attention.” You reached for him.
“Bucky. Hey. Look at me.” He didn’t. So you scooted closer, placing your hand carefully over the one he kept clenched in his lap. “It didn’t hurt. I swear. It was barely anything.”
He shook his head slowly. “It doesn’t matter. I shouldn’t have—Y/N, I hit you. Even if it was by accident. Even if it didn’t hurt.” His voice cracked on the last word. You could feel his guilt radiating off him in waves. It made your heart ache. “Bucky,” you whispered. “You didn’t hurt me. You startled me. That’s all. It wasn’t violent. It wasn’t scary. You’d never hurt me.” He finally looked at you then, and God, the look in his eyes broke something in you—because he wasn’t looking at you, not really. He was seeing a past he couldn’t escape, one you knew he carried like chains around his wrists. So you brought his metal hand to your lap, cradling it gently. A soft breath of laughter escaped him, almost involuntarily.
You smiled. “Come on, Barnes. You really think I’d let you off the hook if you’d actually hurt me? You think you’d still be sitting upright?” That made him huff, and you saw the corner of his mouth twitch. “There he is,” you said, leaning into him, resting your head lightly on his shoulder. “You’re allowed to have fun, Bucky. You’re allowed to laugh. You’re allowed to be human.” He swallowed hard, then whispered, “I’m always scared I’ll slip. That I’ll forget how strong this thing is.” You squeezed his hand. “Then we figure it out together. Okay?” He didn’t answer with words but when his fingers curled around yours, warm and steady, you knew he believed you.
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The incident in the common room was small. Barely a blip in the timeline of your lives at the Tower. But something shifted after that. Not between you two at least, not in a bad way. If anything, you were closer. But Bucky noticed how you started asking him for things. Little things. Specific things. It was always something simple. Something harmless. And always something that meant he had to use his metal arm.
It started with the jar. “Hey, could you open this for me?” you asked one lazy afternoon, handing him the stubborn pesto jar from the fridge. He took it without a word and popped it open with a smooth twist of his metal hand. “Wow,” you said, eyes wide with mock awe. “My hero.” He snorted, handing it back. “You loosened it.” You shrugged, grinning. “Still counts.”
Next came the bookshelf. You stood in your room, frowning at the towering wooden shelves like they’d insulted your ancestors. “Hey, Buck?” you called, and he was there in a second. “Can you help me move this? It’s too heavy.” He gripped the side of the shelf with his metal arm and lifted it like it weighed nothing. “Where do you want it?” he said, holding in the air the bookshelf. You blinked. “Seriously? You didn’t even grunt.” He smirked. “That was me being polite.”
Then there was the couch incident. You apparently choose the heaviest couch in the shop, but when you first bought it that wasn’t a problem. So now you were going to use it for your purposes; movie night in your room while all the avengers were out. You were stretched out across half the couch with your legs draped over his lap, blanket tucked under your chin. The remote slipped behind the cushions with a dull noise. “Ugh. It fell under the couch,” you mumbled. “Mind grabbing it?” Without missing a beat Bucky slid your legs off his lap, stood up and reached the floor with his arm founding the remote, then casually lifted the entire couch just enough to retrieve it. You gawked. “Did you just… lift the couch?” He handed you the remote like nothing happened. “You wanted it, didn’t you?” You narrowed your eyes. “I could have reached for it myself, you know.”
“Then why didn’t you?” You didn’t answer. He raised an eyebrow. And then it clicked.
That night, while you brushed your teeth, Bucky leaned against the doorframe of the bathroom, arms crossed, watching you through the mirror. “You’ve been doing it on purpose,” he said. You spat out your toothpaste. “Doing what?”
“The metal arm thing.” You shrugged innocently. “Have I?” He stepped closer, his voice softer now. “You’re trying to make me use it more.” You glanced up at him. “Trying to help you stop flinching when you look at it.” There was a pause, just the faint buzz of the bathroom light between you. Then he slipped his metal arm around your waist and pulled you gently toward him, the cold plates warming slowly against your skin. “Did it work?” you whispered. His voice was low, steady, full of something quiet and sacred. “Yeah. It worked.”
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You continued the following days, lifting your suitcase or handing him your favorite mug, trusting him not to crush it when your hands were full. One night, during movie night, you shifted the bowl of popcorn into his left hand without even looking up from the screen. Every time, you smiled like it was nothing. Every time, his chest tightened a little.
You were tucked into his side on the couch, his vibranium arm wrapped snugly around your shoulders like it belonged there (because it did). His flesh hand rested lightly on your thigh, thumb brushing back and forth as the movie flickered on in the background. He’d been quiet tonight, but not the tense kind of quiet you used to worry about. Just… settled. At peace. That peace, of course, was exactly why you decided to stir the pot. You turned to him, completely straight-faced. “You know, your real arm is starting to give me the ick.” His head snapped toward you. “Excuse me?” You gave an exaggerated shiver. “Yeah. I dunno. It’s just so… skin-like.” He narrowed his eyes, suspicious. “You mean human?” “Exactly!” you gasped, as if it was the most horrifying concept in the world. “It doesn’t even glow. No shiny parts. No dramatic sound when you move it. Honestly? It’s a little boring. Kinda scary even.”
“Oh my God,” Bucky groaned, throwing his head back against the couch. “You’re impossible.” You leaned into his side, tapping his metal bicep. “This one, though? Top tier. Looks cool, feels cool, opens jars, moves furniture…what doesn’t it do?” you said smirking.
“It doesn’t feel,” he said quietly, without bitterness. Just stating fact. You looked up at him, your teasing fading into something softer. “That’s not true.” He met your gaze, puzzled. “It holds me,” you whispered. “That’s all I need it to feel.” He didn’t say anything for a moment. Just looked at you like you hung the moon then, “You’re the worst. You know that?” You grinned. “And yet, here you are. Letting the ick arm touch me.”
“Okay, first of all-” He tackled you gently onto the cushions, rolling you beneath him with a laugh. “If anyone’s getting the ick, it’s me. You’re obsessed with this arm.” You giggled, running your fingers down the smooth, dark plating. “Maybe. But can you blame me?”
“No,” he muttered, dipping his head to press a kiss to your neck. “Not one damn bit.”
You were perched at the kitchen island in one of Bucky’s Henleys and a pair of sleep shorts, nursing your second cup of coffee while half-listening to Tony rant about someone leaving the toaster dial set to 7. Nat was calmly buttering toast. Steve was flipping through a newspaper like it was still 1943. Sam was already on his third protein shake.
Bucky entered quietly, looking almost shy, until he spotted you and immediately softened. He padded over and, without a word, slid his vibranium arm around your shoulders, pulling you into his side. You leaned into it like it was second nature, pressing your cheek to the cold metal with a content little sigh. None of this was unusual anymore. What was unusual was that Steve had apparently just noticed the pattern.
He tilted his head and frowned a little. “Hey, Buck… I’ve been meaning to ask.” You glanced up lazily from your mug. Steve pointed between the two of you with his spoon. “Why do you always now touch her with your metal arm?” Bucky didn’t miss a beat. With the most deadpan expression, he said, “Oh. She’s afraid of my real arm.” There was a pause. Tony blinked. “I’m sorry-what?” You sipped your coffee. “Yeah. It gave me the ick.” Bucky nodded solemnly. “She said it’s boring.”
“I never said boring…” you added casually. “Yes you did” he replied. Nat choked on her tea. Sam nearly spit his shake across the counter. Steve looked between the two of you like his brain had blue-screened. “You… you’re kidding. Right?” You finally grinned, nudging Bucky’s stomach with your elbow. “Obviously.” Bucky chuckled, eyes bright. “She’s not afraid of me, punk. Not even a little. She’s the reason I don’t flinch when people look at this thing anymore.” He flexed the vibranium fingers gently, still resting them over your shoulder. Steve softened. “Well… good. I just noticed it and thought…well it’s nice.” Tony raised an eyebrow. “Nice? Steve, he literally wraps her in an arm made of Stark tech every morning like a human weighted blanket.”
“Jealous?” Bucky asked with a smirk. Tony sniffed. “Please. If anyone touched me before noon, they’d be dead.” You laughed softly, leaning further into Bucky’s embrace. His metal thumb rubbed slow circles into your upper arm. And as the kitchen filled with laughter and snark, Bucky just looked down at you safe, warm, alive in his arms and thought, Yeah. I trust myself now. Because she did first.
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x barista!Reader
Trope: Strangers to slow burn | Coffee shop AU Word Count: ~4,300
Warnings: Fluff, awkward flirting, soft!Bucky, a little pining, no powers AU, mentions of PTSD, mentions of military past, comfort themes, reader wears big sweaters
Bucky Barnes is a man of routine.
Maybe more than that. Maybe routine is the only thing that feels safe after all the chaos. The fighting. The things he can’t erase but learns to live with every day.
So, when he walks into the same corner café every morning, it’s not just for the coffee. It’s because he knows someone there will smile at him like he’s a friend, like he’s not carrying the weight of a hundred lifetimes on his shoulders.
That someone is you.
The first morning Bucky walks in, he’s a little late. Not much, just a couple of minutes past his usual time — 7:45 instead of 7:43 — but to him, it might as well be a storm.
You’re behind the counter, with your oversized sweater hanging off your frame like you borrowed it from a much taller friend. Your nails are chipped black, like you rushed painting them the night before. A band-aid peeks out from your ring finger, fresh and bright against your skin. The name tag on your chest is handwritten in thick, uneven Sharpie letters: “Hi, I'm [Y/N]!”
You catch his eye and grin — not that fake smile people put on for customers, but the real one that crinkles the corners of your eyes and makes the entire room seem warmer.
“Morning,” you say, voice soft but with just enough cheer to cut through the hum of the espresso machine.
Bucky freezes for a second — forgets why he came in at all. Coffee? Yes. But also something else. Connection. Comfort. Something he hasn’t felt in a long time.
“Black coffee,” he finally says. “One sugar.”
You nod and get to work. You recommend the house roast, asking if he wants room for cream. When you hand over the cup, you doodle a tiny heart on the sleeve with your marker. Bucky stares at it all the way home, the cup still warm in his hands. The heart feels like an unspoken promise.
By the third morning, you know his order without asking. Black coffee, one sugar, minimal small talk.
But you still chatter.
About the weather. About a funny barista who tried to latte art a smiley face and ended up with a blob. About the new vinyl you bought for your record player. You don’t ask much about him, but your voice wraps around the space between you like a warm blanket.
And Bucky keeps coming back.
You hum classic rock when you’re cleaning the espresso machine. The soundtrack of your life spills into the air — Fleetwood Mac, The Rolling Stones, The Beatles. You tap your foot, swaying ever so slightly, even though there’s no one watching.
On slow days, you scribble on napkins — doodles, song lyrics, little jokes for yourself. One napkin has a cat wearing sunglasses. Another reads, You are enough. Bucky spots them sometimes, curious enough to peek but respectful enough not to pry.
Every Thursday, you wear a different band tee. Bucky notices because one morning he catches himself wondering what you’ll wear next week — Nirvana? The Clash? A faded Pink Floyd? He doesn’t know why this sticks with him, but it does.
Day five arrives, and you finally break the rhythm.
“What’s your name?” you ask, leaning casually against the counter, chin in your hand.
Bucky looks up, startled like you caught him thinking too hard.
“Bucky,” he says quietly, eyes flicking away.
“Well, Bucky,” you grin, playful but gentle, “welcome to your new addiction.”
You mean the coffee. He knows you do. But despite himself, he flushes — like he’s been caught falling for more than just caffeine.
The days roll on, slow and sweet.
You start saving the best muffin for him — banana nut, with no raisins. You know from his brief, almost shy comment that he hates raisins.
One afternoon, the register screen flickers and freezes. Bucky, without a word, pulls out a tiny toolkit from his bag and starts fiddling with it. You watch, impressed.
“You’re like a wizard,” you say.
He smirks, a small curl at the corner of his mouth. “Just a guy who’s fixed worse.”
A rainy morning finds you standing outside, drenched despite the umbrella in your hand. Bucky arrives, offering his own umbrella with a sticky note taped to the handle: Don’t argue.
You take it, silent, but the corners of your mouth twitch.
He doesn’t say a word as you duck inside the shop, warm coffee and soft light waiting.
That night, Bucky dreams of you.
Your laugh, bright and honest, echoing through the quiet of his apartment.
Your voice, saying his name like it belongs to you — not a stranger or a soldier, but just Bucky.
One evening, you invite him to sit after a long shift. The shop is closed, the air thick with the smell of coffee and cleaning supplies. You’re tired, cheeks flushed from the rush, but he doesn’t say no.
He pulls up a chair and listens as you rant about a customer who insisted oat milk belonged in black coffee. You split a muffin in silence, crumbs falling onto the table like little promises.
When it’s time to close, he offers to help. You let him.
The silence between you is not awkward. It’s familiar. Like the first deep breath after holding it for too long.
He starts writing again.
Not the grand, sweeping prose he once dreamed of. Small notes in a battered Moleskine he keeps tucked in the jacket he never takes off.
Details you wouldn’t expect him to notice: the exact green of your eyes, the way your voice rises when the milk steamer spits, the warmth of your hands moving through the ritual of coffee-making.
He writes your name. Over and over.
The first time he touches your hand, it’s accidental.
You both reach for the same coffee pot. His fingers brush yours. The contact is electric, like static in the air before a storm.
You look up, meeting his eyes. Slow. Soft. A little surprised.
“Next time,” you whisper, “bring me coffee. And maybe stay.”
He nods.
Next time, he does.
Two cups in his hands. Yours has a little heart drawn on the sleeve.
You sit together at the window seat, morning sun casting golden light across your faces. His knee brushes yours. Neither of you pulls away.
“I never liked mornings until now,” he says quietly.
You sip your coffee, smiling like it means everything.
Because maybe it does.
The weeks that follow are full of quiet rituals.
He’s there before the sun rises. You’re the first voice he hears — soft, steady, real.
You watch him learn to smile again, slow but sure.
You watch him start to let go.
And you realize, without quite meaning to, that you’ve found your own routine — one that involves worn-in denim, chipped nails, coffee stains, and the man who carries his scars like badges of survival.
Because sometimes, routine isn’t just about safety.
Sometimes it’s about home.
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