summary: he hates christmas. you love it. somewhere between skating under the lights and quiet winter nights, friendship becomes love.
pairing: college!hockey!player!bucky x gn!reader
warnings: fluff, friends to lovers, pre established friendship, sunshine/grumpy dynamic, mutual pinning, slow-ish burn, college!au, mentions of childhood property (mild), holiday related angst (mild).
wc: 3.2k
a/n: apart of the StanTastic Secret Santa. Hope you enjoy @wherewinterblooms!
Winter doesn’t arrive gently in this town. It announces itself.
The air sharpens overnight. Storefronts bloom with lights like someone flipped a switch and decided subtlety wasn’t necessary anymore. Pine garlands creep along railings and door frames, red bows appear in places no one remembers putting them, and suddenly everyone has an opinion about snow, about whether it’s too early or just right or never early enough.
You love it.
You always have.
You like how predictable it all is. How the calendar flips to December and the town collectively agrees to lean into it. There’s comfort in that, in knowing what’s coming next. Tree lighting on the square. The winter carnival flyers taped up everywhere. The rink opening for night skating, floodlights strung overhead so the ice glows white and gold and blue, like something out of a movie.
You’ve been waiting for it since the first cold snap in October.
Bucky Barnes has been bracing for it since move in day.
You find him the same way you usually do, tucked into the quiet edges of things. After practice. After the crowds have cleared. Sitting on the rink bleachers hesitating to tug his helmet still off like he hasn’t decided whether he’s done being a hockey player yet or not.
The Zamboni hums across the ice, steady and slow. The air smells like cold metal and resurfaced ice and sweat that hasn’t quite faded yet.
“You’re gonna freeze,” you tell him, plopping down beside him anyway.
“I’m fine.”
“You say that like it’s convincing.”
He huffs a quiet laugh through his nose but doesn’t argue. That’s how you know he’s tired.
“Tree lighting’s tonight,” you say, like you haven’t been counting down for weeks.
“Nope.”
You don’t even pause. “You don’t even know what I was gonna ask.”
“I do.”
“You could at least pretend to consider it.”
He finally turns his head, eyes flicking over you. Your scarf is too big. It always is. Your gloves don’t match. They never do. You look like winter makes sense to you.
“I’ve considered it,” he says. “My answer’s still no.”
“Free cookies.”
“I don’t need cookies.”
“You absolutely do.”
He shakes his head, gaze drifting back to the ice. “Not my thing.”
Christmas, he means. He never says the word, but it hangs there anyway.
You don’t push. Not yet.
You’ve known Bucky long enough to know when to back off. Freshman year feels like a lifetime ago now. Coffee spilled on his hoodie. Your mortified apology. The way he’d sighed, resigned, and bought you another drink anyway because it was easier than watching you spiral.
Somehow that turned into late night study sessions, quiet walks back from the library, shared silence that never felt awkward. He’s steady in a way that anchors you. You’re… not. You fill space. You make noise. You sign up for things.
He’s a junior now, balancing hockey and academics on a scholarship he treats like it might disappear if he stops paying attention. He doesn’t talk about it, but you see it. The way he never skips class. The way he schedules tutoring around practice. The way he works shifts at the rink when he could be resting because it keeps him close to the ice.
You hop down from the bleachers and tug your gloves on. “You skating later?”
He glances at your feet. “You?”
“Eventually.”
That earns you a look. “You can barely stand on skates.”
“Rude.”
“Accurate.”
You grin. “You offering lessons?”
He considers you for a long moment. The Zamboni finishes its last pass and trundles off. The rink lights dim, not dark, just softer.
“Put skates on,” he says, standing.
Your heart jumps, immediate and unhelpful. “Right now?”
“Rink’s empty.”
“You just practiced.”
“And I’m still standing.”
You don’t bother pretending you’re not thrilled as you head for the benches.
The first few nights are rough.
You cling to the wall like it’s your lifeline. Your ankles wobble. Your confidence evaporates the second you push off. Bucky stays patient, though. More patient than you expect.
“Bend your knees,” he tells you, voice calm.
“They are bent.”
“More.”
“I’m going to fall.”
“You’re not.”
You do anyway.
He catches you every time, hands firm on your arms or steady at your back. He never makes a big deal out of it. Never laughs. Never sighs.
Outside the windows, the town glows. Strings of lights twinkle against the dark. Snow drifts down slow and quiet, like it knows better than to rush.
“This doesn’t count as Christmas,” he says one night, as you take a shaky lap together.
You glance at him. “What doesn’t?”
“This,” he gestures vaguely. The lights. The ice. The way your breath fogs the air. “It’s just skating.”
“Whatever helps you sleep at night.”
He rolls his eyes but doesn’t argue.
It becomes a thing. Tuesdays and Thursdays, mostly. You show up with your skates. He pretends he didn’t wait. You get a little better each time. A little steadier. A little braver.
And then, without meaning to, you start pulling him into everything else too.
It starts small.
“Come help me hang lights,” you say one afternoon, already halfway to the door.
“I have homework.”
“So do I.”
“That doesn’t help your argument.”
“You’ll be done faster with company.”
He mutters something under his breath but grabs his jacket.
You rope him into baking for the winter carnival because they need volunteers and you swear it’ll only take an hour. It takes three. He ends up dusted with flour, scowling as he stirs batter, but he stays.
You drag him to the tree lot because you “just want to look.” He stands there with his hands shoved in his pockets while families argue over pine versus fir, while kids run circles around the trees, while carols play tinny through a speaker someone definitely forgot to unplug.
“This is chaos,” he says.
“You love it.”
“I absolutely do not.”
But he doesn’t leave.
The truth comes out one night while you’re stringing lights in your off campus apartment, tangled together on a ladder neither of you should probably be on.
“Didn’t really do Christmas growing up,” he says, casually.
You pause, lights dangling from your hands. “Why not?”
He shrugs. “Didn’t have the money.”
It lands heavy. Simple. Unadorned.
“Oh,” you say softly.
“It’s fine,” he adds quickly. “Just wasn’t a thing.”
You nod. You don’t push. You just pass him another strand of lights and let your fingers brush his.
From then on, you stop asking if he wants to come. You just assume he will.
And somehow, he does.
It happens gradually, the way most important things do. Not all at once. Not with fireworks. Just a quiet accumulation of moments that start stacking up until neither of you can pretend they don’t mean something.
It starts with walking.
You suggest it offhand one night after skating, nose runny from the cold, muscles buzzing from effort and laughter. The rink lights click off behind you as you step outside, the air sharp and clean.
“Let’s walk through the neighborhood,” you say. “People go insane with decorations.”
Bucky hesitates, adjusting his jacket. “It’s cold.”
“You play hockey.”
“That doesn’t mean I enjoy being cold recreationally.”
You smile at him, that familiar bright thing that makes it hard for him to say no. “I’ll buy you coffee after.”
He sighs, long and suffering. “You’re unbelievable.”
And yet he falls into step beside you anyway.
The houses near campus are old, creaky things with wraparound porches and sagging steps. Every inch of them is lit up. Icicle lights dripping from roofs, inflatable snowmen leaning at odd angles, entire yards transformed into glowing displays. Some of it’s tacky. Some of it’s genuinely impressive. All of it feels excessive in the way Christmas always does here.
You walk slowly, pointing things out, narrating like it’s your job. He listens. Sometimes he comments. Mostly he just watches you.
“Okay, this one wins,” you say, stopping short in front of a house completely covered in lights. “They even did the trees.”
“They definitely didn’t think about their electric bill.”
“Worth it.”
You stand there for a moment, shoulder to shoulder and breath fogging the air. You realize you’re close enough that your arms brush when you move. You don’t step away.
Bucky stuffs his hands deeper into his pockets. “It’s… a lot.”
“You don’t have to like it,” you say gently.
“I don’t hate it.”
That feels like progress.
The walks become routine. After skating. After late classes. Sometimes after dinner, just because neither of you feels like going home yet. You learn which streets have the best lights, which houses play music, which decorations flicker because someone clearly didn’t test them first.
You talk about nothing and everything. Classes. Hockey. The town. His childhood, in fragments. Yours, in broader strokes. He doesn’t romanticize his past. You don’t push him to.
One night, as you’re heading back toward campus, snow crunching under your boots, he says quietly, “Thanks.”
You glance at him. “For what?”
“For not… making it weird.”
You know exactly what he means. “Anytime.”
The charity event is your fault.
There’s a flyer taped to the bulletin board outside the rink. Winter drive. Donations for local families. Toys, coats, canned food. Volunteers needed.
You stop. Read it. Tear off a tab.
Bucky watches you from a few steps back. “What did you just sign us up for.”
“You don’t know that I signed us up.”
“You absolutely did.”
You grin. “It’s just a few hours.”
“I have practice.”
“It’s on Saturday.”
He glares. You wait him out.
He shows up anyway.
You spend the afternoon sorting donations in the community center gym. The place smells like dust, cardboard, and coffee that’s been sitting out too long. People drift in and out, dropping off bags and boxes. Kids dart around underfoot. Volunteers chatter.
Bucky works quietly beside you, methodical. Folding coats. Stacking cans. He looks strangely at ease, focused in the way he always is when he’s doing something with his hands.
At one point, a kid tugs on his sleeve. “Are you a hockey player?”
Bucky startles slightly. “Uh. Yeah.”
“Cool,” the kid says, eyes wide. “I want to play someday.”
Bucky glances at you, uncertain. You nod.
“Yeah?” he says to the kid. “That’s awesome.”
You watch him kneel down to the kid’s level, listen, answer questions. He’s gentle in a way he doesn’t always let people see. When the kid runs off, Bucky stands, clears his throat.
“Don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what.”
“Like you’re about to say something.”
You smile. “I’m not.”
But you’re thinking it. About how kind he is. About how unfair it is that he ever felt like Christmas wasn’t meant for him.
At the end of the day, you sit on the gym floor, backs against the wall, exhausted.
“That was… fine,” he admits.
“That’s high praise.”
He nudges your knee with his. You don’t move it away.
The movie night happens because neither of you wants to go out.
It’s snowing heavily, thick flakes piling up fast. Campus is quiet, the roads are slick, and you text him without thinking.
movie night?
Three dots dance on the screen and stop. Then: what movie
You smile.
An hour later, you’re curled up on opposite ends of the couch in his off campus apartment. He doesn’t decorate. There’s no tree. No lights. Just the glow from the TV and the smell of pizza and sugar.
You brought cookies. Too many. He pretends to complain and eats half of them anyway.
The movie is terrible. Predictable. Comforting. Snowy. Exactly what you wanted.
Somewhere halfway through, without discussion, you shift closer. He doesn’t tense. Doesn’t move away. Eventually your shoulder rests against his arm. He exhales slowly, like he’s been holding his breath.
The room is warm. Outside, the snow keeps falling.
By the time the credits roll, you’re fully leaning into him, head tipped toward his shoulder. His arm is along the back of the couch, close enough that you can feel the heat of him without quite being held.
“This movie sucks,” he says softly.
“You loved it.”
“I tolerated it.”
You laugh, quiet. “That’s basically love.”
He looks down at you then. Really looks at you. His expression is unreadable, soft around the edges.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey.”
The moment stretches. Your heart starts to pound, sudden and loud in your chest.
“This… whatever this is,” he says slowly. “It feels different.”
You nod. “Yeah.”
“I don’t want to mess it up.”
“You’re not.”
His hand shifts tentatively resting against your arm. You turn into it without thinking— faces inches apart and hearts pounding.
The kiss is gentle. Careful. Like both of you are checking to see if the other is real. His lips are warm, familiar, and new.
When you pull back, you’re both breathing a little harder.
Yet, the kiss doesn’t change everything all at once.
That’s the strange part.
You don’t suddenly become different people. The room doesn’t spin. Fireworks don’t go off in your head. What happens instead is quieter and somehow way more overwhelming because of it.
You sit there for a second after, still close, still warm, neither of you quite sure what to do with your hands.
“Well,” you say finally, voice a little softer than you mean it to be.
Bucky huffs out a breath. “Yeah.”
He doesn’t move away. That feels important. His arm stays along the back of the couch, his shoulder still solid against yours. You can feel his pulse if you lean just a little closer. You don’t, not yet.
The movie menu has started looping. The room smells like pizza crust and sugar and the faint soap he uses on his hands. Outside, the snow continues to fall quietly.
“So,” you try. “That happened.”
“That did happen,” he agrees.
You glance up at him. He’s looking at the TV, jaw tight like he’s bracing for something.
“You okay?” you ask.
He nods, then pauses. Shakes his head once. “Yeah. I mean. I think so. Just… not used to this.”
You smile gently. “Me neither.”
That’s not entirely true, but it feels true with him. This feels different than anything you’ve had before. Slower and heavier. Like it matters in a way that makes you want to be careful.
He shifts then, turning toward you fully. “I should probably say something smarter.”
“You really don’t have to.”
He studies your face, like he’s memorizing it. “I like you. Have for a while. Just didn’t want to assume.”
Your chest tightens. “I like you too.”
He nods, like that confirms something he’s been quietly working out for weeks. “Okay.”
Okay.
You don’t kiss again right away. Instead, you sit there, closer now, your knee pressed against his, his hand resting lightly on your arm like he’s checking that you’re still there. It’s awkward in the best way. The kind of awkward that feels honest.
Eventually, you lean back into him. His arm shifts, hesitant at first, then settles around your shoulders. He holds you like he’s afraid you might vanish if he squeezes too tight.
“This is nice,” he murmurs.
“It is.”
You fall asleep like that, half curled against him, the TV still glowing softly. When you wake up later, it’s to him carefully adjusting the blanket over you.
“Sorry,” he whispers, freezing when you stir.
You smile sleepily. “You’re fine.”
He relaxes, sinking back into the couch. You drift off again, warm and safe.
The next few days are… strange.
Not in a bad way of course. Just different.
You text like normal, but there’s a softness to it now. A carefulness. He walks you to class without comment. You sit closer during skating lessons. Sometimes your hands brush and neither of you pulls away.
The hockey team notices immediately.
“Barnes,” Sam says in the locker room. “You smiling or did I hit my head too hard.”
He scowls. “Shut up.”
“Who’s the friend?” Steve asks, eyebrows waggling.
“They’re not just a friend,” Tony says, sing song.
Bucky glares them all into silence.
Later that night, he tells you about it, half annoyed, half amused. “They’re relentless.”
You laugh. “They just want you happy.”
He considers that. “Yeah. I guess.”
You keep doing things. Small things. Big things.
You walk more neighborhoods, this time with his hand tucked into yours. Your fingers are cold, but his grip is warm. He points out which houses go overboard. You point out which ones feel cozy.
You volunteer again at the community center. This time he signs up without you asking. You catch him watching a kid open a donated coat, expression unreadable.
On the way home, he says quietly, “I didn’t realize how much that stuff stuck with me.”
You squeeze his hand. “You don’t have to carry it alone.”
He nods.
The week before Christmas, you ask him about skating under the lights one last time.
“They’re keeping the rink open late on Christmas Eve,” you say. “Just us, if you want.”
He hesitates, the way he always does when the holiday presses too close. Then he looks at you.
“Yeah,” he says. “I want that.”
Christmas Eve comes quietly.
Snow blankets everything around the quiet town muting all sound. The rink is nearly deserted when you arrive, your breath fogging as you lace up your skates.
The lights overhead flicker on slowly, casting the ice in gold and white. It’s beautiful. It always is. But tonight feels different.
Bucky steps onto the ice first, gliding effortlessly. You follow, steadier now than you were weeks ago. He watches you with a small smile.
“Look at you,” he says. “Not even clinging to the wall.”
“I had a good teacher.”
He skates closer, offering his hand. You take it without hesitation.
You move together, slow laps, no rush. The ice hums beneath you. Music plays faintly through the rink speakers, something soft and instrumental.
“This used to be the part of the year I hated most,” he admits quietly.
You look at him. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. Felt like everyone else was in on something I wasn’t.”
He squeezes your hand. “But this feels… different.”
“Good different?”
He nods. “Really good.”
You stop near the center of the rink, lights shining down, snow drifting past the windows. He pulls you close, skates steady, arms sure.
“Thank you,” he says.
“For what.”
“For not trying to fix it. Just… sharing it.”
You smile, leaning into him. “That’s kind of my favorite way to do things.”
He laughs softly. Then he kisses you, deeper this time, confident and warm. The rink is quiet except for your breathing and the faint scrape of skates as you shift closer.
When you pull back, you rest your forehead against his.
“Merry Christmas,” you whisper.
He smiles, real and unguarded. “Merry Christmas.”
Under the lights, on the ice, with the town glowing around you, it finally feels like the holiday means something new.
Synopsis: You and Bucky always go to the lake house for Christmas, this year is a little different though...
Word Count: 2k
Tags & Warnings: MDNI, No Y/N, No Smut or Angst, Pure Domestic Fluff, Pregnancy Reveal.
Author's Note: thank you to the wonderful @wildflowersandvibranium for beta reading because i was going insane keeping this to myself🤭🤭🤭
The drive up to the lake cabin was peaceful, considering how close to the Christmas season it was. Bucky's flesh hand rested in your lap as he drove his Mercedes-Benz through the New York state woods. For you and Bucky, it was one of the many traditions the pair of you had for each year. From the 21st of December to the 2nd of January, you spent your time in the snowy wilderness, ice skating on the lake, sitting by the fire and drinking hot cocoa.
One of the back seats of the SUV was down, allowing for more space in the trunk for groceries and clothes that you would inevitably keep in storage up there. While the other held Alpine in her luxury travel carrier, the white kitten spoiled more than any other pet in the world as she chewed on a fishy-flavoured treat.
With Bucky's company doing so well, he was starting to take a step back from his duties as Chief Executive Officer. He had worked so hard in his twenties to get the business going, to create and distribute the first prosthetics that allowed for seamless connection between the brain and the new limb itself. Hours spent in R&D, with artists and fellow engineers, and finally testing his products on himself until one finally worked. To put it lightly, Bucky was very lucky to have found you. Patient, kind and optimistic you, who sat through every failed prosthetic, who listened to him when the worries became too much, who financially supported him with your own job before the money was being made.
You were there for him through everything, so as soon as the company took off, and became public on the stock market, exponentially increasing his wealth, the coasts of Santorini were the first trip you took together. It wasn't shocking when he proposed on that trip, what did surprise you was the expensive ring that sat daintily in a red velvet box in his palm as he murmured the words "Will you marry me?" while sand irritated his knee and shin.
Not long after, you were married on a small farm and barn house in Tuscany, drinking too much wine and eating too much cheese for the two of you to handle.
That was five years ago, and now you were both starting to fully enjoy the extent of Bucky's wealth, which included multiple properties in multiple countries. But between the villa in Santorini on the same beach he proposed, and the lake house you visited during the holiday period, you weren't sure which one you liked more.
"Almost there, Doll," Bucky murmured, finding your hand in your lap, lacing his fingers in between yours and bringing the back of your hand to his lips, pressing a soft, loving kiss to your knuckles. "I can already hear Alpine itching to get out."
"She's ready to catch some mice," You snickered, feeling your heart bloom when he kissed your hand. That feeling never went away. In all the time you had loved him and been together, you never stopped feeling the passion, the love, the tightness in your heart when you saw him. He was your soulmate, your everything, and you were his.
"Miss Alpine is a dignified little lady who would never even approach a rodent, let alone catch one," Bucky teased. "Isn't that right, Alpine?"
"Mrow." Was all Alpine could say to her adoptive dad from her place in the carrier, not understanding the conversation between her parents.
"She most definitely would," You retorted. "She is a little apex predator in disguise and would more than likely, if we even had rats or mice in the penthouse."
"And I'd like to keep it that way," Bucky shuddered. "I'm just hoping the guys have maintained the grounds well this year, like they did last year."
"Yeah, me too," You smiled. "It's always beautiful up here during the winter. I'm so glad that we get to come up here and spend Christmas just the two of us together."
"It's peaceful, and that's why we both like it," Bucky sighed softly. "As much as I love New York, it's busy as hell."
"Maybe one day, we can move out to the suburbs, or get that Brooklyn brownstone you've always wanted."
"Maybe," Bucky thought out loud. "We never know. Maybe the company could go to shit next week."
"It won't, Bucky. You've built a company that wants to help people and does. You are so integrated in the business because you care. You know the names of every hospital worldwide and the names of the people who you have helped the most. That shows people around the world that you're a good man."
"I know, it's always going to be a small little voice in the back of my head no matter what."
"And that's okay," You smiled. "That's a valid thing to have. It's only bad when you start worrying yourself to death over it."
"I'm fine, Doll," Bucky reassured you, pressing another kiss to the back of your palm. "Promise."
"Good," You murmured. "I love you, Buck."
"Love you more, Baby Girl."
The cabin was just how you remembered it. Oak walls with stone pillars, and a balcony that looked over the lake. The chimney stuck out of the gable roof in full stoned glory. The gravel that once dominated the driveway had recently been paved over with concrete and lined with all-season shrubs.
"Cabin Sweet Cabin," Bucky joked as he pulled the luxury car under the carport. He unbuckled his own seatbelt and got out, quickly rushing around the front of the car to open your door for you. "After you, Gorgeous."
"Thanks, Handsome," You smiled as you placed your hand in his and he helped you to get out of the car.
"Anytime," He hummed, immediately grabbing Alpine out and letting her run free from the carrier, knowing she would always stay close to the two of you.
You spent the next hour or so getting the stuff out of the car, with Bucky organising the fridge and pantry, and you handling both of your clothes. You were careful to keep the small present bag hidden from Bucky's eyes, not wanting to spoil the surprise too soon. That was his Christmas present after all, and James Buchanan 'Bucky' Barnes was the nosiest human being alive.
Changing out of your jeans and into your pajamas, you finally padded downstairs and into the kitchen. Alpine was running around with her mouse toy as Bucky began to prepare dinner.
"Whatcha' making?" You asked, wrapping your arms around Bucky's waist, looking around his arm.
"Just that pesto and chicken gnocchi you like," He replied, dipping down quickly to kiss your forehead. "Is that okay?"
"It's more than okay," You responded. "Don't go to too much effort for me."
"Babe," Bucky paused and turned around. "If I stop putting in too much effort for you, I'd like you to slap me and remind me of what I've got. You are the most perfect, most beautiful, kindest, smartest woman alive, and I'm lucky to call you my wife, my best friend and my soulmate."
"Bucky…" You whispered, tears pooling in your eyes. Even after years of being together, he still managed to make you cry happy tears with just his words alone. "I love you so much, you don't even understand."
"If you love me as much as I love you… I definitely understand."
"You're such a sap," You retorted, whacking his shoulder lightly, before burying your face in his chest.
"You okay, Honey?" He asked when he began to feel you sob and tears soaked through his shirt.
"Sorry, I feel like my emotions have been on overdrive lately," You explained, knowing exactly what was causing it, while Bucky was ever oblivious to the changes happening in your body at that very moment.
"That's okay. You're okay," Your husband reassured as he brought you closer to his chest and rubbed his hand against your back, doing his best to soothe you. "Deep breaths, in…and out…in…and out…"
After following his directions, you found yourself calming down. Your sobs slowly dying out into hiccups against his chest.
"I love you so much," You hummed contentedly.
"I love you more."
Once you had finally eaten and cleaned up, you and Bucky made the effort to put the Christmas tree up. Taking it from the storage cabinet under the stairs, you put each piece together, connecting the fake pine tree to make a tree as tall as Bucky. Each red and gold bauble was carefully placed to line up underneath the silver tinsel, before finally taking a step back to admire your work.
"It's missing something," Bucky hummed, tilting his head to try and get the best idea of what could be next placed on the tree.
You did the same, tilting your head the opposite way before a metaphorical light bulb appeared over your head. "The star!"
"That's it!" Bucky clicked his tongue in acknowledgement and went to go look through the Christmas box full of excess baubles, tinsel and fairy lights that wouldn't be used this year. "Aha! Got it!"
Bucky grinned as he pulled the silver star out of the cardboard box and held it out to you. "Would the Shining Star of My Life like to put the star on the Christmas tree?"
"You're so fucking corny," You snorted, before taking the star from him and turning around so your back was towards him. "Can I get a boost, please?"
"Of course, Doll," Bucky smiled, placing his hands carefully around your waist to pick you up. The metal plates of his arms shifted to accommodate the weight as you quickly placed the plastic star covered in glitter onto the tip of the tree.
"It looks perfect now…" You murmured as Bucky put you down and brought you under his arm.
"Not as perfect as you," Bucky hummed in response, looking down at you.
"James…" You sighed in content, pausing to look up at him. "I can't wait until Christmas to give you my gift."
Bucky raised his eyebrow and smirked. "What gift?"
"Just- just wait here," You grinned in excitement, as you quickly headed up the stairs to the main bedroom where your present was currently hiding. You fixed up the bow, making sure that it looked just like a normal present, before rushing down the stairs again. Letting out a soft huff, you handed the bag to him. "Merry Christmas, Honey."
Bucky gave you a look of confusion once again, his eyebrows furrowing as he looked at you and then the present now in his hands. He carefully pulled the tape off the opening and looked inside. Choosing to sit down to continue, he pulled the smaller, wrapped present out of the bag.
"What is this?" Bucky questioned softly, trying to inspect the gift without actually opening it.
"You'll find out when you open it," You prompted, sitting down next to him on the couch, placing encouraging hands on his knee.
Bucky did as he was told, ripping the paper with his thumbs and forefingers, pulling the Christmas-themed wrapping paper away from the item.
Your gut churned nervously, watching as he pulled the pregnancy test out of the paper with an unreadable expression. "Merry Christmas…" You mumbled out awkwardly.
"You're pregnant?" Bucky whispered, still looking down at the stick in his hands. The plus symbol on the flat rod stared back at him. "H- how long have you known?"
"I found out last week, I'm about four weeks along," You responded, your hands shaking as you lifted them away from his knee.
"Don't," His voice broke, pulling your hands back towards his knees. He finally looked up at you, tears pooling in the corners of his eyes. "I'm gonna be a Dad?"
"Yeah, honey," You smiled hopefully, tears beginning to well up in your own eyes. "We're gonna be parents."
Before you could even react, Bucky pulled you into his arms, squeezing your shoulders so tight as he lay back on the couch. He helped you to straddle his lap, trying to get you as close to him as humanly possible. He was silent for a moment before he spoke again, this time, a whisper in your ear. "This is the best Christmas ever."
summary: you show up at the barnes’ family farm with no intention of enjoying anything christmas related, but bucky makes that impossible. he’s cheerful in a quiet way, patient in a way you didn’t know you needed, and proud of the land he and his sister keep alive. before you realize it, he’s slipped under your defenses like fresh snowfall— soft, quiet, and strangely comforting.
pairing: sunshine!bucky barnes x grump!gn!reader
warnings: fluff, holiday themes, becca cameo, bucky and reader know of each other, soft romance, mild language, gentle affection, emotional vulnerability, brief mentions of loneliness/hurt/comfort.
wc: 5.9k
a/n: this was supposed to be uploaded yesterday but whatever. dividers by @/strangergraphics
Snow has a habit of lying to you.
People call it pretty. Magical. Peaceful. You’ve heard it described like it’s some soft miracle from above, something pure and cleansing and gorgeous. But all you see is cold that never really melts off your bones. Slush that seeps into your socks. Wind that bites your ears until they sting. A whole sky full of falling ice that insists on touching your face without permission.
So yeah. Snow lies.
It lies today too, drifting in slow motion as you stand at the entrance of Barnes Family Christmas Tree Farm, hands shoved deep in your pockets and jaw clenched tight enough to crack. The lights strung around the old wooden sign glow that warm yellow white color everyone loves, the kind that makes you think of hot chocolate and crackling fireplaces. You do not feel warm. You do not feel nostalgic. You feel played.
“I swear,” you mutter to absolutely no one, “if I get frostbite because of this, I’m suing.”
People bustle around you like they’re filming an overly cheerful holiday commercial. Kids in oversized coats toddle through the snow, dragging plastic sleds behind them. Couples wander between the rows of trees taking photos, giggling, probably composing cute captions in their heads. Every single one of them looks delighted to be here.
You tug your scarf up until it covers your mouth. Maybe if you hide enough of your face, the Christmas spirit won’t see you.
You only came because your friends peer-pressured the hell out of you. “It’s tradition,” they said. “It’ll be fun,” they said. Well, they lied. They’re currently somewhere near the hot chocolate stand, probably flirting with that barista who never remembers your name. They told you to “go look at the trees for a bit,” which is code for “please don’t third wheel while we’re trying to be cute.”
So now you’re alone. Walking into a Christmas tree farm like you don’t hate everything about this season.
Fantastic.
You’re halfway down the first row when you see him.
Bucky Barnes looks like he was carved straight out of whatever holiday card stock people buy in bulk at Target. He’s leaning against a stack of lumber near one of the sheds, wearing a thick flannel jacket layered over a henley, both dusted with a sprinkling of snow. His jeans are worn, his boots muddy from trekking across the property since sunrise. His hair falls around his face a little too perfectly for someone who definitely just shoveled half the farm— and his cheeks are red from the cold in a way that should be illegal.
He smiles when he spots you, bright and warm, and it hits you right in the chest like the emotional equivalent of stepping into a heated room after freezing outside.
Of course. Of course the Barnes boy would be here. His family did found this place, after all. You forgot that tiny detail until right this second.
You instantly regret showing up.
“Look who got dragged out into society,” Bucky calls, walking toward you with that easy, confident stride that somehow never comes off cocky. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”
You shrug, trying very hard not to melt into the snow. “Didn’t have a choice.”
“Ah. So the annual holiday hostage situation is underway.”
“Pretty much.”
He laughs, soft and warm, and you look away before you start mirroring him. The last thing you need is to be caught smiling near the Barnes boy. He’d never let you live it down.
Bucky glances around, hands in his jacket pockets. “So what’s the verdict? Farm still standing? Trees still green? Or does Christmas still suck?”
“It all still sucks,” you say, deadpan.
He presses his lips together like he’s fighting another laugh. “Right. How could I forget? You’re immune to joy.”
“Saves time.”
“Well lucky for you,” he says, stepping closer, boots crunching in the snow, “I happen to specialize in converting grumps.”
“I’m not a project.”
“I didn’t say you were. I just said I’m extremely good at annoying people until they accidentally have fun.”
You stare at him.
He stares back, blue eyes shining way too brightly for the cloudy sky above you.
“Come on,” he says after a moment, tilting his head toward the rows of trees. “Walk with me.”
“I didn’t—”
“You weren’t doing anything anyway.”
He’s right. Annoyingly right. And it’s easier to follow him than stand alone looking like the Grinch having a breakdown in public.
The farm stretches far wider than you remembered. You haven’t been here since middle school, maybe, back when adults still thought dragging kids into freezing fields counted as bonding. But now, as you walk with Bucky, you notice how big it really is. Acres and acres of evergreens line the property in neat rows. Little paths wind through them, some well trodden, some hidden under untouched blankets of snow. Volunteers and workers move between the sections carrying saws or helping families tie trees to roofs.
Bucky walks like he knows every inch of this place. Like the land itself recognizes him.
“You really own all this?” you ask as you pass a grouping of tall, perfectly trimmed Douglas firs.
He nods, shoving his hands deeper into his pockets. “Yeah. My great grandfather started it. Just a tiny patch of trees back then, more of a hobby than anything. My grandpa expanded it. Then my folks took it over. Now it’s me and Becca.”
You blink. “Your sister?”
“Mm-hm. She handles all the office stuff. Scheduling, payroll, the town permits that make me want to pull my hair out. I handle the hands on part.” He waves an arm to indicate everything around you. “Planting, trimming, cutting, hauling. Fixing what breaks. Which is a lot.”
“I didn’t know all that.”
“You never asked.”
“I didn’t think you’d still be here,” you admit.
He gives you a sideways look. “Why not?”
“Most people leave. Move to the city. Do something else.”
“Nah,” he says, smiling softly as he looks out at the farm. “This place is home. Always has been.”
You don’t say anything to that. There’s something grounding about the way he says it, something warm that rolls through your chest before you can stop it.
You walk for a while, letting him talk. He tells you about planting seedlings in the spring, about the time a stray goat got loose from a neighboring farm and chewed through half a row of baby trees, about the annual ornament making workshop hosted in the old barn. He talks with his hands, his eyes bright, his breath curling in front of him like little clouds of joy.
You hate how much you like listening to him.
Eventually you reach the area with the biggest trees. Towering Norwegian spruces stand like giants, branches heavy with fresh snow.
Bucky looks at them with the expression someone might use when introducing a friend. “These ones are my pride and joy.”
“You say that about every section.”
“That’s because I planted all of them,” he says, nudging your shoulder lightly. “You’re allowed to have more than one pride and joy.”
You roll your eyes, but your lips twitch.
He doesn’t miss it. “Careful. That almost looked like a smile.”
“Snow blindness,” you lie.
“Sure,” he murmurs, still grinning.
As you move deeper into the rows, the sounds of the main area fade. The chatter, the holiday music, the scraping of saws— all of it muffles until everything feels softer, quieter. Snow settles on your coat and melts into tiny cold pinpricks.
You don’t know how long you walk before Bucky slows down.
“Hey,” he says gently. “Wanna see something?”
“That depends.”
“It’s not cheesy,” he promises. “Well. Not that cheesy.”
“If it involves carolers or Santa—”
“No carolers,” he says, laughing. “And Santa’s off today.”
He leads you down a narrow path between two tall rows. Branches brush your arms. Snowflakes cling to your eyelashes until you blink them away. The path winds for longer than you expect, enough that you start wondering if he’s leading you into the forest to bury you.
Then it opens.
A clearing sits at the very back of the farm, untouched by crowds. A tall, old fir stands alone at the center, its branches wrapped in small golden lights that glow even through the daytime haze. A wooden bench rests beneath it, weathered and half-dusted with snow. The air feels different here. Softer. Like the world decided to pause for just a second.
You stop without meaning to.
Bucky watches your reaction, hands tucked into his jacket pockets. His voice is quieter when he speaks. “My mom loved this spot.”
You turn toward him.
“She called it the wishing tree,” he says. “Said it wasn’t magic or anything. Just… a place to breathe. A place to put things down for a while.”
You swallow around something tight. “It’s… nice.”
“Don’t get too excited,” he teases softly. “Wouldn’t want to ruin your reputation.”
You sit on the bench because your legs decide for you. The wood is cold but somehow comforting. Bucky sits beside you, leaving just enough space that the bench doesn’t creak, just enough that you feel the warmth from his sleeve.
For a few moments, neither of you talk. Snow drifts in slow spirals from the branches above. The lights blink gently. The air smells like pine and winter and something faintly sweet you can’t name.
“You know,” Bucky says eventually, eyes on the tree, “you don’t have to like Christmas. Not everyone does.”
You look down at your boots. “I’m not trying to be difficult.”
“I know.”
“It’s just… complicated.”
“Everything worth feeling usually is.”
You let out a slow breath, watching it cloud in the air. “I don’t really get the whole… joy thing. Or the miracle thing. Or whatever everyone else gets this time of year.”
“That’s okay.”
“I feel like I’m missing something.”
“You’re not,” he says, voice warm in that way that makes your chest ache. “You just see things differently.”
You glance at him. “And that’s fine with you?”
He shrugs lightly. “Yeah. I think it makes you pretty interesting, actually.”
Your heart does something stupid in your ribcage. You look away before he notices.
Bucky leans forward, elbows resting on his knees. “Can I show you one more tradition?”
“You say tradition like it’s supposed to convince me.”
“It usually does.” He reaches up and plucks a tiny ornament from the lowest branch. A wooden star, worn at the edges and painted by hand. He turns it over in his palm, brushing his thumb along the faded pattern. “Every year people come out here, pick a star, make a wish, hang it back.”
You stare at the ornament. It looks old. Loved. Like dozens of hands have held it through winters before this one.
“You don’t have to say your wish,” Bucky says. “You don’t even have to believe in it. It’s just… a moment. That’s all.”
You take the star from him.
Your fingers curl around the wood, and it’s cold, but it feels good in your hand. Solid. Real.
You close your eyes for a second. Not long. Just long enough to let something small settle inside you. A thought, a want, a quiet ache.
You hang the star back on the branch.
Bucky watches you with an expression you can’t quite read. Something soft. Something patient.
“You wanna know what I wished for?” he asks.
“No,” you say immediately.
He laughs. “I’ll tell you anyway.”
Of course he will.
“I wished you’d come back next year.”
Your breath catches, tiny and sharp. “Bucky…”
“What? Too much?”
“Maybe. A little.”
“Good,” he says, leaning back and stretching his legs out. “Means it worked.”
You shove his shoulder lightly. He nudges you back. It feels stupidly easy to sit here with him, stupidly warm for a winter day, stupidly soft for someone who claims to hate Christmas.
You don’t know how long you stay in the clearing. The lights glow. The snow falls slower. Everything feels suspended in a way you didn’t expect.
Eventually Bucky stands, brushing snow off his jacket. “Come on. I gotta get back. Becca’s gonna yell at me if I leave the volunteers unsupervised for too long.”
You stand too.
He walks beside you the whole way back, and every time your arms brush, your chest goes warm in a way that has nothing to do with the jacket you’re wearing.
When the main area comes back into view, full of lights and chatter and families pulling trees in every direction, you realize something strange.
You don’t feel quite as grumpy anymore.
And Bucky notices. He always does.
“Hey,” he says, bumping your shoulder lightly. “You survived.”
“Barely.”
“But you did.”
You fight a smile. “Shut up.”
He grins. “See you around?”
“Probably.”
“Good,” he says, backing up a few steps. “I’ll hold you to that.”
You turn away before he catches the way your face warms.
Maybe Christmas still sucks.
Maybe it always will.
But walking out of the Barnes Family Christmas Tree Farm, snow crunching under your boots and the smell of pine clinging to your clothes, you’re forced to admit one thing.
It sucked a lot less with him.
By the time you wander back toward the main section of the farm, the place has somehow doubled in population. More families, more couples, more dogs bundled up in tiny sweaters that honestly might be the worst part of all this. Kids are running in circles chasing each other, screaming about who gets to pick the biggest tree. A speaker near the hot cocoa stand plays faint holiday music— something old that sounds like it was recorded on vinyl.
Your friends are nowhere to be seen.
Typical.
You pull your coat tighter and debate whether you should just leave now, walk home through the snow and avoid whatever other holiday horrors this place plans on throwing at you until someone taps your shoulder.
“You look lost,” Bucky says, appearing at your side like he has some internal compass that leads him to you.
“I’m fine,” you mutter.
He raises an eyebrow. “Sure. You definitely don’t look like you’re trying to decide between running away or committing arson.”
“I wouldn’t burn your trees.”
“You wouldn’t?” he teases. “I’m honored.”
You open your mouth to fire back something sarcastic, but Bucky turns around and waves wildly at someone behind you. You twist just enough to see his sister, Rebecca, striding toward you with a clipboard tucked under one arm and a knitted hat pulled low over her ears. She looks like every responsibility you’ve ever avoided, compacted into one efficient person.
“Buck,” she calls, “we’ve got a problem with the north section again.”
Bucky groans. “What now?”
“Fence is leaning. Probably that storm last week. I told you we should’ve reinforced the posts.”
“You also told me I was being dramatic when I said the ground was shifting.”
Becca gives him a look that says she’s been dealing with his nonsense since birth. Then she glances at you, her expression softening.
“You’re the one Buck’s always talking about,” she says.
You blink. Hard. “What?”
Bucky turns bright red. “Becca, please.”
“What?” she says innocently. “I’m making conversation.”
“You’re making my life difficult.”
“That’s what siblings are for.”
You stand there awkwardly, unsure what to do with your hands or your face or your entire existence.
“He does that thing,” she continues, ignoring Bucky’s very obvious attempt to subtly shove her away, “where he brings people up like they accidentally fell into a story he didn’t mean to tell. Means he likes you.”
“Becca.”
“What?” she shrugs. “I’m heading to the north fence. You coming?”
Bucky groans again, but it’s the defeated kind, the kind you’ve heard from people who’ve lost arguments with siblings their entire lives.
Then Becca looks at you. “Wanna come?”
You freeze. “To fix a fence?”
“Yeah. Or to keep Buck from wandering off and staring at trees like they’re talking to him.”
“I don’t do that,” he protests.
“You absolutely do,” she says, already turning away.
Bucky sighs and looks at you. “You don’t have to come, seriously. She’s just messing with me.”
But there’s something curious in his eyes. A little hopeful. Like he wouldn’t mind the company.
And maybe you’re still riding whatever weird soft mood that clearing put you in, or maybe you’re just tired of feeling cold in crowds, but you hear yourself say, “I’ll come.”
Bucky brightens in a way that should not affect you as much as it does. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” you say, pretending it’s no big deal. “Sure.”
He walks beside you toward the north field, boots crunching in rhythm with yours. The crowd noise fades the farther you go. The rows of trees get taller, the ground less stomped into messy slush. Snowflakes drift lazily, catching on the edges of branches.
“You really don’t have to help,” he says again.
“I’m not helping,” you correct. “I’m observing.”
“Well then,” he says, smiling at the ground, “I’m glad you’re observing.”
You pretend not to hear the warmth in his voice.
When you reach the fence, you finally see the issue. One of the wooden posts is leaning like it’s trying to escape. Snow has piled up on one side, pressing against it until the whole thing bowed out. Bucky inspects it with practiced ease while Becca writes something on her clipboard.
“Gotta dig it out,” he mutters. “Stabilize it again.”
“I can grab the tools from the shed,” Becca says. “I’ve gotta check on the carolers anyway.”
“No,” you say immediately. “Absolutely not.”
Both siblings turn to look at you.
“There’s carolers?” you ask, already prepared to run.
Becca shrugs. “Only for the little kids. They’re not great.”
“Fantastic,” you deadpan.
Bucky bites back a smile. “You can hang with me. No carolers in the north field.”
Becca smirks like she knows something you don’t. “I’ll go grab the shovels,” she says before walking off.
Which leaves you and Bucky. Alone. In the snow. Next to a leaning fence.
He crouches next to the post. “See here?” he says, brushing snow away with his glove. “The soil shifted. Trees do great out here, but the ground gets weird when we have storms and freezes back to back.”
You crouch beside him, mostly because you don’t trust yourself to stand and stare at him like a weirdo. “So you fix all this stuff yourself?”
“Most of it,” he says. “My dad taught me everything before he retired. Becca handles the business side. I handle the farm. It works.”
Something flickers across his face when he mentions his dad— fondness mixed with something heavier. You wonder what it’s like, inheriting an entire tradition. A legacy. A responsibility that started with his great grandfather planting a handful of trees in land everyone thought was too cold, too patchy, and too barren for anything to grow.
And now look at it.
A small universe of green.
“It’s a lot,” you say quietly.
“It is,” he admits. “But I love it. Even the parts that suck.”
“You like fixing fences?”
“No,” he laughs. “I like what the farm means to people. Families come here every year. Some of them pick the same kind of tree because their grandparents did. Some kids learn to walk in these rows. Some couples get engaged under the lights…” His voice dips. “I don’t know. It’s cool. Being part of that.”
You never thought about it like that. You never wanted to. Christmas things always felt… fake. Glossy. Forced. But hearing him say it, seeing the way he looks at the trees like they’re alive in a real way, it makes something warm move under your ribs.
Before you can dwell on it, Bucky pushes himself up and wipes his gloves on his jeans. “Becca’ll bring the shovels. You cold?”
“No,” you lie.
“You’re shivering.”
“I’m choosing to vibrate.”
He laughs— full and bright— and you’re briefly mad at yourself for liking the sound so much.
Becca returns with two shovels and a metal rod that looks like something out of an old pioneer movie. She hands Bucky the rod and sets the shovels down.
“Alright,” she says. “I’m leaving this to you two. I’ve got to make sure the carolers haven’t eaten each other.”
“Please never say that again,” you whisper.
She winks and leaves, boots crunching away down the path.
Bucky turns the metal post digger over in his hands, then glances at you. “Wanna try?”
You blink. “Try… what? Digging?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m not a shovel person.”
“Everyone’s a shovel person if they try,” he says, completely sincere.
You stare at him. “That’s not true.”
“C’mon,” he says, stepping aside to make room. “I’ll show you.”
You take the shovel because refusing would feel like giving up and you don’t want him to think you’re fragile. He stands behind you— not close, but close enough you can feel the warmth coming off him like a small furnace— and demonstrates how to angle the blade.
“Push down with your foot there,” he says quietly. “Then pull back. Don’t fight the snow. Let the weight do most of the work.”
You do as he says and nearly fall forward when the snow gives unexpectedly easy. He steadies you with a hand on your elbow, gentle and warm.
“You okay?”
“Yeah,” you cough. “Totally. Just… the snow moved.”
“It does that sometimes,” he says, and there’s so much amusement in his voice you debate hitting him with the shovel.
But his hand lingers one more second on your arm before he lets go, and your brain short-circuits enough that you forget the violence.
You dig for a few minutes, badly. Bucky digs beside you, easily. Snow piles up around your boots. Your breath fogs the air. The sky is a muted winter grey, but the fields still glow faintly under the lights strung between the trees.
“You’re not bad at this,” Bucky says eventually.
“You’re lying.”
“A little.”
You snort. “So what now?”
“We clear the snow around the post, get the soil loose again, then push the fence upright.”
“You make it sound easy.”
“It’s not,” he admits. “But we’ll do it together.”
Your chest warms, stupid and sudden.
He could’ve said I’ll do it or I’ll fix it, but he said we like you’re part of something.
Like you belong in this moment with him.
You don’t know what to say, so you just keep digging.
Eventually the snow is cleared enough that Bucky crouches and pushes his shoulder against the fence. “Give me a hand?”
You brace your gloves against the wood. Together, the two of you lift, shifting your weight, nudging the post back into its slot in the frozen earth. It creaks but holds. Bucky drives the rod into the ground beside it and packs the snow tightly around the base.
When the fence finally stands straight, he nudges it experimentally. It doesn’t budge.
“We did it,” he says, sounding way too proud.
“We… sort of did it.”
“You did great.”
You don’t know how to respond to that, so you wipe snow off your coat and look anywhere but directly at him.
He watches you. Softly. Like he’s trying to memorize something.
“Hey,” he says quietly. “Thanks for helping.”
“I didn’t help much.”
“You were here,” he says. “That counts.”
Your chest does that stupid warm thing again.
You’re saved only by the sound of Becca yelling faintly in the distance about something involving hot chocolate and a goat. Bucky sighs and rubs his forehead.
“That can’t be good,” he mutters.
“Should we go check?”
He looks at you like he’s surprised you’re still willing to hang around. “You don’t have to spend your whole day here.”
“I know,” you say. “But… it’s fine.”
His smile grows, slow and grateful. “Alright then. Come on. Let’s go make sure the farm isn’t burning down.”
You walk beside him again, arms brushing now and then, snow drifting softly around you. And maybe you don’t want to admit it, but being here— with the trees, with the soft winter light, with him, it doesn’t feel as awful as it usually does.
Maybe it doesn’t feel awful at all.
Maybe, for the first time in a long time, you don’t mind winter settling into your coat.
Maybe you even like the way the snow sounds under both your footsteps.
And maybe, just maybe, you’re not as immune to joy as you thought.
Something shifts after that first real moment you had with Bucky. Not dramatically, nothing like fireworks or some big movie epiphany. It’s quieter. More gentle. Like the cold morning air suddenly has a little sweetness to it. Like the farm stops being a place you accidentally ended up in and becomes one you wake up wanting to see.
You’re still you. Still grumbly. Still not exactly thrilled about any holiday that comes with themed socks and forced smiles. But Bucky makes it almost impossible to stay cynical. He has this annoying habit of being kind without being overwhelming, warm without being clingy, and patient in that way that makes you feel safe instead of pressured.
Now he meets you at the edge of the property almost every day. Not because he planned it, at least he claims he doesn’t, he just happens to be “passing by” when you step onto the snow. You don’t believe him, but you don’t call him out either.
This morning he brings breakfast.
And by breakfast, he means two overstuffed paper bags that smell suspiciously delicious.
“What is all that,” you ask, because the bags look like they’re one sneeze away from ripping.
“I got excited,” he says with absolutely no shame. “The bakery had these cranberry scones and they were telling me to grab them. Loudly.”
“Food doesn’t talk to you.”
“These did.”
He hands one bag to you, and the heat sinks straight into your fingers, a relief against the bitter air. You arch a brow.
“You bought the entire bakery.”
“Not the entire thing,” he shrugs. “Just the good stuff.”
His grin is so bright it could thaw snow. You want to be annoyed. You really do. But your stomach growls and he hears it and laughs, and you pretend not to care even though your face warms up.
You sit together on an overturned crate in front of the loading shed. Snowflakes drift lazily around you, landing in Bucky’s hair and catching on his sweater. He swats at them with the back of his hand, not really minding, his cheeks pink from the cold.
“You’re shedding snow,” you mumble.
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“It is.”
He nudges your shoulder with his. “You like it.”
You don’t answer, but he takes your silence as agreement. He usually does. Annoyingly, he’s usually right.
The scones are warm, almost too sweet, and you get powdered sugar on your gloves. Bucky gets powdered sugar on literally everything. His knee. His sleeve. Somehow his cheek.
When you point it out, he doesn’t wipe it off. He just leans toward you.
“Well,” he says, “get it for me.”
“Get it yourself.”
“But you saw it first.”
You roll your eyes, reach forward, and brush your thumb over his cheek. The sugar dusts off easily. His skin is warm beneath your glove, warmer than you expect, and he smiles softly when your hand lingers just a second longer than necessary.
You pull away too quickly, like that tiny moment exposed something you weren’t ready to show.
He doesn’t tease you for it. He doesn’t make a joke. He just sits there, happy, content, legs stretched out in the snow while he demolishes another pastry like it’s his life’s purpose.
It’s ridiculously domestic. Sickeningly cute. A little dangerous, in the way soft things always feel dangerous when you’ve lived most of your life expecting things to fall apart.
But it’s nice.
You kind of hate that it’s nice.
The farm grows busier closer to Christmas. Entire families show up in giant coats. Couples bicker about which tree “speaks to them.” At one point, a dog wearing a sweater barrel rolls into a pile of snow and Bucky nearly injures himself laughing.
He keeps drifting toward you on instinct, like you’re some quiet center he orbits without thinking. And you try, you really do, to stay on the sidelines where you usually belong.
But then someone asks which tree is “prettiest,” and before you can stop him, Bucky’s calling you over like you’re an expert.
“They trust you,” he whispers.
“No one trusts me.”
“I do.”
You want to tell him that’s a terrible idea, that he should reconsider, that trusting you hasn’t historically gone well for anyone. But he’s looking at you like you hung the stars personally, and it’s hard to argue with someone who believes in you that easily.
So you help. Awkwardly at first, then with a bit more confidence, then with a strange burst of pride when you see someone walk away with a tree you picked out. The world doesn’t end. Nobody gets mad. A child even thanks you.
It’s bizarre.
But also kind of… good.
Later that afternoon, Bucky drags you behind the barn again, insisting he has something to show you. His hand wraps around your sleeve so he can tug you along, and you don’t complain. Mostly because it feels nice when he holds onto you like that.
Behind the barn is a little clearing you haven’t seen before. A handful of smaller trees are set up in wooden crates. Strings of lights hang above them, low and warm. It almost looks like a miniature version of the entire farm.
“What is this,” you ask.
“Our starter patch,” he says. “We grow the babies here until they’re strong enough to go out to the main rows.”
You crouch beside one of them. It’s tiny, soft, barely up to your shoulder. A little crooked but adorable in a helpless way.
“This one’s leaning.”
“Yeah,” Bucky admits. “Becca says it’s because I planted it sideways.”
“You can’t plant things sideways.”
“You’d think that,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck, “but apparently I managed.”
It earns a laugh from you. A real one.
His eyes light up like you’ve gifted him something priceless.
“I like hearing that,” he says gently.
“Hearing what.”
“You laughing.”
You look away. “It’s just a laugh.”
“Not to me.”
Your chest tightens. In a good way and in a terrifying way.
He steps closer, close enough that his breath touches the cold air near your cheek.
“You’ve been different lately,” he says. “More open. More relaxed.”
“That’s because the pastries were good.”
“That’s not it.”
You swallow, fingers twisting in your gloves.
“You make it easy,” you murmur, not fully meaning to say it out loud.
The wind stills. The world quiets. And Bucky’s whole expression softens like he’s holding onto every word.
“You make it easy too,” he says.
Your heart stutters. It’s ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous. But you let the warmth settle anyway.
You end up sitting together in the little starter patch for nearly an hour. Talking about nothing and everything. Bucky tells stories about growing up on the farm, how he and Becca used to race through the rows pretending they were superheroes. You tell him things too. Small things. Safe things. But still things you don’t normally share.
Eventually the sun drops behind the trees, leaving only the soft glow of the lights above your head.
And Bucky turns to you, knee brushing yours, eyes soft as winter dusk.
“Can I do something,” he asks quietly. “Something small.”
Your stomach flips. “Like what.”
He reaches into his coat and pulls out a single, tiny ornament. It’s wooden, hand-carved, shaped like a little star. Not shiny, not glittery, not anything loud or festive. Just simple and warm and Bucky.
“I made it,” he says, almost sheepishly. “Thought maybe you’d put it on one of the trees in your cabin. Doesn’t have to be a whole Christmas thing. Just… a little piece. For you.”
It shouldn’t hit as hard as it does.
It really shouldn’t.
But it does.
Maybe because nobody gives you things like this. Not handmade. Not thoughtful. Not gentle.
You take it carefully, fingers brushing his.
“It’s beautiful,” you say, voice softer than intended.
He smiles in that way that feels like a sunrise after a long night.
“You wanna put it on one of these trees?” he asks.
You nod, choosing the crooked one he planted sideways. Bucky groans when he realizes which you picked, but he’s laughing through it, leaning close as you hook the little ornament onto one of the shorter branches.
“There,” he says. “Perfect.”
You shake your head. “It’s lopsided.”
“Just like me,” he grins.
You snort. “Just like you.”
His breath catches for a moment, just a moment, like the sound of your voice saying that means something to him.
He reaches out and takes your gloved hand without asking, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His thumb sweeps slow over the back of your knuckles. You feel the warmth even through the fabric.
“You staying for Christmas,” he asks quietly. “I know you’re not big on it but… I’d like you here. Doesn’t have to be anything special. Just… here.”
You think about your usual Decembers. Empty. Quiet. Lonely in a way that sinks into your bones.
Then you think about this. This farm. These lights. His family’s legacy all around you. His smile. His ridiculous pastries. His warm hand holding yours like you’re something worth holding onto.
“Yeah,” you say. “I’ll stay.”
His whole face lights up.
“You will?”
“Don’t make a big deal out of it.”
“It’s a huge deal.”
“Bucky.”
“Okay, okay,” he laughs, but he doesn’t let go of your hand. “I’m just… happy.”
And you believe him. You really do.
The snow starts falling again, small and soft, landing in his hair and on your shoulders. He steps closer until your arms brush.
“Can I kiss you,” he asks, voice so gentle it makes your heart ache.
“Yes,” you breathe, surprising yourself with how quickly it comes out.
He kisses you slow, warm, unhurried. Like he’s memorizing the moment. Like he’s giving you space to pull back if you want. But you don’t. You lean in. You deepen it. You let yourself feel all of it.
When you separate, foreheads touching, he laughs under his breath.
“You’re trouble,” he whispers.
“You like that about me.”
“Yeah,” he smiles, “I do.”
You stay like that for a long moment. Snow all around you. Little star ornament glowing softly in the tree behind you. His fingers still tangled with yours like he might never want to let go.
And for the first time in a long time, Christmas doesn’t feel like something heavy. Or loud. Or fake. It feels… gentle. Quiet. Like it’s making room for you instead of asking you to perform for it.
Maybe it’s the farm. Maybe it’s the snow.
Or maybe it’s the soft smile of the boy whose family built this place with their hands and love and faith, who grew up between these trees, who carries all of that warmth inside him and somehow still chooses to share it with you.
Whatever it is, it feels real.
And when Bucky whispers, “Come with me tomorrow. Help me pick out the lights for the big cedar,” you don’t hesitate.
hey guys! i know i haven't been active and it's been a minute since i've posted, but i'm back lol— kind of.
i recently went back to school and started a new job, so i’ve been busy. but!! i still really wanted to join in on ficmas this year, so here we are.
these fics are all bucky centered, but you’re totally welcome to send in requests! any characters listed in my rules are automatically accepted— just make sure to check my no’s before sending something in. if your character isn’t on the list, you can still request them, just keep in mind i may choose not to write for them.
i. — THE CHRISTMAS TREE FARM BOY
╰ small town snow, twinkling lights, and a quiet barnes boy who might just make you believe in christmas miracles.
ii. — LIGHTS, CAMERA, CHRISTMAS!
╰ he's your bodyguard on a hallmark set... and somehow, between the fake snow and holiday chaos, you're falling for the one man who isn't even in the script.
iii. — THE CHRISTMAS CARD CONSPIRACY
╰ surprise fic! summary will be released when posted.
iv. — GINGERBREAD WARS
╰ flour everywhere. icing on your face. rivalry at its peak... but, maybe the sweetest thing isn't the gingerbread.
v. — THE HOLIDAY HEIST
╰ steal a priceless christmas star, survive ridiculous mishaps, and try not to get caught— or fall for your partner in crime.
vi. — SKATING UNDER THE LIGHTS
╰ surprise fic! summary will be released when posted.
vii. — LIGHTS OUT: THE CORPORATE GALA
╰ trapped overnight in a snowstorm with your rival. one office, too many decorations, and tension that refuses to stay professional.
viii. — OPERATION: CHRISTMAS EVE
╰ a soldier home for christmas, snow falling, small gifts, and confessions that were a long time coming.
ix. — THE REINDEER RANCH
╰ surprise fic! summary will be released when posted.
x. — UNDER THE MISTLETOE ORDINANCE
╰ every doorway hides a little chaos... and you can't escape a perfectly timed christmas kiss.
fics will be uploaded every other day starting this week. let me know what fic you are most excited for!
bucky barnes x female!reader
summary: bucky really likes your Halloween costume...
word count: 2k
warnings: no plot, fingering, piv sex
notes: happy stan-o-ween, everybody! please enjoy my first collab fic with the stantastic association, and check out all of their amazing fics too! ohh, and a special thank you to @sebs-babygirl for beta reading <3
It's sinful — how Bucky's cock aches as you twirl in front of him.
Silky, black fabric flutters around your hips and thighs, lifting as you spin to reveal more of the sheer, spiderweb embroidered stockings hugging your legs. The tight corset dips just low enough to give him a delicious view of the swell of your breasts peeking over the neckline. Eyeliner painted on your face, jutting out towards your temples in a dramatic point, and lipstick a dark, sultry red. You giggle as the pointed hat atop your head tilts forward, falling too low on your forehead.
You adjust the hat and smile, telling him, "I'm a witch!"
He feels a bit guilty; you were so excited to show him your Halloween costume for a friend's party, and here he is — sitting on the couch and ogling you like a teenager, dick hard at just the thought of hiking up that little skirt around your waist.
"What do you think?" you ask, bouncing on the balls of your feet, heels clicking with each movement.
Bucky's wintry blue eyes are warm with amorous intent, drinking in every inch of your figure. The corners of his lips lift in a roguish smirk, and he extends a hand toward you, beckoning you closer. You step closer, placing your hand in his.
"Damn," he murmurs, tongue flicking out to wet his bottom lip.
He can see you growing shy under his gaze, hesitant as you glance back down at your shoes, and he can't have that — so, he spins you, pulling you back until you land gently on his lap and you're giggling again.
"Make a pretty little witch, huh?" he praises, planting a kiss on your bare shoulder.
"You think?" you ask, fingers picking at the hem of your skirt.
Bucky groans, appreciatively, "Prettiest little witch I've ever seen."
As if to prove his point, vibranium fingers press flat against your stomach and pin you flush to his chest, making you abundantly aware of the bulge now resting against your ass. Heat floods your body, pooling low in your stomach at the contact.
"Bucky," you whine, feigning embarrassment but giving yourself away with a coy smile tossed over your shoulder and a cheeky shift of your hips.
He hums against your shoulder, lips brushing over your skin as he speaks, "'M sorry, doll. You just look so good."
Large hands knead at your hips, guiding you to rock back against him. Bucky leans back into the cushions, mesmerized as the silky fabric hitches higher and higher with each movement, a stark contrast against his own grey sweatpants. The friction is delicious, causing your head to loll onto his shoulder while you allow him to move your body how he needs.
The pointed hat atop your head falls to the couch without a sound, and you whine again, trying to be a little more serious this time, "Buck… this party starts in half an hour."
It's not much of an argument — you're already a puddle in his arms, and he knows it. You feel his lips pull into a smirk against your neck, and he leaves a wet kiss there.
"I'll be quick," he murmurs, blunt teeth nipping at the sensitive skin under your ear before his tongue rushes out to soothe the sharp sting.
Flesh hand still working your hips against his, cold vibranium fingers fall to your thigh, teasing at the hem of your skirt as he tugs your legs open wider. Despite the chill, heat follows the trail his thumb paves as he squeezes greedily at the plush of your inner thigh. And he knows you're not too worried about that party when he hears that breathy little gasp you let out.
"Can't resist it, huh?" he asks, voice low and breath hot on your neck, making anticipation stir deep in your chest.
Your smaller fingers wrap around his wrist, encouraging the hand on your thigh higher, and the only response you can manage is a choked, "Bucky…"
He grunts as you wiggle in his lap, chasing more friction as he grinds up against your ass. "Patience, doll," he mumbles, letting his cool fingers slip fully under the silky fabric to trace the embroidered pattern of your stockings.
His touch roams, fingertips lazily mapping the spiderwebs plastered to your skin, as it moves up, closer and closer to where you need him. "I'll take care of you," he assures you, lips still working at the skin of your throat, leaving red marks in his wake.
As his hand travels higher and higher, you loop your free hand around to grab the back of his neck. With a short tug to the hair there, Bucky chuckles, chest vibrating against your back.
"Alright," he teases, pressing a kiss to your jaw before finally appeasing you.
Cool fingers graze over your core, teasing once more, before finding your clit with practiced ease. Your body flushes with heat, a moan escaping your lips as your hips lift in search of relief. Bucky groans, the sound rattling against your shoulder, as he finds slick heat already soaking through your panties.
"So wet," he murmurs, "I've barely even touched you, baby."
He is quick to hook a finger in, pulling your panties to the side so he can touch you properly. His touch is reverent even now — stroking between your folds, circling your clit, gathering your juices before pressing at your hole — not penetrating, just teasing.
"Please," you breathe out through a ragged whine.
Bucky moans, teeth grazing your skin, and he slips a finger inside. His thrusts are shallow at first, testing as he slowly opens you wide for him, and your thighs are shaking by the time he dips all the way in. You moan, turning your head on his shoulder in a desperate attempt to find his lips, and finally, they crash against yours. He's not as careful with his tongue, thrusting it into your mouth, lapping deeply.
His control begins to slip — fingers moving faster as you grind against his palm, stroking his cock with each flick of your hips. He's hyper aware of how your body reacts to him, how your thighs tremble and you stiffen in his arms, how your breaths change as the pleasure builds. And he holds you through it as it crashes over you, hand on your waist keeping you steady as you shatter and lips gentle as you whimper into his mouth.
Slowly, he pulls his fingers out of your dripping cunt. He almost regrets pulling back when you let out a choked whine until he lifts his vibranium fingers to his mouth and your hooded eyes widen as you watch him lap them clean. Bucky takes his time, savoring the taste of you, before his hand falls to pat your ass twice.
"Up," he orders, hands moving to support your shaky legs as you obey.
And you aren't on your feet long; he spins you, planting you firmly back in his lap with your thighs straddling his waist. He's a sight for sore eyes — dark hair fluffy and messy, pupils blown wide, the smirk reserved only for you tugging at his swollen lips. He smells of home, soap from the shower he took earlier and the faintest hint of leather leftover from his outing on the motorcycle.
He surges forward, greedily swallowing the moan torn from your throat as your sensitive center meets the hard line of him. Both hands run up the firm ridges of his chest before tangling in the soft hair at the nape of his neck again, and warmth blooms in your chest as you breathe in the familiar scent of him. You can still taste the faintest hint of the beer he had with dinner on his tongue when it sweeps over yours.
He breaks the kiss, traveling lower along your throat and to your chest. With one hand, he lifts you effortlessly, just enough to release his cock from his sweatpants. His other hand slides between your thighs again, stroking at your slit and pulling your panties to the side. He doesn't have time to properly undress you — he doesn't want to; he wants to watch your tits bounce beneath that neckline, to see that little skirt bunch up around your waist. He lowers you gently, the head of his cock swiping along your seam and teasing your entrance.
"Bucky," you whimper, swollen lips parted.
You try to grind down on him, but his rough hand on your ass holds you still. He leans back into the cushions, drinking in the view before him, with a cocky smirk on his face. He could frame this moment — the desire in your eyes, how you shiver with anticipation, begging for his cock deep inside of you.
"What do you need, baby?" he asks, tone mocking. You whine again, body flushed with heat, and he only chuckles, fingers squeezing at the flesh of your ass. "Talk to me."
"You," you mewl, trying once more desperately to sink onto his cock. "Your dick, Buck, please."
He hums, tongue flicking out to wet his lips, before teasing. "Needy little witch, huh?"
And you think that he's going to make you wait, already preparing yourself to beg for it, when he bounces you ever so slightly, letting the head of his cock sinking into your cunt. You cry out, hands scrambling for purchase on his shoulders, and Bucky tosses his head back against the cushions.
"Take it," he murmurs, and finally, his grip on your ass loosens.
Hooded eyes watch as you seize the opportunity, the black silk of your skirt bunching over your thighs and his hips as you sink lower inch by inch, body singing with pleasure the entire way down. And the sight that skirt conceals, Bucky doesn't need to see it, not when it's already seared into his memory — your tight cunt stretching to accommodate him, his cock glistening with you as you lift up only to slam back down.
A choked sob tumbles from your lips as you sink down fully, grinding on him in slow circles as you savor the feeling of just how deep his cock reaches. Big hands squeeze at your ass cheeks again, bunching fabric in between thick fingers, blunt nails digging into soft flesh as you begin to bounce. He allows one hand to roam, thumbing at the hem of your stockings before making its way up to grope at your breast through the flimsy corset.
"Just like that, doll," he praises, voice rough with awe.
He uses your tit as a stress ball, massaging in time with each rock of your hips, expertly finding your nipple even through the dress before pinching and tugging at it just how you like. Your movements grow greedier with each stroke of his cock against your walls, grinding harder, chasing that familiar pleasure. And he meets each thrust with a roll of his own hips against yours, drawing out and savoring every pretty sound that escapes your lips.
"Fuck," he growls, half-lidded eyes filled with awe, "squeezing me so tight, babe."
As you bounce, your movement take on a desperate edge — his hips stuttering, your walls fluttering, breaths coming faster. You're both trembling now, each grind dragging a rough groan from deep in his chest.
And when you fall again, waves of pleasure pulsing through your body, Bucky falls too — moaning your name like a prayer, rutting against you, and giving you everything he has to give.
"Fuck, baby," he mumbles, hand snaking around the back of your neck to pull you in for another sloppy kiss.
He holds you through every twitch, kissing and licking along your neck and jaw, tasting every bead of sweat.
And once you both properly catch your breath, vibranium fingers tap at your ass again.
"Fix your lipstick, doll," he says, smiling as you sit back on shaky legs. "I'll drive you to that party."
Pairing | Winter Soldier x Hydra Weapon!Reader
Summary | Hydra hosts a game each year—asset against asset—for the entertainment of operatives and investors. This year, investors want more blood, a higher production value, and more drama. You and the Winter Soldier have to fight to the death to prove yourselves. With addled minds and an unmistakable pull towards one another, the game might not be as easy as you think. (Hunger Games AU)
Warnings/Tags | MDNI (18+), nsfw, dual pov, cannon-typical violence, blood, gore, injuries, hurt/comfort, Hydra torture, trigger words, enemies to lovers (if you squint), slow-burn, cursing, so much angst (sorry, not sorry), panic attack, choking, flashbacks, death of an animal, soft!Bucky, smut, kissing, fingering, oral (f receiving), multiple orgasms, breast play, p in v sex, unprotected sex, rough sex, dacryphilia, emotional sex, pet names (darlin', baby, sweet thing, pretty girl), no use of y/n
Word Count | 17.8k
A/N | Happy Stan-O-Ween! This is my piece for the Stan-tastic Association collab. I'm excited, but also hella nervous to post this. This is the longest fic I've posted, and I'm hoping y'all like it, but if you don't, I understand (please like it, i constantly seek validation). I might write a part two (if you beg hard enough). Just a forewarning, grab some tissues for this one:) Also, sorry if the Russian in this isn't translated correctly. I want to thank @wint3rbarnes for suggesting the name of the game (i love you)! Hope y'all enjoy:)
(i made a playlist for this fic, if you'd like to listen while you read)
Screams, so loud the lights flickered. Sharp pain in the sides of your head. The smell of burning flesh filling your nostrils. Then, black.
Притяжение [Attraction]
Мрачность [Gloom]
Ночь [Night]
You woke up with a start, your brain feeling like it had just been put through a blender. Had you fallen unconscious? There was so much pain. Why was your head pounding relentlessly?
Those words being spoken finally registered, but it seemed your mind caught up before you fully did. Had you heard these words before? What did they mean? And why did you feel cold to the touch?
You felt a bone-deep icy sensation, spreading through your body. Or had it always been there? Your skin felt too tight. Your flesh stretched too thin across your chest as it rose and fell with shallow breaths.
The fluorescent bulbs seemed to let out a low buzzing sound, making your head feel like it was splitting open. Someone’s grimy fingers were poking and prodding at the ridges of your brain, rewiring your short-circuited mind. Your face felt numb like a thousand bees were stinging your forehead and cheek.
Спичка [Matchstick]
Двенадцать [Twelve]
Поверхность [Surface]
Your eyes shot open as if on instinct. The blinding bulbs overhead made you squint, hissing at the bright lights clouding your vision. You blinked a few times, adjusting to your bleached surroundings. The color was almost snuffed out; everything seemed too dull in this unfamiliar space. Like all the joy was sucked out of the room, taking the vibrancy with it.
Now that you were getting a clear view from where you sat, something inside you was screaming that you did recognize this place.
Семь [Seven]
A man in uniform came in from your periphery. A little red book rested in his palm, like a Bible, and he a priest, reading to the masses. You didn’t fully comprehend why the gears in your head seemed to click into place at each word uttered from the stern-looking man. It felt like latches on a cage, trapping your brain in a hold like it wasn’t even yours to begin with.
Тележка [Trolley]
Бассейн [Basin]
Two more words. You twitched, your body seemingly rejecting them. You felt a fire ignite within you, boiling your insides like a furnace despite the chill coating your skin.
Сигнал [Signal]
Just like that, the flame was extinguished. Every muscle in your body tensed, your spine going rigid. Any sign of a voice in your head telling you to resist vanished in a blink, diminishing to a weak whisper. Your head snapped in the direction of the man with the words dripping from his sinister tongue—your handler.
“Тень?” [Shadow?]
”Я готов отвечать.” [Ready to comply.] Your own voice felt foreign to you. The words felt too heavy on your tongue. Thick accent with no emotion in your tone. But none of your thoughts mattered anymore. You’ve given yourself completely over to the one who controls you.
You stared at him, eyes transfixed on the man in uniform. You—a model of a perfect little soldier awaiting orders.
A slow, menacing smile crawled up his face like a creeping spider. “Она готова.” [She’s ready.]
｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆
Days passed, and it somehow felt like weeks, the way Hydra was working you to the bone. You had to be quick and precise, and the only way to achieve that was sleepless nights spent training for the big day.
They referred to it as the Hydra Initiative—an event that united operatives and investors alike. Hydra aimed to expand their reach, and to achieve that, they required funding. What better way to attract more money than by appealing to the general public?
Americans were their targets. Stupid and wealthy, just how they liked their investors. They planned it around a holiday best suited for violence, gore, and an eerie atmosphere. Halloween came to mind. Though it wasn’t widely celebrated in Russia, it was a great way to advertise it to rich Americans.
So, they did their due diligence by promoting it discreetly among underground establishments and subtly drawing the attention of the wealthiest people. After that, all they had to do was put their two best assets in an arena and sit back and enjoy the show. Easy enough to do.
Except this year was different than the previous ones. Of course, they weren’t going to put their flawless weapons against each other and ask them to draw blood. They were too important to waste on a foolish game. So, the two assets were told to act. Act the part. Make it look realistic.
However, the investors got smart. They asked for more: a higher production and a reigning champion. And in turn, Hydra requested additional funds. After some back and forth, they got what they wanted.
So, there you were, putting on a dark tactical vest and cargo pants to appease your audience. You don’t remember years past when you were forced into this game. You never did. They made sure to wipe you once they woke you up from your cryo chamber. So, the only thing on your mind was to win this year.
Whoever was on the other side of this fight was getting the best version of you. You worked best in the dark, where no one could see you coming—hence the name you were given, Shadow. You were determined to find a unique strategy to outmaneuver your opponent, even if you were unfamiliar with the terrain.
Though you were compliant, you were being hauled out of your cell like a wild animal about to snap. The operatives guided you through Hydra’s facility, opening a set of doors for you to step through. A giant spotlight shone on you in the cramped space. A wide glass window showed individuals conversing.
The doors shut behind you with a loud click. The people beyond the glass turned, studying you. You were lowered to a simple object to be gazed upon. Some approached the glass. The crowd seemed to ooze value, as if the money was practically dripping off them in expensive, studded watches and floor-length gowns.
These were the people who would place bets on you. Tell you your worth, if you were even worth their time.
Your handler came into view, pointing at you as he spoke. The glass swallowed the sounds; you could only make out their expressions. Some wrinkled their nose in disgust, others nodded along, actively listening.
Their eyes felt too heavy on you, like they were looking in all the wrong places, mentally noting all the things that didn’t fit their standards. You felt like a dull painting in a room full of elegant masterpieces. It was overwhelming, but you managed to compose yourself enough to stand still and keep your eyes forward as theirs continued to bore into your very being.
When the crowd dispersed, you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. Your gaze flicked around the space past the glass. Screens lined the walls, displaying various forms of scenery: a forest, a grassy plain, and a body of water with waves rippling onto the sand. They were going to monitor your every move; two rats in a maze being observed by onlookers for their own amusement.
Your attention was pulled in the direction of another window across the room. Dark eyes, they could almost be perceived as black, which matched the mask donning his mouth. And, well, everything else, except the stark contrast of his left arm. Silver-plated with a scarlet star. A stranger in a glass house, just like you. Your opponent.
When you locked eyes with him again, your breath hitched. You could see the hint of icy blue swirling with the black. You’ve seen those eyes before. Hadn’t you?
“Eyes deeper than the ocean,” a voice echoed in your skull. Her tone was sweet like syrupy honey. Was your mind playing tricks on you, or had you uttered those words before in a voice that wasn’t the rough, monotone one you’ve familiarized yourself with?
You felt a tug in the center of your chest like a string pulling taut between you and the soldier. He seemed to detect the same pull because those once sharp eyes went wide with…recognition?
Then, the patrons were gathering around him, the soldier consumed by the crowd. The gears in your mind locked once more, no longer concerning yourself with something that didn’t make sense. How could you recollect someone you’ve never met?
｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆
The room was dark. It smelled faintly of rust and dried blood. The soldier was waiting, always waiting. He waited for instruction. For punishment. For a safe haven. He didn’t know if he’d ever get that last one; it seemed like too much of a pipe dream while in this hellhole.
His brain whirred like a computer running a diagnostic. He imagined your face again, too pretty to be the same thing as him. Although your appearance fit the bill, with the dark clothing and the statue-like stance, your eyes didn’t quite match. They were soft, like wispy clouds.
And that pull. It was undeniable. But why? He’d never met you, and now he was being ordered to kill you. He would carry out this mission without hesitation. He had never failed a mission before, and refused to fail this one, no matter how intense the sensation in his chest was.
The doors slid open with a hiss. The sun immediately blinded him, causing him to blink a few times before his eyes adjusted to it. The world around him was gloomy, despite the sun. It almost felt like it was setting the tone for what was about to come.
A dense forest surrounded him. Everywhere he looked, there was lush greenery: towering trees, thick bushes, and scattered fallen branches. The air was coated in a heavy fog. To an untrained eye, they might not be able to see through it. But he had sharp eyes like a cheetah, and he was hunting for prey.
He stepped out, leaves crunching beneath his heavy boots. He was already sniffing you out like a dog on a scent trail. His gaze drifted over his surroundings for any sign of his opponent. His mind was already reeling with calculations. With the bit of time that he saw you, he was trying to drill into those gentle eyes and find the information he needed. Where you might go first? What was your choice of weapon? Would you take high or low ground?
The gears were turning, but he decided to go with his gut. He trudged through the forest, low-hanging branches brushing against his tactical gear. Sticks cracked and splintered off as his boots moved. He was scanning the treeline for any other sign of life, specifically you. However, his handlers had instructed him to be equipped for anything, so if there were anything else in his way, it’d be gone too.
As he ventured deeper into the woods, his body became increasingly sticky with sweat, a thin sheen coating his neck and forehead. After what felt like an hour of trudging through the underbrush, he finally spotted a cliffside. He swiftly prepared to reach the top and set up his sniper nest, waiting for you to cross his path. With each step, his strides grew wider as he approached his destination. He knew he had to move quickly and cleverly, wanting to outpace you before you discovered his location.
Once he reached the summit, he pulled the strap of his gun from its position, which was loosely draped across his shoulder—always close beside him. He crouched low, eyes darting across the scenery like you might pop out at any time. His stomach hit the rugged ridge of the rock as he lay down, propping the gun against his body. The blunt end of the sniper rifle dug into his collarbone as he gazed through the scope with practiced precision. He wouldn’t fuck this up; you weren’t worth the punishment if he just so happened to fail this.
Minutes turned to hours, but the soldier was secure in his location, eyes never drifting from the crosshair. The reticle swept back and forth over the forest, but he hadn’t caught sight of you.
He almost considered moving from his spot on the hill until he noticed a figure dressed in black. Your tactical gear stood out like a sore thumb against the green backdrop. You were sprinting, weaving around the thick trunks of the trees. Your eyes darted around, glancing over your shoulder frequently. He caught a glint of sunlight reflecting off the steel as you crept deeper into the woods. You held a knife, its stark black handle and sharp blade pressed close to your stomach as you ran.
So, that was your weapon of choice—something brutal, something that requires confidence to wield the small weapon. You would need to get up close and personal if you were to use it on him. And you realized that all too well; otherwise, you wouldn’t be carrying it like a hunter ready to pounce at any sudden movements.
He had the shot; he’d had the shot lined up ever since he spotted your form. But he made no move to pull the trigger. You were right there, fresh for the taking. The red circle lined up perfectly on your skull. All he had to do was shoot, and you’d be on the forest floor, blood pouring out and painting the leaves a shade of brighter red.
He couldn’t. His brain was telling him not to, screaming actually. It was like a high-pitched ringing in his ears. The soldier had never had an issue putting down his target, so why was he having a problem with you? Even with the distance, he saw that softness in your eyes from before. Your fist was clutched around the blade like a lifeline. You were ready. You’d kill him without hesitation, so why wouldn’t his fucking pointer finger budge?
You stopped your solo race, leaning against a tree, chest heaving from exertion. You seemed as tired as he felt. Worn out from the long days of training. The wakeful nights left on standby. Or when he did get the opportunity to sleep, he couldn’t. It felt like any time he closed his eyes, something was trying to claw to the surface. A thought? An idea? A…memory?
He gritted his teeth, grinding his molars against each other. Hate roiled in his stomach. Pure disdain was reserved only for you, because you were the first person he had any delay with. He’d end up bloodied and bruised for not listening to his handlers. For not killing you, the first glimpse he had.
The soldier’s icy blue eyes traced the dips and contours of your figure through the scope. Though battle-worn, your skin seemed delicate like petals of a flower. He wanted to feel it under his calloused knuckles—soft against rough. He wanted to be the one to make your chest rise and fall like that while you sighed in his ear-
“Shit,” he muttered under his breath. What the hell was his mind doing? He was supposed to kill you with his eyes, not fuck you with them.
Your gaze shot upward, locking with him. You practically spotted him immediately, no doubt catching the lens reflecting off the sunlight. Again. Shit. Your eyes went wide, instantly ducking for cover on instinct. But he was quicker.
He finally pulled the trigger. Bang.
｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆
Searing pain shot through you, literally. The bastard fucking shot you. There was blood—so much blood—seeping through the cracks between your fingers as you clutched your right shoulder. You grunted in agony. The deep crimson flowed down your knuckles, giant droplets of blood hitting the already red leaves. You’ve been shot before, many times, but it never got any less painful.
Despite this, you were running, darting past tree branches like your life depended on it. Well, because it did. You didn’t know if he followed you. You weren’t about to lose all that distance you gained by glancing over your wounded shoulder. So, you bounded full speed ahead until you stumbled across a body of water. You dropped to your knees at the edge of it, where it rippled, water lapping at the sand.
You honestly didn’t care if he had been chasing you this whole time; you could no longer endure running in pain. Carefully, you unzipped your vest, taking care not to injure yourself further. You slid your arm through the neckline of your long-sleeved shirt, exposing your wounded shoulder to the cold air. A sharp hiss escaped your lips as the pain surged. Glancing down, you saw the bullet lodged just by your collarbone.
Taking a steadying breath, you dug your fingers into the gunshot wound. You bit your lip so hard that you likely drew blood, but you couldn’t risk him hearing you scream. Your fingers slipped from the bullet multiple times before you finally found your leverage.
With a sudden jerk, you tore the bullet from its resting place between your bones. A groan escaped you as your head fell between your shoulders, your chin hitting your chest. The bullet came loose, and your fingers were coated with your own blood.
You dipped your hand into the water, cupping it to gather a generous amount. Bringing it to your wound, you soaked it, washing the blood from the puncture. The sting was intense, but you managed to endure.
With your super soldier strength, you ripped the bottom part of your shirt, practically turning it into a crop top. To put pressure on the injury, you wrapped it around your shoulder and under your armpit, tying it in a knot with your teeth and your hand. You finally released a breath, settling into the sand below.
You eventually scanned the area for any indication that the soldier was near, but you came up empty. He could be hiding anywhere; you obviously missed his presence before.
You were exhausted. You’d dashed out as soon as the door opened to the bright world beyond the dark room where you were stashed. You had stopped for a second. How could you be so stupid as to take a break right where his sniper nest was set up? You were off your game and had no idea why.
You realized this wasn’t the best place to stay. Even though it was where you had been shot, you understood that the woods were your best option for concealment. With a huff, you stood, brushing the miniature rocks from your cargo pants. You weaved your way back into the forest, a hand resting steadily on your shoulder, searching for a place to lie low while you regained some of your strength.
｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆
The soldat had lost sight of you immediately, too caught up in what he had done. You’d scurried off like an injured fawn. He flew down the cliffside, catching speed from the downward momentum. He tracked your sporadic blood trail and hoped he’d find you sprawled out in the grass, bleeding out, and on the brink of death. But he was going in circles, checking and rechecking places he already had.
When he eventually found where you had been—the world around him beginning to darken—you were long gone. Only the bullet in a puddle of blood and your tactical vest thrown haphazardly indicated you’d been here.
He was going to find you, finish what he started. So, he turned on his heel and headed straight back into the forest.
Grabbing the black mask on his face, which could be better described as a muzzle, he threw it to the ground. Of course, he would get scolded for that simple action, but he needed to breathe, and it was too restricting to get any real air in his lungs.
He stalked forward, at an unhurried pace this time. He needed to clear his head, think cleverly, but his mind was clouded. It felt like your nails had dug into the ridges of his brain and tugged. Guilt and affliction lacerated his rib cage, an untamed animal rattling his bones. He wasn’t trained to have feelings. Hydra had destroyed them along with his humanity. But those were the only words that could describe this feeling that clawed at his chest.
As he ventured forth, he noticed a small green cloud of smoke from his periphery. Then, it doubled, tripled in size, whirling around him like steam from a sauna. He breathed it in before he thought better of it. The toxic cloud filled his nostrils, a musty smell that pricked his nose hairs, heading straight for his brain.
His hand flew to cover his nose, but it was too late. He instantly felt lightheaded; his head was spinning, and he stumbled forward. His metal arm shot out to catch himself, stabilizing him against the bark of a tree.
The soldier blinked; he couldn’t figure out what this mind-altering drug was supposed to be doing to him besides make his head pound.
A few minutes passed, and he figured the worst of it was done with, so he pressed on. Prowling onward, he noticed that the effects started to subside.
Almost like a strike of lightning, he clutched his head in pain. Sharp stabbing to his skull, his eyes squeezed shut, and he was on his knees in an instant. He clenched his jaw in a tight-lipped scream.
Even over the thumping in his head, he heard a noise from a distance. And then closer. His head jerked up, surveying the surrounding area.
Then, he spotted him. A boy. He couldn’t be more than ten. The boy sat with his knees to his chest by a cluster of shrubbery. When he glanced up, locking eyes with the soldier, it was steel blue eyes meeting steel blue eyes. One and the same, but so different. A familiar face from an unfamiliar timeline.
“‘M scared,” the child sniffled, tears forming in his innocent eyes, “Where’s Becca? We gotta protect our lil sister.”
The soldat cocked his head, eyes narrowing. Who the hell is Becca, and how is this possible? Was he losing his mind?
The bushes to his left rustled, and another figure appeared. This one was much older than the boy. Maybe in his late twenties. Another version of himself, he doesn’t remember. But compared to the child, this one looked like he’d been through hell.
His short hair was disheveled, and deep sores were on his face; sweat and dirt coated his skin. His eyes went wide, glancing down at his body. “They put somethin’ in us. I can feel it,” his younger self mumbled, voice trembling.
The soldier gripped the sides of his head once again, squeezing it. He had to shake himself out of this drug or whatever was fucking with his brain.
“'S gonna be alright,” a hand rested on his shoulder, “We just gotta finish out the war, then we’ll be home free.”
The soldier jerked back, crawling backwards in the grass. When he gazed upward, it was a new form. Yet, another version of himself. Even more unrecognizable.
This one seemed younger than the last one, but not by much. He had on a military uniform and a green hat on his head. His hair was quaffed under the cap. He looked clean-shaven, and his eyes were kind—a stark contrast to himself.
“What war?” The soldier asked, voice rising into anger. “What the fuck is going on?”
He closed his eyes tightly, trying to wish away these eerie versions of himself. Why can’t he remember looking like any of them?
“James,” a sweeter, more pleasant voice came, but this time it was a woman’s. His head shot up, glimpsing up to match the voice to a face.
It was you, but different. Less rigid, less on edge. You smiled sweetly, hand reaching out to cup his jaw. He flinched backward, but you nodded as if to say, I’ll be gentle, I promise.
“Who’s James?” He tilted his head, meeting your gaze.
You let out a low snort, “You, silly. Don’t you remember?” You cupped his jaw, your cool hand contrasting against his clammy skin. Your thumb gently swept back and forth over the flushed pink of his cheek.
It was soothing in a way, though he realized he should probably pull away; after all, you were the enemy—or at least that’s what his handlers had told him. But if it was all just an illusion, what did it matter when your touch felt so good against his skin?
He shook his head, but leaned into the softness of your touch. Was this a mirage, or a memory? “It’s alright. I’m here. We’re gonna get out of here, okay? Just a little longer,” you assured him.
“How long have we been here? I don’t remember,” he admitted, his brain feeling too fried to give it any thought.
“Don’t worry about it,” you murmured. You moved your hand, running your fingers through his sweaty hair as you stared into his eyes. “Deeper than the ocean.”
“Huh?”
“Your eyes. I always say that to you, remember?” You rolled your eyes playfully. “Oh, please, tell me you remember that at least.”
“I don’t, sorry,” he apologized, nuzzling into the hand you had in his hair.
“It’s okay, James. Just stay here with me, yeah?” Your opposite hand came up to push at the middle of his chest, encouraging him to lie back. He obeyed, leaves crunching under the weight of his head. “There we go,” you praised.
You laid down beside him, cheek squished against the ground. “Close your eyes, James. I’ll be right here when you wake up.”
The soldier did what you asked of him, his vision fading to black as his breathing gradually steadied. Your hand continued to run through his hair with a gentle precision. It was the kindest feeling he had ever experienced, and he craved more. He didn’t want it to ever end.
Just like that, you lulled him to sleep, breath going soft.
｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆
Your head was an aching mess. Pounding, throbbing, and it sounded like screaming in your skull. You’d been leaning against a tree, forehead pressed against the bark to calm your rushing mind. Not only were you dealing with excruciating shoulder pain, but now your head felt like it might explode.
You’d breathed in some kind of putrid smoke. It felt like it was single-handedly altering your brain chemistry. You tried to shake yourself out of this loopy feeling, but it wouldn’t relent.
“Momma?” A little girl’s voice came. You scanned the area, spotting the little one immediately.
“Where’s my momma? She said she’d be here. She said she’d always be here,” her voice wobbled, tears coming down her round, chubby cheeks.
You stumbled forward, despite the ringing in your head. “Hey, sweetheart.”
The little one turned, and you saw it instantly. It was you—yourself, but younger, maybe around six. You could see the fear in your own eyes, and it resonated deep within you. Even though you weren’t supposed to feel anything, it wasn’t allowed, not with Hydra.
Yet, you were familiar with that feeling. It haunted your dreams. It stalked you in the daylight. It was all around you, an all-consuming snake wrapping around your lungs and taking your breath away.
The girl ran to you, arms spread and bumping into your stomach like a force. You huffed at the intensity of the strength behind her embrace. You hesitantly wrapped your arms around her as she hid her face in your midsection. Tears soaked your shirt, or what you had left of it.
“It’s alright. I’m gonna get you out of here,” you promised, patting her back gently. It felt so strange, holding yourself. Someone you couldn’t even begin to remember, but you recognized your own face regardless.
“Don’t lie to her,” another, rougher voice came from behind you. When you turned, you saw another version of yourself. She looked like destruction in human form, as if she were on her last leg.
Her hair was slightly shorter, messier with tattered clothing. There wasn’t a place you looked that didn’t have bruises on her. She was utterly beaten to shit.
“We’re never getting out of here. We’ll die here,” she added, voice stern like nothing was going to change her mind.
You ignored her, covering the ears of the girl in your arms. “What happened to you?” you inquired, examining her figure.
She glared at you as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, and you were the only one out of the loop. “What do you think?”
You didn’t respond, still staring blankly at the woman who mirrored you. She rolled her eyes, a hint of malice flickering behind them. “Hydra, of course. Don’t you remember? It was the worst day of our lives. Unless we don’t make it out of here, because James doesn’t remember us either.”
“James?” You quirked a brow, wracking your brain for where you might’ve heard that.
“The soldier who’s trying to kill us. Keep up,” she muttered angrily.
“I don’t understand. Why don’t I remember?” Your voice dipped into something sorrowful, as if all this new information was overwhelming, and you couldn’t bear the not knowing anymore.
“Like I said, Hydra. They wipe you and stuff you in an ice cube until they need you again. And the only reason they need you now is to entertain.” She raised her head, glaring at the clouds like they personally offended her. She let out a vicious scream, “Are you entertained?”
You shivered; you knew you were here to entertain, but everything else that she spoke of was bouncing around in your skull like a hefty bowling ball. Too big for the tight space of your brain cage.
You squeezed your eyes shut, clenching your jaw so tight you thought you might break a tooth. When you opened them again, the two versions of yourself were gone, leaving only the cracked, barely-human version of you.
You turned, your back hitting the tree harder than you intended. You slid down its trunk, the bark chipping off and falling around you like chunks of old paint as you settled into a sitting position. You pulled your knees to your chest and buried your head in your arms.
“Darlin’,” a man rasped. Your head swiveled to connect the dots—a voice and a face.
It was him. The soldier, but he was so incompatible with the one from earlier. He appeared to be wearing similar clothing to the version that shot you, but everything else was inconsistent. His eyes weren’t violent; they were almost amiable. His usual stern face—all sharp lines and harsh expression—was subdued in comparison.
“Been waitin’ for you,” he murmured, sitting down beside you. He tilted his head in concern. “Y’alright? You seem spooked.”
Your eyebrows scrunched together. What was happening? Was this a part of the game, or was it real? You couldn’t tell, but you answered anyway, “Do you know what’s going on? There were people who looked like me, but weren’t.”
He smiled at you—you’d never seen that. It was stunning, like a piece of a lively sunset. He nodded, then glanced around until his eyes landed back on you. “I know you’re scared, but everythin’s gonna be just fine. We’re gonna get outta here soon enough.”
“How do you know that?” you exclaimed, worry making your voice rise. You knew this wasn’t real; it couldn’t be. But he was looking at you with those earnest eyes like he was ready to listen to your every word, so you had to speak your concerns aloud.
“Trust me,” he leveled his gaze at you, metal hand coming up to move a rogue hair from your eyes and tuck it behind your ear. “You remember what we told each other?”
You tried to get the gears to turn in your head, but they wouldn’t budge. You shook your head, and he sighed in response. His head fell back, resting against the tree behind him. “Nothin’ to worry about when we’re together, darlin’,” he replied.
Tears pricked your eyes. You hadn’t shown emotion like this in who knows how long, but here you were on the grass, almost to tears over those simple words that practically held no meaning. But, at the same time, they meant so much.
You couldn’t begin to think of a timeline where you knew this man, but it was that pull again, like from before, when you stood behind glass and watched him from afar. It made your chest ache with something raw, unfilitered, unlike what Hydra made you into—a statue of emotions. The man, or “James’”, head moved to look at you once again, and his expression flickered with alarm, noticing your distress.
“Hey,” he said, and without warning, he took your shoulders and wrapped you in a tight hug. He rubbed soothing circles into your back, fingers moving up and down your spine. “Don’t cry, I’ve got you.”
Your body trembled, shoulders shaking from the weight of your despair. Almost like it was always supposed to, your form relaxed into his, burying your face in his neck, and breathing in his scent like it might soothe you. Your breathing began to even out once more, body going heavy in his arms.
“Shh,” he muttered, “Get some rest. You’ve been through a lot today.”
Almost on command, your eyes fluttered closed and you fell into a restful sleep.
｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆
The soldier startled awake, sweat coating his body along with random twigs and stray threads of grass. Was he dreaming, or were you actually here? Well, you weren’t anymore. You were gone with the rise of the sun. How long had he been out for?
His brain felt fried. Was this the kind of game you were playing? Intoxicating him with some sort of smoke and throwing him off his game? The other versions of himself fucking with his mind, and then you—all soft touch and sweet voice.
He was pissed; his chest heaved with heavy breaths, and his jaw ticked. You weren’t getting away that easily. He sat up, pulling himself up to stand.
Journeying through the woods once again, he stalked forward with a vengeance, with a hunger for blood. He was a wild animal that had his cage rattled one too many times.
Again, the forest angered him, throwing branches in his path and mud too slippery to find a sound footing. As if he were just an eager hunting dog, he swore he picked up your scent. An open space in the woods between cliffsides, dipping into a compact canyon where he stood, eyes searching.
He smelled blood, and he didn’t know if it was how heightened his senses were or if you truly were bleeding out. It wasn’t until copper stung his nose that he realized something was off. His scuffed boots slid across the terrain like it was raining and he hadn’t even noticed it yet. But no water droplets were falling from the sky, so why was it so hard to walk in this part of the woods? Each step elicited a squelch from under his black boots.
He realized way too late what was happening until the heel of his shoe was surrounded by a puddle of blood, and it wasn’t just where his feet were planted, but everywhere his eyes wandered.
His brain caught up entirely, and then his feet were moving beneath him, sprinting, but he barely made it anywhere. His boots disappeared into the thick liquid, and any step he took was too slow in his endeavor to get to higher ground.
The red floated up to his calves, making his tactical pants stick to his flesh. His mind was a snowstorm of thoughts; his brain was scattered, trying to find the best course of action.
Was he still in a dream? A nightmare?
His feet kicked and pushed forward in a weak attempt to get away from the unrelenting waves of crimson. He felt like he was dying; this was his own personal hell coming to devour him.
He didn’t know how to extricate himself from this. The space was filling quickly. He blinked, and it was up to his thighs, threatening to swallow him whole.
He wanted to scream for help. Ask his handlers to have mercy on him for once, but it was no use. They wouldn’t bother helping. This was most likely their doing; you didn’t have the tools to do this.
He propelled forward, trudging his way through it now. The liquid sloshed around his hips, red rippling around him like a sick joke.
Why did he feel like he’d been here before, drowning in someone else’s blood? Red slick coating his fingers, weaving into the creases of his knuckles like a brand.
His brain flashed: dead bodies, a gun in his hand, people pleading for their lives. He had killed before; he knew that much, but what was his body count by now? Because with the way his mind was racing, it seemed like dozens.
He was nearly swimming now, arms stretched to push him farther through the liquid. Then, he heard a grunt—a sound of frustration. He swam quickly, peeking around the tall rock formation.
He detected you like an ultrasonic radar. You struggled to stay upright. The blood splattered and splashed onto your clean face, marking you with the mess.
Your arms flailed, trying to find your footing, but you were short—shorter than him at least. Your form bobbed as you attempted to steady yourself against the cliff. The soldier was moving slowly so as not to alert you, but, of course, you had the same abilities as he did. You heard him, and your head whipped in his direction.
You weren’t struggling against the blood anymore; you were embracing it. You used it to your advantage, flicking your legs up and down to generate momentum. You lifted your arms, pushing off with them, striving to get away from the Winter Soldier.
He followed right behind you; he wasn’t willing to let you go this time, not after the little drug stunt you pulled. He waded towards you, catching speed. You were glancing behind you, which was stupid because every time you did, he got closer.
In his attempt to catch you, the gun draped around his shoulder came loose. He felt the shift immediately, the weight on his left becoming lighter. It plunged beneath the liquid, and he instantly slowed. He turned, hands reaching beneath the blood, but he felt nothing. And forget about seeing anything through it, because everything was red in his vision.
He gave up when he glanced forward, seeing you get further away. He could easily kill you with his bare hands without breaking a sweat. He dove forward, spraying blood onto his tension-stained face. He kicked and swung his arms up and over, until he was only feet behind you.
A wave came, crashing against the surrounding rock, painting it ruby red. More were rising, threatening to pull you both under. He wasn’t fazed, swimming faster as your movements began to stutter.
He reached out when he had eventually closed the distance. His metal hand felt for you under scarlet water. Your foot kicked outward, hitting him as you ventured forth. You glanced over your shoulder, spotting him and his closeness.
On you like a moth to a flame, he grabbed your ankle with ease. He yanked you towards his chest, pulling your head under in the process. When you surfaced, you coughed and sputtered, trying to get your breath once more.
You jerked in his hold on your ankle, your heel connecting with the middle of his chest. When that didn’t work, you flipped on your back. Your free boot came up, hitting his chin with a force. His head snapped backward with a crack of his jaw.
His eyes flashed as his head came back to glare at you. He was through with the games; you were dead. Both hands were on you like a vice, hauling you closer. Flesh and metal moved like he was tugging a rope to his chest. Fingers wrapped around your calves, then hips, until they were firmly planted on your waist.
You thrashed; hands shoving at his shoulders and legs frantically driving against any body part you could reach. The front of your boot knocked against his inner thigh as your other leg moved to knee him in the gut. All the while, you both continued to flounder down the current of viscous blood.
The soldier’s hands gripped and tugged your waving arms to your sides, but still, you fought him.
“The more you fight, the more satisfyin' it’ll be when I kill you,” he seethed. “You think ’s funny to drug me and then flee?”
You resumed your struggle, but faltered for a split second. “I didn’t drug you,” you insisted, voice strained from your panic. “Hydra did. They drugged me, too.”
He let out a dark chuckle, getting closer to your face. “Cut the shit. I know you did it because you were there,” he murmured, eyes shining with revenge. “You think you can win this with a sweet voice and a pair of delicate hands. This’ll only ever end in me takin’ the breath from your lungs.”
Your one-sided brawl ceased, and your eyes went wide, but not with fear, with realization. “You saw me?” Your tone was soft, almost imperceptible.
His eyebrows pulled tight, confused as to why you weren’t fighting anymore. “Yeah,” he confirmed, scornfully. “You were right in my face. How could I miss you?”
You shook your head, “No, I-” you cut yourself off, locking your gaze on him with something he couldn’t quite place.
“I saw you, but not this you,” you finally spat out. “And versions of myself…I didn’t recognize. Did you see the same?”
This time, the soldier’s eyes widened in surprise. He no longer felt like you were lying to him. The truth in your gaze was radiant, undeniable.
Still, his grip never relented, so you added, “I don’t want to kill you. Hydra’s the enemy, not you. But I won’t hesitate to put you down.”
Tilting his head in a cocky manner, a sharp laugh escaped his throat. “I think you’re forgettin' who’s got who, darlin’,” the nickname rolling off his tongue like he said a million times.
Though he meant for it to sound venomous, it came out tender. He shook himself out of his initial shock from the way that pet name felt in his mouth, and pressed on, “I could’ve killed you already.”
You squirmed in his clutches again, boots searching for ground that was nowhere near the heels of your feet. “Then, why haven’t you?” Your voice dipped into a challenge.
He scrambled for a response, but came up empty. Honestly, why hadn’t he? With the sniper aimed at your skull and, now, holding you forcibly without making any move to actually harm you.
While in his distracted state, you came forward, head-butting him hard. Groaning, his hands feel away on instinct, reaching up to grab at his nose where the blood flowed. He wasn't sure if it was the pool around him, splashing onto his face, or from his likely broken nose.
With your open opportunity, you planted your boot right into his stomach with a power that left him gasping for air. You scurried off, treading the sea of blood with a newfound energy. He recovered rapidly, plunging forward to grab you once again.
You swam towards a lower rock formation, aiming to get out of the thick blood river you were drifting down. The soldat closed the gap as soon as your palm outstretched to grab the ridge. Your fingers wrapped around it, hauling yourself out of the scarlet liquid, but he was snatching your leg again.
You wiggled out of his grasp, flinging your leg up to kick the side of his skull—piercing pain shot through him. Thrown off balance, he flew into the rock, the other side of his head hitting the jagged edge with a loud thud. Without much fight, he fell unconscious.
｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆
With the freedom you had, you climbed up on the cliff with little effort. When you glanced down, you spotted his limp form, floating in the blood like a fish bobber. He was sinking, his large frame being dragged under like tiny sets of red hands were pulling him to his death.
You watched with bated breath, as if you weren't sure if you wanted him to wake up and resurface or drown completely. You inhaled a shaky breath when the pool of crimson rose to his lips, staining them with rouge. When his head dipped under, his figure disappearing under the liquid, your heart began to crack. The ache in your chest felt too heavy, dragging you to the ground, dropping to your knees.
You knew him. You didn't know how or why, but somewhere in your chest, you knew that statement rang true. He was woven into your veins, like a tattoo you couldn't quite see, but all the same, he was there. Somewhere in your scrambled brain, you had made memories with this man.
Without further deliberation, you leaped from the cliff's edge. You dove under, eyes going dark as the world around you seemed to go black. Then, you were blindly feeling for something—anything. Your chest was constricting fast, too fast as your arms outstretched for his figure. It was like the blood had already woven its way into your chest—an elephant sitting on your ribs and piercing your lungs with an intensity that took your breath away.
You swam back up, gasping for breath as you coughed out some of the blood that found its way between your tightly pressed lips. You took a couple of deep, steadying breaths before diving back under. Your arms whipped this way and that until, finally, your fingers brushed something firm.
You wrapped your fingers around his wrist, pulling him towards you. You managed to hook your arms under his armpits and push up, legs kicking aggressively as you felt the air slipping from your lungs again. You fought your way to the top, his body heavy in your arms, despite your super soldier strength.
You took a sharp intake of air as you breached the sea of ruby, sputtering as the wind hit your clogged throat. You tugged him towards the massive rock, fighting against the current as you wrapped your arms snuggly around his chest. You lifted him, adrenaline propelling you to get him safely on dry land.
You eventually managed to push him up and onto the cliff, his limbs dangling off the side. You followed after, hauling yourself up. You felt weighed down by the sticky mess coating your clothes and body. Blood was already crusted on your cheeks. Your lashes were tinted, making your vision scarlet, as if you had rose-colored glasses on.
You took the soldier by the wrists, dragging him away from the edge. You dropped to your knees, wiping the blood from his face with a gentleness even you didn't recognize. You leaned forward, tilting his head upward to listen to his breathing. It was faint—a barely there exhale.
You immediately pressed your hands into his chest, one hand resting over the other, and began chest compressions. You didn't use all your strength; you'd end up breaking his ribs if you did.
You eased off, checking his breathing once more. It remained the same, so you grabbed his nose with your thumb and forefinger, and lowered your mouth to his. You breathed air into his lungs, your cheeks puffing out as you did so.
As your lips brushed, you felt it—a shift. But not in his body, yours. Almost like the world righted itself—two bodies aligning themselves with one another once again. You broke away after the second puff of air sent to his lungs.
Your body was a jittery mess, your hands shaking as you placed them against his chest to continue your attempt at CPR. Your vision flared like a flashlight being shone directly into your eyes—splotchy and static, floating around in your pupils. Your head pounded as everything started to click into place.
You were no longer in the arena, but somewhere oddly familiar. Trees danced in your eyeline, swaying to and fro. You felt a presence from behind you and whipped around.
It was the soldier, James. He stared into your eyes, the corner of his lip quirked. This version of him reminded you of the one from the forest—the one that held you as you cried.
He stepped forward, and you realized he was no longer looking at you, but through you. You turned, spotting a woman with arms crossed over her chest, and her shoulders were slightly slumped forward.
He stood next to her, letting out a heavy sigh as he slid his hands into his pockets. She didn't acknowledge him, just continued to stare blankly at the branches waving in the wind.
He nudged his shoulder into hers, and she nearly jumped out of her skin as she faced him with shock written all over her expression.
"Fuck, James," she scolded, "do you want to give me a heart attack?"
You knew that voice; it was yours. The lively one that bounced around in your skull from before.
James snorted, grin widening as he got a glimpse of your appearance. "Sorry, darlin'. Thought you heard me comin'. You have enhanced hearin' for a reason. Where'd all that trainin' go?"
She, or you, rolled your eyes, focusing back on the scenery. His smile faded, turning to a frown. "Hey, what's goin' on?" He asked, concern dripping in his tone.
You shook your head, dropping your hands to your sides to ball them into fists. "What if they find out? I know this," you gestured between the two of you, "won't last anyway, but I just can't stop thinking about what they'll do if they do find out. Wipe us and separate us for good, or worse?"
You scoffed, but it sounded broken like you were trying to hold it together. "I can't go on with that hovering over my head. They take and take, and soon enough, there won't be anything left to take. We'll be empty versions of ourselves," you rambled on, your frustration getting the better of you.
James took your wrist, pulling you into his chest as his other hand reached up to cup your cheek. "You can't think like that," he muttered. He shushed you in a calming manner, coaxing those tears not to slip down your face or onto his thumb that was sweeping over the swell of your cheek.
You wouldn't look him in the eyes, so he added, "We're gonna find a way outta here, you hear me? Just gotta keep actin' the part. Keep obeyin' whatever order they give you, carry out whatever mission they put in front of you, and we'll be outta here soon."
Your sad, tired eyes locked with his. "You don't know that," your voice was small, shattered.
He shook his head, "I don't, but I'll tell you what I do know. Nothin' to worry about when we're together."
You seemed to relax at those words, like a balm to an internal wound. You nodded, leaning into his touch as if to savor it.
"Sorry," you apologized weakly. "We're finally away from watchful eyes, and the first thing I talk about is shit that doesn't matter right now."
"Ain't nothin' to be sorry about." He drew you closer before asking, "Can I kiss you?"
You giggled, a light and airy sound you'd never heard before; It was jarring, but you continued to observe yourself and the soldier.
"Do you even have to ask?" You responded, a grin forming on your lips.
"Always wanna give you a choice, darlin'," he said softly. "Don't get a lotta those these days."
You hummed in agreement, but he appeared to still be waiting for an answer. "Yes. Kiss me, James," you confirmed, grabbing the back of his neck.
He inched closer, capturing your lips in a sweet, tender kiss. You sighed against his mouth, melting into him. He kissed you as if he were memorizing the shape of your lips, his lips lingering in gentle brushes.
When the two of you parted, his forehead rested against yours. "I…I," he stuttered, eyes squeezed shut.
"I know," you whispered, "I do, too."
A loud, choked cough, and you were pulled right back to the present. You didn't realize how long you had been pushing on the center of his chest, but he retched, blood dribbling out the side of his mouth.
You stumbled backwards as you watched him cough up the crimson clogged in his throat. His head rolled to the side. He was still unconscious, but breathing.
You wanted to stick around, make sure he was okay, or wash the dried blood from his hands; he didn't deserve the weight of that anymore. But this wasn't the man from the vision you just had, and there wasn't a way to show him the clarity your mind brought you. So, without another word, you left.
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Palms scrubbed at the caked-on blood, washing your body thoroughly. The sea of red was long gone by now, drained by Hydra. It markes the end of the first trial of the Hydra Initiative. No wonder they said to be prepared for anything, you just hadn't expected that.
You had found a waterfall off the cliffside, jumping off the ridge to meet the pool that formed at the end of it. You rid yourself of your stiff clothing and shoulder wrapping; you didn't care how many cameras were on you. You couldn't stay in them for one more second.
That logic didn't make sense to you either. Hydra had never cared about your cleanliness, and in turn, neither did you. Yet here you stood, washing the blood from your clothes and skin as if it were second nature. With every moment you spent in this arena, you felt yourself shedding the layers of training they had drilled into your mind. The illusions, the visions, and the pull you felt towards the soldier all weakened you in terms of your own humanity.
You swam to the stream of water. You took a sigh of relief when it was distinctly different than swimming in the viscous liquid from before. Your body glided through the pond, waves rippling behind you as you dipped your head under the waterfall. The water cascaded down your hair and over your shoulders. You hissed as the liquid washed over your injury, but instantly relaxed into the feeling. It still appeared to be red and irritated, but it was healing.
You let yourself enjoy the simplicity of cleaning your body. No missions, no orders, no soldier trying to kill you, or vice versa. You couldn't remember the last time you had a moment to breathe.
Once you were finished with your makeshift shower, you returned to your clothes. You had laid them out in the sun to dry quicker. They were still damp, but you slid into them anyway.
As you dressed, you heard a noise from somewhere beyond the wooded area. Leaves rustled, then the forest filled with an eerie stillness. It made you pause, scoping out your surroundings. You didn't know how the soldier could've found you so easily. Maybe you trailed blood on your way down here?
But your suspicions were cut short once you heard a low growl. You scrambled, putting on the rest of your clothes, slipping your ripped-up shirt over your head, and shoving your boots on.
You crouched, ambling forward. You tried to conceal yourself by hiding in the bushes that were low to the ground. You didn't hear any more noises until it was too late. A wolf with sharpened, keen eyes stared into your soul as if he were already feasting upon you. Another trial, you thought.
You could take a normal wolf, probably outrun them, but this wasn't a regular one; this was a towering beast. Probably one mutated by Hydra or some other sick person. You imagined it most likely stood at eye level to you, though you were still in your slouched position. The wolf prowled towards you, one paw slowly stepping in front of the other. It bared its teeth at you, eyes glowing gold.
You backed off slowly as if to say, I'm not your enemy, but he continued to move. Every step backwards from you was a step forward for it. Your back hit something hard, the wolf now pinning you with his gaze. You didn't think; you sprinted. Fleeing back the way you came, you climbed up the rock, hand catching on the edge as you hauled yourself upward. You instantly heard the beast respond, growls emanating from its mouth as it caught up to you.
It snapped at your dangling feet, drool spilling from its mouth as it tried to bite you. You pushed up onto the cliff, boots kicking downward in an attempt to get him off your trail. Once you got onto your feet, you ran. You heard the beast hop onto the edge, small rocks hitting the water below as it clambered up the side to continue its chase. It seemed like it was already gaining on you; its speed matching yours.
The woods were the first thing that came to your mind as you retraced your steps. You acknowledged that it was dangerous, but you needed a place where you could easily cover yourself. Although you understood that the soldier might still find you, you couldn’t afford to think about the consequences at that moment. All you could do was hope he would let up on you because you had saved him.
You darted through the trees, weaving your way past rocks and greenery until you spotted a cave a ways off, hidden by a cluster of trees. You picked up your pace, but it was no use. The wolf lept forward, its claws digging into the flesh of your back, where the shirt wasn't covering. You yelped in pain as it tackled you to the grass. You unsheathed the knife at your hip, rapidly flipping yourself over to cut at the beast.
You sliced across its open maw as it loomed over you. A long, jagged gash appeared on its jaw from the blade of your small weapon. It howled, head jerking backwards to get away from your slashing knife. Then, he surged forward as you tried to aim somewhere more vital. But you didn't have time to take another stab at him as his snout closed in on your face.
Your forearm shot out, effectively stopping it from ripping your face clear off. He fought with you, strength against strength, but you held firm. Your forearm was locked to hold it in place as you tried to free your weapon with your other hand. As soon as you had it in your grasp, fingers wrapped around the blade, the beast lunged forward, causing you to drop the knife.
The sound of steel clattering to the ground echoed through the forest like a reminder of how deeply fucked you were. Your free hand grabbed at its snapping jaw, pushing up and away from your face. Drool came down in trails and directly onto your face. The wolf came loose once more, and you knew you were dead already. You closed your eyes, accepting your fate.
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It didn't take long for the soldier to gain the upper hand in the fight against his own beast. Its carcass sprawled out on the dirt, echoes of its last breath still replaying in his mind. That wolf was like him in a lot of ways, and he had murdered it without a second thought. But, then again, wouldn't he want the same mercy?
It was a Hydra weapon just like him. Snapping jaws and piercing eyes were the prominent features of Hydra's creations. However, he couldn't say the same about you.
You saved him from drowning, from the blood threatening to choke him to death. Perhaps you hesitated, but the outcome was the same. The only reason he knew you saved him was because his eyes had fluttered open as you walked away, dripping blood as you left.
After washing the blood coating his skin and clothes, he heard leaves crunching not too far from his location. He knew right away it was the start of another trial, and he was prepared for anything. It only took a little tussle with the feral animal before it was dead on the ground.
Standing in the middle of the forest, he heard a noise from afar. He immediately recognized it as a howl—a beast exactly like the one he fought. No doubt, you were fighting your own. He contemplated staying put, letting it take your life instead of himself. That'd be one less death on his conscience. But he knew the punishment would be greater if he didn't do anything.
So, he stalked towards the woods, following the sound of your brawl. He eventually stumbled across the pair of you—you in the grass, struggling as the beast above you nipped at the air, trying to bite you.
He sprinted, closing the distance as he pulled the dagger from his hip. The soldat raised the knife above his head and slammed it down into the back of the monster. The wolf wailed and stumbled to the right, falling to its side. You hadn't recognized what had been done until the beast whined. You focused your attention on the dying wolf and then up at the one who killed it.
There was a flicker of appreciation in your eyes, and like a flame, it was instantly extinguished. You caught the hint of vengeance in his gaze, making you scramble to your feet, finding your weapon in the process. You held the knife out in front of you, boots firmly planted to the ground as if you were ready to fight.
"You're mine to take," he growled.
You narrowed your gaze at him, teeth clenched tight. "I could've let you drown, soldier. Don't make me regret that," you hissed.
He snorted, his jaw ticking. "Should've lemme die. That's on you for bein' weak," he snapped, stepping closer. His knife was held tightly in his right hand, knuckles going pale.
"You're really going to kill me after all that Hydra put us through?" you asked, hurt written all over your face. "We knew each other, whether you believe me or not."
He shook his head, brow furrowed. "The only reason I know you, the only reason I'm drawn to you, is because I was given an order and I will follow through."
He lunged, slashing out with his blade. You bent backwards, dodging the blow. You began to circle him, and he followed your lead, stepping in perfect time with you.
"You have shit aim, you know that?" you muttered, nodding in the direction of your injured shoulder. You were baiting him, trying to throw him off balance; it was a smart move.
"I never miss," he mumbled, so soft you barely caught it if it weren't for your magnified hearing.
It seemed like that statement hit you right in the gut. Like you were contemplating whether he meant to miss because he was in it for the chase, and shooting you in the skull was too easy, or if he didn't want you dead. He would never admit that it was the latter.
"You feel it too, don't you? That pull. In the center of your chest, like a string," you accused.
"I dunno what you're talkin' about," he lied, reaching out to take another stab at you. The blade whoshed through the space as if it were slicing the air. You ducked out of the way once more, entirely focused on his every action.
"You do," you corrected. "You just don't want to admit that you feel it, too."
The soldier's heart stuttered in his chest as if on cue. It was a throbbing ache like a calling towards you. Breath hitching, he was momentarily distracted by your statement.
You dove, knife gliding through the air and carving directly into his shoulder. It cut straight through tactical gear and black fabric, right into flesh. A gnarly gash unfurled on his shoulder, blood spilling over and dampening his clothing.
The soldier groaned, staggering backwards. Blood pooled, spreading quickly. Red darkened his palm as he tried to stop it.
You stared him down, a glimmer of suffering in your pupils like it physically pained you to hurt him. Your throat worked before you spoke, "Now we're even."
That couldn't be farther from the truth; he obviously caused more damage to your shoulder, and his would heal in a day or two. You'd shown him mercy when he showed you destruction. You were supposed to give him your all, but instead, you were holding back.
He resented you for that, for being able to disobey orders so easily. He had super soldier strength, and he wasn't even strong enough to do that.
He charged, stuffing the knife back in his holster. He struck your wrist, leaving your weapon to clatter to the dirt.
His hands outstretched to wrap around your neck, slamming you against the nearest rock. You gasped as your skull hit it, but the sound got caught in your throat as he squeezed, stealing the breath from your lungs.
The metal plates of his hand dug into your smooth skin, creating little red marks. You clawed at the hands around your neck, trying to pry his fingers off.
You lifted your leg, attempting to knee him in the gut, but he kicked it out of his path. His boot stomped down onto yours, pinning it to the ground.
You yelped, eyes wide with fear. He'd been on the other side of that stare one too many times. Blue, green, brown, hazel, all the irises of the victims he'd had in this exact hold flashed in his mind's eye.
"J-James," you squeaked, voice barely audible.
Now, he was envisioning something entirely different. You, on a creaky bed with your hair splayed across flat pillows. His hand was still across your throat like it was now, but it wasn't to choke; instead, it was to hold you in place. It was a light pressure that had your eyes glazing over in pleasure.
"James," you were moaning in the vision as his hips jerked forward to meet yours.
He mentally slapped himself, honing back in on the present you. "What the fuck did you just say?" The soldier snarled, leaning into your space. He eased off your throat to hear you more clearly.
"James," you repeated in a raspy tone. "It's your name."
As if he were a machine, the soldier's brain short-circuited. Wires severed and rewired as his head thumped with too many memories. He released his grip on your neck, grabbing his head in pain as he hollered.
The eerie calm of the forest turned into the sound of a barrage of bullets whizzing past his ears. He was on the ground, clutching his chest as maroon flowed from the wound where a bullet had nestled into layers of flesh.
"Soldier." He glanced up, and you were screaming at him, an AR-15 propped against your shoulder as you fired bullets across the space.
You took a peek at his condition before focusing back on the fight. "Soldier, get up," you ordered in a commanding tone.
He didn't move, grip loosening on his chest as his vision began to blur and his head lulled to the side.
"Fuck," you blurted out, dropping to your knees. You swung his arm over the back of your neck, your free arm enveloping his back. "Help me out here."
His hooded eyes flitted to you as he tried to get himself off the muddied ground to comply with your words. You let him lean his weight on you as you assisted him to safety. You volleyed bullets behind you as you guided him, muttering, "Stay with me. I'm gonna get you to the safe house."
When the memory flickered, he was in a cramped, dark room. Only a single buzzing light bulb cast a subtle glow over the battered furniture.
He sat on a rickety bed, sheets askew, with a hole in the mattress. Stuffing spilled out from the opening, like even it didn't want anything to do with this place.
He could see the entirety of the shack from where he was perched on the edge of the bed. The tiny table that stood on wobbly legs, the squeaky, iron wood-burning stove in the corner, and the drooping loveseat against the wall.
You were cleaning and wrapping his bare chest with such care he could've mistaken you for a nurse. You patted his shoulder as you finally fixed your gaze on his. "How does that feel, soldier?" You asked, almost methodically, as if still in the presence of your handlers.
"James," he corrected. He didn't know why he said it; maybe it was from the amount of blood he lost. Your eyebrows drew together in confusion, so he continued. "I think 's my name."
He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, and his hands loosely folded in front of him. "I found a file in Hydra's log. The man in it looked kinda like me," he added.
You nodded slowly as if you were agreeing with an insane person. "Okay," you drew out the syllables. "How does that feel…James?"
He couldn't help the way that made his chest tighten, like it felt right hearing it on your tongue. He stretched, straightening his back and rolling his shoulders to test the bandage. "S'alright."
You gave him a tight-lipped smile, putting all the medical supplies back in their proper bag. You turned, but before you could leave, he grabbed your wrist. You glanced down, staring at the flesh fingers wrapped around you.
"What are you doing?" You inquired, quirking a brow.
He sighed, "I dunno. Guess I need somethin' to hold."
He didn't loosen his grip, just held you there. The soldier seemed like a lost puppy in need of any kind of attention, good or bad.
"Did you hit your head on your way down?" You barked, wiggling from his grasp.
He freed you, as if you physically burned him. His flesh hand shook as it fell to his side. He balled it into a fist to stop the trembling. His chest heaved, squeezing his eyes shut as he tried to steady himself.
"Soldier, stop," you snapped, but it was a weaker demand than your earlier ones. You ceased in your attempts to control him. Instead, you shook your head and bent low, trying to get eye level with him.
"Hey," you cooed, softer this time. "Look at me."
He opened his eyes, aiming them at you. He looked worn out and overworked, like he hadn't slept in days—not so dissimilar to you.
You hummed, a smirk growing on your face. He hadn't seen that before, but you were unfolding for him. "Hmm…I hadn't noticed that," you whispered as if it were a secret between the two of you.
"Huh?" He said, though a bit unstable, with the way he was still quivering.
"Your eyes. They're a deep blue," you observed, cocking your head. "Deeper than any ocean I've seen."
The soldier seemed to calm down from that. The tension in his shoulders slackened, and his fist unfurled. With a still trembling hand, he reached for your face, cupping your cheek.
You stiffened, smile fading as you felt the weight of that simple touch. He glanced down at your lips, his lust getting the better of him.
"James," you breathed. "We shouldn't." Despite your words, your gaze drifted down to his parted lips.
"Why not. There's no one here," he countered. "Just us, darlin'."
You opened your mouth to argue, but you couldn't come up with a good response. So, to coax you further, his metal hand pulled you in by your waist. You conceded, inching closer before your lips hovered near each other. You stood there breathing in one another's air until—finally—his mouth closed around yours.
It was delicate at first, the nerves getting the better of both of you. It was like relearning the rules of intimacy. Like a subject in school you had neglected, and needed to be taught all over again.
You shifted, one leg kneeling on the edge of the bed, then moved your opposite knee to straddle him. That's when he turned more confident; he gripped you tighter, refusing to let you slip away. He'd lost so much—even if he couldn't remember what exactly—he wasn't about to lose you, too.
His kisses turned firmer, dragging your hips down, so you were settled fully on his lap. Your fingers wandered gingerly up his bare sides. As touch-starved as he was, he shivered from your soft touches. Your hands found their way to his jaw, deepening the kiss.
Your hips twitched, and he groaned into your mouth at the sensation. His digits dug into the material of your pants, fighting to hold you steady. He broke the kiss, panting with heavy exhales. "Think 's been a while since I've done this," his voice wavered.
You'd never heard him so unsure; he was always solid, knowing precisely what to do when he was told to do so. He seemed soft in this lighting: his features weren't as sharp, his eyes were more gentle, and his hands—though his grip was secure—he was careful not to hurt you.
You huffed air through your nose in amusement. "It's been-" you cut yourself off in thought as your hand carded through his damp hair. "Well, I don't know how long it's been."
He sighed, his hands gliding up and down your form in comfort. You shifted your hips, lightly grazing over his bulge. "We can take our time. I'm not going anywhere," you promised.
He inhaled sharply at your teasing movements. He was smirking, though it felt too rigid, as if it were a foreign expression to him. But, either way, you seemed to enjoy the way it looked on him because you were grinning right back.
Before you could even blink, he had flipped you on your back. You hit the mattress with the sound of springs squeaking under you. He crawled over you, injury long forgotten as he pressed you into the bed. "Oh, I'll be takin' my time, darlin'," he rasped.
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You rubbed at your neck, taking your time to catch your breath as oxygen filled your lungs once again. The soldier was still clutching his head, bent over in agony. You stepped towards him hesitantly, your tone soft as you spoke, "James?" You put a hand on his shoulder, leaning into his ear.
He spun, eyes full of rage and ruin. He seized your neck for a second time, pushing you back to your original position against the rock. This time, he wasn't using that leverage to drain the life from you, but he was letting you know he could do just that.
"Don't fuckin' call me that," he warned. He no longer appeared to be as intimidating as he was before. Rather, his eyes gleamed with panic as if he saw a ghost.
"Okay, okay. You obviously just saw something that scared you, or maybe confused you. Do you want to talk about it?" you offered, raising your arms in surrender to tell him he was in control of the situation.
"No," he barked, clutching tight on your throat. "'M endin' this. Now."
You were done with this game; the back and forth alone was killing you. One second, he was a broken man with a mind as addled as yours; the next, he was a murderous, wild brute who would harm anything in his path. You couldn't blame him, but that didn't make it any less maddening.
Your arms dropped to your sides, but not in surrender, instead to discreetly withdraw the blade that was holstered to his hip. You feigned a frightened state as your fingers fumbled for purchase on the weapon. Your palm wrapped around the dark handle, eventually. You unseathed it, instantly plunging it into his side.
He grunted, staggering slightly as he glanced down at the knife lodged in his side. It was a shallow stab wound; you barely got the blade halfway in before he yanked away from you. The Kevlar was immediately met with copious amounts of blood, soaking the material.
He didn't pause; he ripped the knife from its place, scarlet spraying from the laceration upon removal. That blade, dripping blood, was headed straight for you. Eyes flared with fury as he raised the weapon above his head.
Your leg abruptly flung upward. You roundhouse kicked his wrist, sending the blade flying and landing within the mouth of the cave. You didn't even spare a glance in his direction, just sprinted towards the only available weapon in sight.
He was on your tail in an instant, striving to push you out of the path. Your elbow shot out, jabbing him in the ribs to throw him off balance. He was barely fazed, still hot on your heels.
You pounced, landing hard on your stomach as you snatched the knife. The soldier was right behind, but too late. You turned, ambushing him and throwing him to the stone flooring. The cave echoed with your scuffle as you moved to straddle his stomach and lift the blade into the air.
You drove the weapon downward, but he caught your wrists. Still, you pushed, using every last inch of your strength that you'd been holding back. The razor-sharp edge got closer and closer, even in your struggle. You pressed until the tip of the knife hovered directly above his eye.
Terror etched itself into his features, yet he seemed to relax as if he was prepared to die. In the face of death, all he could do was close his eyes like he was praying you'd make it as painless as possible. It made your heart ache, and you felt your throat closing up.
You relinquished the blade, tossing it to the opposite wall of the cave. The clink resonated throughout the tight space. His eyes blinked open as you rose to stand above him.
"I told you, I don't want to kill you," you restated. "If it's what you must do, I surrender. Put me out of my misery, James." Tears welled up in your vision, your surroundings turning to a blurry blob of color.
He scrambled, pushing up to stand adjacent to you. Your lip wobbled as you stared at him—a man you felt such intense feelings for. Though you could hardly recollect anything from your time spent together, the pang in your chest was hard to ignore.
He marched towards you; every stomp of his boots against rock felt like a beat to a chilling melody—a sickening bass in salute to your departure. He bridged the gap, hands reaching out to cup your jaw. All that rage disappeared, replaced by…longing?
His breath came out in hefty pants, air fanning across your warm skin. His expression softened for a moment before he was on you. His lips captured yours in a heated, desperate kiss. Like he'd been thirsty and you were water, like he'd been hungry and you were sustenance, like he was drowning and you were air to breathe.
You gasped, and he devoured the noise, mouth moving against yours eagerly. He walked you backwards, spine hitting the cool stone. You groaned, the claw marks in your back still fresh. Then, you were moaning for an entirely different reason as he slotted his knee between your thighs, pinning you in place.
His mouth felt both familiar and brand new—a striking contrast. Yet, it ignited a series of fireworks in your mind. Every brush of his lips sent a spark that kindled anew. His lips pressed forcefully into yours before he pulled away, scanning your face. You breathed in tandem; every deep breath in for you was a puff of air out for him.
"I know you," he finally said, caressing your face like you were something fragile.
He took your wrist and lifted your hand to the top of his head. "But not here," he mumbled, transferring your hand from his hair to right over his heart. "I know you here." The organ pounded against his chest, and maybe your head was still spinning from the kiss, but it felt like it was beating in time with yours.
You grasped his flesh hand that was on your jaw and placed it over your heart. "I know you there, too," you whispered.
He let out a rough exhale, gazing down at you with upturned eyebrows. His eyes flicked down to your wounded shoulder. His right hand tenderly traced over the already forming scar as if seeing it for the first time through crystal clear vision.
"Fuck," he grumbled. "'M sorry. 'M so sorry." He lowered his face, planting a kiss to the injury.
Your heart cracked at the sight of him so broken over something that seemed so insignificant at a time like this. You took his face in your hands, elevating it to look into those steel blues.
"Not your fault," you assured him, thumb brushing over the flush of his cheek. "You did what you were ordered to do."
"You didn't," he replied. "'M a coward. Should've fought it. Should've fought for you, instead of with you, darlin'."
Hearing that pet name in this context made a shudder roll through you. You grinned, despite the pain emanating from your chest.
"I don't know, I got you pretty good in the side," you teased to hopefully lighten the mood, seeking out the smile you saw in your visions from before.
The soldier snorted, a smirk peeking from the corner of his lips. "That hurt like bitch," he taunted back, brushing a loose hair behind your ear.
You leaned into his touch, relishing in the feeling of his calloused fingers against your velvet skin.
"I don't wanna hurt you anymore," he added, more seriously. "Lemme make the pain go away. Wanna make you feel good."
"You have nothing to make up for," you reiterated. Yet, his eyes continued to linger, waiting for a direct answer. So, you nodded. "Okay, James. Make me feel good."
It didn't take much convincing because he immediately leaned down to your faintly bruised neck, and trailed kisses from the center of your throat to the crook of your neck. You hummed, resting your head back against the rock to give him more access.
His flesh hand drifted down your body, stopping at the button of your tactical pants. He fidgeted with it until it came loose. He followed it by pulling the zipper down, fingers slipping under the waistband of your underwear.
Your breath hitched as two fingers found your pussy, sliding them through your folds. "So wet f' me," he growled into your skin.
His fingers moved back up to rub sensual circles into your aching clit. Your hips jerked, back arching against stone. "James," you gasped.
"That's right. Sounds so sweet from your lips. How could I ever forget my name when you're sayin' it like that," he cooed in your ear, nipping at your earlobe.
The revelation made your gut churn—he forgot something as precious as his name—but he soothed the twinge with another swirl of his digits around your bud. You grabbed at him; your arm encompassing his shoulders to pull him closer while your other hand snaked through his long locks.
Fist closing around his hair, you gave him a gentle tug. He moaned, the touch only spurring him on. He bit down on your earlobe, giving it a soft yank, before soothing it with a kiss.
His fingers continued to move, picking up the pace. You whined and held on tighter to his figure as he stuck out his tongue to taste you, lathering you in his saliva in the process.
"Gotta taste you. If you're skin tastes this good, I can only imagine how sweet that pussy tastes," he murmured, inclining back to gauge your reaction. You nodded frantically, eager to feel him everywhere.
He pulled his hand out of the confines of your panties, bringing them to his lips. He licked the digits, then pushed them past his lips to suck them clean. You bit your lip, watching his eyes darken with desire at just that small sample.
Without warning, he grasped both sides of your cargos along with your underwear, sliding them down the length of your legs. Stabilizing yourself against his shoulder, he helped you out of the pants, making sure to slip you out of your boots first. He bent down to free one leg out of your pants, followed by the other, and tossed the two articles of clothing somewhere in the cave.
Dropping down to his knees, he hooked one of your legs over his shoulder. James licked his lips at the delicious sight of you on full display.
"Such a pretty pussy," he complimented, looking up through his eyelashes at you. He turned his head to press a kiss to your inner thigh. He inched closer, each kiss leading closer to where you needed him most. He inhaled your scent, practically growling as he breathed you in.
His tongue darted out, flattening it as it skimmed through your center, gathering your juices. He hummed in delight, eyes rolling back. "Best damn thing I've tasted."
You shivered, knees already giving out at the light pressure. He gave little kitten licks to your clit before diving back in. The length of his tongue lapped at you, causing you to fist his hair and lean your shoulder blades back into the wall.
His lips closed around your sensitive bud, alternating between sucking hard and swirling the tip of his tongue around it.
"Mmm…feels good," you praised.
He chuckled against your cunt, sending vibrations through you. "I've just started, darlin'. Gonna make you feel so much better."
With that, he raised his hand to your entrance, fingers circling your hole to tease. The pads of his fingers made air catch in the back of your throat, but it quickly turned to a whimper as he pushed the pair inside, stretching you open for him. He was knuckle deep, but he kept going as his tongue worked on you.
"Ooh, so tight," he muttered. "Gotta work you open, don't I? If you ever want me to fit, 'm gonna have to."
His digits slid out and pumped back in. Slowly working in and out until it was easier for him to thrust them inside.
Your walls clenched, your body not used to good touch like this—touch you wanted. Somehow, you knew it always felt this good with him, like even if your brain didn't fully remember, your body did.
His fingers picked up speed, along with his tongue. It was overwhelming the way his tongue danced and his fingers curled into your plush walls. Your hips wiggled, jerking this way and that as the tension in your stomach built.
His metal hand closed around your ass, squeezing the cheek and ceasing your movements. "Stay still f' me. Lemme get you there," he spoke around his tongue.
You squeaked, trying to keep your hips still as he worked in time with his unrelenting fingers. He curled his fingers, caressing your walls. His teeth grazed your clit before he flicked his tongue over it. His wrist jerked rapidly upon feeling you squeeze his fingers. You whined, grinding your hips down on his tongue; you couldn't help it.
The coil that was tightening in your stomach burst as you came on his hand with a strangled cry. He worked you through it, fingers driving in and out of your weeping pussy. His tongue lapped around where his fingers were being compressed to get every last drop of your wetness.
You collapsed into the rock, body slumping from the orgasm he just gave you. He slipped his digits free from your still throbbing cunt. After, he removed your leg from its position on his shoulder, stabilizing you as he pulled you down to where he knelt.
You complied, and he helped you lie down on the floor of the cave. A chill ran through you as the cold stone touched your bare skin. He shifted you, grabbing the undersides of your knees and dragging you closer. He hovered over you, hands splayed on either side of your head.
He smoothed your hair back with a smirk plastered on his face. "So pretty. My pretty girl."
Your hooded eyes honed in on him, arm outstretched to cup his cheek. "Yours, huh?" you inquired, and his smile only widened. "I think I like the sound of that."
"Good, because 'm not lettin' you go this time," he vowed, his voice so firm that you almost had to believe him. His hands glided up your sides, mapping out your body. Every curve and dip was being stored away in a part of his mind like a file.
James' hands grabbed the tattered edges of your shirt and tugged. You lifted your arms for him, and the material came loose, exposing yourself wholly. He was gawking at you, his eyes clouding over with hunger.
"Damn," was all he could get out before his head dipped. His mouth met the valley between your tits, trailing kisses down your sternum, then making his way back up. His lips traveled up the swell of your breast, lips catching your nipple. He sucked it into his mouth, his cheeks hollowing out. You mewled, spine bowing as his tongue spiraled around the bud.
"Fuck, James," you crooned. He let go with a soft pop, migrating to the opposite breast while his warm hand met the one he was just giving all his attention to. He cupped your tit, feeling the weight of it in his hand until he was massaging the pliable skin. He mouthed at your other one, lightly biting your nipple in the process.
"Please," you begged, squirming beneath him. The heat in your stomach was swirling again, practically pleading for relief. He raised his head, and his face was all smug. You couldn't help but grin at that cocky look on his face.
"Need me that bad, huh?"
"Yes," you admitted. "Please."
James inclined back, yanking at the buttons on his chest until they came undone. He unzipped the leather, shrugging out of it. He lingered over you, scared chest on full display. Your delicate fingers ran over the scarring on the place where the metal met flesh. Jagged, deep cuts and red raised marks littered his skin.
You leaned up on your elbow to get a closer look—eyes scanning over the pain he's lived with since Hydra turned him into a weapon. You put your mouth over the scars, kissing every place your lips could reach.
You pulled back, gazing up at him with warmth swimming in your eyes. "You're perfect."
It was simple, but the words held so much truth. Despite everything he'd been through, he was still James, and he was still perfect.
He shook his head, but didn't argue with you. Rather, he stole a kiss, pushing you backwards with his lips, so you were laid out before him once again. They moved languidly against yours as his tongue swept across your bottom lip, requesting access. You parted your lips for him, and his tongue delved into your mouth. It prodded into the opening; every crevice was his to explore.
The soldier's hips moved, dragging his clothed dick over your soaked pussy. You sighed into his mouth, wrapping your legs around his waist. His hands fiddled with his tactical pants and slipped them down his thighs until his cock sprang free. He gripped the base, pumping it a few times, precum leaking from the slit.
He positioned himself at your entrance, rubbing the head through your wet heat. You gasped against his lips, and he broke the kiss to focus on your expression.
"Ready for me, darlin'?" he breathed, hot air fanning across your kiss-swollen lips. You dipped your head in acknowledgement, and he didn't waste any more time.
The head of his cock, pressed into your tight cunt. You moaned, head tipping back against the stone, his dick stretching you out more than his finger ever could.
"Ah ah," he tutted, grasping your chin between his thumb and forefinger to force your gaze back down. "Lemme watch you as it goes in, sweet thing."
You obeyed, eyes trained on his as he pushed in further. Inch by aching inch, he gave it all to you. He let out a strained groan, the veins in his neck sticking out as he held back. His hips jerked, the last inch shoved into you too quickly as you whimpered. You were pelvis to pelvis as he bottomed out inside you.
Your head reeled from the fullness of your pussy. Your walls secured around him like a vice, like you were holding on and never wanted to let him go.
After you adjusted to his length and girth, he eventually gave you what you needed most. He pulled out to the tip and slammed back into you. You quivered at the intensity, mouth wide open in a silent scream. James did it again, thrusting into you hard, causing you to dig the heels of your feet into his ass.
He grunted, his hips moving sloppily as he fucked you. Your eyes rolled back, only the whites visible. His tip bumped your cervix, and you wailed. "James. J-James," you stuttered.
"Tell me, baby," he coaxed.
You clutched the sides of his face, tears pricking your eyes. "We can-" you couldn't get the rest of the sentence out, another loud moan cutting off your train of thought.
He slowed, his hips faltering as he tried to catch what you were trying to say. He brushed the hair from your face, locking eyes with you.
"What is it?" he said, concern laced in his tone.
You took a moment to return to reality. "We can take our time," you panted, a playful smile gracing your face. "I'm not going anywhere."
His chest constricted; that was the same thing you said in the vision he had. He grinned, but it promptly faded once he realized what you were saying. "Shit, did I hurt you?"
"No," you blurted, waving him off. "I just want this to last. Just slow down a little, okay?"
He nodded against your hands that were still framing his face. He rolled his hips, testing. You let out a sweet moan, and he decided right then and there that he needed to hear more of that. So, he slowly drew his hips into you, grinding when he met your pelvis.
Your eyelashes fluttered, keening as his thrusts deepened. "How does that feel?" he asked, keeping a steady pace.
"Good. Really fucking good," you commended.
He eased in and out of you unhurriedly, gazing down at you like you just hung the stars. You ran your fingers through his hair, a glint in your eyes. "What is it, James?" You cocked your head, hair rumpled from the gesture.
He opened his mouth, but he could only groan in pleasure. The soldat's head was a jumbled-up mess, but one thing was plain, but it felt too difficult to put into words. Yet, three little words flashed in his mind like an open sign.
"I-I," he stumbled over the simple word like it had fifteen vowels instead of just the one. It didn't help that he was using all of his focus to hold back from railing you into the ground. A deep rumble came from his chest, frustrated with himself for being so tongue-tied.
Your knuckles brushed over his cheekbone, tears threatening to spill over onto your cheeks.
"I know. I do, too." You didn't know whether you were repeating the words from the vision like a script, or if you'd said it so many times that it was muscle memory.
James turned his face, pressing a kiss to your palm before snapping his hips into yours. He hadn't sped up much, but all the same, you let out a throaty moan.
"Just like that-fuck-" the words spewed from your lips like a sprinkler.
"Yeah? Lemme hear you, pretty girl."
You didn't hesitate; you let him hear every sound, the erotic noises being ripped from your throat with every twitch of his hips. You were falling apart under him, the tension sharply rising.
He changed the position, unwrapping one of your legs by the underside of your knee. He pushed it up, folding it up into your stomach. You squeezed your eyes shut at the new sensation, the tears leaking from the corners. The head of his cock was bumping your sweet spot repeatedly while you continued to wail.
"James, can't-" you whimpered.
"You gonna come, darlin'?" He lowered his head, closing the distance. "Come for me. Need to feel that pretty pussy come all over my cock."
It didn't take much convincing, your cunt clenching tight around his length while your eyes glazed over with pleasure. The foundation cracked, floor crumbling under your feet as you came with a sob of his name. Your pussy fluttered around him, orgasm washing over you in giant waves.
His dick was still ramming roughly into you, mesmerized by how perfect you looked while your release took over your body. You were gasping for air as you tilted your head back in your blissed-out state.
"Shh," he soothed. "Breath, baby. There ya go. I got you." Every honeyed word dripped onto your ears, working you through your climax.
Your walls squeezed, making his dick twitch. He clutched the underside of your knee in a desperate attempt to make this last, but you felt too good.
James slammed in deep, spilling into you with a low grunt. He unloaded, hot spurts of cum filling your pulsating pussy.
He shivered above you, metal arm planted firmly on the rock flooring, so he wouldn't collapse on top of you. Your body trembled, still floating on a cloud of ecstasy as you finally relaxed.
Your eyelids felt heavy, exhaustion creeping into your form. He pulled out with a hiss, milky release flowing from you and coating your inner thighs with the mess. Your head lulled, eyes blinking slowly.
He tugged his pants back up, cautious enough not to disturb his sensitive cock. Though he could've gone for a round two—keep you full of him and begging for recovery time. But you were already drunk off the pleasure he gave you; maybe that could wait for another time.
He slid his hand beneath you, scooping you up into his arms. He shifted to lie down, guiding you to rest on top of him. Your naked body curled into his, face nuzzling into his bare chest, and legs draped over his midsection. You hummed, and maybe it was because you were content in his arms, but you hadn't said anything.
"You okay, darlin'?" he questioned, hand wandering into your hair as he smoothed back some of the strays. "You in pain?"
You shook your head against his peck. James still didn't delay in giving your shoulder a lingering kiss in a silent apology.
"What's goin' on?" he pressed, determined to get the truth out.
You were shaking in his arms now, and it wasn't from the chill, nor the aftershocks of your climax. "What if they find us?" Your voice wobbled, anxiety getting the better of you.
He'd had the same fears even if he didn't voice them aloud. Regardless of his worries, he needed to put yours to rest. "When they do, we fight, huh? We use the very thing they instilled in our bodies to fight back."
Your figure continued to tremble, so he added, "'M gonna keep you safe, I promise. I won't let anythin' hurt you."
He buried his nose in your hair, breathing in your scent. "Nothin' to worry about when we're together, darlin'," he muttered.
You inhaled a deep breath, calming yourself as you relaxed into him, your stiff form going limp against his. Your breathing started to even out, air coming out in gentle puffs across his chest. You were melting into his arms, without any concern for what tomorrow might bring.
He lay there staring at the ceiling as his flesh fingers drew idle patterns into your soft skin. He wasn't going to rest tonight. He was set on watching over you while the Earth resumed its rotation. Like that of the Earth, his world revolved around the sun—you.
James planted a kiss on your hairline, finally getting the courage to whisper, "I love you."
｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆
The soldier yawned; he must've fallen asleep in his attempt to observe your sleeping form. He felt around, patting his chest, eyes remained closed as he searched for you. When he came up empty, he blinked his eyes awake.
His stomach dropped; he felt sick, his gut churning.
You were limp in a Hydra soldier's arms, neck craned back as he didn't care enough to support your head. Your chest rose and fell with tiny breaths as if you were still sleeping, but he knew better than that.
"Oh, good. You're awake," a deep voice came from his left, but James' eyes were still locked on you. He jolted, sprinting full speed to tackle the one who had you, consequences be damned.
"Sieze the mut," that same voice ordered.
In an instant, soldiers swarmed him left and right, but he kicked and clawed at them like a wild animal, like that mutated wolf from the forest. His metal fist connected with one man, while another got a faceful of his boot. He had five down in a matter of seconds, but they kept coming.
He had one by the throat, ready to snap his neck, but his arms were being yanked like a game of tug o' war. One operative came up from behind him, a sharp pain poking into the soldat's neck. He instantly realized it was a needle when his limbs became too heavy to carry on his own.
Still, he swung his fists in a weak endeavor to get you, even in his drugged state. A kick was sent to the back of his knees, causing him to drop to the ground. A second later, the soldiers had him in a hold. He squirmed and jerked his body, but their hold remained steady.
"You put on quite the show." When the soldier eventually turned his head to note who was talking, he recognized this to be Alexander Pierce. The man's demeanor was solid, but James caught the hint of stress glistening in his intense gaze.
"'M gonna kill you," the soldier hissed. "Don't you fuckin' touch her."
"Cute," Pierce said sarcastically. "Sweet, really."
The strawberry blonde man stepped closer, rocks crunching under his shoes. "Y'know, I thought the Hydra Initiative was done for after the little stunt you two pulled," he began.
"But turns out sex sells, and the investors loved it, even though we couldn't see much. I wasn't clever enough to put cameras in the cave." He tapped a finger on his head, a terrifying grin on his lips.
"Boy, you two went at it like a pair of rabid bunnies," he chuckled darkly. "Oh, and the wives, they ate that shit up. Rambled on and on about how romantic it was that you found love in a place like this."
"Too bad, I'll have to wipe you and start all over again," he shrugged like it was inconsequential.
James clenched his jaw so tight that he felt a headache forming behind his forehead. He writhed in the operative's clutches, trying to break out, but the drug was weakening him exponentially.
"Okay, let's move," Pierce's gaze flicked to the other Hydra members. "Get back to base, and put them back under."
A symphony of "yes, sir's" filled the cave as they agreed to their orders. They dispersed, and that was a sign for operatives to grab James and haul him upwards. They walked him out like a dog on a constricting leash, and he was choking on it.
You came into view once again. You were being carried away like a rag doll, your legs swaying with every step of the soldier moving you. The man walked you to one of the trucks parked outside the cave. You were being tossed into the bed of the vehicle, your body hitting the metal with a loud thud.
His heart shattered, his breath catching as he watched you—an unclothed mannequin being sent away to storage. He struggled to get back to you, arms flailing and legs driving forward.
He just needed to hold you one more time. He needed to tell you he was sorry for not keeping his promise by protecting you. He failed you. The only mission he ever cared to succeed at, and he fucked up. He should have run away with you last night, found a place out of this hellhole, but it was too late now.
The two of you were being wiped again—a nightmare coming true. He felt like he was dying, but this seemed like a fate worse than death. He was losing you all over again.
His legs trembled on the unstable ground, and his vision blurred. The drug was fully taking effect, and there was nothing he could do about it.
With the little strength he had left, he whispered into the windy air. He prayed you could somehow hear him over the whistle of the breeze. "No matter how many times they make us forget, I will always find my way back to you. I will love you in every lifetime, my pretty girl."
Then, his legs gave out, and he fell to the dirt. James' eyes were still locked on you—the woman whom his heart belonged to—as he faded into his unconscious state.
FwB!Bucky Barnes who likes to keep your acts a secret. Who doesn’t want the rest of your friends to know how much you stay over at his and vice versa, letting him fuck you most nights after work.
FwB!Bucky Barnes who gives you the best head of your life, teasing your clit with his metal thumb while his tongue fucks into your aching cunt.
FwB!Bucky Barnes who made the rules but now regrets them. “Not exclusive, no feelings.” But he caught feelings the second he looked into your eyes while you put your mouth on his cock and made him feel like he was heaven, and he knows there’s no going back.
FwB!Bucky Barnes who’s too scared to break things off without admitting his true feelings, especially when the sex is great and the aftercare is even better. The only glimpse of a late night with just the two of you.
FwB!Bucky Barnes who treats you like a princess, pretends it’s normal for the friend you’re fucking to buy you food, pay for the whole meal at dinners out and sends flowers to your apartment, “just to brighten up the place a bit”.
FwB!Bucky Barnes who (disappointingly) accepts when you start seeing someone new and (happily) welcomes you back into his arms when you break up, holding you all night and fucking you until morning to make you forget the asshole even existed to begin with.
FwB!Bucky Barnes who lets you explore all of your kinks without judgement. Choking? His hand is already on your neck, pressing down on the pressure point rather than your windpipe. Breeding? He’s already telling you how good you’d look with a baby in you, his baby. Ropes? He’s the one who insists on it being silk ribbon so that he doesn’t hurt you, and ties it up so beautifully, that you feel like a bow on a present.
FwB!Bucky Barnes who asks you out to dinner, hoping you finally get the hint, but you never do, always paying your share, much to his chagrin.
FwB!Bucky Barnes who can’t help that his heart yearns for you all the time, and he’s not thinking with his dick anymore, but with his emotions.
FwB!Bucky Barnes who admits his love for you in whispers while you’re asleep, not realising that you’re not as deep of a sleeper that he assumes you to be.
Thanks for reading! Reblogs, likes, and comments are super appreciated and show your support for my work, and I'd really appreciate it!
Summary: Bucky takes you to the fall festival at Coney Island.
Content Warning: Pure fluff! Established relationship (young love!), kissing, use of pet names (doll, my girl, sweetheart)
A/N: I’m so excited to present my piece for Stan-O-Ween with the Stantastic Association! Banner and divider by me. Written and edited on my phone; any and all mistakes are my own.
Main Masterlist
A rainbow of leaves crunch underfoot as you and Bucky walk through the busy streets of Brooklyn. Pedestrians brush by on the sidewalk as street lamps begin to flicker on, the cool air nipping gently at any exposed skin it can reach.
You probably should’ve worn stockings today, the fabric of your dress not quite enough to battle October’s evening temperatures—but it’s too late for that now.
And Bucky’s entirely to blame.
“Hey, doll,” he had said. A charmingly crooked grin adorned his face the moment you opened your door. “You, me, Coney Island. What d’you think?”
You glanced at the small clock on the wall of your apartment, the time barely after 6pm. The sun is already beginning to set. “So late?” you questioned, head tilted to the side.
He just nodded and didn’t give you another moment to think before his hand wrapped around your wrist, tugging you out the door. You had barely managed to grab your coat off the rack before you found yourself rushing down the stairs of the apartment building, trying not to trip over your own feet attempting to keep up with him.
Now, vehicles pass by on the street in a rush, and despite him walking between you and the road like the gentleman his ma raised him to be, his body is unable to shield you completely from the added breeze to the already cool air.
“Buck, are you sure this is a good idea? It’s probably colder at the Island,” you say, one hand firmly tucked in the crook of his arm, the other shoved in the small pocket of your coat.
He glances over at you, a boyish grin spreading on his face as his blue eyes meet yours, sparkingly in the evening light. “Don’t worry, sweetheart, I’ll keep you warm.” He places a large hand over the top of yours and guides you towards the stairs to the subway. “Besides, I’m sure at least one of the stands has some hot apple cider.”
By the time you step off the subway and onto the street, the air is borderline cold. A small breeze blows off the bay and through your hair—and your clothes, for that matter.
You can almost swear Bucky smirks as you cling tighter to him for the warmth seeping through his own coat.
The lights of Coney Island shine brightly in front of you as you approach, and a smile tugs at the corners of your lips despite the temperature. The sounds of rides, screaming children, and the not-so-distant sound of waves crashing onto the beach fill the air.
Bucky is practically giddy—his love of rides, carnival games, and food easily accessible and all in one place.
Booths line the street, each one decorated for the season. Some have paper pumpkins plastered on the signs, some have fake spiderwebs. Others have leafy garlands draped along the counters, or simple signs that read 'Happy Halloween!' As you pass, you notice each one has at least one Halloween-themed prize to win.
“Smell that?” Bucky suddenly says as the arched entrance comes into view. His eyes close momentarily as his chin tilts into the air, inhaling the scent of cinnamon, sugar, and the salty sea air.
You take a quick sniff and your stomach growls obscenely loud, like you hadn’t already eaten before he showed up on your doorstep. Bucky laughs, opening his eyes to look at you.
“Alright, let’s get my girl a little something, huh?”
The two of you make your way inside the main area of Luna Park, families bustling about and trying to wrangle their kids, and couples on similar date nights to your own.
Bucky first buys two hot dogs—“Gotta make sure we don’t get sick from just sugar”—before making you ride the Cyclone twice.
But that’s not nearly enough for the Sergeant, who eats like he’s still a growing teenager, so he then buys some kettle corn and proceeds to lose about half the bag in his mission to catch each piece in his mouth.
“Buck,” you say with a laugh, tugging on his arm just in time for him to toss another in the air. “You’re wasting it!” He opens his mouth wide, and sure enough, it bounces right off his forehead and falls to the ground for a pigeon to snatch up.
He chuckles in response, nudging you with his shoulder. “Fine, your turn.”
He tosses one in the air before you can protest and it hits you on the nose before joining the other pieces on the concrete. He laughs loudly, head falling back as he grabs his stomach.
“Bucky!” you swat his arm playfully, grabbing the bag from his hands. “This is mine now. No more for you.”
He gasps in mock offense, bottom lip sticking out in a pout. “Really, doll? But I’m still hungry.”
You shrug and back away, careful to hold the bag out of his immediate reach. “You can’t be that hungry, Sergeant, or you’d eat it.”
He narrows his eyes playfully and follows your movement, taking a step towards you. “I was eating it.”
You move back again, and he follows without hesitation, the curve of a small smirk beginning to form on his face. “You’re really going to keep it from me?”
“Only to make sure the pigeons don’t get all of it.” You turn and begin walking towards the Wonder Wheel, not bothering to check that he’s following.
He scoffs, lunging forward to quickly close the distance, his strong arms wrapping around your waist and pulling you into his chest. You squeal as he does so, earning the stares of several people around you. Warmth radiates from him, his broad chest pressed against your back, and you realize just how cold you’ve gotten here on the boardwalk.
“Sweetheart, the birds need to eat, too,” he teases with a wide grin.
He leans down, his cold nose nuzzling into the warm crook of your neck. The temperature difference is startling and you squeak softly, squirming in his grip. His smile drops. “Are you cold?”
You nod, a shiver following quickly, and he frowns. “I’m so sorry, I told you I’d keep you warm. C’mon, let’s go get you a drink.”
Keeping you closely tucked into his side, he guides you to yet another vendor, this one stocked with all sorts of fall goodies—apple cider, pumpkin cookies, Rice Krispie treats shaped like ghosts, and caramel apples with varying toppings.
Bucky orders two hot cups of cider, the steam evaporating quickly into the night air as your cold fingers wrap around the warm paper cup. Then, despite your refusal, he buys a caramel apple.
“Y’know what we should do?” he says, taking a sip of his own cider, gaze flicking around the many attractions and booths as he twirls the caramel apple by the stick absentmindedly. The crowd is beginning to thin, the late time and ocean breeze starting to scare people off. “We should go ride the Red Mill.”
You shake your head, knowing what’s coming. “You would suggest that,” you tease, face burning again.
He scoffs playfully, eyes rolling before landing on you again. “Is it so bad that I want to sit close to my favorite girl in a dark boat, drinking cider and just generally enjoying your company?” He winks and jerks his head for you to follow as he makes his way across the park towards the ride’s entrance.
You bite your lip, heels clicking on the ground as you hurry to keep up with his long strides, careful not to spill your drink.
The line is short, but by the time the small boat pulls up in front of the two of you, your cider is gone; thirst and desire for warmth completely taking over. Bucky tosses both your garbage before climbing in behind you, draping one arm over the back of your seat and pulling you close.
“You spoil me, you know that?” you say, leaning your head on his shoulder in hopes to steal some of his body heat.
He grins like a kid in a candy shop that’s been told he has an unlimited budget and to get anything he wants. He sits up a little straighter and puffs out his chest. “Damn right I do. You deserve everything.”
Your heart leaps, a different kind of warmth spreading rapidly in your chest. You feel your face flush again and the muscles in your cheeks beginning to ache from smiling so much.
He rests his cheek on your head for a moment as the ride jerks to life, the small boat heading for the dark tunnel ahead.
It's not long before he’s eyeing the caramel apple still in his hand, and he speaks again. “You’re gonna help me with this, right?”
You nod as you look up at him, watching him take the first bite. His lips press into the sticky treat, humming in appreciation. A small piece of caramel sticks to his lip, which he licks right off as he offers the stick to you, your fingers brushing his as you take it.
The caramel surprisingly soft when you take a bite, and as you start to hand the stick back to Bucky, you notice the smirk plastered on his face.
“You, uh,” he starts, pointing to his own lip. “You’ve got a bit of caramel.”
You raise your eyebrows and attempt to lick the sticky goop off your lip, but you must not have gotten it all because his smirk widens.
“It’s still there, isn’t it?” you ask quietly, your free hand flying up to cover your mouth. Of course he had to buy the stickiest dessert at the park. And of course he had to drag then you onto his second favorite ride at Coney Island, far from any napkins.
“Here, I’ve got you.”
He gently moves your hand out of the way, his thumb coming up to carefully swipe at the caramel and lingering a moment longer than necessary.
Your breath hitches, heart skipping a beat. It’s been months by now, but no matter how long you’ve been with him, James Barnes still takes your breath away. Tonight was no exception.
“You’re staring, sweetheart.” He smirks, voice low and wrapping you in a different kind of warmth. He pulls his thumb away, sticking it in his mouth to clean off the caramel.
“I can’t help it, James,” you whisper, face burning.
He chuckles softly, thumb slipping back out of his mouth as his blue eyes locked on yours. Something in his facial expression shifts—subtle, but there.
Neither of you have been paying any attention to the ride, the scenes drifting by as though they aren’t even there.
Slowly, he reaches back up to cup your face, palm rough against your soft skin. “Sweetheart, I hope you know how much you mean to me,” he whispers, pausing for a moment, eyes searching yours in the dim light of the ride. “I would do anything for you. Including eating caramel off your face.”
You nearly snort a laugh at that and lean into his warm touch. “I can take another bite of the apple if that’s what you want.”
He chuckles again, gaze flicking to your parted lips. “That won’t be necessary.”
Just as the ride’s current scene ends and transitions into darkness, Bucky leans forward, his soft lips brushing against yours—slow and completely unbothered.
The darkness envelops you, heightening your remaining senses. The smooth glide of his lips on your own has something tugging in your gut, and he tastes of caramel, cinnamon, and apples. The clicking of the ride’s track, water gently flowing around the boat, and a soft hum of contentment are the only sounds you can hear. You're not even sure if the sound came from you or him, too lost in the moment to care.
One large hand slides to the back of your head, the other finding its way to your waist to pull you closer in your seat and deepening the kiss. Your arms find their way around his neck, caramel apple stick still firmly in your hand.
He pulls back after a few moments and rests his forehead on yours, lips parted and kiss-swollen.
The boat glides along, finally exiting the building and back outside to the cold night air. There’s a twinkle in his eye as he helps you up and out of the ride, one that usually appears when he’s feeling mischievous—which is often.
“Don’t you dare,” you whisper, eyes darting around your surroundings. He smirks. “James, I swear—”
You don’t have a chance to finish before he’s scooping you up into his arms and tossing you over his shoulder. Your happy squeals capturing the attention of everyone still on this end of the boardwalk as he takes his sweet time heading back to the subway.
Tag list (WIP): @star-yawnznn @sebastians-love @wint3rbarnes @sunday-bug @gremlin-girly @barnes-babydoll @sebs-babygirl @wherewinterblooms @wintersoldiersgfie @buckytakethewheel @overwintering-soldier @miraclediviner
Finally getting my act together with the taglist, sorry if I’ve been missing you!
.⋆♱ .⋆♱ THE CUT THAT ALWAYS BLEEDS — dean winchester !
OCT 16 ⛧ TYPE B POSITIVE — masterlist
⋆⚰︎ཋྀ summary. dean winchester shows up at your doorstep with a nonchalant grin, an open wound, and a confession.
⋆⚰︎ཋྀ contents. hunter!reader, f!reader, bad medical practices/lack of medical knowledge, sorry if anything is extremely incorrect lol i’m not a doctor (and neither is reader), blood/wounds but not super graphic, pre-season 1, angst, complicated relationships, confessions, reader and dean are both a mess tbh — 6.3k words
⋆⚰︎ཋྀ notes. for more context but not necessary to read…! reader has a normal life, but she’s also a hunter. she mostly goes on hunts in the states near her. dean and her met around 2 years ago, and didn’t like each other at first. they crossed paths one too many times when they were on hunts in the area, so now they do them together. which led to them having a complicated friendship. so there are references to this, as well as their previous experiences together!
first time sharing a dean fic kinda nervous.
An insistent knocking wakes you up in the middle of the night, the sound like a hammer against your temple, jolting you out of your deep sleep.
At first, you ignore it, letting it fade into the depths of your dream, one that carries on, even as you come back into a state of awareness. But they knock again—someone is on your doorstep. It all comes to you at once, and you rise to a sitting position, heart hammering as you contemplate calling someone.
It keeps getting louder. Whoever it is has no plans of stopping soon.
You suppose you can take care of this yourself.
Hesitantly, you stumble out of bed, sliding your feet into a pair of slippers as you rub the sleep out of your drowsy eyes. It’s three a.m., which is far too early for you to be concerned with lunatics banging on your door, and far too late for you to be awake at all.
“I’m coming!” you shout, too tired to entertain the thought that you could be putting yourself in a dangerous situation, or that you might be waking up your neighbors. Instead, you simply feel irritated, your chest full of a fiery anger that pulsates wildly in your veins.
“Jesus, what the fuck is your problem?” you say, finally throwing open the front door, your face screwed up in irritation.
There, at the threshold, to your unfortunate surprise, stands Dean Winchester. A hand is pressed tightly to his abdomen, where blood oozes onto his gray shirt, staining the fabric. He blinks, his focus going in and out from the blood loss, as he grins at you, the picture of nonchalance.
You gape at him.
“Hey, sweetheart,” Dean says, blinking lazily at you. “Mind if I come in?”
You do mind. You mind a lot, but you’ve got a total count of zero people dying on your doorstep, and you’re not too fond of breaking that streak now.
Dean’s smile, as usual, is crooked and confident, careless even in the face of near-death.
Ignoring the affection nickname, your annoyance, and the fire set alight in your stomach, you open the door wider, inviting him into your apartment. He’s already been here a few times, is familiar with the layout, but he doesn’t move, as if still waiting for a formal invitation.
You, though, have no interest in playing games, and you grab him by the bicep, tugging him inside. The door slams behind you, a sound that echoes all the way down the hall. If your neighbors hadn’t heard you before, they certainly have now.
“Dean.” His name cracks your voice, still hoarse from sleep, as you watch the blood soak between his fingers, his hand a sticky crimson. “What the fuck. What the fuck. You’re bleeding,” you say stupidly, hands beginning to shake, as if it’s the first time you’ve ever seen blood before. His face seems to loose color by the second, his green eyes no longer as vibrant as you remember them. “Shit. What are you even doing here. You need to go to the hospital.”
That spurs you into action, and you turn, loosening your shoulders, trying to expel some of the anxiety. You’re hardly even dressed, still wearing an old t-shirt and pajama pants, but you’re not going to waste any time to change. “Hang on. let me get my keys—”
“No.” Dean grabs your arm, stopping you, his voice raspy, but confident, as he shakes his head. Despite the dire situation, his grip isn’t as weak as you anticipate. His palm is callused, rough on your skin, the touch determined, and you look back up, narrowing you eyes.
“Are you kidding? You’re bleeding all over my rug, Dean.”
“I’m fine. I’ll be fine.” He glances around, beginning to shrug off his leather jacket. “You got a needle and thread? I can patch it up, it’s just a—” Dean winces as he works the coat off his other arm, the one that is putting pressure on his wound. Haphazardly, he shakes it off, and throws it on your sofa.
You try not to cringe at the fact that it’s coated in blood, sweat, who knows what else. Your couch is replaceable—Dean’s life is not.
“It’s just a bit deeper than I thought,” Dean says, appraising the wound, like he’s seeing it clearly for the first time. The shirt is stained such a nasty shade, the spot of blood bigger than it seemed before.
Panic washes over you, and you don’t know what to say, don’t know what to do. This is the first time anyone’s ever come to your door, on the brink of passing out, with a gash as long as your palm. People don’t usually come to you for medical help.
“Hey,” Dean says again, more frantic this time, snapping you to attention. “Needle? Thread? Alcohol? Anything?”
You blink at him, and then turn without another word, heading back towards your medicine cabinet. There’s plenty of supplies in there—you’ve been through a few bad scrapes yourself, but you’re not off the grid like Dean. Getting a doctor is as simple for you as any other citizen. You have no fake names, no credit cars scams, no felonies under your belt.
To the rest of the world, you’re just a regular, working-class citizen.
Dean is leaning against the couch when you return, his head lolling forward. You’ve never seen him so disoriented before. You wonder if this is the worst injury he’s gotten on a hunt, or if this is tame compared to other things he’s been through.
It wouldn’t surprise you.
“You’re so incredibly stupid, Dean,” you say, hands shaking as you bring the medicine kit back to him, and enough alcohol to sterilize the needle. It’s hard to even look at him, without your gaze zeroing in on the seeping wound. “Why would you even come here. I—”
Your jittery hands can barely hold the supplies, and Dean takes them from you gently. His fingertips trace your knuckles softly, before his touch fades away.
“Hey,” the deep intonation calms your nerves, speaking straight to your soul, as he captures your attention once more. “I’m going to be fine. I just needed some place to stay for the night.” As if that was a realization in itself, he grows uncertain, his face becoming vulnerable and his smile, as small as it was, drops. “Is that alright?”
For some reason, tears price at the back of your irises. You blame your exhaustion for your unstable emotions. Dean’s been nothing but a pain in your ass since the moment you met him. Why do you suddenly care so much if he dies?
“Of course it is Dean, but… I can’t stitch you up. I don’t know how. You should be going to—”
“Didn’t ask you to.” He gives the wound one more glance, like he’s assessing how much trouble he’s actually in. “I just needed somewhere to go.” It's the same reasoning he used before, but this time, you’re not sure which one of you he’s trying to convince.
If you weren’t so anxious, that might have spoken to a softer part of you, a part of you that swore you’d never care for Dean Winchester. But there’s blood everywhere, he’s pale and tired, and all you can think is that a man is going to die in your living room.
Dean slips his shirt over his head, the irritation seemingly causing the wound to bleed even more. It doesn’t even matter that he’s shirtless—the sight of his abdomen makes you queasy.
You reach out, then retract your hands, watching them shake in mid-air before you let them fall back at your sides, limp.
“Fuck. Fuck.” You take two long strides to him, before stilling his own hands. “At least let me help you clean it up or something, Dean, I—” Your words come out in one long string, throat catching at the sight of the deep, long gash.
There are so many questions you could ask. How long has it been bleeding? Do you feel light-headed? How much blood is in your car? What happened?
But you don’t ask any of them. You don’t care. You just want to see the blood gone and the wound sealed.
Dean blinks at you, and you can tell the situation is becoming dire. He grows pliant under your touch, letting you lead him to the bathroom without a second complaint. Usually, he is much more stubborn, insistent on doing everything himself.
“You don’t have to,” he says, and it’s not just the slight twang of an accent that slurs the words together. “I can do it.”
You don’t say anything. It’s a risk for you to think too hard about the situation, once that will send you into a spiral and a nervous breakdown. Instead, you plop him down on the toilet lid, thankful that he’s still able to walk.
There’s a hazy cloud over your mind, begging you to succumb to your own anxieties and call for an ambulance. But you don’t know what kind of trouble Dean is in, don’t know if there’s a warrant out for his arrest, a cop that will show up at the hospital and put cuffs on him.
Still. That might be better than him being dead, even if Dean might disagree.
You grab some old washcloths, ones that are stained and faded, adorned with holes from one too many washes, and turn back to Dean, who is smiling at you, groggily.
“You know, Halloween is coming up. Maybe you should dress up as a sexy nurse.”
“Nurses normally know what they’re doing.” Without a word, you pour alcohol over the wound, causing him to grit his teeth, groaning in pain.
“Fuck. ” He watches the clear liquid turn pink from the blood, streak down his side, before fading into his jeans. A grin is plastered on his features, and maybe it's a testament to how long you've known him, that you can tell it's not real. “It’s so hot how you—”
“Seriously, Dean. Don’t joke around. I’m already at my wit’s end here.”
Maybe he can tell you’re one misstep from bursting into tears, or maybe your voice is just that serious, because, for the first time in probably his entire life, Dean shuts his mouth.
Grateful for the silence, you clean the wound as quickly and thoroughly as you can, chewing anxiously on the inside of your mouth.
Dean watches you carefully, and though his gaze is intimidating, you soldier on. But you don’t know what is clean enough, can’t even tell if the wound is going to be infected, don’t know where it came from, if this is wrong, and—
Your name leaves Dean’s lips softly, and suddenly, you are about to cry, tears on the brink of your lower lashes as you appraise the endlessly bleeding gash, one you have no idea how to fix. You’ve been in your fair share of tough spots, but this is worse—this isn’t something you know how to take care of.
“Dean—” His name is choked through layers of fear, and he takes the cloth from your hand, adding pressure to the wound. “I don’t know what to do. I don’t—”
“It’s okay,” he says, as if he already knew what the outcome of this situation would be, as if he’d been prepared to patch himself up all along. Dean takes the needle from your hand, the thread that you’re not sure is even safe to use, and smiles. “I’ll do it.”
“You can’t. You’re barely—”
“Sweetheart, it’s not as bad as it looks,” Dean swears, squeezing your hand gently, and though you want to protest, your voice is too weak.
Maybe it’s just your imagination, but you swear his eyes get a little clearer, a gentleness forming as he focuses on easing your worries. There’s a kindness in his voice that you’ve never noticed, and maybe he’s always been like that—maybe he’s a nicer man than you made yourself believe.
“I can do it. Promise.”
You pinch your eyebrows together, and then nod, finally, taking a step back. Dean gets to work almost immediately, and though you want to watch, try to force yourself, you nearly gag from the sight of the skin being stitched together, flesh forming back into one piece, like it’s nothing more than an article of clothing.
It is endlessly impressive, the strength of the human body. Even if the sight of it open, exposing the endless muscle and tissues beneath, makes you nauseous.
You wait a few moments, but grow antsy, and leave the room in search of bandages. In terms of medical supplies, there’s not much in your home, barely enough to heal a paper cut, let alone such a severe wound.
You have some gauze and a first aid kit that’s halfway empty. That will have to do.
It makes you feel stupid, naive, and unprepared. What sort of hunter are you? You don’t even have the proper medical supplies to take care of yourself, let alone Dean Winchester, bleeding out in the other room.
It’s been five years—you’ve killed dozens of monsters, dozens of spirits, exorcised demons, but you’re starting to think you’re in over your head.
Taking one last, steadying breath, you head back into the bathroom, half-expecting Dean to be passed out on the floor, having met his end. But he’s standing when you return, one hip bracing himself against the sink, as he rinses the blood off of his arms.
Dean is a horrible sight to witness. There is blood caked all over him, dirt on his cheeks, all over his boots, a hole scraped in the knee of his jeans. His hair is never perfect, but it’s all askew now, grimy and sweaty, a mess just like the rest of him.
Not an ounce of color is left in his cheeks, and though Dean can speak, explain his ailments, you feel like you’re in the possession of a sick, wounded animal. An infant who cries, but can’t tell you what it needs, who looks at you in desperation, before choking back tears and soothing itself back to sleep.
The blood swirls in the sink, fading down at the drain, and you watch, swallowing over and over until the color clears completely.
“I’m sorry, Dean.”
The words are so quiet, you’re not sure he can hear them. Somehow, even over the rush of water, he picks up on the soft syllables.
Dean looks over his shoulder, pursing his lips. “Huh? What for?”
“I’m a pretty fucking bad nurse.”
Although you’re being completely serious, Dean cracks a smile, his laugh obnoxious and pitiful, choked out like a wheeze. He winces from the pain, but that doesn’t break his amusement. “You’re not so bad. Maybe I just needed a pretty face to help me through it.”
It takes a single joke for you to be propelled back into reality, and suddenly, you feel more than annoyed by his presence. This is, possibly, the most civil the two of you have ever been—which is disappointing, considering the circumstances. “Don’t be an ass.”
His features pinch together, and he opens his mouth before closing it, too exhausted to protest. Another concerning sign, and one that has you sighing heavily.
Sometimes, Dean means well, but he never says the right things, and it’s hard to tell when he’s being sincere or not.
“Alright,” you say, settling a hand on his wrist, tugging him forward. “Come on. You can sleep in my bed. I’ll sleep on the couch.”
Although most people would’ve jumped at the chance, Dean stops in his tracks, horrified by the suggestion. “Absolutely not. I’m not taking your bed. Jesus.”
You tug on him again, more forceful this time, but he is too stubborn, too strong, and it does little to sway him. “Why not?” you groan, wearily. It’s starting to hit you, how tired you are. You just want to go back to sleep. “You almost died—”
“I wasn’t gonna die.”
“—you could at least sleep in a nice bed for a change.”
Dean stares at you, and you stare back, crossing you arms.
“The couch is fine. Even the floor is fine.”
“Dean.”
“If you keep arguing, I’m going to go sleep in my car.”
He’s one-hundred percent serious, which only pisses you off, and you screw your face up in anger before letting it fall, deflating. None of this is worth getting worked up over. Dean is alive, and your couch is soft enough for a night. Probably better than anything he’s slept in for weeks.
Besides, there’s no use in arguing with him when he’s already made up his mind.
“Fine.”
You lead him back to the couch, though he already knows where it is, the leather jacket still slung over the back of it. There are some blankets in a basket beside it, and you pull a few out, settling them over the cushions. It’s not much of a bed, but it’s the best that you can do with the materials at hand.
Dean watches you, like he wants to help but knows he’ll only get in the way. In his eyes, you see a boy longing for a home, for a life he can’t lead and a place to call his own.
A wave of sadness washes over you, sick with the thought that you might have everything he’s ever wanted. Perhaps, the brunt of all his animosity towards you is jealousy, a belief that you are throwing away a life he never got to choose.
It’s easy, sometimes, to forget that this is all Dean knows. That he was raised to be a hunter, taught how to shoot a gun before he even hit a growth spurt. That he sleeps in a different place every night, has never had a steady job, a long-term relationship, that he never even graduated high school.
He is a man now, old enough to choose his own life, but what would he do? What life is there to choose when you know the one your family wants for you? How can you escape the expectations that have always been placed upon you?
“Dean?” you ask, softly.
“Hm?”
“Why did you come here?”
He blinks back at you. You’re certain he’ll just affirm he needed a place to crash, perhaps crack a joke that is most certainly on the edge of his tongue, but he does neither.
“I—” Dean averts his gaze, suddenly as serious as you. He laughs, but there is no humor in it. “Well, you were the closest person I knew. Thought I’d give here a try before racing somewhere else and risking dying.” Dragging his lips together, he turns thoughtful as he tests the next words out on his mouth.
“But also,” Dean says, steeling himself as he exhales through his nose. “I trust you.”
It feels like the wind is knocked out of you.
Dean is so sincere, blinking back at you with wide, green eyes, that you’re not sure how to respond.
The list of people Dean trusts is short, and the list of those who have seen him in such a vulnerable state even shorter. You’ve been granted something special—you know that.
You just have no idea what to do with it.
The confession breaks a wall between the two of you, and something, some tension, crumbles down from the vulnerability in the statement.
You swallow, fighting the lump of emotion that’s caught in your throat. “You trust me? Why?”
It feels like a stupid question. You’ve never given Dean a reason to mistrust you, not really, but there is no reason for him to put this faith in you either. The friendship between you is delicate, fragile, full of uncertainties after years of fostering resentment towards him and John.
Though you tolerate him now, even enjoy his company from time to time, you are far from being close.
Normally, Dean is quick to reply. His comebacks are not always as witty as he'd like to think, but there is always some form of a reply on his tongue, a touch of sarcasm, threatening to escape.
He is hesitant now. A conflict wars on his features, mind at odds with his heart when he starts to answer. “Don’t you know?”
Your throat wells up, tight, threatening to choke you, suffocate you, as the living room starts to feel too small.
“I don’t think you have any reason to trust me,” you say, going for something light-hearted, but instead, you sound anxious, small, even.
“I don’t?” Dean is also unconvinced, a small grin playing on his lips, gesturing towards his sealed-up wound, as if that is evidence enough for you to be a person worthy of his reliance.
“I could’ve let you die. I could’ve turned you away, watched you bleed out on my doorstep.”
An unlikely scenario. For all the months you’ve hated, then tolerated, then come to care for Dean Winchester, there is never a time you would’ve let him die.
Dean laughs.
“Why is that funny?”
He seems certain of his words when he replies, “You wouldn’t do that.”
It startles you, makes you straighten, stand taller. There is never any doubt in his words, when it is about you. Dean believes in you, completely, and it is for reasons you can’t fathom.
“And why not?” You narrow your eyes—he really doesn’t know you, doesn’t know the worst sides of you, even if he believes he does. The version of yourself you’ve allowed him to see is carefully crafted, just as you’re sure the image he wears of himself is the same. “You infuriate me, you know that? You annoy me endlessly. I can’t stand you sometimes, even though I—”
Abruptly, you cut yourself off.
The confession you almost let slip is a surprise to yourself. Your cheeks grow warm, lips parting as Dean stares at you, working his jaw.
“You what?”
Embarrassed, you wrap an arm around yourself, and look away. “Nothing.”
He pushes, though, not wanting to let up. “Well, it’s obviously something.”
“It’s—” Heat floods your body, and a nervous ache begins in the back of your mind, your heart racing as you frantically try to come up with another excuse.
You haven’t even considered the possibility that your feelings for Dean are more complicated than a long-suffering amicability, and yet, when you are faced with the odds of his death, it seems the greatest loss in the world.
“It's what?"
Shrugging him off, you attempt to ignore him, but he complains just as fiercely, groaning like a child whose mother won’t buy them a toy.
You turn away, trying to busy yourself, pile the cushions and pillows up in a neat arrangement, out of the way. The last thing you need is for Dean to get up later, trip over them and die, just trying to go to the bathroom.
He says your name again, drawing it out in more syllables than it actually is. You roll your eyes.
“I’m going to dig my finger into those stitches, Dean.”
He follows your every movement, pouting dramatically. “Come on,” Dean whines, tilting his head, trying to steal the answer from the contortion of your features. “You have to tell me now. Pleaseee.” The end of it is drawn out, irritating and repetitive, and it’s his persistence that wears you down, has you turning and snapping at him.
“Would you be quiet? If I didn’t care so much about you, Dean, I’d have killed you already,” you snap, whipping your head around, prepared to smack him with a pillow, before you remember that is probably the last thing he needs.
Dean blinks back at you, surprised.
With a sigh, you deflate, let the pillow fall out of your arms and onto the floor. Dean is grinning, too close now, too happy about what you’ve admitted, even if it was hardly anything.
People care about other people all the time. That means nothing.
“So, you do care,” Dean says, getting as close as he can without overexerting himself. “All this time, you’ve been acting like you hate me.”
You choke out a laugh, rolling your eyes, trying to play it cool. “I never hated you, Dean. Not really. We’re friends—of a sort.” A weird sort. “I mean. Aren’t we?”
Dean blinks, like he hadn’t been expecting that. His features twist up, before he runs a tongue over his teeth, and forces a smile. “Friends?”
“I guess.” You shrug, and when he leans closer, scrutinizing your face, you dart your eyes away, rub a palm over your elbow. It feels like you’re under a microscope, even though you’re that one that just had his blood on your hands, saw his skin split in two, the tissue underneath exposed to you.
“Do you get nervous around your other friends?”
You shoot your gaze back up to his own, and though there is a hint of smugness there, there is also genuine curiosity, as if its nothing more than an innocent question.
“God,” you say, huffing under your breath as you shake your head. “Every time I think we get somewhere, you have to say shit like that.” You point an accusing finger at him. “You know, not every woman finds you irresistible. I—”
“I don’t care about other women," Dean cuts you off sharply, though his voice is hoarse, coming from a chest that had nearly been bled dry. “I just want you.”
Everything stops.
Earlier, you had considered the conversation would take a turn in this direction, but you'd brushed it off, ignored the possibility.
Dean's attraction for you is obvious. You've known about it for quite some time, but you'd always thought that his feelings for you would remain locked up, just like all the other things he's never told you.
It catches you off guard when he frees those feelings, hands them over in his blood-soaked palm.
You swallow, and you think if something were to kill you tonight, it would be the shock from this, rather than his near-death experience.
"What?"
Dean runs a hand through his hair, shaking his head. “You’re so stupid sometimes.”
You know what he means, but you’ve never been good with emotional conversation. Your tone turns sour, a bite of dry humor on the edge of your voice. “Thanks, Dean. You’re always so nice to me.”
“I’m—” Dean curses under his breath, before he takes your face in both hands, suddenly serious. His touch is gentle, loose enough so that you can back away.
He pauses, gives you a moment to flee if you really want to.
But you can’t. You’re frozen in place, eyes wide as you stare back at him, having no idea what he’s going to say next.
“I’m going to fuck this all up. It’s going to be a mess, but would you just listen? Please?”
You don’t know what else to do but nod, slowly.
Dean relaxes, exhaling, and lets one hand fall away. The other cradles your cheek softly, fingers not quite caressing your jaw. His thumb settles right under the bone, the curve that is made from your skull. “I’ve wanted you from the moment I met you.”
You refrain from biting out a bitter comment, and remain silent.
“I miss you when you’re not around. I—I think about you every day, and I drive through this state all the time, making up excuses about hunts that aren’t real, just to see you.” He sighs, and looks away, unable to meet your eyes, the vulnerability of his words making him nervous.
Perhaps it’s the blood loss, the fact that he tempts fate every day, dances with death every moment of his life, but he soldiers on, doesn’t let this conversation end.
“You’re stupid, so incredibly stupid, because you’ve convinced yourself I never liked you. I thought… Maybe I’d get lucky with you, someone far too pretty and smart for someone like me. And then I got to know you, and—” Dean inhales, clenching his jaw. “I craved you. I still do.”
Your heart races, a million thoughts flying through your head per minute, but none you can fully land on. It’s all too much—you’re tired, high on emotions and Dean is spewing his heart out, like you weren't on the verge of to killing each other the last time you saw him.
“Dean—”
He ignores you, laughing humorlessly. “I know you probably won’t believe me, but you’re everything I’ve ever wanted, I think. I can’t imagine wanting anyone else.”
Finally, as if realizing that all of that is actually between you, out of his heart and into the open, Dean stops, recoiling in on himself. He doesn’t move his hand away, until you take a step back, wrapping your arms around yourself.
“Dean," You repeat his name, hoping you'll break through to him this time. "You’re exhausted and probably light-headed. You’re going to regret this in the morning.”
He reacts like you actually have stuck your finger in his stitches, ripped them out and left him to bleed. “I’m not.”
“You will. Because it doesn’t make sense. None of this makes sense.” You roll your eyes. “You flirt with other women right in front of me, never stay with me when we go on hunts together. I never cared, but now you’re telling me—”
“I just thought it’d make you jealous,” he admits, cheeks coloring with a tinge of embarrassment. “I didn’t care about them. Which, I know is stupid, but I never said that I was good at this, just that I—”
Dean cuts himself off.
He wants to say that he loves you—you can tell. But he knows it’ll scare you off, knows you’d bolt out the door if you didn’t live here.
And he’s right. You’ve been playing this game for almost two years, and it's from the fault of both of you.
Dean has always been too scared to admit his interest in you is more than physical, and you’re too scared to admit that you have any fondness for him at all.
One of you has to put an end to it.
“Dean.” You say his name again and take a step back, shaking your head, pushing the flood of emotion, one that feels a lot like tears, back down. “You’re just saying this because you almost died.
Despite the disheartening lilt to his voice, he puts on a smile, and shrugs. “Maybe,” he says, the green in his eyes a little dimmer than before. “But I’m glad I did.”
There are many things that you could say right now, to diffuse the situation, remedy it, bury it between the two of you. In your cruelty, you choose the one that will sting the most. “What am I supposed to do now?”
It takes a moment for the question to sink in, for his face to fall, slowly, like he was expecting more.
There is more to give, more you could offer him, but you swore to yourself that you wouldn't never make room for romance in your life, and certainly not with Dean Winchester, who you’re sure would only fuck it up in the end.
“There is no life where this makes sense,” you continue, when it is apparent that he isn’t going to.
To your surprise, that turns his sadness into anger, and you worry that you’ve been exposed completely, that it has become obvious your hesitance has little to do with a lack of attraction.
“Why does it have to make sense?” Dean shakes his head, and though he doesn’t plead with you, doesn’t drop to his knees and ask for your love, he is embarrassed, to have revealed so much to you.
“Because you don’t stay. You’ll never stay,” you say, calmly, hoping the words crack through his stubborn skull. “In the morning, you’ll leave, and I’ll be here. You’ll get hurt again, and I’ll be here. You’ll go back to hunting with your dad, and I’ll be here.”
You have an endless amount of worry for him, already. You’re not sure you can stomach anymore. A friend, you can let go of. A lover?
“Come with me, then.”
A groan leaves you, and you turn away, shaking your head. “Dean.”
“I’m being serious.”
“I know you are. And you say that like it’s easy. I have an entire life here.” You gesture around the apartment you’ve called home for years. Maybe, at some point, you will leave. For now, you have no desire to live your life on the run, sleep in beds that are never your own, never be able to cook your own meals, build anything permanent. “Would you stay, if I asked?”
Dean searches your face, but doesn’t reply, which is answer enough.
You sigh. Someone has to put an end to this. It will be you.
“Listen. I care about you, Dean. You... mean a lot to me, and I want you to be happy.” A smile graces your lips, but it is half-hearted, sad. “Just not with me.”
There is a moment in which he considers saying something other than what leaves his lips. Perhaps it is the one confession he is holding back, a desperate attempt to keep you with him, make you feel guilty.
But Dean is not that kind of man—you feel awful for even considering that.
He swallows and takes a step back, wounded but resigned.
“I wish I could say the same,” Dean laughs bitterly, unable to look you in the eyes. “The thought of you with someone else makes me sick.”
It is twisted, revolting satisfaction that takes hold of you then, your previous jealousy evaporating as you conclude that no one else will ever matter. Only you could stop the blood pumping in Dean’s wounded heart, your fingers twisted around the arteries running through every point of him. It is the most intimate part of his body, anyway, along with his blood, which you are already familiar with.
“I’m sure you won’t have to worry about that.” Your smile, still hollow, still melancholic, curls with relief on the end. “I’ve never been one for romance, anyway.”
But if I was, you think, it would be you.
Slowly, he nods, dragging his gaze back to the couch. There is a long lapse of silence before either of you speak again, the once comfortable quiet turning into awkwardness.
You long for the moments before the confession, but those are gone now, forever. Now that this is out in the open, the thing you have been skirting around, it is something that can never be taken back. The damage, inflicted by you, is already done.
“I’m sorry,” you say, just under your breath, even if it will never be enough.
Dean glances back up at you, smiling a boyish smile, all the brutalizing emotions erased from his expression. It’s as if nothing has changed, though you know it has.
“It’s okay,” he promises, even if it’s not. “Thanks for stitching me up.” You did nothing but hand him the needle, and try not to throw up. “I’ll see you in the morning.” You know you won’t.
Hesitant, you try and think of something else to say, something that could fix this. You don't want it to be the last time you ever see him, but something about these moments feel final, the epilogue to a series you'd thought would never end.
“Are you sure you don’t need anything else?”
Dean shakes his head, plops himself down on the cushions with too much abandon, careless to his own injuries. He is so reckless sometimes. Someday, it will get him in trouble.
“I’m fine. Get some sleep.”
You don't know if you can, but it's a dismissal, if you've ever heard one.
Nodding, you take a step back. “Okay," you mutter under your breath, before turning away. “Goodnight.”
Dean doesn’t reply. You retreat back into the bedroom.
It takes you hours to fall asleep. You are so aware of every shift on the couch, every groan of pain he makes. You’re half-prepared to go check on him, but you know your help won't be welcomed.
Instead, you think of the morning, when maybe you can try again. Pretend none of this ever happened, and things will be the same.
Dean will flirt with you, and you’ll pretend it makes you mad, force a smile off your lips just to prove a point. He’ll annoy you, eventually, but it’ll twist a fondness in your heart, rather than something that was once detestation.
Or maybe you’ll have the conversation over again. Maybe you’ll tell him that the thought of losing him makes you want to die. That you bought the records he likes, the soap he uses, eat the same candy he loves, just to keep him around when he’s gone.
That you think you could love him, that you want to love him, that you would love him, if it weren’t so complicated.
That those woman do make you jealous, and you’d cried about the last one, because when he spoke to you over the phone, he’d sounded so enamored, and you’d kind of thought the first woman he’d really fall in love with would be you.
And maybe it was, maybe he loves you, in the way that he knows how. Maybe this’ll break his heart.
Or maybe, he’s exaggerating his feelings because he’s lonely. Maybe he’ll be over you in a week.
But, that morning never comes.
You aren’t forced to face the feelings, the love, that rests in your heart.
When you wake up, and finally find the courage to get yourself out of bed, Dean is gone.
thank you so much for reading! ᡣ𐭩 reblogs and comments much appreciated!
18+ cw: breeding kink (mentions of impregnation & pregnancy – both matt and reader want kids here), dom!matt, oral!f receiving, doggy, mating press, light bondage, choking, biting, use of “good girl” “my wife” during sex, slight dacryphilia, possessive behavior, classic daredevil guilt, allusions to religious devotion, fluff
summary: some dreams have always felt beyond reach for matt, including having a family of his own. but post-party, three drinks in—turns out all he had to do was ask. (wc: 7.5k)
note: foggy and marci are married and have a kid here! also matt holds a baby in this one, so obv it’s totally self-indulgent : )
A/N: HAPPY FATHER'S DAY to the dilfest lawyer on earth!!! i started this completely intending for it to be just filth but my nine year delusionship with this man means everything i write about him WILL grow feelings
The bustling warmth of Foggy’s apartment hits you the moment you step in the door. Every inch of the space is alive with the sound of chatting adults and shrieking children, not to mention the same incongruously happy verse of “We Did It!”—the Bluetooth speaker cutting out the Dora playlist over and over. Bright balloons cling to the backs of chairs, paper plates and half-eaten cupcakes cluttering every surface. To put it simply, it’s utter domestic chaos.
So obviously, it’s hard not to smile.
“Wow,” Matt says beside you, his lips twitching upward faintly as his head tilts to take in the scene. “This place is alive.”
“Alive,” you snort, swatting him gently on the arm as you guide him through the threshold. “It’s a full-on circus. Foggy must be in hell.”
“Can confirm,” Foggy interjects. He’s appeared behind you as if summoned by the mere mention of his name. There’s a smear of frosting on his button-down, and there’s a crazy light in his eyes you haven’t seen since college. “Thank God, cavalry’s here. I was this close to drinking Scotch out a sippy cup.”
You laugh, leaning in to hug him as Matt claps him on the shoulder. “Happy birthday to the big guy!” you grin as Foggy pulls back. “Officially one! How’s it feel?”
“Haven’t heard, huh? We’re auctioning him off later,” Foggy deadpans, though the affection peeks through. “Which reminds me—mind if I pawn off your husband for a bit?” He turns to Matt, gesturing toward the kitchen where a battalion of Nelson women’s engaged mid-conversation, holding plastic cups and talking animatedly. “Dude, do me a solid and work your lawyerly magic on the aunties, please. They’ve been talking about SNTs all afternoon and frankly, I cannot feign interest anymore.”
“Oh, Fog, I don’t know if I’m the guy for that—” Matt starts, but Foggy’s already steering him toward the fray. “You’re exactly the guy, go make them cry with one of your blind crusader stories. Right this way, ladies,” Foggy urges, as Matt’s protests are drowned out, swallowed by the chattering mass of Nelson aunts.
You stay back, still laughing, and duck toward the table of snacks. From the few remaining drinks, you grab a can of Yoo-Hoo and your finger along its sweaty condensation—until the sharp wail of the baby cuts through the din.
You turn.
Across the room, the birthday boy’s squirming in his frazzled aunt’s arms, flushed and clearly seconds away from a full-blown meltdown. Without thinking, you slip over to them (Yoo-Hoo forgotten), holding out your hands with a soft, “Here, let me.”
Teddy comes to you easily, his weight settling against your hip as he lets out one last cursory wail before quieting. His chubby fists tangle in the fabric of your dress, his head falling against your chest as his breathing hitches. You rock him gently, murmuring soft nonsense under your breath until his cries subside entirely. It doesn’t take long before he’s calm, little body relaxing against yours as he smacks his lips softly, his stubby fingers patting at your collarbone.
Across the room, the Nelson women chatter on around Matt.
“You poor dear,” one of them coos, clutching his elbow, “how’s work? Foggy says the firm’s doing very well. You boys must be rolling in clients.”
“It’s steady,” Matt says mildly, “we’ve been lucky.”
“And her?” someone else asks. “That sweet girl of yours still hasn’t run away screaming?”
A small smile curves his mouth. “Still here, thankfully.” A chuckle goes around the circle.
“Oh honey,” Foggy’s mom cuts in, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “So, when do you think you’ll have one of your own?”
Matt raises his eyebrows, amused and a little cornered.
One of the great-aunts is squinting across the room. “Hmph, looks like she’s halfway there already.”
He tilts his head slightly, tuning in—adjusting the direction of his senses—then stops. His heart stutters. The space between you—the constant hum of your heartbeat, the soft lilt of your voice as you soothe the baby—it’s all amplified in his head, pulling his attention like a magnet.
“Must be nice,” another jokes. “You can always tell who’s gonna be a good mom. Poor Foggy looked like he was going to pass out.”
Matt smiles faintly, his usual charm just barely masking how his throat has tightened. “Ah, she’s good with kids. Always has been,” he says, deliberately keeping his tone light.
The mention of children is a trap he’s navigated before, typically with casual deflections that fall back on vague hopes of someday. But this time, the words are harder to shake off, and when one of the aunties has so pointed it out—the way you’re holding Foggy’s baby, calm and radiant and perfectly at ease—it feels less hypothetical and more, well, inevitable.
“Well, you’re doing well for yourselves now,” one of the women says, her tone pointed but kind. “Don’t wait too long. You’ve got a good thing going—and if you ask me, you could use one of those little ones running around.”
“We’ve got some time,” Matt laughs offhandedly. “Haven’t really sat down and talked it through in depth. Maybe soon.”
Mercifully, the conversation shifts, but Matt’s distracted now. Every word buzzes in the background as he hones in on the sound of you: the soft rise and fall of your breathing, your voice swaying upward as you coo at Teddy, the faint rustle of fabric as you shift your weight to keep him secure on your hip.
Before he knows what’s happening, you’ve made your way across the room to him, oblivious to the swirl of tension beneath his skin as you’re saying something lighthearted about how “it’s about time Uncle Matty took a turn.” He doesn’t even have time to protest before the toddler’s being nestled against him, pudgy fingers pawing at his tie.
“Careful,” he says, a little alarmed. “I could drop him.”
“Oh, don’t be ridiculous, Couns,” you say breezily, smoothing a hand over Matt’s arm. “You’ve done this before. Plus he’s pretty sturdy, you know. Babies are tougher than they look.”
Matt falls silent, holding the baby cautiously, keeping completely still so that not even his breathing will disturb the delicate balance of the moment. Teddy squirms briefly before miraculously—horrifyingly—settling into his chest, and Matt’s heartbeat jumps, but the baby’s doesn’t. There’s just the faintness against his sternum, the rise and fall of milky breath; he can feel the pulse in his tiny wrist. The echo of a hiccup in his ribs. He finds himself cataloguing every flicker of life beneath the fragile skin.
It’s overwhelming.
“Matt,” you say softly, “you okay?”
He nods, handing Teddy back to you a little too quickly. “Yeah. It’s just—he’s warm.”
“He didn’t pee on you, did he?”
“No—no,” Matt chuckles faintly. “Not that kind of warm.”
You lift a brow at him, but say nothing more. The baby yawns, then burrows into you again. Matt can hear everything. The low, involuntary sound you make when the baby nestles just right under your chin. The shift in your skin temperature: your whole body warmer than usual. And that scent—he’d missed it before, but God here it is, subtle but unmistakable under the usual fare of your perfume. Sweet earth, clean sweat, and something deeper, headier. His heightened senses tell him what his mind has tried to ignore; it makes his chest tighten and imagination run rampant. He tries to shake away the thought, wresting his focus from the way you smell so right, so perfect, but it’s hurtling like a tidal wave.
By the time you’re on the train ride home, the realization has planted itself in the hollow of his chest, refusing to be moved. You sit beside him, scrolling idly through your phone, humming some barely-there melody under your breath.
He’s silent the whole time, thoughts turning over in endless waves.
It’s already dark outside when you arrive at the apartment. Matt’s still unusually quiet, his mind somewhere else entirely. You shrug off your coat by the door and toss it onto the hook with a bit of flair. Trying to fill the silence, you busy yourself with telling him about the Nelson family dog—a story you picked up about the ratty little mop of a thing getting passed around from household to household like a fuzzy hot potato.
“It’s probably because it’s so ugly,” you grumble lightly, shooting him a grin as you kick your shoes off toward the mat. “Swear, if you could just see it, it really is so ugly it’s insane.”
Matt is usually one to tease, grinning back in that sly, devil-may-care way, but tonight he doesn’t even give you a huff of amusement. Your brows draw together in concern: could someone have said something earlier? He wasn’t one to let offhanded comments get to him, but there had been exceptions… Or maybe the party was too much? Its noise and chaos and endless stimulation, well— you could see this silence as an aftermath.
“Matt?” you finally ask, your tone gentle as you cross the small space to him. He hasn’t moved from where he’s standing near the door, barely out of his coat. “Are you okay? You’ve been so quiet since we left. Did something happen at the party?”
The longer he stays silent, the more determined you become to shake an answer out of him. Whatever storm is brewing in his mind, you’ll be damned if he keeps it locked away, as he tends to do. It triggers your instinct to soothe. Or at the very least, poke fun at it to take the edge off. “C’mon, don’t leave me hanging here. Whose ass do I have to beat? Was it Uncle Tommy? Was it something I–”
“Sweetheart,” Matt cuts through your ridiculous coaxing. Though his tone is steady with concerted effort, there’s a flush creeping up the column of his neck, coloring the edge of his ears.
You step back half a pace, blinking. “What?”
“It’s nothing. Please.”
“Doesn’t seem like nothing. Matt, tell me what’s going on with you.” In truth, you greatly dislike all this unceremonious pushing and goading, but the last time he’d gone quiet like this it turned out he’d been hiding a broken rib and a tender side from late night patrol. You frown, stepping closer. “Are you hurt?”
“No, no, I’m not. Honestly.” The shift is almost imperceptible, but you notice the way his body tenses further, throat bobbing as he swallows hard. He drags a hand through his hair, sighing deeply, “Forget it.”
“Forget it?!” you gasp dramatically, clutching your chest. That at least earns you the faintest twitch of a smile on his lips, but he smothers it so fast you wonder if it was a figment of your imagination. “Oh, no. No, no, no.” You wag a halfhearted finger at him. “You absolutely do not get to brood like that then ‘forget it’ me! You’re going to tell me, Matthew”—the way you enunciate his name is pointed—“because you at least owe it to me to tell me if you’re hurt, or I swear to God I’m—”
“Fine,” he snaps, putting an end to your mock dramatics. The tension in him pulls tight enough that the words tumble out unguarded. “Let’s have a baby.”
You blink.
The air around you seems to still, as if the apartment itself is holding its breath, having followed his bidding for silence. “What?”
“I want a baby with you,” he confesses slowly, sounding pained. It sounds almost like loathing, the derision with which he views how badly he means it.
You laugh before you can stop it, strangled and half-scandalized. “Matt, Jesus! What the hell…”
But your startled amusement is already tapering off as it clicks into place. Oh. His quietness, his strange mood during the ride home—it was now making perfect sense. Earlier, you were utterly at ease with Teddy, and maybe he’d been, too. The situation now glaringly obvious, your heart starts to race and Matt’s expression darkens when he picks up on it, his lips twitching with that slow, devilish smile you know all too well.
“Oh,” you begin, blinking up at him as you straighten.
That smile. Christ.
“Yes, oh,” he says, already closing the distance between you. “I mean it.”
His hand finds your waist, pulling you closer to him with deliberate pressure.
“Let’s make one,” he murmurs. “Right now.”
Your heart hammering violently in your chest, you tip your head back slightly to meet the wine-dark mirrors of his glasses. In the reflection, all you can see is yourself. His next step seals the last inch of space between you, and when his mouth finds yours, whatever resistance you had left dissolves like sugar on the tongue.
His kiss is needy, and you feel his every hot exhale fanning your cheeks as a hand slips to your waist—guiding you, pushing you back, back until your spine hits the wall. His other hand curls around your nape gently, cushioning the press of your head against the panel. You gasp into him, grabbing at the tense muscles of his shoulders through his shirt. He’s so close, pressing so close now that you can feel the heated hardness through his slacks. Well, he seems to not mind. If anything, he wants you to feel it, grinding himself against your stomach.
“Somebody’s eager,” you tease playfully, never mind that you’re growing lightheaded from the delicious burn of his stubble scratching your face. “Christ, this is a lot of intensity for a lady who just inhaled too many cupcakes. Mmf, ow!”
His teeth catch your bottom lip, nipping at it lightly before letting it free.
“Not now, honey,” he rasps against your mouth. You know it well enough to be a warning, but you don’t know if it’s more terrifying or thrilling. The hand at your waist slips upward, finding the curve of your breast over the flimsy material of your dress. Your face grows embarrassingly hot, and Matt’s breath hitches, groping you a little harder, more possessively, and the thought crosses his mind: the sensation of your tits rounding out for him, growing swollen, heavy with milk… Fuck, the thought makes his cock jerk hard in his pants, and the guttural moan that tears from his chest seems to surprise even him.
Fuck, Matt, get it together.
Shaking his head, he dips down to the crook of your neck, inhaling deep. You smell so damn good—milky and earthy and uniquely you—it’s a shame you’re oblivious to it. What you aren’t oblivious to, though, is the way he’s trembling slightly. From restraint or the desperate undercurrent of his desire, you can’t tell.
“Is this really you?” you ask, breathless now, trying to wriggle just enough to make him loosen his grip. This isn’t like him—not Matt the charming husband, the overzealous lawyer. But you do recognize him. This voice, it belongs to the man who comes home late at night beaten within an inch of his life, collapsing on the floor as you scramble for the medkit. But that part of him has been quieter, gentler lately, less frequent with the overly suicidal excursions—a promise he’d offered you when he asked you to marry him.
And yet here he is now, returned with that fire reignited, directed solely at you.
“You smell so good I can’t think straight,” Matt murmurs, his nose dragging along your throat, pausing to press a hot, deliberate kiss behind your ear. “You wanna know something?”
You nod, the unbearable heat trickling between your thighs.
“You were holding him,” he begins, voice rasping like he can barely get the words out, “and all I could think about was my baby. Our baby. You’re ovulating right now, and Christ, sweetheart—I can smell it on you.”
That stops your breath cold. You’re reeling, your internal voice screaming for decorum, coolness, anything that might save face—but it’s impossible to, not when hot nerves are zinging traitorously through your body at his words. Not when his hands are on you, hot as brands. Not when he’s put words to the question you’d been hoping he’d bring up again for the past year.
It’s so embarrassing how easily he unravels you. Case in point–
His hand cups your sex through your soaked underwear, pressing the heel of his palm into you hard.
“Matt—!” It’s more of a plea than anything else, but you barely manage to say anything else before his hands slide down your weakened thighs, broad palms curling under them, and he lifts you effortlessly. He hikes you up further against the wall, grinding his hips into you and fuck, you can feel him pulsing—he’s like iron, a fact you’re darkly aware of even through the unconscionably selfish layers of his clothes hiding his hardness from view. The sheer force of his want makes you gasp, hands to his chest as if to push him away—though you clearly have no intention of doing so.
But seemingly, he does.
He pulls back from the kiss, and for the first time all night, you catch a flicker of hesitation cross his face. A crack in the mask of breathless certainty, the very same that had carried you across the room and into his arms just minutes ago.
“Are you sure you want this?”
You almost laugh. He’s asking you? When he’s the one tearing you out of your clothes, talking filth? “Are you?”
“I… Well–” The vibrations of his voice tickle your collarbone as Matt rests his head against your shoulder, unceremoniously snapped from the trance of his arousal. Visibly, achingly, he’s searching for words that won’t come. You take it upon yourself to help him out.
“I am.” It’s unsatisfactory; his silence tells you this. For a moment there’s only his measured breathing. But you know what he’s not saying, and he doesn’t have to tell you. It’s there again—the old voice in his head, convincing him he doesn’t deserve any of this, much less the privilege of asking for anything more. The quickly vining doubt in him dictates it: allowing himself this is the most selfish thing he can do.
You cup his face in your hands so he can’t turn away from you.
“Matt, I know what you’re thinking,” you say gently. “I want this, alright?”
For a split second, you wonder what it’ll take to pull him back from his misery. You swallow, rubbing the sides of your thumbs along his cheeks soothingly. “I want it. Not in spite of your life; because of it. Yes, you bleed and lie and you flake out and… keep going on these fucking suicide missions and yes, yes they scare the shit out of me… But even if I’m scared, I believe you’ll come home, because you always do; that’s who you are. You keep getting back up even if the world’s given you so much reason to be unkind to it.”
Wordlessly, you reach up and remove his glasses gingerly, tossing them toward the table. They land somewhere with a dull clatter. In the half-light of the living room, you can only make out parts of him, the cut of his cheekbone, the impressionistic slopes of definition on his face. This must be just a fraction of how he sees you, defined solely by blunt form and sensation.
“And that’s why I’m here, too. It’s just my choice as it is yours.” You press your forehead to his, finding him scorching against your clammy skin, before pulling back again. “Your night patrols, all that… If you believe that people deserve all the chances they can get, that there’s always a future for them no matter what came before, then have faith that it includes you, Matt. Everything you fight for is why I believe we could do this. What’s ahead could be dangerous, but what if it’s worth it a—what’s that word you like?” Your lips quirk slightly. “A thousandfold more. We can still bring good into the world, in all the ways we can, can’t we?”
Have faith that it includes you, Matt.
He closes his eyes. He does want it, all of it, more than anything in the world and he’s being the greediest man in the world right now, taking and taking and you’re letting him. Have faith that it includes you.
“You make it sound so easy.”
“Well, it is. It’s no question if it’s with you.” You pause for a bit, before leaning back in, eyebrows wiggling playfully. “And you know, I haven’t refilled my prescription… So if we do this, it’s real. So ask me again.”
An incredulous, lighthearted scoff finally breaks through him. “Unbelievable. Are you sure you’re not the lawyer between us, sweetheart? That was one hell of an argument,” he says, chuckling boyishly through the pecks you’ve started to nip on his cheeks. “Fine. Last chance—are you sure about this?”
You raise an eyebrow. “Ha, ha, Mr. Murdock. Please. As if you believe in last chances.”
He grins, can’t help it, can’t hide it; it’s crooked and a little desperate. But it’s impossible to skirt around it, your body betraying every rational thought. “Yes,” you whisper, your legs wrapping around his waist, arms sliding around his neck to pull him closer. “Yes, I want this. I want you.”
The words have barely left your mouth before Matt presses his hips into yours again, his groan muffled against your neck. The conversation has quelled the worst of his fears—but not the hunger. If anything, your unshakeable trust in him has unleashed something deeper within, darker and older than guilt. Something he can’t say aloud.
But God knows it. And he knows it.
The knowledge threatens to unmake him: he could fill you now, right now with your heated body primed and the timing perfect, let nature take its course. Your cunt is soft and warm and open, ripe and ready for him. And fuck, it hits him like a train.
Fucking you full to knock you up, marking you with proof of your unwavering faith—
The thought makes his cock ache so hard it’s a mercy he’s still clothed.
Conversely you’re a mess, dress bunched up and panties soaked, and your heart is beating so hard you’re sure it’s deafening him. Matt locks your thighs over his forearms and carries you down the hall in steady steps, kiss never breaking until your back finally hits the bed. He’s over you in seconds, broad and solid and trembling with restraint that’s quickly breaking.
He looms above you, working deftly on the buttons of his shirt with one hand, the other braced beside you on the mattress to keep you where he wants you. His lips—rosy and pouted, kiss-swollen—curl into a knowing half-smirk.
“You have no idea,” his voice is rich with the thickness of his lust, “the way you taste and smell right now. If you could feel what I feel standing this close to you, you’d lose your mind.”
The shirt finally slips free, hitting the floor with a dull thud. Your eyes trail over his chest, marked by two long scars like uneven wings taking flight. Then his broad shoulders, the planes and valleys of muscle. Oh, Christ. He leans down, his hands already finding the material of your dress.
“Up,” he coaxes, warm but unyielding. You obey instinctively, helpless to raise your arms up and shimmy a little so he can peel the dress up and toss it aside in one smooth motion. His lips descend to your collarbone, stubble grazing the sensitive skin there as he kisses you with maddening patience. Every sensation of his tickling, hot breath sends sparks rushing through your veins, but it isn’t nearly enough. You squirm, desperate for more, but he’s already working his way down—kisses tracing paths between the valley of your breasts, down your stomach, until he reaches the waistband of your panties.
Nose nudging against the soaked fabric, Matt inhales deep, a shameless groan rumbling from his chest as his hands grip your thighs, keeping them spread. “Fuck,” he murmurs, “you’re dripping for me, honey. Been like this since the train home, haven’t you?”
You flush but don’t deny it. The damp feel of the delicate lace between your thighs is proof enough. He chuckles softly at your silence, a finger twisting under the waistband to peel the damp fabric down, sliding it off the smooth skin of your legs to toss it aside. And suddenly, the room seems to be completely saturated by your arousal, steeping into every inch of air he pulls into his lungs.
Still, Matt doesn’t seem to be in any rush. His lips return to your inner thighs, tracing sultry kisses to burning flesh. Thighs pressed to his ears, the sound of your arteries reverberates like a drumline inside his skull. Femoral, uterine, iliac —he can name every one he hears. A symphony thrumming for him, hot and rhythmic. He kisses the spot where it sings beneath your skin.
(What an asshole, you’re thinking, knowing his every peck is deliberate; every drag of his tongue is just close enough to where you need him that it makes you squeal with frustration.)
“Matt,” you snip, tugging at his locks to guide him where you want him. “Stop teasing and just fuck me already!”
He pulls back from between your legs, lips curved into a cocky grin. “Be patient,” he chides, shaking his head like you’re a child spoiled rotten. “I gotta take care of you first, don’t I?”
You open your mouth to argue, but he isn’t done.
“I heard, it’ll take better if you come first,” he says evenly, using that court voice, the one he uses to explain the facts of a case and win over the jury without fail. “So… I’m gonna make you come again…” a kiss on the inner side of your knee, “…and again….” on your inner thigh, “…and again…” on your pubic mound, “…until your body has no choice but to take me.”
The filthy promise pulls you taut as his nose bumps against your clit. “Oh? And just where did you hear this news from, Counselor– Oh Christ–!” You gasp, hands tightening in his hair as his tongue darts out, tasting you lightly before pulling back just long enough to smirk at how you tremble under him.
“See?” Matt says, voice positively dripping with smugness. “You’re already so wet, sweetheart. Let me handle it, alright?”
And then he buries himself between your thighs, his tongue delving into your folds with ravenous precision. Fuck, he could die happy right then, the sour-sweet taste of your slickness robust and vividly ripe on his tongue, incomparable to its scent he’d only enjoyed since before that point. You cry out, your head falling back to the mattress as he pulls you higher with every stroke of his tongue, every flick and flat press against your clit, mouth working generously to kiss your needy cunt open.
Determined to see you come undone, he dives his rough fingers into you, his tongue maintaining pressure upon your clit. Your walls clench at the sensation of being breached, nerves going haywire with excitement as he pumps his fingers in and out of you. When you call out his name, he brushes at that sensitive spot, conditioning you by the whimpers and cries falling out of your mouth. Training you like an animal to associate the heightened pleasure with his name, though really he has no need to. No one has ever touched you with such precise devotion as him.
Your heels dig into his back, hips canting to demand more. Matt grunts against you, the vibrations sending shockwaves through your entire body, and you can feel the mattress dipping slightly as he ruts against it, his own desperation spilling over.
“Matty—fuck—” you pant, hands clutching at the sheets. He only growls in response, his free hand curling against your legs to hold you in place, barring any attempt at escape. He’s eating you like a man starved, shamelessly groaning and fucking the mattress at your taste—and with the pressure in your stomach threatening to snap, you fold and unfold, instinctively trying to get away.
But Matt, all-knowing and bent on denying you the privilege of holding back, presses down harder inside you, rubbing while he sucks at your clit. You curse uncontrollably and the white-hot high finally, finally washes over you violently, downwards, down then up with your thighs clamped around his head, clenching around his thick, thrusting fingers. Matt refuses to slow down or let up, working you through every spasm until you’re left a panting, boneless mess beneath him.
“Christ,” you mutter weakly, when you can get it together enough to speak. The world’s still spinning around you, folded inwards to just the sight of him sitting back on his heels. His mouth and jaw are obscenely glistening with your wetness. Matt, sensing your hitched breath, correctly infers that you’re staring shamelessly at him, and at the bulge that’s tented angrily between his legs.
Smug little shit that he is, he brings his hand up to his mouth. The pretty-pink petals of his lips purse around his fingers as he revels in your taste. Matt hums his praise low in his throat, but you don’t get to enjoy the show as much as you want. The mattress shifts, and his hands close tight around your waist, turning you over onto your arms and knees.
Bent over for him, the anticipation is electric, your body still oversensitive from your high. But you can’t help it, that errant need to reassert yourself.
“Jesus, finally,” you muse, smirking above your shoulder. “I was starting to think you were all talk, Counselor.”
That earns a snap.
You hear the leathery rasp of his belt sliding through the loops of his pants, a sound that makes your toes curl.
“Watch your mouth,” he says, pushing your head forward. He leans down to press a hard, claiming kiss to your shoulder blade. The cold metal of the belt buckle kisses your wrists a moment later, and he binds them behind your back in a practiced knot, giving the binding a perfunctory tug to test its hold.
Oh. Fuck.
Every inch of your arched posture has you laid bare for him in surrender. Your shoulders are sunken into the mattress, having lost the arms to brace yourself with. Ever the gentleman, he holds you steady with a firm grip while the other hand touches between your thighs, trailing all the way to your wet slit. He inhales sharply at the mess waiting for him, your arousal clinging sticky up to his knuckles.
Matt huffs a laugh under his breath.
“So fucking ready for me,” he murmurs.
Fisting his cock, he gives it a few rough tugs, precum slicking over his palm as he aligns his hips behind you, pushing forward. You feel the fat, hot head of his cock notch between your folds, and your cunt clenches on instinct, greedy for the stretch about to come. But Matt’s cruel with his patience, and his pace is leisurely slow.
One of his hands finds the knot of your bound wrists and tightens his grip, using the tension to anchor himself.
He’s soaking in every detail. How your heat radiates off every cell of your skin; the fertile slick seeping out of you, perfuming the air so thickly he can taste it on his tongue. He can hear your heartbeat in your cunt, veins rushing with blood and fuck, he wants to ruin it, claim you with a violence that will leave no doubt in your body, least not in your womb. But even completely soaked, he knows your body needs time to adjust to him.
You whimper, pushing back to take control, but Matt holds you rooted in place. “Ah,” he tuts, clicking his tongue in disapproval. “You’re not getting it that easy, sweetheart. Patience, remember?”
“I literally just fucking came!”
He grits his teeth. The blunt crest of his cock presses into you, splitting you open and it knocks any trace of defiance from your mouth, bordering on too much but your pussy’s welcoming it, spasming around the overwhelming sensation as he fills you to the hilt.
“Oh fuck—” you gasp, “you’re so deep, Matt– Matt—”
“Yeah?” Voice almost cracking as he draws his hips back, only to thrust forward again with a punishing roll that has you keening. “I told you. So fucking tight. Jesus. Your pussy’s just pulling me in.”
Your body jolts with every thrust, each one driving deeper, testing the limits of what you can take. Every time he slams in, your cunt makes a wet humiliating sound and then the hand gripping your wrists slides up, pushing between your shoulder blades to shove you down hard into the mattress as his movements pick up. Fucking you in earnest, his cock drilling into your heat with a brutal, single-minded rhythm that has you whimpering, crying out his name.
“Listen to how wet you are,” he snarls, grabbing the round swell of your ass, “you want it as bad as I do. You smelled so fucking good all day, d’you know how hard it was for me? It was torture. So good with that baby— Gonna let me give you one? Make you mine? Do you want that, honey?”
“Yes–fuck–yes,” you’re panting, thighs trembling as the coil in your stomach tightens and tightens, “want it so bad, Matt, don’t stop–”
“Oh, I’m not stopping,” Matt growls, his chest pressing flush against your back. His breath is hot and wet in your ear. “How many kids do you want, honey? I’ll give you as many as you’ll let me. I’ll put one in you right now. Not gonna stop til I fill you up.”
The shift in angle forces a sob from you as he sinks even deeper, his cock grinding up deeper than before, hitting that unbearable bundle of nerves with a dense pressure that makes your vision blur at the edges. Your arms are still trapped between your bodies, they’re numb and aching but it feels so so good, getting fucked by your husband with abandon. Matt doesn’t falter; he’s fully over you, pinning you down with his full weight as his mouth finds the curve of your shoulder, teeth scraping the tender skin before biting down hard.
You cry out, pain-blinded. The sharpness slices clean through you and with the overwhelming heat, the stretch of him inside you—there it is, you come undone with a fractured sob, violent and searing. Your bound hands writhe uselessly, the bite on your shoulder singing as your vision whites out. Your ears ring, barely registering Matt’s voice swimming in and out of focus, calling you Good girl good girl… his hand petting your head, stroking your hair as your body shakes for him.
Then he’s pushing himself upright again, pulling out and rising to his knees behind you. His praises are still trailing out of him in soft whispers. One hand reaches for the belt at your wrists, tugging—your spine pulled upright by the motion. You whimper a breathy protest as your limbs stretch from disuse.
“You’re doing so well for me,” he praises, voice buttery and low. He sounds so sweet it makes your bruised core flutter, even now. His hands work at the leather binding behind you and finally, mercifully, you’re freed. But your body’s limp, shaking from the aftermath, and without the belt holding you up, you collapse forward like a puppet with its strings cut.
Matt chuckles. “Easy, baby.”
He eases you over onto your back carefully, slipping a pillow under your spine to support your sore back. He’s pressing kisses all over your cheeks— and his cock, still swollen and slick with your release, twitches at the salt clinging to his mouth. You’ve been crying.
“Poor thing,” he murmurs, brushing a knuckle along your jaw. “So sweet for me. Is my girl tired?”
You can barely say anything; you nod shakily. Your arms are tingling from the blood finally returning.
“And does she want to stop, hm?” A kiss to your cheek. “Does my sweet girl want to stop?”
You manage a small shake of your head.
A rough, pleased sound rumbles from his chest. “Good. That’s what I thought.”
The pins and needles in your arms are buzzing unpleasantly, but your cunt clenches at his voice anyway. You whine pitifully, and of course he hears.
“One more, alright, honey? Will you give me one more?”
Then he’s shifting, settling himself between your legs again. His hands wrap under your knees–thumbs pressing into the tender divots beneath the joints—and he presses them forward, toward your shoulders. Folded in half, you gasp at the stretch. Completely open beneath him, pinned by nothing but his weight, you shiver under the totality of his presence over you.
“This,” he murmurs, brushing a hand over your lower belly, “this is where our baby’s gonna grow, sweetheart. Right here.”
The blunt head of his cock nudges at your entrance and you’re so wet it slides through the mess of your arousal, teasing but not entering, just enough to make you sob.
“Matt—please—”
“Shh,” he soothes, lining himself up, pressing in. “There we go. So good for me, you’re taking it so well.”
This angle—God, it’s worse than before; better than it. Deeper, impossibly so, hitting places inside you you’ve never felt before, spots that send your nerves screaming. You sob helplessly as your body struggles to accommodate him, every thrust dragging against your walls, each ridge and vein of his cock felt completely.
“C’mon,” he pants as his movements pick up the pace, thrusts growing fast and erratic. “Gimme this one, sweetheart. Just one more for me, I promise.”
The bed protests beneath you, the frame rattling against the wall. The wet slap of skin fills the room, and just as you start to feel that sharpness creeping up again, something stupid occurs to you: you’re loud. Your screams, the creak of the bed, the sound of your cunt around him– the neighbors—
You turn your head, trying to muffle yourself against your arm.
Matt growls, yanking your arm down and at the same time, he pulls out nearly all the way—only to slam back in with bruising force, hard enough to knock all the breath from your lungs. You can’t stop the scream of his name torn from your throat.
“Matt— please, the neighbors—”
“No,” he snarls. “I’m your husband. I get to fuck you as loud as I want. You want this?”
You nod frantically, too breathless to answer.
His hand finds your throat, grasping firmly around the delicate column. He feels the hammer of your pulse against his palm, heavy and turbulent like a rushing flood. He tightens his grip just enough to feel it catch beneath his thumb. To him, it seems unmistakably perverse—this power to still you if he wanted. And yet your trust is entire, your faith in him unshaken.
“Then let them hear,” he says. “Let them hear what I do to my wife. Let them know how good I’m fucking her.”
A generous god, a present one. That’s what you’ve made him.
“Say my name,” he demands, voice rough, “want to feel it in your throat.”
“Matthew,” you choke out, completely helpless to his touch. Matthew, Matthew, Matthew…
It’s slipping. That darker thing inside him rising, coaxed loose by the mess of needy wetness where you’re connected. It wants to claim you and mark you, become His peer, one worthy of your devotion.
Have faith that it includes you, Matt.
He licks the salt from your neck. “Can feel how close you are.”
His hand leaves your throat and presses flat against your stomach, right above where his cock punches deep. The pressure of his cock bulging under his palm sends another wave through your body. The feeling at the pit of your gut’s starting to rapidly swell, acute and compounding by the second as he fucks you with the whole length of his cock.
“Feel that?” he rasps, pressing down harder. “That’s where m’gonna fill you. Right into your womb. And if it doesn’t take this time— I’ll fucking make sure it does the next. You won’t even have to lift a finger.”
Then his hand drops lower, to your cunt, gathering your creamy slick with his thumb to rub the swollen nub of your clit with.
“Come for me, sweetheart,” he says, the words strangled. “Come while I fuck my baby into you.”
You look down where you’re connected, where his cock sinks in and out of you, coated in slick and so much need and you break. Your walls seize around his length, body convulsing as your climax tears through you. You cry out, legs twitching and nails raking across the sheets. Above you, Matt groans with a guttural, broken sound. His hips drive forward once, twice—the head of his cock kissing the ripe seal of your womb, and then he’s coming, thick and hot, filling you with so much it leaks around his cock even as he keeps pumping deep as he can go. His sweat’s dripping onto you as he holds you tightly, arms trembling with the effort of staying upright. You twitch beneath him, aftershocks rolling still and he collapses onto you, pulsing with the last desperate pulses of cum from his cock.
Your body’s completely pliant, legs trembling even when he finally stills.
“Let gravity help,” he says, easing out gently. He slips the pillow from beneath your back and tucks it under your hips, before slumping beside you. You giggle weakly, nuzzling into his neck. Your sweet husband’s back, placing soft lingering kisses all over your face as his chest heaves from the earlier exertion.
“So,” you start, the haze starting to set, “can you really tell?”
“...Yes,” Matt admits. His voice is husky, warm with affection. “You smell different. And you’re warmer, just a little–”
“Smell different?! Do I stink or something?”
He laughs into your hair, arm pulling you in tight. “Sweetheart, I think we’ve established well enough that you smell absolutely beguiling to me.”
You roll your eyes, your finger tracing absent shapes on his chest. Heart, triangle, star. He hums at each one.
Smiley face. That earns a chuckle.
“Anyway, you weren’t half bad with Teddy either,” you muse thoughtfully. “I think you’d make an amazing dad.”
You opt not to tease him about the blush creeping up his cheeks.
“Matt.” You clear your throat. “You know, I really do want it, but… I just want you to know that I’m happy, even just now. And I’m not stupid, I know you could…,” you try not to say die, “...well, the worst could happen. Even then, I’d still want this life with you, whatever I can get. When we got married, I knew that would come with it, and– And if we do have a kid, if the future holds that for us, then it won’t just be us. We have Foggy and Karen and Marci, and my family, too. Takes a village and all that, y’know?”
You pause to catch your breath, Matt nodding you on.
“Point is, we’ll never be left alone, no matter what. I know that’s something you worry about a lot. So if– if something ever did happen to you…” You force yourself to say it, “we’d survive. We can keep living. But between surviving with you and without you, I’ll always choose with. So I’m asking you to let yourself have this. If you really want it. Just promise me you’ll be more careful.”
Have faith that it includes you.
He’s silent for a moment, his hand stroking gently at the slope of your arm.
“I promise,” he says at last, “I really do want it.”
He knows you know the rest. That’s all he can say, pressing a kiss to your temple. Thank you isn’t nearly enough, but it buzzes in his pulse anyway. Smiling faintly into your hair, he lets it stretch just long enough… Before the gravity of the moment slips from his shoulders, not all the way but just enough to let in that familiar, crooked grin.
“Oh, but you know, honey,” he murmurs, lips on your cheek, “you’re not pregnant yet.”
The laugh bubbles from your throat, and he can feel the sound against his skin.
“That was just round one.” His hand slides down to grip your thigh, and he feels you shiver. Perfect. “Let’s get to work then, Counselor.”
Prompt: After seven decades of being deprived of human touch, Bucky Barnes just doesn't know what to do with a good kiss.
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader
Word count: 1.1K
Notes / warnings: established relationship; making out; reader kisses Bucky exactly like that one kiss from Endings, Beginnings; touch-starved bucky barnes; involuntary climax (bucky cums in his pants); emotional vulnerability; not proofread; no use of y/n
Notes: just a small drabble that came to mind after @wintersoldiersgfie became obsessed with that ONE kiss from Frank in Endings, Beginnings. so this drabble is dedicated to her 💕
The quiet hum of the city outside your apartment window is a soft contrast to the rapid beat of Bucky’s heart beneath your palm. You can feel it, a frantic thrum against his ribs, as your fingers splay across the hard planes of his chest, the soft cotton of his black t-shirt a thin barrier. He’s all raw power and contained tension, but tonight, he’s yours in a way that feels intensely real.
You had been kissing for a while, a slow exploration that was steadily building into something more urgent. You have always been careful, Bucky—with the way you touched him, the way you kissed him—not because you thought you’d break him, but because you knew he deserved the respect. Allow him time to relearn things and grasp the ropes of intimacy in a way that isn’t rushed or pressured. Bucky Barnes is just a man in need of love, like everyone else; but loving him is different. Has to be.
His mouth is a revelation against yours—soft, never demanding, despite the desperate edge always under the surface. It’s present in his fingers clutching at your shirt (are you real?), in the soft whines he lets out when you pull back (don’t stop).
Your hands find purchase on the muscles of his back now, pulling him closer, molding your body against his until you can feel the impressive strength of him, the barely restrained power that always hums just beneath his skin.
The sheer novelty of it, for him, is palpable. Decades of forced isolation, of human touch that always came in the form of a violation or a command, have left him devoid of genuine intimacy. Dr. Raynor had once called it being touch starved. He hates the expression, every syllable of it, because starvation would mean he was being deprived of nourishment (or depriving himself), and that’s not true anymore. You are right here, in front of him, offering him everything. A heaven-sent gift to his life, dropped at his feet like he was deserving of it. Of you.
Every brush of your skin, every soft moan you let escape when his hands do something good on your body, is a jolt of overwhelming sensation he doesn’t quite know how to process. His body is a live wire, dangerously close to snapping, and you’re the never-ending flame.
You break the kiss for a breath, your forehead resting against his, eyes fluttering open to meet his own. They are dark and intense, a silent question lurking in their depths. “You okay?” you whisper, your thumb tracing the line of his jaw.
Bucky hates that you have to ask—but he doesn’t hate that you ask, because that’s just you being your perfect, caring self. He buries his face in the curve of your neck, inhaling your scent, a shiver running through him that has nothing to do with the temperature in the room. “Yeah,” he rasps, his voice rough. “‘m okay.”
You smile, then, before you curl your fingers in his hair and bring his face to meet yours so you can kiss him again.
This time, the kiss is heavier. More deliberate, like you’re willing to cross a line and see how far Bucky can handle it. You press your lips more firmly against his and then, a slow brush of your tongue. It’s soft at first, seeking invasion, intimacy that goes beyond simple desire.
For Bucky, it’s a rupture. The soft pressure, the warm probe of your tongue, the way it moves against his, mimicking a more primal act—it bypasses his conscious thought entirely. His breath stutters, and he clings harder to your shirt, leaning forward. You feel it, every movement, always on the lookout for any signs that he needs to stop or slow down, and you read it as a desire to keep going. To push forward.
Your tongue slides into his mouth, curling with his, wet and hot and open. It isn’t aggressive or threatening. But the full intimacy of it is too much—too overwhelming for a system starved for seven decades.
A wave of sensation that feels less sexual and more like an emotional lightning strike rips through him. He makes a choked sound—a sharp inhale that breaks the seal of the kiss—and his hands clench around you, one digging into your hair at the base of your skull, the other curled tight around the fabric of your shirt.
His body seizes, a violent tremor locking his muscles and racking through him.
Bucky pulls back, staggered, his eyes squeezed shut. His face was a mask of shock and searing mortification, the skin across his cheekbones flushing an angry red. He’s breathing in painful gasps, trying to force air into his lungs, but all he can register is the abrupt (and humiliating) wetness blossoming across the front of his trousers. No. Not now. Not like this.
Your eyes go wide with alarm at his reaction. "Bucky? What is it? Are you okay?"
He can’t speak. Just stares at you, his chest heaving, and then his eyes close briefly in utter defeat. The unmistakable warmth that spreads in his pants is the physical representation of the betrayal that screamed vulnerability. He’s supposed to be past this. He’s supposed to be fixed.
Bucky tries to turn his face, to pull away, but your hands are quicker and already resting on his cheeks, gently cupping them and holding him steady. Your eyes flicker between his face and his body, and the moment you understand, your gaze softens impossibly so.
“Hey,” you whisper with no judgment in your eyes, no disgust. Only warmth. Only ever warmth for him. “Buck. It’s okay.”
No explanation is needed. You know. You simply pull him closer, wrapping your arms around his neck, pressing his face into your shoulder. Bucky leans into the warmth of you, your steady heartbeat, the soft rustle of your hair against his ear. The fight leaves him. He’s a soldier, but also a man who has finally, involuntarily, found safety.
“I’m sorry,” he rasps, the words thick with shame.
“Bucky, no apologizing.” You shake your head slowly. “This is just… feeling everything at once. But that’s good. It’s okay to feel good. To let go." You murmur into his ear, your fingers gently stroking the short hair at his nape. "I’m happy it’s me. That you feel safe with me.”
Bucky doesn’t say anything. Tentatively, his arms come up, wrapping around you, holding you with a trembling grip. The heat of shame still lingers, but your quiet acceptance, your unwavering touch, is painstakingly washing it away. He might be a wreck, but you’re holding him like he’s everything.
“Decades of forced isolation, of human touch that always came in the form of a violation or a command, have left him devoid of genuine intimacy. Dr. Raynor had once called it being touch starved. He hates the expression, every syllable of it, because starvation would mean he was being deprived of nourishment (or depriving himself), and that’s not true anymore. You are right here, in front of him, offering him everything.”
the way you wrote this?? i need a minute. it says so much about where bucky is emotionally.
summary: birthday blues—everyone assumes you just don’t like celebrating your birthday, but it’s not the day itself that hurts. it’s the way it always passes. until him. a quiet night, a crooked cake, and the kind of love you didn’t know you were wishing for.
pairing: bucky barnes x fem!reader
warnings: 18+ MDNI, pre established relationship, angst (this is lowkey kinda depressing), emotional vulnerability, mentions of mental health, sadness/crying, brief mentions of loneliness and past neglect, intimacy, slow burn relationship elements, comfort, oral & fingering (f!receiving), p in v, use of a condom, slow sex, aftercare, happy ending, james buchanan barnes being my dream man.
wc: 5.2k
a/n: @/strangergraphics for the dividers. here's to my twenties :). if anyone out there is struggling, just know that it does get better. you are oh so loved and appreciated—NEVER forget that!
masterlist
The alarm goes off before the sun. That soft, hesitant moment before the world remembers it’s supposed to be loud. You lie there for a while, staring at the ceiling, trying to talk yourself into moving. The blankets are warm, the air is cool, and for a second, you almost convince yourself you can just stay here—pretend the day doesn’t matter. Pretend it’s not today.
Your birthday.
You say it to yourself like a fact, not a celebration. You don’t even whisper it, because saying it out loud feels heavier somehow. Just another Friday, you remind yourself. Nothing special. The same commute, same coffee, same everything.
You push yourself up, feet brushing against the cold floor. The apartment is quiet, too quiet, and the weight of that stillness presses against your chest. You go through the motions—shower, skincare, clothes that make you look a little more awake than you feel. You even swipe a bit of color across your lips, not for anyone else, just because sometimes pretending helps.
When you glance at your phone, there are a few notifications—a “happy birthday!” text from your mom, a quick “hope it’s a good one” from a coworker who probably saw the reminder on Facebook, and a meme from your best friend with too many confetti emojis. It should make you smile. But instead, you just feel the familiar sting in your throat, the one that always comes when people care but not quite enough to make the day feel full.
You put your phone face down on the counter and take a deep breath.
“It’s just another Friday,” you murmur, letting the words roll off your tongue like a mantra.
But your reflection in the mirror doesn’t look convinced.
By the time you finish brushing your teeth, the clock is already warning you that you’re running late. You grab your bag, the same one you’ve carried to work every day for months now, and lock the door behind you. Outside, the air is crisp. The kind of cool that almost feels kind, brushing against your skin as if to say you’re still here, you’re still breathing.
You get in your car, start the engine, and sit for a second. You look at the tiny birthday balloon keychain dangling from your rearview mirror—a gift from someone years ago, long before you stopped wanting reminders. It’s faded now, barely even colorful anymore. You think about taking it down, but your hand never quite reaches for it.
Traffic is slow. You sip your coffee at a red light, staring blankly ahead. It’s funny, you think, how birthdays used to mean something when you were a kid. You’d count down the days, stay up past midnight waiting for messages. Now, you just want it to pass quietly, like a wave that doesn’t break too hard.
By the time you park near work, you’ve built the armor you need—polite smiles, quiet tone, steady breathing. The world doesn’t stop because you’re a little sad. It never has.
Still, as you sit there, keys still in the ignition, your chest tightens for no real reason. You blink once, twice, trying to swallow it back down. But it’s there. That dull ache that creeps up your throat until your eyes start to sting.
You reach into your bag, pretending to rummage for something, but really, you’re just trying to keep yourself from falling apart in a parking lot.
It’s fine, you think. It’s fine.
Except your hands are trembling just a little.
You tell yourself you’re just tired. You stayed up too late scrolling. It’s not the day itself, not the memory of all the years where nothing really happened, where you smiled through people forgetting, through loneliness that doesn’t make sense when you technically aren’t alone.
You take one more deep breath, dab under your eyes, and whisper it again—“Just another Friday.”
Then you grab your things and head inside, the click of your shoes echoing down the hallway. You pass a few people, nod, smile, keep moving. One of them says, “Happy birthday!” with a grin, and you smile back because it’s easier that way.
“Thanks,” you say softly.
But when you reach your desk and finally sit, that smile fades as quickly as it came.
You stare at the computer screen for a while, the cursor blinking like it’s mocking you. Outside, the sun’s finally broken through the clouds, spilling light through the blinds. You lift your coffee cup, take a sip, and let the warmth distract you for a moment.
It’s only 9:12 a.m., and already, you’re counting the hours until you can go home.
The hours stretch out like they’re testing you. Every tick of the clock feels louder than usual, the kind that seeps into your skull until it’s all you can hear. You keep yourself busy—typing, sorting, replying, pretending—but it’s like trying to swim in a pool filled with sand. Everything’s heavy, slow, pointless.
A few coworkers pass your desk with polite smiles. One of them drops a quick “happy birthday” over their shoulder, another leaves a tiny cupcake wrapped in cling film beside your keyboard. You murmur a soft “thank you,” even though you don’t touch it. The frosting’s smudged and the candle’s broken, but it’s the thought that counts. Right?
Still, it doesn’t stick. Not the joy, not the warmth. Just the same hollow ache sitting right behind your ribs. You take small sips of coffee until it’s gone, then grab an energy drink around noon because your body feels like it’s running on fumes.
You tell yourself you should be grateful—and you are, in a detached sort of way. People mean well. They always do. But there’s a difference between being noticed and being celebrated, and you stopped expecting the second a long time ago.
When your phone buzzes, you reach for it without thinking.
bucky <3: How about a sleepover at mine tonight?
Your chest tightens with that familiar mix of affection and exhaustion. He doesn’t know what kind of day it’s been. He probably just misses you, wants to unwind after work together. And honestly, part of you wants that too. But another part… just wants to crawl under a blanket and disappear.
Still, saying no to Bucky feels impossible. You read the message again, thumb hovering over the keyboard. You can picture him already—soft grin, messy hair, probably scratching at his jaw as he waits for your reply.
You type back:
sure. want me to head over after work?
His response comes fast.
bucky <3: Sounds great, sweetheart.
You let out a quiet breath. The pet name warms something small inside you, even if the rest of you still feels cold.
The rest of the afternoon moves at a glacial pace. You get up to refill your water bottle, stare out the window at the parking lot below, scroll through your phone to kill time. The few birthday posts on social media make your stomach twist—everyone else out to dinner, surrounded by friends, with captions like “best birthday ever.”
You scroll past them quickly, guilt creeping up even though you don’t know why. You’re not jealous, exactly. Just… tired of pretending that the day means nothing when it actually does.
When your break’s over, you sit back down, chin propped on your hand. You glance at the clock every few minutes, counting down until you can leave. At one point, you think about texting Bucky to say you’re too tired, that maybe you’ll just see him tomorrow. But then you picture the look on his face if you bailed, and it makes your throat ache in a different way.
He’s been patient with you. Slow to push, careful with your space. He knows you get quiet sometimes, that you disappear into your own head. And somehow, he never makes you feel bad about it.
Maybe being with him tonight won’t be so bad. Maybe you just need something small, something steady.
By the time the clock hits five, you’re already halfway out the door. The moment the air hits your face, you feel the smallest flicker of relief. The kind that doesn’t fix anything, but loosens the edges enough to breathe.
The drive to Bucky’s is familiar—muscle memory by now. You could probably make it with your eyes closed. The streets blur past, the low hum of the radio filling the silence. You keep your hands steady on the wheel, watching the sun dip lower behind the skyline.
You pass a bakery on the corner, a bright pink banner in the window reading celebrate with us! and your stomach twists again. You almost laugh at how cruelly ironic that feels.
When you finally pull up outside Bucky’s building, you just sit there for a second, engine still running. The sky’s bruised with color, that hazy purple that always makes everything look softer than it really is. You check your reflection in the mirror, it's not terrible, not great. Just… you.
You grab your bag, shut off the car, and head inside.
Your footsteps echo down the hallway as you reach his door. Before you can even knock twice, it swings open.
And there he is—a messy, beautiful disaster of a man, standing barefoot in slacks and a white tank that’s seen better days.
“Hey, sweetheart,” he says, voice soft and warm, like it’s been waiting all day just to see you.
For the first time all day, you almost smile.
The door’s barely open before he’s ushering you inside, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. His hair’s a little messy—like he ran his hands through it too many times—and there’s a faint smear of sauce on his white tank top that immediately catches your eye.
You can’t help it; your gaze dips, and he notices.
“What?” he laughs, following your eyes down to the stain. “Yeah, yeah, I know. It’s been a long day.”
His voice carries that sheepish warmth that always manages to make your chest ache in the best way.
“You cooking?” you ask softly as you step inside, slipping off your shoes.
“Something like that,” he says, scratching the back of his neck. “Don’t expect anything fancy.”
The smell hits you then—garlic, butter, lemon—familiar and comforting. It seeps into your clothes, your hair, wrapping around you like a hug.
Bucky takes your bag from your shoulder without asking, hanging it up on the hook by the door. His movements are careful, almost automatic, and when he turns back to face you, his smile falters just a bit.
“You okay, doll?” he asks quietly, studying your face.
You nod before you even think about it, because that’s what you always do. “Yeah. Just tired.”
He doesn’t look convinced. His eyes linger, tracing the small cracks you thought you’d hidden so well.
Then, softly, “Happy birthday, babydoll.”
You blink. For a second, you think you’ve misheard him. “…You remembered?”
It comes out smaller than you mean it to—like a confession wrapped in disbelief.
Bucky’s brow furrows. “Of course I remembered. What, you think I’d forget?” He lets out a small laugh, but when he sees the look on your face, the sound fades.
“…Someone forgot?” he asks, voice quiet, like he already knows the answer.
You shrug, trying to play it off. “A lot of people do. It’s fine.”
He just stands there for a moment, staring at you like he’s been punched. Then, quietly, “That’s not fine.”
You open your mouth to say something, to argue, but the words don’t come. The only thing that does is that familiar burn in your eyes. You turn away, pretending to study the framed photo of Alpine on his wall just so he won’t see.
Bucky doesn’t push. He just steps closer, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating off him. “C’mere,” he murmurs, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. You melt into him before you can stop yourself, your forehead pressing into the solid weight of his chest.
He smells like soap and lemon and something faintly metallic, a mix that’s entirely him.
“Hey,” he says after a moment, his voice rumbling low against your ear. “You know what I did today?”
You shake your head.
“I wanted to do something special for my girl.” There’s a smile in his voice now, a small one. “Dinner’s on the stove, and… I made you a cake.”
You pull back just enough to look at him. “You made me a cake?!”
He laughs—that quiet, endearing sound that always tugs something loose in your chest. “Don’t sound so surprised. You deserve it.”
He winces a little, rubbing the back of his neck like he’s embarrassed as he makes his way to the kitchen. “It’s not the prettiest, though. I tried my best, I really did, but the icing went all weird, and it started mixing into the cake, and—”
“Bucky…” you interrupt softly, following him into the kitchen.
The words die on your tongue when you see it.
There it sits on the counter—lopsided, covered in uneven frosting, with a few balloons tied to a chair in the corner. The colors are a mix of your favorites, close enough that it’s obvious he tried.
You cover your mouth with your hand, the sound that comes out of you somewhere between a laugh and a sob.
“Bucky,” you whisper, voice breaking, “it’s beautiful.”
He huffs out a laugh, shaking his head. “I know what beauty looks like, sweet girl, and it’s not that cake.”
Your vision blurs before you can stop it. You bring your palms to your eyes, trying to blink the tears away. “I don’t remember the last time someone bought me a cake, let alone made me one.”
He’s in front of you before you can take another breath. One warm hand, one cool metal one, both closing gently around your wrists to lower them.
“Hey,” he murmurs, thumb brushing away the tear that’s already slipped down your cheek. “None of that now, okay?”
“I’m sorry,” you manage, voice trembling.
“Don’t be.” His tone is soft but steady. “You deserve to feel special. To feel loved. Don’t ever apologize for that.”
You don’t trust your voice enough to answer, so you just nod, leaning into his touch. He runs his thumb over your cheek and presses a kiss to your temple.
“Why don’t you go change into something comfy?” he says quietly, his lips brushing your skin. “I’ll fix you a plate of that pasta you like so much.”
“The lemon one?” you mumble into his chest.
“Yeah, babydoll. The lemon one.”
You can hear the smile in his voice.
You slip into his bedroom, pulling on a pair of his sweats and one of his shirts that hangs a little loose on you. It smells like him—detergent and warmth and a trace of cologne. By the time you return to the living room, he’s finished setting everything up.
The coffee table is covered with two steaming bowls of lemon pasta and chicken, two glasses of water, napkins folded neatly beside them. The floor in front of the couch is piled high with blankets and pillows, and the TV’s paused on the opening frame of your favorite movie.
Bucky looks up when you walk in, that soft, knowing smile curving his lips.
“Figured we could eat in here tonight,” he says, wiping his hands on a towel. “Got your favorite queued up. Plenty of blankets, too.”
Your throat tightens again, but this time, it’s for a different reason. “Thank you, Buck. This is… all so sweet.”
“Only the sweetest for my girl.”
You let out a small laugh, shaking your head. “You really didn’t have to go through all this.”
He grins, stepping closer. “I wanted to.”
And somehow, you believe him.
You settle down together on the floor, legs stretched out under a heap of blankets. The couch looms behind you like a soft wall, the coffee table between you cluttered with warmth—pasta, water, napkins, and the faint scent of lemon that hangs in the air. The lighting is dim except for the small lamp in the corner and the flicker from the TV. It feels quieter here, like the world outside doesn’t exist.
You pick up your fork and twirl a bit of pasta, taking a cautious bite. It’s good—not perfect, but comforting in the way only home-cooked meals can be.
“This is really good,” you say after a minute, the corners of your mouth lifting. “Like, really good.”
Bucky’s grin deepens, proud but pretending to be modest. “Well, I had a good reason to make it.”
“Mm,” you hum, “you always say that.”
He chuckles, setting his own bowl down and leaning back against the couch. “That’s because it’s always true.”
You try to look unimpressed, but the smile wins anyway. The movie starts to play—something you’ve both seen too many times, the dialogue already etched into your bones. Still, it’s easy to fall into it. The familiarity. The warmth. The weight of his thigh brushing yours now and then.
At one point, Alpine hops onto the couch, tail flicking lazily as she surveys her humans. You reach up to scratch behind her ears, and she rewards you with a quiet purr before curling up beside Bucky’s shoulder.
Halfway through the movie, you realize you’re actually laughing—the kind that bubbles out of you before you can think, light and real. Bucky glances at you then, soft and proud, like the sound itself is a gift.
You try to eat slowly, to stretch out the feeling, but eventually the bowls are empty. You lean back against the couch, full and relaxed in a way you haven’t been in a long time.
When Bucky stands, you think he’s just going to take the dishes to the sink. But instead, he disappears into the kitchen and returns a minute later with something glowing faintly in his hands.
The cake.
Crooked candles flickering unevenly across the lumpy frosting, the whole thing a mess of colors and love. You blink, swallowing down the sudden lump in your throat.
“Bucky…” you whisper.
He starts singing before you can stop him. Softly at first, almost shy, but steady—the tune you’ve heard your whole life, but never like this. Never in a voice that feels this warm, this full of care.
“…happy birthday to you…”
You press your hand to your mouth, trying not to cry again, but it’s useless. The tears come fast, quiet and hot down your cheeks as he finishes the song.
“…happy birthday, dear sweetheart…”
Even Alpine lets out a small, timely meow, like she’s joining in.
Bucky grins at that, eyes shining. “…happy birthday to you.”
He sets the cake down in front of you, candles still flickering. “Make a wish.”
You look at him—really look. The softness in his eyes, the easy way he’s holding himself, the little bits of frosting smudged on his wrist. You think about all the years you spent dreading this day. About the silence, the hollow moments that followed every time someone forgot. About how today started the same way, and somehow, ended here.
Your wish has already come true.
Still, you take a breath, close your eyes, and blow out the candles.
The room goes a little darker, but it doesn’t feel empty.
“Alright,” Bucky says, voice gentle again, “you’re the birthday girl, so you get the first slice.”
You laugh weakly, wiping your eyes with the back of your hand. “If you insist.”
He cuts a messy wedge of cake and slides it toward you on a plate. You take a bite, the sweetness flooding your mouth in an instant. The texture’s a little uneven, the frosting slightly salty in spots—but it’s still one of the best things you’ve ever tasted.
“This is really good,” you say, surprised by your own honesty.
He raises a brow. “You’re not just saying that, are you?”
“Not at all. The cake, the pasta… everything. You did so good, Buck.”
He shrugs, pretending not to care, but his cheeks pink a little. “I’m just glad you’re smiling again.”
You meet his eyes, your chest tightening with something warm and quiet. “You always make me feel safe,” you admit softly.
He doesn’t answer right away. Just reaches out, brushing a thumb under your chin until your eyes meet his. “That’s all I ever wanna do.”
You don’t even realize how close you’ve leaned until his breath fans across your cheek. The air shifts—not heavy, just charged with something tender. He dips his head a little, and you meet him halfway.
The kiss is soft, slow. Like both of you are afraid to break it too soon.
When you pull back, your forehead rests against his, and you can’t help the quiet laugh that escapes you. “Thank you,” you whisper.
“For what?”
“For this. For remembering. For caring.”
He tilts his head, eyes still closed. “You don’t have to thank me for loving you.”
And somehow, that’s the moment that undoes you again.
The credits roll softly on the TV, the glow from the screen casting lazy shadows across the blankets piled on the floor. You lean back against Bucky, your shoulder brushing his arm, and he rests his chin just above your head. Neither of you moves for a long moment—just breathing together, listening to Alpine stretch and purr softly nearby.
When the quiet finally feels full enough, Bucky shifts, brushing his fingers along your arm. “Think we should call it a night?” he murmurs, voice low, the kind of tired that comes from comfort.
You nod without turning your head, leaning further against him. “Yeah.”
He laughs softly. “Come on then,” he says, voice warm. He stands, offering you his hand. You take it, letting him pull you to your feet.
The blankets fall away beneath your toes as he guides you toward his bedroom. Your hands stay entwined, fingers curling together easily. Just before the door closes behind you, you glance back at the living room one last time—at the mess of blankets, plates, and balloons. It feels like a little world of its own, safe and whole.
Inside the bedroom, Bucky closes the door quietly behind you. The air is soft and warm, filled with the scent of him. You stop a step in front of the bed, looking up at him, and he leans down.
His lips find yours in a slow, tender kiss—the kind that feels like a promise. Your hands rise to rest against his chest, pulling him closer, and he responds by wrapping you in both arms. The kiss deepens just slightly before you both pull back, foreheads resting together, breathing mingling.
“Come on,” he murmurs, voice husky. “Let’s get you comfy.”
The dim glow of the bedside lamp casts soft shadows across the room, the only light left after a quiet night that felt like a secret just between you and Bucky. His lips find yours again, a gentle press that deepens into a slow, hungry kiss. Tongues slide together, tasting the faint sweetness of the cake you shared earlier. You sigh into his mouth, your fingers threading through his dark hair, tugging just enough to make him groan. The kiss breaks only when you both need air, but Bucky doesn't pull away. He nuzzles your jaw, lips brushing feather-light kisses along the sensitive skin there, sending shivers down your spine.
"Let me take care of you tonight," he whispers, voice rough with desire, his breath hot against your ear. The words wrap around you like a promise, and you nod, melting into him as his mouth trails to your neck. He sucks softly at your pulse point, teeth grazing just enough to make your breath hitch, but never marking—tonight is about tenderness, about making you feel cherished.
His hands move with deliberate slowness, fingers hooking under the hem of his shirt you borrowed. He pauses, eyes locking with yours in silent question. You lift your arms, giving permission, and he peels the fabric away, exposing your skin to the cool air. Bucky's gaze darkens with appreciation as he lowers his head to your chest, lips pressing open mouthed kisses over the swell of your breasts. He takes one nipple into his mouth, tongue swirling around the hardening peak, sucking gently while his hand cups the other, thumb rolling in sync. Pleasure sparks through you, warm and building, as he lavishes attention on each side, alternating until you're arching into him.
He doesn't rush. His kisses drift lower, mapping the curve of your stomach with reverent touches, tongue dipping into your navel before continuing down. Teasing flicks along your lower belly make you squirm, anticipation coiling tight in your core. Bucky's hands settle on your hips, thumbs stroking the waistband of his borrowed sweats. "Can I?" he murmurs, voice husky. You whisper a yes, and he eases them down your legs, along with your panties, leaving you bare before him.
Starting at your ankles, he kisses his way up—soft presses to the inside of your calf, lingering at the back of your knee where it makes you gasp. Higher still, along your thighs, his beard scraping deliciously against your skin. He teases the sensitive spots, nipping lightly at your inner thighs, so close to where you ache but not quite there. Your hands fist the sheets, breath coming in shallow pants as he finally parts your legs wider, settling between them.
Bucky's eyes meet yours one last time, full of heat and care, before he leans in. His tongue flattens against your pussy, licking a slow, broad stroke from your entrance to your clit. You moan, hips bucking slightly, and he steadies you with his flesh hand on your thigh. He works you with patience, lips sealing around your clit to suck gently while his tongue circles it in lazy patterns. His metal fingers—cool and firm—join in, one sliding through your folds to stroke along your entrance, dipping in just enough to tease before retreating. He knows exactly how you like it: the pressure building slow, his mouth alternating between lapping at your wetness and focusing on that bundle of nerves until your thighs tremble.
The first orgasm crashes over you like a warm wave, your body clenching as you cry out his name. Bucky doesn't stop, humming against you in encouragement, his finger now pushing inside, curling to hit that spot that makes stars burst behind your eyelids. He adds a second, thrusting in rhythm with his tongue, drawing out every aftershock until you're writhing, pleasure sharpening into something deeper. It builds again, faster this time, and you shatter around his fingers, walls pulsing as you come undone.
Only then does he crawl back up your body, capturing your lips in a deep kiss. You taste yourself on him, the intimacy making your heart swell. Bucky sheds his shirt, then his pants, kicking them aside. His cock springs free, hard and thick, and he grabs a condom from the nightstand, rolling it on with practiced ease. He positions himself at your entrance, rubbing the tip through your slick folds. “You ready sweetheart?”, he asks as you nod fervently. He pushes in slowly, inch by inch, letting you feel every stretch.
He fills you completely, pausing to let you adjust, forehead pressed to yours. Then he starts moving—long, deliberate thrusts that grind against you just right. "You're everything to me," he murmurs, voice breaking on the words as he kisses your temple. "So beautiful, so strong. I love you—every part of you. You deserve this, deserve to feel how much you're appreciated." His words weave through the pleasure, each one punctuating a roll of his hips, his hand interlacing with yours.
The pace stays unhurried, bodies moving in perfect sync, skin slick with sweat. Bucky's free hand roams, caressing your side, your breast, grounding you in the connection. Tension coils tighter, his breaths ragged against your ear as he whispers more—how he's grateful for you, how this night is yours, how he'll always be here. It pushes you both over the edge; your pussy clenches around him, pulling him deeper as you unravel together. He follows with a guttural groan, hips stuttering as he spills into the condom, holding you close through the waves.
You collapse in a tangle of limbs, Bucky pulling out gently before disposing of the condom and drawing you into his chest. His arms wrap around you, metal and flesh both warm now, as he presses a kiss to your hair. In the quiet afterglow, the world outside fades—it's just you, him, and this perfect, unspoken celebration.
Bucky shifts slightly, not wanting to let go but knowing you both need a moment to settle. “I’ll be right back, stay right here sweetheart,” he murmurs, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through his chest.
He heads to the ensuite bathroom—the sound of running water briefly hits your ears before shutting off. Bucky returns with a wash cloth in hand and he wipes you down with careful strokes—first your inner thighs, clearing away the remnants of your release, then gently between your legs, soothing the sensitive skin with feather light touches. The cool dampness contrasts with the heat lingering in your body, making you sigh in contentment as he tends to you like it's the most natural thing in the world.
Curled up against you, he traces lazy circles on your back with his fingers, the motion hypnotic. The quiet between you isn’t awkward—it’s soft, filled with the low hum of the city beyond the window.
“You know,” you murmur sleepily, “I really thought today was gonna suck.”
Bucky lets out a quiet laugh, the sound rumbling under your cheek. “Glad I could prove you wrong.”
You hum in response, already halfway to sleep. “You did.”
Once he’s satisfied you’re comfortable, he reaches for the edge of the blanket and pulls it up over you both, cocooning you in warmth. He shifts until your head finds the crook of his neck, legs brushing together, his hand still moving in slow, comforting circles across your back.
“You’re so special to me,” he whispers, his lips brushing your forehead, words soft and slurred with drowsiness. “The way you light up my world, how you make everything feel right… I don’t say it enough, but you mean everything.”
His metal fingers trace idle patterns along your arm, grounding you in the tenderness of the moment. You hum again, too relaxed to form words, your hand finding its place over his heart.
Outside, the city breathes—a distant siren, the hum of passing cars, wind brushing against the window. Inside, there’s only stillness.
Bucky presses one last kiss to your temple. “Happy birthday,” he murmurs, barely audible.
Your eyelids grow heavy as his breathing evens out, syncing with yours.
You don’t know what time it is when sleep finally claims you—only that, for once, your birthday didn’t end in loneliness. It ended here, wrapped in warmth, in soft hands and whispered words, in the quiet certainty of being loved.
Pairing: Boyfriend!Lee Bodecker x Girlfriend!Reader
Summary: You made cookies for the police station, but your boyfriend sneaks a few to make sure they are good.
Wordcount: 0.9k
Warnings: nothing but fluffy and clingy Lee
Authors Note: This man has me in chokehold and a place in my heart. I made some cookies and thought it could be fun to have Lee testing cookies. Huge thanks to @buckytakethewheel for beta reading.
Masterlist
The smell of pumpkin spice, cinnamon and vanilla fills the small house when Lee pushes the door to your shared home open.
His stomach grumbles the moment he takes in all the sweetness, his tongue darting out to lick across his lips.
“Sweetheart, ‘m home,” he says, pushing off his shoes and jacket before he makes his way further into the house.
Lee learned the hard way what happens when he dares to step into the house with his shoes still on — and he has no desire to clean the whole house, every corner and every dish again to show you he appreciates your hard work.
“In the kitchen, Lee,” you call out, pushing another tray of cookies into the oven.
Lee's heavy footsteps are audible when he makes his way through the hallway, the handcuffs on his belt jingling with every step he takes.
“Smells fuckin’ delicious,” he whispers as he brings both of his calloused hands to your waist to pull your smaller form into his thick chest.
You smile softly at your boyfriend, letting him pull you as close as he can. Your fingers brush his squishy tummy before you bring them up to curl around his neck.
The musky scent of him, mixed with a hint of alcohol and smoke fills your nostrils.
Months back you might have been worried that he was drinking during work, that he smoked but didn’t tell you. Because he was ashamed or maybe didn’t think it was your business to know.
But you learned pretty fast that all these thoughts were made up in your mind.
And even when you called him out because the smell was burning in your nose, he took his time to explain to you why exactly you will notice the alcohol and smoke smell on his uniform.
Lee notices the sharp inhale from you, knowing you hate the smell of the bar on him just as much as he hates it himself.
“‘M sorry, darlin’,” Lee whispers against your forehead, his plump lips pressing firmly against your soft skin. “Had to work at the bar all day, ain’t anyone with manners there.”
You bury your face further in his chest, assuring him that no matter how much you hate the stinking smoke, it will never overshadow the warmth he offers.
“But ya sweets smell amazin’, ya think I can sneak a few or do ya need them all for the station ‘morrow?” Lee asks, his eyes moving over your shoulder to the plates with cookies.
Cinnamon cookies. Pumpkin spice cookies.
All still juicy and warm, begging him to eat them all.
“Mhm,” you pretend to think about his question as you feel Lee’s finger moving to poke into your sides.
Before he can do so, you curl your fingers around his neck to squeeze slightly, owning a soft groan from your boyfriend.
“Please, jus’ one cookie, sweetheart,” he mutters, knowing the answer already. But as much as you, he loves the little game of cat and mouse.
You giggle, kissing the spot below his chin before you pull back slightly.
“I mean, I might need a tester,” you mutter, turning around to stalk over to the kitchen counter.
Instead of letting you go, Lee keeps his arms around your waist and follows you closely to the sweet treats - already waiting for him
“Sure ya need one, darling,” Lee confirms with a low chuckle, one of his thick hands already reaching out to grab one.
Just before his fingers touch the soft cookie your hand swats his away, making him whine quietly.
“If you start with these, you won’t be able to taste the others as good as you should,” you explain, pointing at another cookie with a less intense taste.
He sighs but does as he’s told, reaching for another cookie to stuff between his plump lips.
“Mhm!” He moans around the sweet, cinnamon dough in his mouth. “These are fuckin’ amazin’, sweetheart.”
Lee's already chewing on a second cookie when you hand him another sort. He hums softly, taking the one you offer.
Only when you're through almost every cookie, you offer him his favorite one - pumpkin spice cookies.
The moment his tongue connects with the sugary cookie he lets out an obscene moan. A moan that sends a jolt of electricity through your body and into your core.
“These are all amazing, but these,” he points at the pumpkin spice cookies. “Stay right where they are, ain’t sharing these, unless with ya, sweetheart.”
You giggle, leaning back into your boyfriend when he munches on a few more cookies.
“You know, there's still dinner I made,” you whisper, having his attention immediately. “But if you prefer those cookies, I'm gonna eat the—”
“Not a chance, sweetheart,” he grumbles, shoving the rest of the cookie between his lips as he happily chews. “But lemme shower first.”
You hum, his arms tightening around your waist as he lifts you up effortlessly and carries you out of the kitchen.
“Lee! I still have cookies in the oven,” you whine, trying to wiggle out of his grip to no avail.
His grasp is strong, holding you pressed against his soft belly when he carries you through the house and into the bathroom.
“We gonna hurry. A bit maybe,” he mutters, but you know damn well that his ‘hurry’ is taking his time with you, to enjoy your closeness and maybe even a certain tightness of yours. “Fine, gonna help ya bake some more after a good shower, sweetheart.”
Content Warning: 18+ (MDNI), smut, established relationship, oral (male receiving), swallowing, use of pet names.
A/N: Spent way too much time on this one. I apologize if it’s a mess. Divider by me. Event and prompts by @flufftober. Written and edited on my phone; any and all mistakes are my own.
Flufftober 2025 Masterlist || Previous || Next
Bucky sighs, body aching and head pounding as he enters the apartment, his eyes taking in the familiar surroundings as the door shuts behind him with a soft click.
The lights in the kitchen and a lamp in the living room are still on despite the late hour, bathing the open concept in a warm glow.
“Bucky!” you exclaim, popping up from the couch. A wide grin is plastered on your face as your gaze lands on him, a twinkle in your eye and a book half-read in your hand.
Despite how mentally and physically exhausted he is after a long day in Congress, just the sight of you always eases some of the tension harbored in his shoulders.
Removing his suit coat and draping it on the back of a bar stool, he slowly makes his way over to the living room, loosening his tie as he goes. You place your book on the side table and practically bounce over to him, meeting him halfway, and wrap your arms around his neck.
“Hey, sweetheart,” Bucky says tiredly before kissing you softly, his hands finding your waist. His thumbs rub absentminded circles on the fabric of your shirt as you pull him into a hug, and he takes the opportunity to nuzzle into your hair, inhaling the familiar scent of your shampoo.
“How was your day?”
He lets out a low groan in response, his brain too frazzled from meeting upon meeting to respond with words.
Per usual, Bucky had barely gotten a break today, forcing down not much more than a stale coffee and a fun-sized bag of chips for lunch.
You snicker, knowing that was likely how he'd react. “Come on, take a load off.” Your small hands find the silk tie still dangling around his neck and begin tugging him towards the couch.
He’s too tired to fight it, so he lets you guide him to the living room, your hand pressing gently on his shoulder until he sits down. Bucky can feel himself practically melting into the cushions, grateful for the comfort after such a long day. His eyes drift shut as a sigh escapes his lips, shoulders slumping.
“Have you eaten anything?” you ask, though the answer is probably the same as every other night—no. He shakes his head. You don't even hesitate, bounding back to the kitchen, likely in search of something quick and easy.
It's several minutes before you come back, a large paper plate of two sandwiches piled high with his favorites—salami, ham, provolone. Two plums are squeezed into the remaining crevices of the plate, and a cold beer is in your other hand, already opened. A single eye peeks open as he hears you approach, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips.
“You're too good to me,” he mumbles, reaching out and taking the offerings. You just smile and move back behind the couch to massage his shoulders as he begins to eat.
The first sandwich is practically inhaled, the mixed flavors of meat, mayonnaise, mustard—was that oregano?—bursting on his tongue with every bite as you once again ask him questions about his day, all while kneading at the large knots in his muscles.
He grunts short responses as your fingers gently and slowly move up his neck and into his hair just as he bites into a plum.
Bucky’s eyes close and his head falls forward in contentment as you go, your nails scratching just enough against his scalp to give him goosebumps.
“Did you get enough to eat?” you ask softly, the plate now sitting on the side table completely empty aside from the discarded pits of the fruit.
He simply hums a yes, feeling full and happy—or at least as happy as he can knowing he'll be back at it again in just a few short hours.
You finally make your way back to the front of the couch and plop down next to him, the cushions bouncing slightly.
Without hesitation, Bucky pulls you into his warm side, your head immediately tucking between his shoulder and chin. Your skin is soft under his palm, a little cool from the ceiling fan spinning overhead.
Several minutes pass like this, sitting in comfortable silence in the dim light of the living room, warmth radiating from him. You snuggle in just a bit closer.
He adjusts the tilt of his head to look at your face, a small, tired smile tugging at his lips.
“Thank you, baby,” he whispers. “For everything.” You return the smile, leaning up and pressing a trail of soft kisses from his jaw, to his cheek, and finally his lips.
“Of course, Buck,” you reply as you pull back, smiling at him. The look in your eyes makes his heart stutter, reminding him just how good his life has become.
The way you take care of him, never complaining and never asking for anything in return.
Even when he comes home at nearly midnight most nights.
Even when he's battered and bruised from a mission with the New Avengers.
Even when he's in pain, his phantom limb aching and making him beyond irritable.
You're always there, a smile on your face, ready to help in any way you can. How did he get so lucky?
His eyes drift shut again, exhaustion taking over despite his still rigid body.
Silence stretches once more before you speak up again.
“Bucky, you’re still so tense.” A single finger traces absentminded patterns along his wrinkled white shirt. “You gotta relax more.” All he can do is grunt in response as your fingers begin to play with the fabric of his tie.
In an attempt to help him relax—and maybe for your own gratification—you shift on the couch until you're straddling him.
The act surprises him, and Bucky’s eyes reopen just enough to see you smirking at him as his hands mindlessly land on your waist. The coolness of the vibranium hand seeps through the fabric, a stark contrast to the heat rolling off him and sending shivers up your spine.
Without a word, you lean forward and place a feather-light kiss to his lips, carefully trailing to his jaw and down to his neck.
One hand slides back into his hair, gently tugging on the strands and eliciting a moan from deep in his chest as the other rests firmly on his shoulder.
You shift slightly in his lap, and the effect you have on him suddenly becomes very evident through his slacks.
He groans when you roll your hips, his grip on your waist tightening. Smirking against his neck, the hand on his shoulder slowly slides down between your bodies and finally stops at his belt buckle.
“Baby—” he starts.
“Let me take care of you,” you mumble against his neck. “You work so hard.”
“Honey,” he starts again, voice low as he watches you slip off his lap and onto your knees, positioning yourself between his already spread legs. “You really don't have to.”
“Of course I don't have to. I want to.”
He takes a deep breath. You look happy—eager, even—eyes sparkling in the light like it wasn’t late. Like you hadn’t been waiting for him to get home, fighting off sleep to ensure he was taken care of.
He nods once. Your hands make quick work of his belt and zipper, carefully removing his already hard length from the confines of his slacks.
He can't help but watch as you slowly stroke his cock, a bead of precum already glistening on the tip.
Licking your lips, your eyes trail up to meet his. His pupils are blown wide as he watches you, your breath fanning across the swollen head and making his dick twitch in the soft palm of your hand.
You smile—one that's usually sweet and innocent, but in the context it just makes him even harder, his breath catching in his throat.
Then, without another moment to lose, you finally lean forward and lick a wet stripe from base to tip with the flat of your tongue.
His head falls back onto the couch cushion with a guttural moan, his eyes fluttering closed yet again as he feels your warm lips wrap around his throbbing cock.
“Fuck, baby, you feel so good,” he groans. You hum in response, sending a jolt of pleasure through his body as your head bobs slowly on his length.
His metal hand reaches out and tangles in your hair—not pressuring you, simply grounding himself in the moment.
He lifts his head again to watch you; the sight of your soft, plump lips wrapped around him making his stomach flip.
The sound of his moans fill the room as you work, running your tongue along the underside again before taking him back in with hollowed cheeks. Saliva starts to run down your chin and hand, and Bucky can feel himself reaching the edge quickly.
The moment your eyes meet his, wet tongue teasing the swollen tip, he knows he’s a goner.
“Shit, I’m not gonna last,” he groans, his eyes not leaving your mouth now. You pick up speed, closing your eyes as you take him deeper into your mouth while your hand assists in the effort.
His hips buck involuntarily towards you, tip hitting the back of your throat as he chases the oncoming high. Suddenly, his cock twitches, body going rigid as waves of pleasure crash over him.
He gasps as hot, thick ropes of cum spill out of him in spurts, but you're completely unfazed. You don’t stop, sucking on every last drop he gives you before swallowing.
Bucky groans, his head falling back onto the cushion as his stares up at the fan spinning in lazy circles. He’s panting now, vibranium fingers still tangled in your hair.
You slowly release him, wiping the spit off your face with the back of your hand. “Feel better?” You're still on your knees in front of him with a wicked grin plastered on your face.
He finally glances down at you again, a smirk growing on his lips. “Yes. But you know what would make me feel even better?”
Your brows furrow slightly, head tilting in a silent question.
“Letting me return the favor,” he rasps.
You bite your lip. “Think you have the energy for that, Congressman?”
Thy Bones To Break Teaser Below; Stan-O-Ween Entry
Malice laces your voice as you continue, "So why do you treat me like the most horrible nightmare?"
He glances above your head; the vast skyline stretches out behind you, heavy yellow moon peering back at him.
His eyes drift down to you, face sullen as you peer at him, through him. The moon illuminating you like a specter, sheer fabric dripping down your body like spider's silk. Your hair, loose, spills over your shoulder onto the pillows below you, creating an image that even baroque painters couldn't muster.
"I- I am sorry, I must retire, my bed awaits." he nods, hand gripping the door handle like a lifeline.
Your eyebrows are pulled together by the strings of your heart, "You are… inexplicable. Here I lie in my nightdress, begging for you to love me, and all you have to say for yourself is, I am sorry?"
His back is turned to you; the large surface could span miles. Shoulders like the rolling hills Colldun Manor sat upon. He is built out of this place, his mind sewn into the delicate fabric that holds the walls to the floorboards, the floorboards to the foundation, and the foundation to the mossy ruins underneath it.
With breath ragged and unpaced, he begins to turn toward you. Strained knuckles slowly peeling themselves away from the doorknob as a silence falls over the room.
You sit up, gauze meeting his once again, and something is different; his eyes have turned cold. The warmth of his sea-blue irises is now foreign, replaced with a primal hunger. Bucky's eyes follow as you squirm under their weight. He stands motionless, head cocked as he continues to pin you under his gaze.
Goosebumps rise to the surface of your skin as he approaches the bed unhurried.
"You have no idea what is at stake, little dove, now do you?"
Mecca’s Notes ⭑.ᐟ
I ACTUALLY DID THE SHIT RIGHT THIS TIME EVERYONE CHEER!!!! I'm also uploading from the pooder so hopefully they don't fry my photos to bits. I am so very proud of how this piece is coming along and it’s truly giving me the motivation (along with my STA peeps encouragement) to continue on!! Hope you enjoy what I’ve left for you. Sleep tight. Don’t let unknown supernatural forces bite! MWAH! :}
Summary: He brings home a girl, and as happy as you want to be for him, you still feel hurt that it’s not you he wants. Right?
Wordcount: 2.6k
Warnings: hurt/comfort, thinking of unrequited love, idiots in love, mutual pining, fluff
Authors Note: Shout out to @buckytakethewheel for beta reading. Divider made by @/saradika-graphics. Turn on notifications for @sebs-babygirl-notifies for updates. Lemme know your thoughts.
Masterlist
The muffled voices of Bucky and the girl clinging to his arm come through the speaker of your phone. The music in the background almost overshadowing their soft words.
But you catch them.
Every sweet word. Every loving gesture. The softness in Bucky’s eyes when he watches the girl.
Your heart aches, cracking piece by piece while you watch his Instagram story. He looks happy, and you should be happy for him.
But you can’t.
No matter how hard you try, you can’t be happy for him as long as your soul craves him. As long as your heart beats faster around him. And your belly swoops at his soft smile.
His brown locks fall into his face, framing his warm features.
The girl brings her hand up to his cheek, brushing some of his soft strands out of his face and behind his ear.
His eyes soften even more when he looks at her, he laughs—wholeheartedly and real.
A single tear escapes your eye when you watch them further.
How much you wish to be her. To feel his hands on you, his lips against yours.
But you’re not her, you will never be her. Never enough for him.
However, you're not even sure who she is, how he met her or what he feels for her. You only saw a few Instagram strokes with her before.
They are always so close, so soft with one another. She’s one of the few people who make his eyes soften, his smile widen and the blue in his eyes lighter than usual.
You turn off your phone, pushing it to the side before you can get lost in the depth of their accounts. It wouldn't help the ache in your chest, it wouldn’t change the fact that he’s not yours.
With a soft sigh you lean back into the pillows on the couch. They smell like him, like almost everything in your shared apartment.
Falling in love wasn't in the contract when the two of you moved in together. You didn't even plan to, but somehow, you just fell in love with him.
Maybe it was the way he swayed to the living room after the prom, giggling and falling over everything standing in his way.
He was tipsy, maybe even more than a bit tipsy. But he made it look so funny, laughing at everything that made him stumble.
And even when he landed on the ground with a low thud, he only laughed, rolling himself back and forth on the ground before he fell asleep — ass up, head down, snoring onto the rugged floor.
Or maybe you fell in love while you watched him preparing breakfast for the two of you. Always coming up with new things to try, even if it was a form for pancakes or some weird mixture that landed on your plate.
You're not sure, but here you are. Heart clenching at the thought of another girl making him happy—making him feel loved and cared for.
Another deep sigh escapes your lips, reaching out for the remote before you get interrupted by the bright smile of Bucky on your phone screen.
A message. From him. For you.
For a moment you consider ignoring it. At least for a moment so it doesn't look like you're pathetically waiting for him to text you.
But your curiosity wins, you grasp your phone instead of the remote and tap on his chat.
Buck: Are you home, babydoll?
You swallow thickly, the nickname means so much to you and yet it looks like it means nothing to him.
It’s a nickname. Nothing much.
He's called you that since like forever. It started with doll, you were his doll. And then, when he didn’t think the name sounded cute enough for his sweet girl, he changed the nickname to babydoll.
You: Yep, you wanna bring someone home?
You: I can ask friends to go out. Or maybe lock myself in my room if it's what you asked for.
Bucky immediately reads the message, probably because he can’t wait to get home with the girl. The three dots that show you he’s writing a message.
Your roommate often reads and texts back like he’s impatiently waiting for your texts. But he isn’t, you know he isn’t.
He has a girl. One that makes him happy and fulfills all his desires, or so you hope.
Buck: No need. I would love to introduce someone to you.
You swallow thickly.
Amazing.
The guy you’re in love with brings home his girlfriend to introduce to you. You reply with a short thumbs up emoji, not sure what else to text.
Telling him you’re happy would be a lie. And to tell him you don’t want to meet his girlfriend would only cause trouble and you're in no need to tell him why you aren’t in the mood to get to know her.
You growl quietly, looking around to make sure there’s nothing laying around. Not a pair of boxer briefs of Bucky or a bra of yours because it was in the washing machine.
Only one of his sweatpants is thrown over the armrest of the couch, not really necessary to put away.
So you lean back and turn on the television, trying to get some distraction before Bucky stumbles into the apartment with the girl by his side.
To your surprise it doesn't take them long, you thought they would have a few more drinks or bring home some friends, but it looks like they went straight to your shared apartment.
Really amazing.
Bucky’s voice is audible first when he pushes the door open, his laughter follows and you can feel your stomach tighten.
Act cool. Act happy. Just smile and then it’s fine. It's what you try to tell yourself as you get up from the couch to greet him.
The girl walks into the hallway first, she’s beautiful. She wears a long dress and you can only imagine how much Bucky drools over her.
“Babydoll!” Bucky says loudly, his grin widens when he watches you walk out of the living room. You stop in the doorframe as Bucky pushes the girl further into your apartment. “Hi!”
“Hey,” you mutter, nodding at him with a smile.
Your head turns to the woman standing next to Bucky, she smiles sweetly. Way too sweet for your liking.
Be happy for him.
“This is Becca,” Bucky tells you excitedly, his strong arm wrapping around her waist to pull her into his side.
You smile at her, introducing yourself to Becca.
“Do you want a drink?” Bucky asks, already turning to the kitchen when you both nod at his question.
“Come in,” you say, forcing a smile onto your lips as you step into the living room to let her in too.
She follows, looking around the room. She inspects a few pictures of you and Bucky, before she points at one with a wide smile.
“Oh, he really framed that picture,” she giggles, showing a picture with Bucky half-drunken and a doughnut on his nose.
“He’s proud of it,” you chuckle, taking a closer look even though you know the picture better than anyone else does.
As much as you want to hate her, she isn’t as bad as you thought. Bucky really has a good taste in women, even when it means he’s with someone who isn’t you.
“Bet he is, silly boy,” she mutters and you nod in agreement, plopping down on the couch.
She takes a seat next to you, not too close to invade your space but close enough so Bucky can’t fit in between on the couch.
“He told me a whole lot about you, glad we can finally meet,” she tells you, her eyes holding so much softness that you can’t bring yourself to not like her.
“I hope only good things,” you laugh, turning your head to the door when Bucky grumbles something in the kitchen.
“Even as a kid he used to mumble to himself, mostly when he got frustrated,” Becca says before she notices that she forgot to answer your earlier question. “And of course only good stuff he told me.”
You chuckle and nod, glad that he at least dates girls that like you.
But it doesn't help the sting you feel.
“So! Orange juice for you,” he hands Becca the glass before he hands you a mixed drink, without alcohol.
You take the glass and take a sip, watching Bucky walk around the table to sit on the other side of the couch.
“So whatcha talking about?” He asks, tilting his head like a sweet little puppy.
“Oh, I only told her about that time when you were a kid when you shit—” Becca starts, getting interrupted by Bucky’s hand pressing on her mouth and the other on the back of her head.
“No! She doesn’t- don’t you dare,” Bucky mutters, his cheeks heating up as he searches your eyes.
Becca laughs behind his hand, throwing her head back and somehow it reminds you so much of Bucky.
It’s sweet, surely they fit together so well.
You get off the couch, ignoring their surprised expression when they are watching you.
“S-sorry just thought of some snacks," you mutter moving out of the room.
The moment you step into the kitchen you take a deep breath, running a hand down your face as you look at the countertop.
After a few more deep breaths you fill a few bowls with different snacks, before collecting them on a big plate to carry them to the living room.
“I didn’t tell her about the diaper accident. Neither did I tell her about your feelings,” Becca’s voice comes from the living room.
You didn’t mean to listen to their conversation but her words spark your curiosity.
His feelings?
“Don’t wanna lose what we have,” Bucky’s voice, rough and full of emotion follows.
“If you don’t tell her, someone else will take their chance and you will hate yourself. If the way she looks at you shows half the feelings she has for you, she’s just as head over heels in love with you,” she says, as she scoots on the couch to the place where you sat before, Bucky follows wanting to keep the conversation quiet.
You wait a moment before you walk back into the living room, Bucky’s head shoots up, his eyes widen and lips slightly parted.
“Sorry, uhm, did I interrupt?” You mutter, placing the snacks on the table.
Becca shakes her head. “Don't worry I was wondering if I could crash in Bucky's bed.”
You smile, even though your heart breaks a tiny bit. You thought you could do some movie night, but you're pretty sure Bucky wants to go to bed with her now.
“Sure, ya know where the stuff is. Bathroom is opposite here. Sleep well, love you,” Bucky says, pressing a kiss to her forehead as he gets up and leaves the living room.
The whole conversation before you walked into the room wasn't about you, was it? They might have talked about some series or advice for anyone.
But for some reason Bucky doesn’t want to go to his room with her.
“Don't you want to join her?” You ask, plopping down next to Bucky on the couch.
He shakes his head, reaching for your favorite snacks and places them between the two of you.
“Nah, you wanted to watch a movie, plus I'm gonna sleep on the couch tonight anyway," he explains, handing you the remote.
“On the couch?” You wonder, earning a nod from Bucky.
“Yeah, don’t think she appreciates me snoring into her ear,” Bucky laughs, making you giggle softly.
You never mind when you cuddle on the couch and he snores into your ear. It’s not the loud kind of snoring but more soft ones that make him even cuter than he already is.
Bucky wraps his hand around your shoulders, pulling you into his side. Your body tenses slightly, what if Becca walks in and sees the two of you like that?
“Buck, I don’t think we should-” you interrupt yourself at his confused expression, his thick fingers tighten around your shoulders to pull you even closer against his firm chest.
“What shouldn’t we do?” He asks, his blue eyes narrowing as he watches your expression carefully. “Don’t like cuddling tonight?”
“It's not it.”
Your voice is barely above a whisper, how can you explain to him that you don't want to be so close to him when his girl sleeps in the next room. How can you tell him that you crave him but he can't just cuddle you when he’s in a relationship.
“I don’t think Becca would appreciate it,” you mutter when he keeps watching you with that soft furrow between his brows.
“What? Becca wouldn't appreciate it?” He asks more to himself than to you. “Did she say anything? Babydoll, I'm sorry if she hurt you with anything she—”
You shake your head, leaning it against his shoulder. “But I don't think she appreciates it when we cuddle. You're with her, Buck.”
He makes a weird sound, something between a huff and a growl or anything. You're not sure, you have never heard a noise like that before.
“You think— We,” he laughs, his head throwing back as his rough laughter fills the room. “Babydoll, we don’t. We aren’t a thing. Becca, short for Rebecca, I call her Bec’s usually when we talk.”
You freeze.
Rebecca. Bec’s.
Becca isn’t a strange woman, not even to you.
“Your sister!” You say your thoughts out loud, ready to facepalm. “Oh- Buck, I'm sorry.”
Bucky chuckles, pressing a kiss to the side of your head before he leans back again.
“Oh, babydoll. You watched my Instagram story! And you were hurt, and yet you were still so nice to her, why?” Bucky mutters, reading you like a book.
Sometimes you hate that he can do this. But sometimes you also love that he can read you so perfectly.
“Mhm, you looked so happy. I thought you were happy with her,” you say quietly. “And if she makes you happy, then I would be happy for you too.”
“Babydoll,” Bucky whispers, sitting up to capture your face with his thick hands. “It’s not her I want. It's no one other than you I want. But I didn't want to ruin our friendship. But- I love you.”
The words echo in your head.
He loves you. You!
“You what?” You ask, eyes widen as you watch his smirk growing om his face.
“I.” He whispers, pressing his lips against your forehead. “Love.” He mutters pressing another kiss to the tip of your nose. “You.”
Before he breaks the distance between your lips he waits for your reaction, taking in the way your pupils grow, your lips part and your tongue darts out to trace the softness of your lips.
“I love you, too,” you mutter, leaning closer to press your lips against his plump ones.
Bucky doesn’t need another moment to kiss you back, his tongue tracing over your lips. It’s not heated, not rushed but slow and soft.
“Do you really want to sleep on the couch, I might be nice enough to offer you a bit of my bed,” you giggle before kissing him again.
“Of course you would, babydoll. But let’s watch a movie before we get to bed,” he whispers, peppering kisses all over your face.
He pushes you to lay back, his heavy body on top of yours before he turns the two of you and has you laying on top of him. Then owl with your sweets shattering down and making both of you laugh in amusement.
