sorry for party rockin'

hi i made this blog bc i wanted to start reblogging fics, uhhhhh NSFW at times minors stay away!!!, this is technically a fic rec blog, I made it so I could reblog my favorite y/n fics without worry but sometimes i forget to switch blogs so you might see the occasional supernatural post (very rare)

[amourcheol]

the great war

❝Because the greatest war Seungcheol had ever waged was against your heart.❞

historical! au | enemies to lovers! au | smut, fluff | 41k words

s u m m a r y : there was only one thing you hated more than your restricted life, and that was choi seungcheol—the greatest venetian general who has ever lived. when a marriage is arranged between the two of you, you were sure it would end in bloodshed. however, as you and seungcheol are forced to attend balls and share a few hard truths, you realise you have more in common with the mysterious general than you thought.

c o n t e n t : military commander! seungcheol, noblewoman! artist! mc, artist! minghao, artist! soonyoung who are both annoying (affectionate), cheol and mc absolutely hate each other because i need to see proper e2l, cheol has a scar on his lip (yes this needs a separate warning), this is set in renaissance venice so there will be many artist references, the doge = basically ruler of venice, themes of sexism, constant arguing between mc and cheol, there is fluff, also angst mature warnings -> tons of sexual tension, making out fuelled by hatred, cheol calls you carrissima (which personally i find very hot) fingering, oral sex (f. receiving), unprotected sex (only because medieval contraception is horrendous), petnames cheol says some vile things during the deed, slight corruption kink

p l a y l i s t : dangerous woman by ariana grande || war of the hearts by sade || love is stronger than pride by sade || i don’t understand but i luv u by seventeen

t a g l i s t : at the bottom of the fic!

a u t h o r ’ s  n o t e : hi hello thank you everyone for waiting for this monster fic!! thank you alice and addy for being the reason i finished this fic, thank you chia for creating a beautiful picture of general! cheol, and greatest thanks to choi seungcheol the man you are </3 i hope you all enjoy this fic as much as i enjoyed writing it <33

WHEN THE VENETIAN REPUBLIC DEFEATED THE OTTOMANS ONCE AND FOR ALL, EVERY CITIZEN—BE IT PEASANT OR THE RICHEST ARISTOCRAT—KNEW WHO WAS BEHIND THAT VICTORY.

His name sparked life into the deathly, cramped streets. Whispers and cheers carried along the murky lakes, the rushed streams underneath the city, lapping up to the cobblestoned shore—entering the ears of marketeers, patricians, nuns, prostitutes, everyone. Wherever one went, the commander’s name rang like the dozen church bells, scattered throughout the lake-locked lands.

The buzz in the air was more frantic this afternoon, though, because the victors’ party was finally returning to the state.

Finally returning home.

You, despite your family’s excitement, despite your connections to the man behind the success of it all, could not have cared less.

Keep reading

[godmadeaterribleerror]

Louder Than Fear

Main Masterlist - Bucky Masterlist

Read on A03!

Tags: Bucky Barnes/Female Reader, smut (p in v, oral both receiving), light angst, sex pollen, no use of y/n

Summary/Warnings: Missions involving Hydra often go very wrong. This is different. This is worse. This is a strange bioweapon, nobody telling you exactly what's wrong, and staring at the ceiling as Bucky roars you name. It's echoing in your brain. And you love him.

So you have to fix this.

Author's Note: Sudden rush of Bucky content is doing nothing but feeding my preexisting addiction. Enjoy the result of that!

Word Count: 8.5k

It’s not technically babysitting duty. On paper it’s called monitoring and mediating. Ensuring agents do not get off track or engage in unprofessional actives.

On paper, you were supposed to be waiting in the car. But then Sam had started whining about being put on surveillance duty like he was a five-year-old, and you’d ended up walking them through the forest so he’d have company. Then Steve had pointed out that you’d be best at actually finding the target, and you’d ended up fifty feet underground in a Hydra bunker. 

And he’d been right, you would be, but that wasn’t supposed to be your job. 

You were supposed to be waiting in the car, monitoring and mediating. 

If they’d just let you wait in the car, everything might have been fine. Bucky wouldn’t be strapped to the jet seat with his eyes squeezed tight, Steve wouldn’t be standing between you for reasons you don’t really understand, and Sam wouldn’t be on strict say one word and get stabbed orders.

You shouldn’t have gone into the bunker. 

You shouldn’t have gotten distracted in the bunker.

“I just don’t see how this is a useful conversation-“

“You don’t need to see how it’s useful, Cap, you just need to accept that when it comes to pop culture, I’m always gonna be right-“

“But you’re starting from an advantage, it’s not a level playing field-“

Sam had laughed in your ear, and the sound was a little scratchy and static. “This isn’t a war, there doesn’t need to be a level playing field-“

“Well, once Bucky and I catch up on 21st century media-“

“Bucky isn’t catching up on shit, isn’t that right buddy-“

Steve had stopped in the middle of the hallway, and you’d almost slammed right into his back, stopped only by an impossibly strong, cool arm had wrapping around your waist and pulling you back right before the collision.

You’d leaned back to see Bucky still scanning around the dark hallway as he supported your body, he’d smelled so good, and it had been an effort to focus on Sam and Steve’s conversation.

“That’s rude, Sam-“

“I’m not insulting him.” You’d been able to picture the shit-eating grin on Sam’s face. “I’m just pointing out that the last time we tried to watch a movie, Bucky got mad at the CGI-“

“It was stupid.” Bucky had muttered, frowning at the air around him “Movies didn’t need to be doing so much.”

You’d mouthed along to his words—you’ve heard them before, and you’ll likely hear them again—and when you’d caught his eye, you’d thrown him a winning smile that just made him roll his eyes.

He’d still been holding onto you, even though you’d long regained your balance.

You were almost certain you’d seen his mouth twitch slightly in the dark. 

“Then we’ll find some other movies, Buck, and-” 

Steve had turned around to raise his brows at Bucky, but ended up doing a slight double take at the sight of you. Pressed tight to Bucky’s chest, his arm around your stomach, your eyes wide on Steve’s, and Bucky continuing to monitor the incredibly empty hall.

“I- uh-“ You’d been pretty sure Steve was blushing, and he’d definitely been stumbling over his words. “I can- I’m just gonna turn around-“

“Why?” Sam’s voice had been a little too loud and eager in your ear. “What’s going on? Are they making-“

“I fell.” You’d mumbled, your voice a little frantic. “And Bucky-“

“What did he do? Did he sweep you off your feet-“

“Shut up, Wilson.” Bucky still hadn’t been paying full attention. He still hadn’t let go. “Focus on the mission-“

You could picture Sam’s shrug. “Mission is boring. How exciting, Hydra’s taking up gardening-“

You’d frowned into the air. “It’s not gardening, Sam-“

“Right, sorry,” Sam had said your name, his voice at least a little apologetic. “Didn’t mean to shit on your thing-“

“Yeah, that’s not what I’m worried about.” You’d sighed, leaning your head a little back. You’d almost been resting it on Bucky’s shoulder.

He hadn’t pushed you away.

“Did you read Stark’s mission briefing-“

“No.” Sam had cut you off, and he’d sounded appalled you’d even suggest that. “It’s mostly just Tony kissing his own ass, and you and Golden Boy down there always go cover to cover, so why should I-”

You sigh. “Because then you’d know why it’s not just gardening, dumbass-“

Sam had gasped, and it had been one of the most dramatic ones you’d even heard. “That’s not very nice-“

“Shut up.” You’d raised your brows at Steve, who had been mostly trying to not look you or Bucky directly in the eyes. “Steve, tell bird-boy why it’s not just gardening.”

He’d nodded, staring very pointedly at a spot on the wall. “It’s, uh, they tried to make a bioweapon. With plants.”

“All I’m hearing is gardening-“

“Sam Wilson.” You’d snapped, and that had shut him up. You’d used what Stark called your Mom voice—where you stopped shouting and made your tone firm—and even Bucky had tensed behind you. “Stop acting like a middle schooler, or I’ll make you write a book report about the next briefing. Got it?”

Sam had sighed in your ear, mumbled an agreement, and Steve had shot you a nervous grin before he started shuffling back down the hall.

You’d had to poke Bucky’s face to get his attention, nodding to his arm around your body to get him to release you.

Once he had, you’d just kept walking, because you never allow yourself to think about those odd but frequent moments. The ones where Bucky touches you a little longer than needed, or did something protective that he’d probably do for anyone on a mission, but still made your head feel fuzzy and your gut a little warm.

The rest of the mission had run smoothly. Sam had shut up, and Steve had gotten distracted from the whole Bucky holding you like a doll thing by a few well-timed questions about how he’s doing on his self-inflicted music catch up mission, and you’d taken every single moment Bucky interacted with you and locked them deep in your chest. 

You’d gotten good at that. You were a dragon hoarding gold, only the dragon was your dumb little heart, and the gold was Bucky’s attention.

He’d opened at door for you. He’d stayed on pace behind you like a very stoic, grumpy guard dog. He’d pulled you back by the collar of your shirt before you could walk right into a trap, and you’d ended up half off the ground, in his arms, and repeating to yourself it means nothing.

This means nothing.

To Bucky, this means nothing.

Then he’d spoken to you, and you’d almost tripped over your own rapid and electrified heartbeat.

“I read it.” He’d muttered in your ear, and you’d blinked up at him with a frown.

“What?”

He’d been looking at you. His eyes are an always little more than on yours, because whenever Bucky looks at you it’s feels like something’s branding on your spine. Sending tiny little sparking shockwaves through your body, making you stand a little taller and blink a little less, because it seems your body simply refuses to miss a single moment him.

“I read the mission report.” He’d grunted. It had sounded incredibly important for you to know. “I always do.”

“Oh. Good.”

And he’d looked really handsome. His mission suit fit him too well. His metal hand kept flexing, and it was making your breathing a little short. He’d been bullied into a haircut a few months ago, but most of it had regrown, and it framed his face so distractingly well.

And that had been the mistake.

You’d gotten really distracted. Even after you’d kept walking, Bucky’s voice just bounced and echoed around in your head, and when you’d found the bioweapon—it was just a big flower, but Sam never needed to know that—you’d been too slow to react.

The spurt of pollen had been aimed at you.

Bucky had jumped in front of you because he was a dumbass.

And now, you were here.

The moment Bucky had been sprayed in the face—you’ve strictly forbidden Sam from called it being hit with plant jizz—his whole body had tensed, his eyes had dilated, and he’d… taken off his arm. Let it clatter to the floor as his breathing became labored, and his eyes locked onto yours.

You and Steve had stared at him, you’d opened your mouth to ask if he was okay, and he’d raised his hand as if he could physically block the sound of your voice.

“Steve.” His words had been pushed through his teeth, so strained and weighted that it had ached a little in your chest. “Get her out.”

Steve had just frowned at him. “Bucky, what’s-“

“Out.” He’d hissed, and Steve—the loyal fuck—had listened. 

You’d been carried back to the jet by Sam, Steve had gone back to get Bucky, and you’d had plenty of time to try and work out what the fuck had just happened.

It was a bioweapon. All of you had known that, but you didn’t know what it did. Bucky could be in pain, he could be suffering, he could be dying. 

He certainly isn’t okay. He’d asked to be restrained, every time you speak he flinches, and he’s refused to put his arm back on. Steve keeps trying to ask him what’s wrong, and he just shakes his head and mutters something you can’t hear. Sam tried to sit down next to you and he fucking growls.

“Jesus, Bucky, did you get turned into a dog by the plant ji-“

You slam your fist into Sam’s gut, he doubles over with a groan, and Bucky won’t stop staring at you. It’s worse than the branding feeling. That’s always just from you, and it’s always unintentional. Bucky doesn’t know that you like his pretty face and his grumpy words, that you have very vulgar and inappropriate fantasies about the metal arm, or that every time you draw a chuckle or small smile out him it makes the whole world light up. 

But this is brighter than the usual attention. This is a little feral, and he doesn’t look comfortable. Usually when he looks at you his body relaxes slightly, and you take that and bury it in your collection. Right now his stare seems to be carving right into your ribs and wrapping around your skin, like he’s trying to pull you apart with just his eyes. His breathing is ragged and loud, his nostrils keep flaring, and he’s leaning forward in his restraints.

And Steve’s a big guy, but not big enough that Bucky can’t lean around him to keep watching you.

Then his eyes start to droop, and you can see sweat stains all over his suit. He’s still looking at you.

He’s flushed and pale all at once, and he lets out a high, almost whining sound of pain-

“Sam.” You whisper, afraid to look away from Bucky for even a second. “Can you please-“

“Yes, ma’am.” Sam presses his hand to Bucky’s brow, his eyes widen slightly, and you feel a little sick. 

“Shit, uh, Steve-“

Steve moves without question, and his reaction is an almost twin look of worry.

“Goddamnit.” He looks back to you, saying your name cautiously. “It’s- he’s burning.”

“FRIDAY,” you mumble, because maybe they’re both wrong. Maybe the jet is warm. “Can you please check Bucky’s temperature?”

“Sargent Barnes has a fever of one-hundred and four point six degrees. Would you like me to alert the Compound to prepare for medical response?”

You swallow, your hand curling into a fist to stop it from reaching out and touching him. He’s got firm lines on his brow and you’d like to trace them. Sooth them out.

“Send his vitals to Bruce and Tony too.”

Steve takes over for you, and you’ll have to thank him later, when your heart isn’t pounding and banging in your ribs, and Bucky doesn’t look like he’s trying to fly out of his skin. 

You don’t know why he jumped in front of you. You would’ve been fine. Whatever’s affecting him wouldn’t affect you. And he should’ve known that.

“Why does Stark call you Mother Earth?” He’d asked you once, suddenly a few feet behind you in the kitchen, and you’d blinked at him. 

He’d only just moved into the compound. His hair was still a little greasy—he hadn’t been introduced to the wonders of coconut oil and conditioner yet—and there was still a weary, haunted expression on his face almost every waking second. He didn’t talk to anyone but Steve because it was Steve, his government mandated therapist because he had to, and Sam and Peter because they didn’t know how to not talk. 

But there he was. 

Talking to you.

“Because I have plant powers.” You’d shrugged, turning back to the stove. “And Tony’s convinced he’s a comedic genius.”

Bucky had moved to lean against the counter, and he’d still been watching you. It was the first time you’d gotten that warm, bright feeling up your spine. “What do plant powers do.”

“The technical term Bruce uses is chlorokinesis.” You’d started to fish through the cabinets for a mug, keeping your voice calm and even. “I can control and manipulate botanical life. But I’m also invulnerable. To physical injury and allergies, because I’m basically half-plant myself, so I can like, regrow or whatever. I mean, plant powers is pretty fucking self-explanatory-“

You’d paused, glancing at Bucky with an apologetic expression.

“Sorry.” You’d mumbled. “That was mean.”

He’d given you an odd look, and for a second you’d thought he would leave. Push off the counter and walk away, never sparing a glance in your direction again.

But he’d just stared at you with that unreadable expression. And when he’d finally spoken, his words weren’t clipped or rough. They’d sounded almost easy. Calm.

“Do you need help?”

You’d swallowed, your hand still reaching half over your head. “What?”

“You look like you’re having trouble.” He’d nodded to your outstretched arm, frozen in the cabinet. “I can help.”

You’d nodded, he’d closed the space in one second, and his body had been warm. Almost radiating heat, setting your skin on fire when just his fingers brushed yours. He’d handed you the mug with an expression on his face that was almost a grin, you’d smiled back, and that had been it.

You’d been gone.

You’d barely even stood a chance.

Your heart had passed itself into Bucky’s hands, and he’d held it so carefully without ever knowing. He stayed near you and fed your hunger for him all the fucking time. He literally fed you, because the thing that seemed to fascinate him the most about modern times was the food—to the point that Tony put a weekly cap on his DoorDash account—and whenever he knew you were at the compound, he’d make you eat with him. 

And Sam had been right. Bucky did have an odd, amusing determination to remain entirely an old man, but it was also adorable and charming in a way Sam simply did not know how to appreciate. You’d learned that—to make Bucky consume any remotely modern media—you just had to let him show you something in trade. You’d listened to a lot of Bing Crosby and Duke Ellington just to make Bucky experience one Beyonce song.

His eyes had been so wide the entire time you’d been worried they’d pop out of his head.

You’d caught him listening to it again almost two weeks later, mumbling along to the lyrics in a way that was more sound than word.

And you’d fallen a little further. Over and over in small moments like that one, stronger and stronger as Bucky’s smile turned from a grimacing, almost mechanical movement as he relearned how his face worked, into a broad, almost goofy expression that he seemed to reserve for the people that sat with him in silence when he needed it, and smiled at him without expecting one in return.

The list was short. Limited to you and Steve, as well as Sam under very dire circumstances.

You’d never allowed yourself to read too far into that. 

But it was hard not to now. 

Because Bucky wasn’t looking at anyone but you. Whenever his eyes flutter in his sleep, or he wakes up with a low moan, his gaze locks onto your open expression of worry. He keeps groaning something that sounds like your name in his sleep.

You want to help him.

He curls away from you with almost a snarl every time you try to even get out of your seat. 

And you’re so confused.

Steve mutters your name when the jet lands, and he’s not looking away from Bucky as he speaks. “Don’t get out of your seat until we get Bucky sedated.”

You nod nervously, right up until the word sedated catches up with your brain. 

“Wait, don’t-“

“We have to.” Steve’s voice is firm. Low and unwavering. “I’ll explain later. Stay in your seat.”

He’s not asking. That’s an order.

And it only takes a few moments for you to realize why.

Bucky fights. The medic team wakes him up as they try to move him out of the jet, and he fights like an animal. This isn’t his usual, controlled and calculated movements. This is wild, with roars and noises that are almost primal ripping out of his chest. 

He doesn’t stop looking at you, or saying your name, and the noise is almost pleading. 

You have to cover your ears. If you heard any more you would’ve damned it and helped him, and you have a feeling it would’ve made everything worse. 

It takes Steve, Sam, the whole med team, and a very concerned Natasha to get him down. 

And you’re alone in the jet. Left to wander your way back to your room, your hands shaking slightly and your head spinning.

He would’ve been fine. If you’d just stayed in the car, or you’d been fucking paying attention and had moved faster—dodging the spray yourself or making sure it hit you instead of Bucky—everything would’ve been fine.

Nobody tells you what’s happening. You lay on flat the bed, stare up at the ceiling, and your brain begins to feel a little foggy.

You can still see him staring at you. The sight is almost seared onto your vision, and everything seems to be lined with blue wherever you look. He’d been in pain. This building has the most advanced medical technology in America, and these people have access to all the best doctors in the world, but as far as you know he’s still hurting. Still screaming and thrashing, still burning up and probably all alone, because this is the exact type of thing that can’t happen to him.

Fuck. This can’t happen to Bucky. If it was Steve they’d be worried, but he’d be treated with more care. No brutal slamming of his body against the jet wall, no sedative specifically tailored to make him go down. If it was Sam there wouldn’t need to be as many resources exerted to get him down. Bucky would’ve just punched him in the face with no shortage of glee in his expression, and everyone would be fine.

But Bucky’s going to have to get mental clearance. That wasn’t the Soldier, but they’ll be worried it was. You’d still seen Bucky behind his eyes—simply a panicked and desperate version of him—but no one’s going to see that but you. Even Steve will elect to be safe rather than sorry.

You’d fucked it up for him. He’d been doing so well, and you’d fucked it up with your dumb, distracting infatuation. And you don’t even know if he’s still in pain.

“FRIDAY?” Your voice is soft, barely audible even in the silence, but the AI hears you anyway.

“How can I help you, Mother Earth?”

You’re going to need to stab Tony later. Right now you have bigger worries.

“Is Bucky okay?”

“I’m sorry, agent,” FRIDAY says your last name, and her voice doesn’t sound very sorry. “I have been blocked from sharing any information about Sargent Barnes with you indefinitely.”

You sit up on the bed, glaring around the room. “I’m- what? Why would- what? Who blocked me?”

“The order was issued by Agent Romanov.” 

“Can you please unblock me?”

“Unfortunately not. Your admin privileges have been removed from my system until further notice.”

You gape at the ceiling. “Who did that?”

“Dr. Banner put in the request, and it was approved by Mr. Stark. You are also under strict orders not to leave your quarters. I have an audio recording from Mr. Stark for you that can be played upon request. Would you-“

“Play it.” You snap, then flinch at your own harsh tone. “Sorry. Please play it.”

“Hey, Mom.” Tony’s voice fills the room, the usual light apathy in his voice filled with something heavier. Almost tired. You almost forget to be mad about him calling you mom. “Before you get all pissed and turn my house into the Amazon, we didn’t want to do this. Tall, dark, and murdery keeps saying your name, and until we work out what’s wrong with him I’m not comfortable having you wander around. Sorry.”

The audio clicks off, and Tony’s getting stabbed twice now. 

“FRIDAY,” you chose your words carefully, keeping your tone even and natural. “Can you please tell me who’s near residential room sixty-seven?”

“Captain Rogers and Mr. Stark are standing the hall, Dr. Banner recently entered the room, and Agent Romanov just left the wing.”

“Can you patch me to Natasha, please?”

“I am alerting the agent of your request now.”

It takes a long, painful second, but Natasha picks up. You barely wait for the static hum of the call to fill the room before you’re talking, staring at the corner of your room where you know Tony keeps the camera.

“What’s wrong with him.”

Natasha sighs over the speaker. “I can’t tell you that,” she says your name in a worryingly gentle voice, and your hands curl back into fists. “You know I can’t.”

“I’m not-“ You swallow, holding your gaze on the camera. “Please. Just tell me what’s going on-“

“We’re going to fix it. Tony and Steve are looking at options-“

“Options for what?” Your voice is pleading. You don’t care. “Nat, I’m can’t- I’m really worried-“

“I know you are.” Her voice is still gentle. You can taste bile in your throat. “Which is why we can’t tell you. I’m-“

“Don’t say sorry.” You snap. “Just, just tell me he’s okay. Please.”

There’s a long silence. It’s an answer enough, and it sinks too deep into your skin. 

Natasha’s a good liar. 

Why can’t she just lie.

“He will be okay.” Her tone is cautious, and you can picture her frown. “We’ll make sure he’s okay.”

“Can I help?” You whisper. “With anything? Please?”

She’s silent again. You’re going to throw up.

“Nat-“

“I’ll call you back.” 

The line goes dead, and that time, she’d lied. She doesn’t call you back. Time drags on and comes to odd, stuttering halts as you sit in the silence, and when you finally clear your throat and sit up once more, it’s dark outside.

“FRIDAY, can you please give me the feed of the hallway outside residential room sixty-seven?”

The AI doesn’t bother to answer you, silently patching you through. 

You don’t think she’s really supposed to. But she seems to like that you say please.

Natasha, Steve, and Bruce are huddled outside of Bucky’s room, their voices low, but not enough for FRIDAY not to pick up the audio.

“He’s not getting any better.” Bruce mutters, his head turned down. You can see him fidgeting with his glasses, and you can picture the frown on his face. “And I am beginning to worry. There’s just- there’s nothing else I can do.”

Steve shakes his head, and the panic in his voice sounds a lot like the wired, tense little bubbles rising in your throat. “But- Bruce there’s got to be another option, we work in a miracle factory-“

“And I’m afraid I’m out of them, Cap. I’m sorry, it’s- it’s the only option.” Bruce sighs. “Hydra was very thorough.”

There’s a long moment of silence you can’t understand, the hum of the audio clashing horribly with the ringing in your ears, and then-

“He won’t take anyone else?” Natasha sounds desperate. It’s louder than an alarm echoing through the compound. “What about- Have we tried the pocket pussy?”

“He broke it.” Steve mutters, his face red, and a lot of things click into place at once. 

The heavy breathing, and tension in his body, and animalistic sounds and behaviors. The dilated eyes, and restraints, and intense gaze. 

Lustful gaze.

Oh. 

Fuck.

“And Bucky’s been very clear with us that he refuses to do… that with anyone but her.” Steve’s still talking. The room around you is a little hazy. “Tony even offered to hire someone, and he said he’d rather uh, castrate himself.”

Natasha lets out a slow breath, her words slow and careful. “She’d say yes-“

“I know she would, Nat, that’s not my worry.” Steve shakes his head, frowning at the door. “She’d say yes to help him, and he’d- It would break him. If that was it.”

“And I’m trying to get it into your skull, Rogers, that wouldn’t be it-“

“You don’t know that-“

Natasha lets out a dry laugh. “I’m pretty sure I do. You’d have to be blind not to see it-“

“I’m not blind, I just don’t want Bucky to get hurt-“

“He wouldn’t get hurt, that’s what I’m saying-“

“And when he does? We can’t kick either of them out, and he- You don’t know how serious it is for him, Nat.” Steve sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “He called it a love a first sight thing.”

Natasha rolls her eyes. “That probably makes two of them.” 

And Natasha says your name. Everything slows, but not like in a movie. More like being underwater, where it’s just a little harder to see and hear, and you’re pushing against something that all around you, and it’s cool and easy but you’re drowning-

Then you breach the surface. 

And the world becomes too fast around you as Natasha just keeps talking.

“She was begging me to help, Steve. She wouldn’t regret it-“

“And Barnes is running out time.” Bruce jumps in, giving Natasha an apologetic look. “I don’t believe he’ll allow another, no matter what levels or heights his desperation reaches, especially if he’s as… infatuated as you say.”

“He is.” Steve mumbles. “It’s… Geez, Bruce, he’s like a lost puppy.”

“So let’s go get his owner.” Natasha gives Steve a pointed look, and you swallow. “She at least deserves a choice.”

You. 

You deserve the choice. 

The feed drops black, and you’re going to get a choice.

It’s barely a choice. It’s more of an instinct. Steve and Bruce shuffle into your room with nervous smiles, explain the situation—you don’t want to give away that you’d been spying, it would likely just make things more complicated—and the words are Bucky’ll only, well, he’s refusing anyone but you are barely out of Steve’s mouth before you nod. 

You say yes. And Steve stares at you, opening his mouth to say something he seems to think better of, and you hold is gaze. 

You mean it. 

And no amount of shock over the situation, no amount of stunning revelations or Tony’s worrying about you coming out, no pun intended, right side up will make you not mean it.

They give you an escape plan.

You won’t use it.

Bucky’s entirely naked when you walk into his room. Pulling a blanket over his lap before your eyes can wander further down from his darkened, painfully handsome face and broad chest. He’s sitting tall and rigid on the edge of his mattress, almost tracking your every movement as you walk through the door, jaw ticking when it closes behind you.

“You shouldn’t be in here.” He mutters. “I told Steve I’d be alright-“

“Steve told me you’re in love with me,” you blurt, and Bucky stares at you.

You hadn’t meant to just say it. You’d been planning a large build up, where he’d accuse you of pitying him and you’d say I don’t pity you, I love you, and I know you love me too.

But his first few words had been barely a rasp. He was flushed all over his body, his breathing was somehow far too deep and shallow all at once, and you can see the muscles twitching in his body. He seems to be forcing himself to barely even shift on the bed, and the mattress is creaking under the weight of his metal arm.

He put the metal arm back on.

Based on how the sheets are stained and the blanket over his lap has shifted, you have a good idea why.

Your knees are a little weak from just the sight of him. 

And it’s no longer just Bucky who needs the whole we’re both idiots, because I love you conversation out of the way quick.

“Steve fucking told you-“

“He didn’t know he was telling me.” Your voice is quick, your eyes widening slightly as you cut off Bucky’s growl. “I may have been, um, spying.”

Bucky scans you over slowly, and his mouth does the small curve that means he’s dangerously close to a real smile. “Spying doesn’t really sound like you,” he says your name, and where it would normally be a drawl it’s a growl. Your legs are going to give out. “Hydra blast you with something too?”

“I’m branching out.” You mumble, playing with the fabric of your shirt and forcing yourself to hold his gaze. “Are you? In love with me?”

Bucky’s nostrils flare, and he’s watching you like he thinks you’ll disappear. Like he’s certain you’re a trick or lie or something sent to hurt him, but he’d really like you to be real.

You’d like to be real. For Bucky, you’d like to be almost anything.

And he nods, and you’re lucky the adrenaline and fear for Bucky’s health are outweighing how your heart is going to beat out of your chest.

“How-“ You have to clear your throat, your voice weaker than you’d like. “How long?”

He suddenly won’t meet your eyes. “You gave me flowers.”

You blink at him. “Bucky, I don’t-“

“Steve was introducing me to everyone.” He mutters, bowing his head. “I don’t even know where you came from, but we turned a corner and you were just… there. Like you’d formed out of thin air or something. We startled you, and you screamed. Really loud.” You think your skin might be burning up, but Bucky’s voice has a soft sort of fondness to it that keeps you from exploding on the spot. “You were really pissed, yelling at Steve about how he should know better, and your hands were full. You handed me your flowers, and you shoved Steve. He didn’t budge, and that just made you angrier. Another flower grew out of the wall. You gave me that one too.”

“Oh.” You whisper, and Bucky just nods. “And you- when did you-“

“The moment you screamed.” He frowns at himself, shaking his head. “Not because of the scream, it was a- You weren’t afraid. You screamed but you were mostly just angry, and you gave me flowers. Helped that you were beautiful.”

You can hear your heartbeat in your ears. “Thanks.”

“No problem.”

“I-“ You swallow. “I thought you didn’t remember that. You asked me what my powers were-“

Bucky’s flush deepens. “Just wanted to talk to you.”

“Oh.” You swallow, titling your head at him. “And- When you jumped in front of me-“

“Instinct.” He’s glaring at the floor like it’s personally responsible for this whole situation. “Didn’t think. Saw you were going to be hit. Jumped.”

His words are starting to become more and more clipped and strained, as if your very presence is bending him to a snapping point.

“That wasn’t very smart, Barnes.”

“I know.” He mumbles, shoulder dropping like he’s trying to cave in on his own body, and you sigh.

“But I get it. And I- I just don’t want- I need you, Bucky. Don’t do that again.“

He nods, you don’t think he actually heard you, and you need him to look at you.

When you take a careful step forward, he glances up, but it’s weary. 

“You grabbed my mug.” You whisper, giving him plenty of time to stop you before you’re standing between his legs. He doesn’t, and you take his face in your hands, your smile widening as he stares at you. “It felt like I- I could’ve died, Bucky. It was… Very big.”

It’s a strange thing to say, but there’s no other way to describe the true mass and power of how fast your love for Bucky had hit you, how quick it had sunken into your bones and mixed with your blood, and how fast your entire body had been rewritten with that knowledge as code. You love Bucky. 

It’s just as natural as you need to breathe air.

He seems to understand, because he nods slowly, but it quickly turns into shakes of his head, limited between your hands.

“You don’t have to do this-“

“I don’t.” You shrug, holding his gaze. “But I’m going to. Because I love you.”

He grunts, his body almost vibrating under your touch, a visible spasm wracking his body at the words. “I- Not like this.” His words are barely audible, pushed through his teeth. “It shouldn’t be like this.”

“Bucky-“

“No. I’m not- I could hurt you. I’m not going to fucking hurt you.” 

You sigh. “You can’t hurt me-“ 

He lets out a dry laugh. “As romantic as that is, doll, I very much can hurt you-“ 

“No. You literally cannot hurt me.” You raise your brows at him, your voice flat. “I’m invulnerable.”

He blinks at you, and somehow goes redder. “Oh. Right. That- I forgot.” 

You giggle, running your fingers through his hair and he scowls.

“There are million assholes with a million powers, how the hell am I supposed to keep track-“

“I’m not laughing at you, Buck. You’re cute.” You smile at him, and all the tight annoyance vanishes from him expression in a single second. He’s staring at you again.

And no one’s ever looked at you like that. Like you’re maybe brighter and more critical than the sun, and you’re pulling them in stronger than the moon and the tides.

But he’s still shaking under your touch. And fuck, up close you feel even weaker. You can see every flex of his muscles, every bit of desire in his blown-out eyes and expression, the way he’s poking through the sheets over his lap and how there’s already a dark spot of pre-cum forming a stain-

You cough, your head already going a little hazy. “I want to help, Bucky. I really do, and you won’t hurt me, but if you really don’t want it, I’ll go-“

You’re falling forwards before you know what’s happening. And any yelps or squeaks of surprise are swallowed as Bucky slams his mouth into yours, and everything else in the world fades to humming color. 

Everything becomes second to this.

To Bucky.

He mostly tastes like salt from the sweat dripping down his body, but under that is a heavy, strong thing that might just be him. His tongue shoved down your throat and his hands gripping your hips like a lifeline, every low and feral grunt that rumbles through his chest making you moan down into his mouth.

Nothing about this is controlled or careful. It’s teeth and spit and brutal want, bubbling up and bursting over as he nips at your lower lip and you start to grind down against him, his touch starting to wander and squeeze at the skin of your back and ass and thighs, the touch of his metal hand soothing as you scratch at his shoulder, the heat of your bodies feeling strong enough to start a small fire. Bucky’s whole arm wraps around your waist, pinning you to his chest, and when your hands fist in his hair his hips jerk up, the bump of his cock against your core making you almost melt into his body. 

He’s throbbing. With the barrier of the sheets gone you can feel every inch of him wedged between your legs, and God, he’s so hard you’d think he was just a stick if you couldn’t feel every jump and twitch of his cock against your clothed thighs.

“Bucky-“ You force yourself to pull back, keep your brow pressed to his as your hips continue to roll against him. “We- Fuck, I-“

Words are a little too far away, and it doesn’t help that he won’t stop kissing you. He’s in pain and you need to fix it, but he also keeps sucking and licking over your jaw and cheeks, he’s dropping down to just bury his face in your throat, and this isn’t about you but fuck, that feels good-

You give up on words. You’ve spoken enough for now, and right now you just need to-

Bucky grunts your name as you push him off of your neck, squirming back until you’re falling to your knees before him.

“What’re you-“

You trace one hand up his thigh, trying not to spend too much time marveling at his dick. You’ve dreamed of this moment, devoted whole long and boring meetings and sleep cycles to it, and it’s still better than you’d imagined. 

He’s perfect. Not big enough that you’re worried for your health, but enough that you might need to be carried around tomorrow. And he’s thick, and firm in your hand, and when you swipe your thumb over the weeping head of him, Bucky makes a sound that settles right between your legs-

“You don’t-“ He groans as you pump him once, twice, squeezing at the base of his cock and rubbing his thigh with your free hand. “Jesus, this- you’re not playing fair, doll-“

You smile up at him, and you’ve really never seen anything better than Bucky’s wrecked and desperate expression, his hair sticking to his brow and his jaw clenched so tight you’re shocked he’s able to speak. 

“I think you’ll live,” you whisper, letting your hand drift down to cup his balls. “And I want to.” 

Something like wonder glows behind Bucky’s eyes as he hisses your name, and the sound quickly turns to the loudest, most primal sound you’ve ever heard as you take him in your mouth in one movement. 

You set a quick and even pace, bobbing up and down his cock until he’s bumping the back of your throat before pulling almost all the way off and licking a long stripe along the underside. It only takes a moment for Bucky’s hand to shoot in your hair, not guiding your movements but almost trying to keep you steady around him, his grip tightening every time you squeeze and play with his balls, his movements still painfully controlled against you. 

He needs not to hold back. You don’t want him to hold back. 

You reach back to hold his hand on your head—it’s the right one, and you make a comfortable bet that it’s on purpose—tangling your own fingers in his, and you start to move. Properly fucking your own face against him, squeezing his hand in silent encouragement whenever you almost choke on him, grinding your hips near his calf in silent encouragement.

Bucky moans you name when you swallow against the tip of his cock, and it’s a final warning.

You moan around him, and that’s it.

He starts to slam up into you, and you have to grab his knee to keep balance, tracing small circles with your thumb to let him know you’re okay.

You’re more than okay. Every sound Bucky makes is slurred and unintelligible, but you can get the idea. It’s odd combination of your name and praise, all sparking further heat in your gut as Bucky grows sloppy, his cock jumping and twitching in your throat. 

He roars your name as he cums down your throat, and you need to hear that sound again. It spurs on your desperate grinding—half against the air, your clit bumping against Bucky’s leg if you get the right movement—and you barely manage to swallow all of his release before he’s pulling you off his cock and hauling you back up like you weigh nothing.

The kiss he moves you into—your body curled back on his lap, your legs wrapping around his waist—is a little softer than before, and you think you managed to take just a slightly edge off his problem. It’s still devouring and deep and filled with so much passion you might cum just from the feeling of Bucky’s tongue tracing over your lips and teeth and throat, but it’s slower. 

“So fucking good, doll.“ His voice is a growl down your throat, and you wiggle in his hold, every bit of your own need suddenly slams into your body. “God- Don’t know how I got you, but I’m never- Wanna keep you-“

You nod, not really registering anything but Bucky saying your name and a warm feeling of good. Bucky and good, that’s burning and rolling around in your chest and stomach.

“You like that?” Bucky squeezes at your ass, and you whimper. “I’m gonna take care of you, sweet girl, make you feel just as good as I felt, seeing those gorgeous lips wrapped around my cock-“

You’re not sure how he’s capable of speech right now, but he’s talking and it’s ignite every fiber of your body, and you can only barely shake your head, pulling at his hair as you try to drag yourself together, because this isn’t about you-

The sound that leaves you when Bucky flips you over—pinning you between his body and the mattress—isn’t dignified or coherent, but you don’t really care. Not as his knee moves between your legs and your clothing gets ripped off of your skin in effective and feral movements, leaving you a puddle of need and loud moans beneath Bucky’s touch.

He’s hard again. You can feel him poking against your lower stomach as he kisses you into a dazed and high mess, and it must be painful but you still can’t really figure out how words work. How to say anything that isn’t a loud moan of Bucky. 

You try to squirm, to off him at least a little friction because this is supposed to be about him, but his metal hand traps your hips, halting your every movement as he hauls himself up.

He’s just staring at you. You’re drooling a little, your chest heaving as you try to get in a breath, and your hands are still tangled in his hair for balance.

You’re lying down, but you need balance.

Because Bucky rolls his knee against your bare pussy, and your back arches off the bed with a gasp that makes his eyes flash, his dick pulsing right on your skin-

“Please-“ The word is barely audible, but it’s all you can manage. “Bucky, I- You need to-“

He nods, diving down to a long, heavy kiss and groaning as you try to grind up into him, but then he’s gone.

Not gone.

Moving down to settle between your legs, his breath hot over your cunt and his eyes wholly black as he takes in the mess between your legs.

“Wait, Buc-“ You whine as he pulls your legs further apart, the metal hand dragging two fingers between the soaked folds of your pussy. “Shit- You don’t- This is supposed to be about you-“

“This is about me.” He grunts, his right hand trailing slowly up your inner thigh, and when you crane your neck to look at him there’s almost a fascination on his face. “Said you’d feel good.”

“I do- I am good-“ Your hips fly off the mattress as he kisses right over your clit, and the metal arm moves to pin you back against the mattress. “You don’t need-“

He latches his lips over your clit, sucking and licking as his free thumb presses right over your entrance, and you choke on the air. 

“Bucky- fuck-“

“Want to,” he growls, the sound humming and deep and right over your pussy, and you can’t gasp his name enough. “Hold on.”

Your hands blindly follow his order, one fisting in his hair as the other grips his metal arm, and you’re not sure how you don’t black out.

There’s something a little clumsy to his movements–decades without practice will do that—but that only seems to make it better. He’s not calculated and deliberate. You’re not a mission or a means to an end.

Bucky eats your pussy like he wants to. Like he’s been starved for it, and there’s nothing more he needs in the world. It’s not gentle but it’s attentive, he’s keeping you right on the edge—pulling his hand away and replacing it with his tongue, letting his nose bump you clit until he moves back to pumping his fingers in and out of your fluttering cunt—and you can hear the bed start to squeak as his own hips rut against the mattress.

You try to moan his name, but you can’t think, so all that comes out is a high, needy whine. 

He understands. His metal hand moves to tangle with yours, grounding you slightly as you hang right over the edge of release, and when his finger crook on that one, sensitive spot deep inside of you, fireworks burst in over your body as you cum with a strangled scream. 

Bucky makes a deep sound against your pussy as you start to roll in his hold, and you don’t get a chance to catch your breath before he’s crashing back up to your mouth.

He moans your name against your lips, his cock pressed right against your still fluttering cunt, and you nod. 

“Now,” you manage to whisper, spreading your legs widen in a silent invitation. “Bucky, need more-“

Whatever amount of control he’d had only a few minutes ago is almost completely. Bucky flips you onto your stomach without effort, hauling your ass into the air with firm but gentle hands, and slams himself into you with one movement. You gasp as he bottoms out, and he doesn’t move.

Somehow Bucky manages to still have enough of a hold over himself to give you time to adjust, even if it’s not without effort. You can hear the low grunts leaving him as he half folds himself over your body, kissing slowly up your spine and resting his brow on your shoulder, his breathing ragged and sharp as you clench around his cock.

“Fuck-“ Bucky hisses your name, shaking his head. “Can’t do that, I’m not-“ You do it again, and he moans. A real, loud moan. “You’re- fuck-“

“Please,” you wiggle your ass against him, and his hands tense on your body. “I- I’m good-“

“Yeah, you are.” His mutter is filled with low wonder, and it just makes you squeak. “You want it, babydoll?”

You moan, nodding stupidly. “Yes-“

The word is barely out of your mouth before Bucky starts to move, and you’ve never been higher. He’s in so deep, and you’re fuller than you’ve been in your life, and drunk on how big he is, how he hits every right spot and how he keeps grunting low praise and moaning your name against your skin-

You bury your face in the sheets to try and muffle your whines of desperation and Bucky’s hand catches your jaw, turning your head to capture your lips in a long, searing kiss as he hammers into you. 

“Bucky-“

“Feel so good,” he mutters again your lips, thrusting with a brutal movement and groaning when you squeeze around his cock. “Jesus, you’re so good, doing so well, pretty girl, so fuckin’ close-“

The Brooklyn accent is coming out, and his words are starting to slur, and you only manage to moan down his throat in a silent plea of more. 

Bucky’s pace picks up into uncontrolled and frantic movements, his skin slapping against yours as his metal arm snaked around your stomach and his fingers start to rub furious, impossibly fast circles around your clit-

Your second orgasm slams into you like a tidal wave, and the only thing in the world is the dizzying and perfect pleasure washing over your body as Bucky roars your name, something warm filling you up and dripping down your thighs with your own release.

Bucky tries to move away—pulling out and pushing off of where he’s wrapped himself around your body—but you grab his arm, keeping him splayed over you.

“Need to clean you up-“

“I’ll be okay,” you mumble, a dazed smile covering your lips as you reach back, trailing your finger through his hair. “Stay.”

He pauses, but only for a second. Then his weight is settles back over your body, and everything is alright. 

Bucky’s alright. His cock in still twitching and jumping near your ass, and you think it’ll take a while to fully fuck the bioweapon out of his system, but you’re more than up to the task. For now you can just drown in his warmth, half petting his hair and humming as his lips trail over your shoulder in featherlight kisses.

“Did you mean it?” 

You twist your head, a small frown on your face. “Mean-“

“The-“ He sighs, staring at you like he’s trying to pry something inside of you out. “The thing.”

“That I love you?”

Bucky’s throat bobs, and he nods. 

“Of course I did.” You whisper, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth that takes only second to turn into Bucky rolling your onto your back, his tongue pressing on your lower lip in a silent request-

You push on his chest slightly, holding his gaze as he pulls back with a frown.

“Did you mean it?”

He looks almost offended. “Yeah, I meant it. I’ve never meant anything more-“

You tug him back down, and that can be the end of it for now. It could be the end of it forever, and you’d be happy.

You don’t need a long explanation about it. You don’t need justifications for why neither of you ever said anything, or to repeat it until you both believe it.

You already believe it. And telling Bucky won’t do anything, so you’ll just have to spend a long, long time showing him.

And as long as you have that time, with Bucky, you’ll be happy.

End Note: Love making Steve talk about pocket pussies. That's an America I want to be a part of <3

If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3

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[of-apollo]

₊⊹ BUDDY KNOWS BEST !

PAIRING: Jack Abbot x GN!Resident!Reader.

SUMMARY: When an angry patient attacks you at work, you do everything in your power to hide how bad it is from Jack. Unfortunately for you, his dog, Buddy, knows best, and is quick to alert him to how bad things are as soon as he gets home.

NOTES: Aggressive patient, physical injury, Jack has a retired military dog, the dog is very protective of reader, hurt/comfort, established relationship.

NAVIGATION | PITT MASTERLIST | KO-FI

a/n — technically a part two to dog’s best friend, but can absolutely be read as a standalone !

“I just need you to stay seated for a second, alright?” you say, voice soft, even, the same tone you use with every difficult situation, steady and careful without ever sounding condescending.

The patient doesn’t like it. You see it in the way her shoulders tense, the sharp turn of her head, the flicker of something reactive and unpredictable behind her eyes.

“Don’t tell me what to do.”

“I’m not,” you reassure gently, hands visible, posture open. “I’m just trying to help you, ma’am.”

The metal tray is already in her hand before you fully register it.

“Hey!”. It’s Samira’s voice, a sharp warning from somewhere behind you, but it comes a second too late.

The patient swings. Not hard enough to seriously injure on its own. But combined with the shove that comes with it, it’s enough. The impact glances off your shoulder, but the force of the push sends you stumbling backwards, your foot catching awkwardly on the edge of the trolley behind you.

There’s a split second where you try to correct it. Your balance almost rights itself. Then, your heel slips.

You go down hard.

Your hip hits first, the shock of it jolting up your side before your shoulder follows, and then your head clips the edge of the cabinet behind you with a dull, sickening crack that makes your vision flare white.

The world tilts. Sound distorts.

You suck in a breath too fast and it catches halfway, your ribs protesting sharply as pain blooms deep along your side, spreading outwards in a way that feels heavy and wrong.

“Shit!”

“Hold her back!”

“Move!”

Hands are on you immediately. Too many. Too fast.

“Don’t move,” Dana says firmly, already crouched at your side, one hand braced against your shoulder to keep you grounded.

“I’m fine,” you manage automatically, even as your voice comes out thinner than you want it to. “I just slipped—”

“You didn’t slip,” Samira cuts in, sharper than usual, already scanning you quickly. “She shoved you.”

“I’m fine,” you repeat, trying to push yourself up.

Your body protests instantly. A sharp, deep pain lances through your ribs and your breath hitches before you can stop it.

Dana presses you back down without hesitation.

“No, you’re not getting up yet.”

“I’m okay,” you insist, though your hand has already moved instinctively to your side, fingers pressing there like you can contain the ache if you just hold it still.

“Yeah,” Langdon mutters, crouching on your other side, one brow raised. “You look fantastic.”

You glare weakly. “I am—”

“You’re wincing,” Mel says gently from behind them. “Just stay down a second.”

Across the bay, Robby steps in, taking in the scene quickly, his expression tightening slightly as he looks between you and the now-restrained patient.

“What happened?”

“They got knocked,” Dana says, not taking her eyes off you. “Hit their head on the way down.”

“I’m fine,” you say again, the words automatic now, like muscle memory.

Robby’s gaze lingers on you a moment longer than you’d like. Assessing. Weighing.

Then, “Get them checked,” he says. “No arguments.”

You open your mouth to argue anyway. Close it again.

The check is quick. Too quick.

Vitals steady. Pupils reactive. A few questions you answer without thinking, even as your head still feels slightly off and your ribs ache every time you breathe too deeply.

“Probably just bruised,” Langdon says, though there’s hesitation there. “Keep an eye on it.”

“I will,” you say.

You go back to work. Of course you do. It’s slower now. More careful. Every movement measured so you don’t aggravate the pain blooming along your side, every breath kept shallow enough to avoid the sharpest edge of it.

You don’t let anyone make a fuss. You don’t give them the chance.

By the time shift change creeps in, you’re running on stubbornness more than anything else.

Your body feels heavy. Your head dull. Your ribs worse. But you’re still standing. That counts for something.

You see Jack the second he walks in.

It’s instinct, the way something in you softens at the sight of him, even through the ache, even through the exhaustion.

He sees you just as quickly, and immediately, his expression changes. “What happened?”

No hello. No lead-in. Just that.

You blink. Too slow. “…nothing.”

His eyes narrow slightly.

You can see him clocking it, the stiffness in your posture, the way you’re holding yourself like you’re trying not to move too much, the faint mark forming near your hairline.

“Don’t do that,” he says quietly.

“Do what?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Lie to me.”

You huff a small breath, trying for normal. “I’m not lying. I just got knocked a bit. It’s fine.”

“Knocked how?”

“Patient,” you say quickly. “It happens.”

His jaw tightens. “You hit your head.”

“I’m fine.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“You didn’t ask a question.”

Jack steps closer, his hand coming up instinctively, hovering for a second before brushing lightly near your temple, careful.

You flinch. Just slightly. Jack notices anyway.

“Hey,” he says, softer now. “Talk to me.”

“I am,” you insist, forcing a small smile. “It’s nothing, Jack. Just a bruise.”

“You don’t look like it’s nothing.”

“I’m just tired.”

“That’s not what this is.”

You don’t let him push further. You can’t, because if you stop holding it together now, you’re not sure you’ll be able to start again.

“I promise I’m okay,” you say, gentler now, stepping into his space, your hand brushing his arm. “I’m just going to go home, sleep it off.”

Jack searches your face. Longer than you’re comfortable with. “…yeah?”

You nod. “I promise.”

You kiss him before he can argue again. Soft. Quick. A distraction more than anything.

“I’ll text you,” you add.

He doesn’t look convinced. But he lets you go.

You don’t realise how much you’ve been holding in until you get home.

The door shuts behind you. Your bag slips from your shoulder. Everything collapses.

The pain hits first. Sharp. Deep. Your ribs screaming the second you stop forcing yourself to breathe carefully around it. Your head throbbing dully where it connected earlier. Your whole body suddenly too aware of itself.

Then the tears. They come fast. Uncontrolled. Your hands come up to your face as your shoulders shake, the sound breaking out of you before you can stop it.

“It hurts,” you whisper, voice cracking.

Soft paws hit the floor behind you. Buddy is there instantly.

No hesitation. No distance. Just straight to you, pressing in close, whining low as his nose nudges at your hands, your face, your shoulder, anywhere he can reach.

“Hey, Buddy…” Your voice wobbles as you drop one hand to him, fingers tangling in his fur. “I’m okay,” you murmur, even as you cry. “I’m okay—”

He doesn’t believe you. He licks at your cheek, catching tears, pressing closer until you sink down with him, your body folding as he crowds in, solid and warm and there.

Buddy doesn’t leave your side once. Not when you get up slowly. Not when you change. Not when you ease yourself into bed with a quiet, pained breath.

He jumps up beside you without hesitation. Circles once. Then presses himself along your back, heavy and grounding, his head resting near your shoulder like he’s keeping watch.

You fall asleep like that. Hurting. Exhausted. But not alone.

Jack knows something is wrong before he even gets the door fully open.

It isn’t logical at first. There’s no noise, no obvious sign of anything being off, but the second the latch clicks and the door gives, the silence hits him wrong, too heavy, too still, like something’s settled where it shouldn’t.

Then, there’s movement. Fast. Low.

A sharp bark that cuts straight through the quiet.

Buddy is there instantly, planted between Jack and the hallway like a barrier, body rigid, ears forward, a low, warning growl vibrating through his chest in a way Jack has never heard directed at him before.

“Hey, Buddy…” Jack stills, hands lifting slightly in reflex, not defensive, just careful. “Buddy.”

The dog doesn’t move.

If anything, he braces harder, stance widening, blocking the path to the bedroom completely like he’s guarding something.

Another bark. Sharper this time. Urgent.

Jack’s chest tightens. “Alright,” he murmurs, voice dropping instinctively, steady, controlled. “Talk to me, what’s going on?”

Buddy huffs, pacing a tight step forward, then back, torn between holding his ground and needing Jack to follow.

It clicks immediately. Not aggression. Protection.

Jack’s stomach drops. “…where are they?”

Buddy barks again. Turns. Looks back. Then looks at him.

Jack doesn’t hesitate. “Okay,” he says quietly. “Okay, I’m coming.”

Buddy doesn’t fully relax, but he shifts just enough to allow it, moving ahead of him down the hall, glancing back every few steps like he’s making sure Jack is still there. Still following. Still paying attention.

The bedroom door is half open. The light is off.

Jack pushes it gently. “Sweetheart?”

No answer.

His chest tightens further as he steps inside.

You’re there. Curled on your side, exactly where he expects you to be, and somehow still wrong. Too still. Too tense even in sleep, your body drawn in slightly like you’re protecting something.

“Hey,” he says again, softer now, stepping closer.

Buddy is already at the side of the bed, whining low, tail flicking anxiously, nose nudging lightly at your arm.

You don’t wake straight away.

Jack reaches you in two steps, sitting carefully on the edge of the bed, his hand hovering for just a second before resting lightly on your shoulder.

“Hey, sweetheart.”

You stir at that. Just slightly. A small sound leaving you, somewhere between a breath and a soft groan as you shift without meaning to.

The movement pulls a reaction out of you immediately. A sharp inhale. A wince. Your hand tightening instinctively at your side.

Jack stills. “There it is,” he murmurs quietly.

Your eyes open slowly, heavy with sleep, disoriented for a second before they land on him.

“…Jack?” Your voice is rough. Small.

“Hey,” Jack exhales softly, relief flickering across his face for just a second before it’s replaced with something more focused. “Yeah, it’s me.”

Buddy immediately pushes closer the second you’re awake, nose nudging your cheek, then your shoulder, then settling half across you like he’s making sure you stay put.

“What…” you start, blinking. “What time is it?”

“Too early for you to pretend you’re fine,” he replies gently.

You try to smile. It doesn’t quite work.

“I am fine.”

Jack doesn’t even entertain that.

“Mhm,” he hums, eyes already scanning you properly now, taking in the way you’re holding yourself, the tightness in your posture, the faint shadow of bruising starting to show along your side where your shirt has shifted. “What actually happened?”

“Nothing,” you say automatically. Too quickly.

His gaze flicks up to yours. Flat. Unimpressed.

“Try again.”

You hesitate. Just for a second. It’s enough.

“A patient knocked me,” you admit finally, quieter now. “It’s not a big deal.”

Jack’s jaw tightens immediately. “Knocked you how? You can’t just leave it at that, baby.”

“I fell,” you say. “It’s just a bruise.”

Buddy lets out a soft, unhappy whine. Jack glances at him briefly, then back at you.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “He doesn’t seem to think so either.”

You huff a weak breath. “He’s dramatic.”

“Yeah,” Jack repeats. “Funny. So are you.”

You try to push yourself up. Bad idea. The movement pulls a sharp, involuntary sound out of you before you can stop it, your hand flying back to your ribs as pain flares hot and immediate.

Jack’s hand is there instantly, steadying you before you can even properly lose balance.

“Hey, easy, easy.”

“I’m fine,” you insist again, breath uneven now.

“No, you’re not,” Jack says, still calm but firmer now, his other hand coming up to gently guide you back down against the pillows. “Lie back.”

You don’t argue this time. You don’t have the energy.

Buddy shifts with you immediately, repositioning so he’s still pressed against your side, careful, oddly careful for his size, like he knows exactly where not to put weight.

Jack notices. Files it away.

“Where?” he asks quietly, his hand hovering just above your ribs. “Show me.”

You hesitate. Then, slowly, you move your hand just enough to indicate the worst of it. His touch is light when it comes, fingers pressing gently along the area, assessing. You flinch. Harder this time.

“Shit, okay,” Jack murmurs, more to himself than you. “Yeah, that’s not nothing.”

“It’s just bruised,” you say weakly.

“Maybe,” he replies. “Maybe not.”

You look at him. A flicker of worry finally breaking through everything else.

“It’s not broken. I got checked out. Ask Robby.” He doesn’t answer straight away. Which is answer enough. “Jack, please.”

“Hey,” he says softly, immediately, his hand coming up to your face instead, thumb brushing lightly under your eye where tears are starting to gather again. “Don’t get upset about it. Not your fault.”

“I didn’t want to make a fuss,” you admit, voice cracking slightly. “It wasn’t that bad at work, I just—”

“You came home and cried,” he says quietly.

You freeze. “How did you—”

He glances at Buddy. Buddy, who is currently pressed against you like a guard dog with a personal vendetta.

“Right,” you mutter weakly.

Jack’s expression softens. A lot. “You should’ve told me,” he says, not accusing, just honest.

“I didn’t want you to worry,” you whisper.

He huffs a quiet breath. Too late for that. “You don’t get to decide that for me,” he says gently.

Your throat tightens. “I know.”

There’s a pause. Soft. Then, “Alright,” he says, shifting slightly. “We’re going to fix you up, okay?”

You blink. “We?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Me and him. You know we can’t leave him out of anything.”

Buddy lifts his head slightly at that, like he’s been formally acknowledged.

Despite everything, you almost laugh.

Jack doesn’t rush you. That’s the first thing you notice. Even with the tension sitting tight in his shoulders, even with the way his eyes keep flicking back to your ribs like he’s already running through worst-case scenarios in his head, he keeps everything slow. Measured. Like if he moves too fast, you’ll bolt or break or both.

“Alright,” he murmurs, shifting off the bed briefly. “Stay there.”

You don’t have the energy to do anything else. Buddy does. The second Jack steps away, Buddy’s head lifts, ears pricking forward, a low, suspicious rumble building in his chest again like he’s not entirely convinced this is still safe.

“Hey,” Jack says without looking at him, already grabbing what he needs. “Pack it in.”

Buddy huffs. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t relax. You reach down weakly, fingers brushing through his fur.

“It’s okay, Buddy,” you murmur softly. “He’s helping.”

Buddy’s attention flicks to you immediately. That’s all that matters.

Jack comes back with a small kit, nothing dramatic, just basics, but it’s the way he carries it that tells you everything. Familiar. Practised. Focused.

He sits beside you again, closer this time. Close enough that your knees brush when he shifts.

“Can I?” he asks quietly, his hand hovering near the hem of your shirt.

You nod.

He moves carefully. Slowly lifting the fabric just enough to expose your side. The bruise is worse than either of you expected. Dark already. Spreading. Angry under the skin, the kind of deep, blooming discolouration that makes your stomach twist just looking at it.

“Fuck,” Jack exhales quietly. Not surprised. Not pleased either.

“It looks worse than it feels,” you say automatically.

It’s a lie. A weak one.

Jack glances at you. Doesn’t call it out. Doesn’t need to.

“Does it hurt to breathe?” he asks instead.

“A bit.”

“How much is a bit?”

You hesitate. “More than a bit.”

He nods slightly, like he expected that. “Any sharp pain when you move?”

“Yes.”

“Dizziness? Nausea?”

“No.”

“Headache?”

“A little.”

He takes that in, nodding with a frown. Then his hand comes back to your side, touch light, deliberate, pressing just enough to assess without making it worse. You tense immediately. A sharp inhale slipping out before you can stop it.

“Sorry, honey,” he murmurs, instantly easing off.

“It’s okay,” you whisper, even as your eyes sting again.

“No,” he says quietly. “It’s not.”

That lands. Heavier than anything else has. Your lip wobbles slightly before you can stop it. You look away.

“I really thought it was fine,” you admit, voice small now. “At work it didn’t feel this bad.”

“Adrenaline,” he says simply.

You huff a weak breath. “Yeah.”

There’s a pause. Then, “Hey.”

You look back at Jack. His hand comes up to your face again, thumb brushing lightly under your eye where tears have started slipping free again without you realising.

“You’re alright,” he murmurs. “It looks bad, but you’re okay.”

“I feel stupid,” you whisper.

His expression tightens. Not at you. At the word.

“Don’t,” he says softly.

“I should’ve just stopped. Let them check it properly. Told you—”

“You got through your shift,” he cuts in gently. “That’s what you were focused on.”

“That doesn’t make it smart.”

“No,” he agrees quietly. “But it makes it understandable. I know what you’re like.”

You swallow. Your chest tightens.

“I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it,” you say, barely above a whisper now.

“You don’t get to decide that it’s not a big deal,” he replies, not harsh, just steady. “Not when it’s you.”

You don’t argue. You can’t.

Buddy shifts slightly, pushing his head more firmly into your lap like he’s trying to insert himself into the conversation. You let your hand fall to him automatically, fingers threading through his fur.

Jack watches it for a second. Then, “Alright,” he says, softer now. “We’re going to assume bad bruising, maybe a cracked rib. No heroics for a few days.”

You let out a quiet breath. “Okay. I can live with that.”

“I’ll grab some ice,” he adds.

Buddy immediately lifts his head again. Watching. Tracking. Jack pauses. Looks at him.

“I’m coming back,” he says dryly.

Buddy blinks. Considers it. Then settles again, barely. You laugh softly despite yourself. It hurts. You do it anyway.

By the time Jack comes back, you’re more settled. Not better, but calmer.

He helps you adjust carefully, guiding you so you’re propped slightly, a pillow tucked behind your back to keep pressure off your ribs. Every movement is slow. Considered. His hands never far from you.

“Gonna be cold, sorry,” he warns quietly, pressing the ice pack gently against your side.

You flinch. Then relax. “That’s actually nice,” you admit after a second.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Usually is.”

The quiet settles again. Different now. Softer.

You’re watching Jack without meaning to.

The focus in his expression. The care in every movement. The way he keeps checking in without making it obvious.

“You’re not mad?” you ask after a while.

He looks up. Brows drawing together slightly. “Mad?”

“That I didn’t tell you.”

There’s a pause. Then, “No,” he says.

You blink. “Really?”

“I mean, I’m not thrilled,” he adds honestly. “But I’m not mad at you, sweetheart.”

That eases something in your chest. You didn’t even realise it was there.

“I just didn’t want to worry you,” you repeat softly.

“You don’t get to make that call,” he says again, gentler this time. “You tell me, I worry. That’s the deal.”

Your lips twitch slightly. “That’s not a very fair deal.”

“No,” he agrees. “Works for me, though.”

You laugh quietly. It pulls at your ribs. You wince.

His hand is there instantly. “Easy.”

“I’m okay,” you murmur. “Stop being funny.”

“I know. I’ll try,” he says.

Buddy shifts again, this time climbing more deliberately across the bed until he wedges himself firmly between you and Jack, his body pressed along your side, his head settling heavily across your lap like he’s decided his position is now permanent.

Jack stares at him. “Really?”

Buddy doesn’t move. Doesn’t even acknowledge him. You smile softly, your hand resting automatically on Buddy’s head.

“He’s just making sure I’m okay.”

“Yeah,” Jack mutters. “I can see that.”

There’s a pause. Then, carefully, deliberately, Jack shifts closer anyway. Working around the dog rather than moving him. His arm slides gently behind your back, pulling you just slightly closer so you’re supported without putting pressure on your ribs.

Buddy allows it. Barely.

You melt into it. Exhaustion catching up all over again now that everything else has settled. Your head tips lightly against Jack’s shoulder. Your hand still resting on Buddy.

“I’m really tired,” you mumble.

“Yeah,” Jack murmurs softly. “I know.”

Your eyes slip closed. Between them, you’re completely boxed in, warmth at your back, solid weight at your front, hands anchoring you in place like nothing is going to let you fall apart again.

“Stay,” you whisper, barely conscious now.

Jack’s arm tightens slightly around you. “I’ve got you.”

Buddy huffs softly. Settling deeper. And for the first time since it happened, you actually relax. Sleep comes easy after that.

All three of you tangled together in the quiet.

— COME AND JOIN MY TAGLISTS !

ALL PITT: @shawnhatosysrightbicep @goldfishenthusiast67 @snake-in-a-flower-crown @aureliacalista @sheridamn

ALL PITT MEN: @malindacath

JACK ABBOT: @moonlitblossomsofthesun @nebuleuseeeeee @nyxmoretti @oliviarw3

[lazuriitti]

Archive of the Archive

Hello, @blythesarchives / @mournthebird deactivated, and I lost my marbles trying to look for the fic called Apricot Toast. So, I compiled the stuff I could find in case anyone else has been missing these.

Sugar Plums + Part Two

Apricot Toast

Cold Metal

Shower Suds

Silver and Garnet

Gentle Hand

Domestic

Post Hydra

Cut Your Hair

Rinse Cycle

Bleeding Heart

Pretty

Alpine

Fugitives

Filthy Fingers

Orange Guts

Condition

Just as You Are

To Where and Back

Limbo

Knots

Roasted Chestnuts

James

Broken Texture

[incognit0slut]

MASTER OF PERSUASION

Part 4 of kinktober | main masterlist

meandom!Spencer/Hotch x fem!reader; Threesome, creampie, dumbification, degradation, brat taming, abuse of power, edging, dubcon

Your involvement in a heinous crime was questioned by the two FBI agents who were eager to do anything to get you to talk.

Words: 6802

a/n: This one is dedicated to my nasty, touch-starved btches who secretly wants to be manhandled by two older men. Enjoy this pure filth🫶

YOU WERE FAR FROM BEING A GOOD PERSON. From the surface, you seemed like a normal, typical woman, just one of the countless faces within the crowd. But when the doors shut behind you, you find yourself involved in endeavors you should never have pursued in the first place.

You knew too much. You were acutely aware of how many crimes happening in your vicinity. The number of deaths resulting from these heinous acts should be enough to terrify you, but it didn't, because unbeknownst to your peers, you were one of the reasons why they happened.

Although you never played the role of the perpetrator, you were the person these criminals came to for information. You were good with technology, you could hack into any secure system in the blink of an eye. It was almost as if you were a deity of the dark web, a mastermind whose mere presence served as a godsend to those carrying out these crimes.

It was easy money; you gave what they wanted, received what they paid you, and most importantly, you made sure to never look back. You always wiped everything out after each job was done, but somehow, after working on so many deals, your luck finally struck out.

Somebody hacked into your system—no, somebody good hacked into your system. This person knew what they were doing. They managed to hack through your firewall and retrieve a few of your data while also discovering your identity.

You honestly wanted to praise whoever was on the other side because you had never encountered someone who could match, if not surpass, your own skill. But it wasn't until you heard the loud banging on your front door, followed by people in uniformed vests rushing in and pointing their guns at you, that you finally realized who had breached your system.

It was the FBI.

So that was how you found yourself sitting inside an interrogation room hours later with two agents across from you. A very tall, intimidating man stood at the corner, his arms crossed as he watched you silently. Dr. Spencer Reid was how he introduced himself, and the way he emphasized the title in front of his name, you were certain he was the type of person who took extreme pride in his intelligence.

He seemed a little too cocky.

Special Agent Aaron Hotchner, on the other hand, was hard to decipher. The older man appeared somewhat guarded as if his job had forced him to put on a facade devoid of genuine emotions. Maybe it did. He was, after all, a federal agent. Both of them were. These men were probably taught to master the art of maintaining an inscrutable poker face.

Nevertheless, they were both intimidating, and you wondered to yourself, was good cop bad cop not a thing anymore? Because as far as this was going, none of them seemed inclined to make things easy for you.

The man in front of you cleared his throat, his voice was a well-practiced blend of authority and curiosity. "You've been quite elusive, haven't you, Miss Y/L/N?"

You leaned back, studying him through half-lidded eyes, your fingers tracing the edges of the table with a cool, almost casual detachment. "Elusiveness is a matter of perspective, Agent Hotchner. I prefer to think of it as adaptability."

"Adaptability?" He leaned in closer, his sharp gaze never wavering. "You've made quite a name for yourself. You've infiltrated government agencies, stolen classified data, and even orchestrated financial heists... Impressive, I must say."

A faint smile danced upon your lips, revealing just a glimmer of amusement. "I simply explore the hidden avenues of the World Wide Web. It's not about the thrill; it's about the knowledge."

His eyes narrowed. "But your actions have consequences. You've caused quite a chaos, don't you think?"

"Consequences are a part of every action, whether in the digital realm or the physical world. As for chaos..." You met his gaze with unwavering confidence. "Well, sometimes chaos is necessary for evolution."

He leaned back, his expression unyielding. "Evolution or anarchy?"

"As I said, everything is a matter of perspective, even anarchy," you replied, your voice smooth as silk. "In the grand scheme of things, I'm just a catalyst. Society's flaws were there long before I came along."

The man in the corner took a step forward. His eyes bore into you with resolve as if he had grown weary of the ongoing debate. "You've had your say," he interjected with a steely tone. "You know why you're here. Our victim's files were found on your computer, we need to know who requested them."

You met his gaze with a mixture of defiance and amusement, unfazed by his direct approach. "Doctor Reid," you said, your voice laced with a hint of mock surprise. "Always chasing ghosts in the machine, aren't you?"

His expression remained composed, his intellect undeniably sharp. "We're not here to discuss my pursuits. We're here to talk about the life you've disrupted."

"Disrupted? I'd say I've merely revealed the cracks in the system. Your victim, as you call them, was a casualty of a much larger game."

"Games have rules, Miss Y/L/N. You seem to operate outside of them."

"Rules are made to be broken, Spencer," you retorted, your tone cutting like a blade through the air. "I can call you that, right? I hate having to speak with such formalities."

"It's Doctor Reid," he corrected. "Tell us who you're working for."

His unwavering determination was met with a subtle, knowing smile from you. You leaned forward, your eyes locking onto his with a hint of intrigue.

"I don't know, Spencer," you began, your tone slightly softer, as if you were letting him in on a secret, "The digital world is a labyrinth of information. Files come and go, they disappear and reappear... It's like trying to catch a shadow in the dark. It's useless."

He addressed you with a cold stare. "You're playing a dangerous game here."

You raised an eyebrow, your voice honeyed with allure. "Oh, I'm well aware of the game we're playing. But don't mistake my refusal to cooperate for arrogance. It's just that some secrets are meant to stay hidden."

The room seemed to contract, the air thick with unresolved tension. Aaron cleared his throat and your eyes fell back on him. "Miss Y/L/N, give us a name and we can make things easier for you. But if you don't cooperate..." His eyes traveled down along your body, the goosebumps rose on your skin in response to the heat of his gaze. "I'm afraid we have to resort to extreme measures."

A brief pause hung in the room. There was something in the way he was staring at you. He was looking at you with a profound determination that seemed very different from the way he assessed you before. Under the weight of his scrutiny, you felt your body growing hot. Your breath hitched, and a flush of warmth crept up your neck and tingled in your cheeks.

You regarded him for a moment before you finally spoke, your voice calm but tinged with a hint of defiance.

"If you think you can break me, Aaron, you're gravely mistaken. But if you're interested in the name..." you leaned back, crossing your arms. "I guess you'll have to earn it."

The tension in the room escalated as your words hung in the air. His jaw clenched, and when you thought you had won the upper hand over this battle of wits, he surprised you by waving his hand in the air, and Spencer came forward.

It was as if they had planned this. The way Aaron instructed his partner to move seemed rehearsed and calculated. Spencer walked over to you and before you could register what was happening, he grabbed onto your arm and wrenched you out of your chair with a force you didn't know he possessed.

Your voice carried a mix of anger and frustration as you protested, "What the hell are you doing?"

You suddenly felt him run his hands along your arms. "Checking for weapons."

The scoff you gave him was loud. "Oh, now you're treating me like a criminal?"

"It's a mere precaution."

And then you felt it, the way his touch lingered on your body. It was far from any normal search. His hands felt warm on your skin, even over the material of your shirt, as he continued to pat down your arms. There was a certain roughness in his movements as he slid his arms around your backside and you couldn't mistake the way he gripped your ass more than he should probably have.

"This is ridiculous," you muttered under your breath. "You won't find anything."

"I'll be the judge of that." He slightly shoved your shoulders. "Put your hands on the table."

You reluctantly did as you were told, silently gritting your teeth. His hands moved with purpose, and as much as you wanted to stop this questionable act, your body was reacting in a way that had you questioning yourself instead.

Why was your heart beating so fast as he stood behind you? Why was it getting so hard to breathe when his hands slipped around your waist? And why did it seem you were anticipating more when his palms slightly hovered over your breasts?

"Is this really necessary?" You asked quietly, trying to act as if his rough hands on you weren't affecting you. "This feels more like an attempt for intimidation."

You could practically hear the smugness in his voice as he asked, "Are you intimidated, Miss Y/L/N?"

You liked to think that you weren't, but honestly, you didn't know anymore. You had tried your best to put on a mask to avoid appearing weak, but as he started to squeeze your breasts in the palm of his hands, it finally dawned on you what was happening—You were finally caught, there was a high chance of you ending up in jail, and now a federal agent was touching you inappropriately, groping you in a crude form of patting you down.

And to your dismay, you actually liked it.

But you had too much of a pride, that was why you found yourself lying through your teeth. "No."

Spencer hummed a reply as if he didn't believe you. He squeezed your breasts through your shirt again, palming at them as he slightly felt your nipples stiffen through the material, and he couldn't resist rolling them as his touch continued lower. Your breath hitched as he mapped out your curves, one of his hands delving between your thighs before he stopped right at the center of your heat.

You let out a gasp.

"I-Is this even legal?"

Your mind went blurry as you felt his fingers touching you through the thin fabric of your pants. "Are you questioning how the law enforcement works?"

You couldn't answer him. Not because you didn't want to, but because you weren't able to form any coherent words as he continued to palm your sex, his fingers continuing to rub you. You were suddenly so focused on the way he was touching you, your head hanging low as you felt the sensation throughout your body, that you didn't even hear Aaron calling out your name.

It wasn't until Spencer retrieved his hand from between your thighs, and yanked your hair from behind, that you were forced to meet Aaron's gaze. "He called you," Spencer mocked, tightening his grip.

Aaron leaned forward, assessing the way you were arching your back with both of your hands planted on the table. "You have two options. One, we can play nicely, you give us a name and we'll go easy on you." His voice dropped lower as he continued, "Or two, you keep with this attitude and we might have to coax the answer out of you."

You locked eyes with him, a silent challenge burning in your gaze. Despite being in this vulnerable position, there was an undeniable strength in your stare, a refusal to surrender to their intimidation. Aaron met your gaze with a profound understanding.

"The hard way it is then." You saw him lean back in his chair as he crossed his arms, the subtle movement actuating his broad chest. "You know what to do, Reid."

There was nothing remotely gentle about the way Spencer handled you after those words. He shoved you, knocking the air out of your lungs as you gasped, your body pressed against the cool surface of the table. Somehow between your struggles, he managed to slide his hands around your waist, unbuttoning your pants before pushing them down your legs.

The air hit your bare skin, and even when you felt the cool breeze, your body was seething with fire, burning through your veins. The warmth spread along your cheeks as you realized you were wearing your skimpiest underwear, a flimsy material of dark lace that barely covered your sex. He gripped your ass with the palm of his hands, fingertips digging into the plush skin as he spread you apart.

"Well, aren't you a pretty thing?" You felt him shift behind you and you imagined him kneeling right in front of your heat. The moment his knuckles brushed along your wet patch, your hips bucked involuntarily. "She's wet, Hotch, I think she's getting a little too excited."

"I'm not surprised," the older man said. "She does seem like a slut."

Your head snapped at him. "I am not a slut."

"Oh, you are a slut." He leaned forward and reached out his hand, holding your chin in a vice grip, forcing you to look at him. "And we'll prove you how much of a whore you actually are."

Right on queue, a surprised gasp left your lips when Spencer's large palm burned your skin, giving your ass a harsh slap. The sound echoed in the room and he repeated the motion, watching in satisfaction the way your ass rippled for him. You fell into a false sense of security as he began to soothe his hand against your burning skin before pulling back to give another loud smack, and your mouth fell apart in pleasure.

"Not a fucking slut?" Aaron taunted, his thumb brushing on your lower lip. "That's the most farfetched lie you told us ever since you walked through that door."

You glared at him, but your defiance slowly shattered when you felt Spencer pulling down your panties over the curve of your ass, slipping them down your legs. The evidence of your arousal stuck onto the fabric and you felt your cheeks going warm in embarrassment. Spencer sucked in a gasp as he took in the sight of your lower half completely naked for him.

"Barely even touched you and you're soaking wet," he murmured, letting his thumb brush over your pussy, gauging your reaction. Your nose scrunched as you tried to bite back a moan that threatened to slip out. He started with gentle strokes, keeping his fingers only on the outer side, yet you could still feel his touch everywhere.

Each downstroke he made gave a light pull against your clit without giving any direct contact, and each time his fingers came back up, he slowly spread your folds open for him, briefly allowing your slickness to come in contact with the cold breeze of air.

Your mind became hazy, and just when you thought your body couldn't react more to his touch, he slipped a finger between your folds, feeling your slick against the dainty flesh. The motion caused your hips to buck erratically and your hands immediately reached up to grip onto the edge of the table.

He slipped deep inside you as your arousal coated him, circling your tight entrance as he felt the way your walls fluttered around the tip of his finger. He let out a low grunt as he felt how tight you were around him, curling at the knuckle while he began to drag his calloused pad against the soft spot inside you, making your body shake just from the mere contact.

The subtle reaction didn't go unnoticed by Aaron and he watched as your eyes glazed over. He couldn't stop himself from smirking, his features revealing a hint of amusement.

"You're enjoying this too much. I'm starting to think you're keeping your silence for the sake of this." You moved your head away from his grasp, only for him to grip your jaw harder. "Don't fucking move. Keep your eyes on me while he fucks your tight little pussy."

You never thought you'd be hearing such crude words from him, not with his stoic demeanor and polished facade, nor did you expect your body to react the way it did when those words filled your ears. You couldn't help it, your body betrayed your mind as your cunt continued to throb between your thighs. You could feel the desire building inside you, threatening to burst as you felt your body shake, and Spencer was well aware of this as he felt your walls clenching around his finger.

The laugh coming through his lips rang in your ears, sending shivers down your spine. "She liked that."

Aaron raised his eyebrows at you. "You like it when I talk like this?" He taunted. "You like it when I tell you how much of a slut you are taking his fingers so deep inside you?"

Your eyelids dropped lower at his words, and right at that moment, a lewd squelch filled the room as Spencer slowly slipped another finger into your dripping cunt, stretching you out as he began to thrust them inside you at a steady pace. Your body quivered as your breath quickened, and you found yourself grinding against his touch, desperately trying to get him to press the same spot inside you.

"Look at you fucking yourself on my fingers," Spencer cooed, his free hand smacking your bare ass again, and you found yourself arching your back. "You really are filthy."

Aaron laughed. "Acting like you didn't want it a second ago." He gripped your jaw tighter, forcing a gasp out of you at the subtle pain. He took advantage of your opened mouth by slipping his thumb inside. "Suck on my finger, Sweetheart."

You didn't know which one surprised you the most, his sudden term of endearment, or the order he gave you. You hesitated, because the moment you willingly sucked on his finger, you knew you would lose. The moment you followed through to his demand, he would have the upper hand and you would simply be the pawn in this game.

Aaron, as you realized, wasn't a patient man. His other hand reached for your hair and then, with a sharp and sudden yank, he tore at your hair. "Don't make me use more force than I already am."

Your roots tingled, your scalp throbbing, and a few tears welled up in your eyes. You blinked them away, not wanting to show any sign of weakness, and leveled your gaze at him.

He pulled your hair again. "Suck."

The pain was so much for you that you found yourself wavering. You swirled your tongue around his thumb before closing your lips and sucking with an approving hum. A husky moan was pulled from deep within him, overwhelmed by the feeling of your mouth on him, and, especially, the sight of you. "That's it," he praised you. "Suck on it as if you're sucking my cock."

Your walls clenched again. A sound of pleasure erupted from Spencer as he felt your cunt sucking in his fingers, and without warning, he pumped them into you with so much force you couldn't stop yourself from moaning this time. He laughed, as did Aaron, and your body shook as you felt that familiar sensation tightening along your body.

The room around you seemed to blur and melt away at the pleasure coursing in your veins. It started in the pit of your stomach, a warm, liquid sensation that spread like a slow-burning fire, radiating outwards in waves. Your hushed moan was muffled by Aaron's thumb in your mouth, but the sound of your pathetic whining didn't go unnoticed by both men.

You were so fucking close you could feel every nerve in your body on high alert. Your breaths came in ragged gasps, and your body quivered with the intensity of the sensation. Your eyes fell shut as the lewd sound of your arousal filled the room, and just when you were about to let go, Spencer suddenly pulled his fingers out of you, wrenching away that peak of pleasure you were desperately chasing.

Your eyes shot open, dilated pupils now wide with shock and confusion. Aaron met your gaze with amusement, a sadistic smile dancing on his lips as he pulled his thumb out of your mouth with a pop. "Stupid girl, thinking we'd actually let you cum."

The abrupt contrast between the heights of your pleasure and the stark void that followed was jarring. But before you could comprehend your disappointment, you heard a shuffle behind you followed by footsteps circling you. Spencer finally came back into your line of vision and with no one standing behind you, you tried to push yourself from the table, only to be shoved back down by Aaron.

"Fucking stay where you are," he commanded, his sharp voice piercing right through you. Your eyes were fixed on him, gaze unwavering as he slowly rose from his seat. And then suddenly he was the one behind you, and now Spencer stood right in front of you, looking down at you with amusement.

"You know," he started, his fingers trailing the side of your face. You moved your head away from his touch, but unlike Aaron, he didn't force you to look at him. He merely chuckled as he continued, "You wouldn't be in this position if you had given us the name."

Hearing this, you finally glanced up at him. The self-confidence he carried was starting to annoy you and you couldn't stop yourself from spitting venom, especially when he had ripped away the pleasure thrumming in your body. "I told you to fucking earn it."

The remaining air was knocked from your lungs when the palm of his hand collided with your cheek, your head jolting to the right from the force of the impact. Bright white stars danced behind your closed eyelids, and for a second you thought that you were dizzy from the shock. But then you felt it, the pressure that had been building in your core giving way, a wave of pleasure washing over you.

"Dirty girl," he taunted. "Here I was trying to shut you up and you actually liked that? You like being slapped around?"

You remained quiet, looking away from him.

"And don't worry, you will tell us by the end of this." You faintly hear the sound of metal ringing in your ears. Your eyes fell back on him and your heart sank when his hands moved down to his belt, unbuckling it as he let it hang around his hips.

His fingers moved to unbutton his pants before tugging down the fly. The sight of his hard cock tenting beneath his briefs had your cunt clenching in anticipation, as much as you hated to admit it. Then his thumbs dipped into the hem of his boxers, tugging the fabric down, and you looked up at him with wide eyes. He was bigger than you'd expected. He was thick and solid, veins danced along his length and the droplet of wetness on his tip was too mesmerizing you couldn't look away.

He wrapped a fist around his length, hissing in relief as he made his way towards you. "Now let's put that filthy mouth of yours to good use." He pressed the head of his cock against your lips, half-lidded eyes gazing down at you as he leaned forward. "Open."

The musky scent of him overwhelmed you as you breathed in and you involuntarily opened your mouth wide to accommodate his girth. The flat of your tongue pressed against the underside of his cock as he gave soft, shallow thrusts inside your warm mouth. His fingers held onto your face as he watched his length disappear inside you.

"God, look at you—" Spencer rasped, his voice sounding strained. "Good fucking girl."

Each roll of his hips has more of his thick cock slipping inside your mouth. His palm moved to the back of your head, holding you steady as he forced his length further down your throat, watching as your cheeks darkened and your eyes watered. Your hands moved up to push at his thighs as you struggled against his grip, the desire to breathe overwhelming as you tried to push him away.

You suddenly felt lightheaded from the lack of oxygen and you began to cough and splutter around him, your throat constricting as the sensation flowed directly through his cock. The sensation made him groan out in pleasure as he finally eased his grip on your head and leaned back, allowing you to breathe as you continued to splutter, drool dripping down your chin as you gulped for much-needed air.

Your head felt delirious. You were too focused on catching your breath when you unexpectedly felt something thick pushing into your cunt in one swift motion, knocking you over as you let out a scream.

"Hotch," Spencer laughed, tightening his grip on your hair while he positioned his cock back onto your lips again. "You shocked her."

Aaron merely grunted a reply as he held onto your hips and started to thrust his cock into you. His thickness sent a ripple of pain between your legs. He was definitely bigger than anyone you'd been with before, your breath coming out in soft, shallow pants as he drove more of himself inside your tightness. Your teeth bit down on your lower lip as a dull ache filled your body, trying to ignore the pain as he continued to stretch your tight heat.

There were no words after that, the room was hazy with desire as the heat built within the small space. The two men focused their attention on your body as you took them at the same time. It was filthy, depraved, and something you'd never done before. You never thought you would be in this position, nor did you think you'd actually enjoy being used like this.

Because you did, you really fucking did. Your entire body felt hot, a scorching fire flowing through your veins as you embraced the sensation, an indescribable pleasure taking over as Aaron's cock curved towards that delicious spot inside you with precision.

Your body was pressed against the table, sweaty and exhausted. It was torture, the way he was slamming his cock inside of you at the pace that left you breathless, it hurt and burned with pleasure at the same time. Each thrust had you hanging on the edge of release, unable to think straight as your mouth continued to mindlessly babble around Spencer's cock.

Every so often he'd hold the back of your head securely so you couldn't move away as he continued to bury himself in your throat. A pleased sound escaped his lips as you started to choke around his girth. It felt like you were starting to drown yourself as he shoved into you ruthlessly. Your lungs cried out for air as you began to feel woozy from the lack of oxygen, desperately trying to breathe through your nose.

"Fuck," he hissed, finally easing his hips back to give you relief. You spluttered as you gasped for air, a mixture of his arousal and your spit dribbled down your chin. "So fucking messy."

You tried to calm your breathing, but it didn't take long for your brain to turn into mush again because Aaron snapped his hips, pulling a moan from your lips as he started a harsh pace. Fingertips dug into your hips as he buried more of himself inside your tightness, your inner walls pulsing around him.

His thrusts were hard and you were certain you'd have marks on your skin from the way he was rutting against you, a dull ache panging inside your lower half. Your mouth fell open in a constant moan as you tried to hold your body up against the table. A throb coursed through you as you tried to hold onto the edge, your breath coming out in harsh pants. You were so desperate for your release, your body so close to coming undone.

"Fuck, Sweetheart, are you going to cum?"

You mumbled out a garbled reply as he continued thrusting into you relentlessly, your fingertips digging into the table as you felt his cock dragging against your inner walls. Aaron grunted at the sensation of you clenching around him. His eyes drifted down to where your bodies were connected and watched the way his cock slid in and out of your tight cunt.

He was on the edge of his release, you could tell by the way he thrust into you desperately. You prepared yourself for your own pleasure, your hips moving involuntarily, meeting his erratic movement, as you seek more friction from him. You whimpered, feeling his fingertips dig into your skin almost painfully and you felt the familiar sensation traveling along your body. Fuck. Fuck yes. You were finally going to—

A drawn-out whine left your lips when he pulled his cock out from your tight heat. The sudden emptiness had your body shaking violently. It wasn't until you felt a streak of wetness spluttering on your back that you realized he had reached his own high without letting you reach your own.

"Shit," he gasped, slapping your ass as he watched his own liquid seeping down the curve of your back. "That was incredible."

You groaned. Fucking selfish man.

"What was that?"

It then dawned on you that you actually mumbled those words out loud. You shook your head and he groaned at your lack of words. "That didn't sound like nothing."

And suddenly, as if you weighed nothing, he grabbed onto your body and turned you over, pushing you onto your back. You were too weak to even fight him as he shoved your pants off your feet before spreading your legs apart. You watched as he leaned down and a long string of clear liquid fell from his lips toward your cunt, letting it trickle down between your folds.

"Knew you were a slut," he hissed, before straightening himself and tucking his cock back in his pants. Your eyes drifted toward him. He was big, just as big as you felt him inside you. But it wasn't his sheer size that surprised you, it was Spencer standing by your feet that had your heart peaking up its pace. Aaron smirked as he stepped back and Spencer quickly took his place between your legs.

"Look at you still holding back," Aaron taunted, genuine curiosity lacing in his voice as he paced around the room. "You're worn out. You're filthy. Aren't you tired of playing this game?"

You looked over at him tiredly. Amidst the pulsing waves of pleasure coursing through your veins, you fought to maintain your focus. "Y- You haven't done anything m-much to earn—"

His laughter sent a chill through the room. "Oh, Sweetheart, you think you're winning, but you're not." He then locked his gaze on you. "Trust me, we already have you in the palm of our hands."

You tried retorting back but the once-sharp edges of your concentration began to blur when you felt Spencer's throbbing cock right between your pussy. Each pulse of pleasure sent tremors through your resolve as he eased his hips back to drag the thick, swollen head through your outer lips. His eyes focused on the way you spread for him as though inviting him inside.

"You're already fucked out," Spencer murmured, dragging the tip of his cock through your wetness, feeling it catch against your tight entrance. "Yet look at you swallowing me."

He let the underside of his cock split your folds open, resting it between them snugly as he let out a low groan at the heat radiating from your core. The sinful noise that left your lips had his cock throbbing painfully, the thick veins protruding from his length. He angled your body against him, pushing more of his thick girth inside your trembling body, feeling the way you squeezed around him as he stretched you out.

Spencer pressed his fingers into the curve of your hips as his gaze flickered between your face and his cock splitting you apart. You gasped, your breaths growing more erratic as he managed to push all of his length inside you. He ran his hand over your abdomen as he tried to feel his cock inside you, pressing against your pelvis as he pulsed at the sensation.

"Fuck, baby," he growled, "Taking me so well."

And then he slowly dragged his cock away from you, keeping just the tip in your entrance before plunging back inside in a harsh, jarring movement, jolting you in surprise. You arched your back and tipped your head back in pleasure, just to find Aaron towering above you, looking down at you with an eerie smile.

His fingers trailed down your shoulder blades before they hovered at the buttons on your shirt, slowly unbuttoning them. "I think it's time that you give us a name."

Your body writhed in response to the waves of sensation as you tried to ground yourself. But it was hard to keep thinking straight when he grabbed onto the underlayer of your bra and lifted it over your chest. The way your perky breasts spilled out from beneath the fabric made both men hum in satisfaction.

Calloused palms grabbed onto your breasts and your eyes rolled at the back of your head at the sensation. His thumb brushed against your soft nipple, watching as it began to rise to a stiff peak as he mimicked the action on your other breast, all the while as Spencer began thrusting into your cunt at a painfully slow pace.

"Come on, Sweetheart, don't you want to cum on his cock?"

"Fuck," Spencer grunted, feeling you clench around him. "Keep talking to her."

Aaron chuckled as he continued playing with your breasts. "It's torture, isn't it?" He closed his index finger and thumb around your nipples, pinching ever so gently. You let out a soft sigh and closed your eyes as arousal flushed through you. "Give us a name and we'll give you what you want."

And then you felt Spencer rocking his hips at a steady rhythm, burying himself deeper and deeper before he slowly began increasing his speed. Your body jerked wildly each time he pushed deep into you. Noticing this, his thumb moved to your clit as he pressed messy circles against the sensitive nub, twisting it beneath his calloused pad. It felt too good, so good that you could no longer hold back from moaning out loud.

Your cries of pleasure snapped him into action and his hands moved down to your ass, holding you up to him as he started pounding harder into you. Your head fell back, chest heaving up and down, and that was when you felt Aaron closing his lips around one of your nipples. You writhed, your body thrashing underneath both men. Your senses reeling, the warmth of multiple hands on your skin sent jolts of electricity down your spine, igniting a wildfire of pleasure within you.

Aaron pulled away from you and your eyes flickered open at the loss, only to be met with Spencer hovering above you. Your eyes swept over him, and you looked down where you were joined, watching how his hips moved in constant thrusts. He was enjoying this, you could tell by the way his fingers burned your skin and the occasional grunt escaping his lips.

At the sound of his voice, you looked up at his face, glistening with a sheen of sweat while his messy hair tousling over it. The moment your gazes met each other, something inside you snapped. The muscles in your core began to coil, tightening and constricting around him right as your climax slowly pushed through the fog inside your head. Spencer felt it too, and he suddenly slowed his pace, throwing you a cunning smile.

You felt your resistance starting to crumble. The intensity of your pleasure grew almost unbearable, and you could no longer deny it. Your eyes welled with tears at the overwhelming sensation, and the thought of having your orgasm ripped again from you seemed like another torture you didn't want to endure.

You were going to regret this. You definitely would. But you couldn't dwell on the consequences of your actions when desperation coursed through you like a fever, an all-consuming hunger that you couldn't deny. Your body ached for release and craved it with an intensity that was maddening. 

Your breath came in ragged gasps, and then your eyes, wide and filled with desperation, pleaded with him silently as you found yourself finally giving in, muttering a name you had tried to keep to yourself. A name involved in the crime these men had been pestering you for. A name that had Aaron smirking devilishly as he leaned over to you, brushing his knuckles on your cheek in a caress that was so foreign.

"Good girl," he mumbled, his voice lacing with satisfaction at the way you finally crumbled. He was right, you were already in the palms of their hands, it was simply a matter of time until you caved in. "Good fucking girl."

Once you surrendered, you couldn't stop the whine falling through your lips. Your desperate moan rang deeply in the room, snapping something primal inside Spencer, and he trusted his hips into you roughly. A gasp escaped your lips, legs falling open wider as he split you wider than you already were.

Your mind went absolutely numb with pleasure as he kept rutting up inside you, your body becoming nothing more than a mess, overtaken by a wave of sweat and erotic bliss. You felt yourself trembling, your breathing becoming more ragged as his thrusts became sloppier.

“Fucking hell,” he grunted, noticing the way your mouth fell open as pleasure engulfed you. "That's it, baby, let me fuck you dumb."

You cried out, babbling incoherent sentences as he thrust harder, grabbing your hips and tilting into you slightly, making him go even deeper as he moved with you.

"Go on, cum on my cock," he growled breathlessly through his rapid pounding. "Let me feel you."

“Fuck—” You cried out for him, your overstimulated body shaking beneath him. Wave after wave of pleasure came rushing through your body, erupting in the most intense way. He watched the way you convulsed beneath him in your release, watching the way a white, sticky liquid circled his cock every time his skin brushed your inner walls. His thumb was unrelenting against your clit and you tried to angle your body away from his touch, the pleasure too intense as your lower half throbbed around him.

You continued to clench around him between your bliss, your legs trembling from the position as he arched his back, focusing the power of his thrusts straight into your tightness. A shiver burst through you at the sensation. And with one final thrust, his whole body tensed. He pushed forward, burying his cock in your soft, warm cunt, spreading his warmth in much slower and shallow rolls of his hips.

You were breathing hard, trying to regain your composure, and a moan left your lips when he finally pulled out. Cringing at the fluid slowly leaking out of you, you tried to close your legs only to be stopped as he gripped the back of your thighs, spreading your legs apart to expose your body. You were so wonderfully disheveled, your cunt clenching around nothing, gleaming with your arousal and his own release.

“Look at the mess you made." Piercing eyes watched you as white liquid trickled down your ass. A feeble mewl left your lips as his thick fingers moved down to catch it, deliberately pressing against your folds as you wriggled in his grasp. A laugh left his lips as he dragged the string of wetness along your sex, pushing it back inside you.

"I think I ruined her."

Aaron's laughter filled the room, and just as you were about to push yourself off the table, you felt him grasping both of your hands, pushing them above your head. Your eyes widened in shock. "Wh-what are you doing?"

Then you felt it, the cool metal wrapped around your wrist, sinking into the flesh of your skin as you tried to move from his grip. An unexpected panic surged within you. "Sweetheart, we know you're involved in more than one crime." The soft click of the metal lock was loud in your ears. "You need to give us more names."

Your body, still tingling with the aftershocks of pleasure, now felt more exposed than ever. You looked up to find both men staring down at you, and at very moment, you realized, as you felt the handcuffs digging into your wrist, that you were going to be here for a very long time.

[eoieopda]

table for two | lsm

seokmin thinks recovery looks beautiful on you.

pairing: lee seokmin x reader au: established relationship, slice of life genre: fluff, hurt/comfort (sort of?) type: drabble | 860 words rating: pg-13 — minors still do not have my consent to interact. content: gn!reader; reader’s physical appearance is not described in any way; seokmin is the best of all boys; food/beer mention + consumption; seokmin’s pov. tw: reader is referenced to be in recovery (implied to be for an unnamed eating disorder) ! there are no depictions of disordered eating; however, seokmin thinks about things reader no longer does ! specifically, this references the absence of past distraction tactics (pushing food around plate, picking up a bite and setting it back down during conversation) ! seokmin notes that reader sits with him for over an hour after eating, rather than disappearing (reference to implied history of purging) ! a/n: this is deeply, deeply, deeply personal. i wrote this because i need comfort; and i am posting it publicly in case it can be source of comfort for someone else. it is based on my personal experience and may not be reflective of any other person’s experience. please review the tw’s and skip this drabble if you believe any part of this will make you uncomfortable or unsafe. if you are based in the u.s., this website has resources that may be helpful for you. multi permanent taglist. seventeen permanent taglist.

Seokmin is at the stove with a wooden spatula in hand when he feels your arms slither around his waist. The warmth of your cheek presses into the space between his shoulder blades, just like the tiny, contented sigh you breathe out. Without the sizzling pan in front of him, he might’ve given into the urge to go boneless; to melt into your hold, like marshmallow over a campfire.

Gooey may not be glamorous, but it’s the best way to describe how he feels around you.

“What are you making?” You mumble from behind him, curiosity evident despite how muffled your words are

He bites his lips to keep from grinning. Really, he doesn’t want to make it a big deal, but it is. This might be the first time you’ve ever asked him that question with interest, rather than carefully-cloaked dread. The first time you sound genuinely eager.

If his heart gets any warmer, it’ll burn his —

“Dakgalbi!” And even though you can’t see him do it, Seokmin wiggles his eyebrows for emphasis as he lilts, “With a special ingredient.”

You pull your cheek from its resting place, thankfully without removing your arms. He cranes his neck to meet your eyes over his shoulder just in time for you to snort, “Love?”

Well…

Honestly, it’s no surprise that you catch his cheesy joke before he can properly drop it. He’s cast this line at you a million times before — and that’s a conservative estimate. 

Seokmin paints on an exaggerated frown, blinking his wide fake-offended eyes back at you. “My halmoni’s kimchi,” he says through a pout.

You nod appreciatively, then you kiss the pout right off his face, leaving Seokmin to wonder if you’re really talking about fermented cabbage when you sigh, “The best there is.”

The distraction you create is more than welcome, but the dish he’s neglecting starts sputtering in an ominous way that demands immediate attention. Reluctantly, he turns back around to stir. Even more reluctantly, you withdraw your arms from him; your soft footsteps pad off somewhere he can’t see.

Then, he hears a cabinet open.

Then, the distinct clink of two bowls being lifted from the shelf.

Two bowls, Seokmin notes, and he’s unable to fight off a grin this time.

Once the chicken and sweet potatoes are thoroughly cooked, you reappear at his side with two bowls at the ready. Two portions are doled out carefully to avoid spilling any sauce on the counter, then two pairs of chopsticks replace the wooden spatula in his hand.

You sit together at your small kitchen table, and it feels natural now, like this is something you’ve always done. It’s not; it’s a recent development, but there’s an ease to it all now that wasn’t there before.

Seokmin’s instincts tell him to be cool about it. To not stare lovingly at you, as much as he may want to, because that spot-lighted attention would freak him out, too. But even without watching outright, he notices the thousand little hard-fought changes.

When you pick up a large bite of chicken between your chopsticks, you don’t distract with a question or joke just to set the bite back down, undetected. You chew that bite, making some thoroughly delighted sound, and then you take another one.

You don’t push the food around in your bowl, either, but eat your fill from it. Once you do, you don’t disappear. Instead, you stay put, laughing through the rest of the hour while Seokmin eats his first and second servings. You’re present, accounted for, and best of all, happy to be here.

This isn’t the first meal you’ve spent like this — Seokmin trusts implicitly that it won’t be the last — and yet he still feels pride bubble up in his chest in a way that makes his tear ducts tingle. Again, he reminds himself to be cool about it. He clears his throat, as if it’s the gochugaru affecting him and not his admiration for you, and he takes a sip of the beer you decided pairs best with the stir-fry.

Licking the excess foam from his lips, Seokmin sets his glass down and looks up at you. The echoing sip you take is earnest, rather than performative, and it’s followed by a sigh that sounds relieved.

“I love you, you know,” he states plainly.

I’m so fucking proud of you, he implies.

“I know.” You shrug, then the nonchalance gives way to a giggle. Your shoulder knocks gently into his before you lean closer and rest your head there. “Ditto.”

Seokmin rests his cheek against the top of your head. His eyes flutter shut in the comfortable silence that follows, too full and content to even think of doing dishes.

After spending a few minutes that way, you speak again — softly, because you know he startles easily: “It’s supposed to rain tomorrow.”

“Oh?” He asks without a clue where this train of thought is heading.

“Perfect pajeon weather. We should make some, don’t you think?”

What Seokmin thinks is that recovery looks beautiful on you.

Nodding minimally to avoid shaking your head along with his, he agrees, beaming all the while. “Perfect indeed.”

[oldbronxlady]

[kaleidoscopicbullettrain]

[unificsation]

to have and to hold ⋆⚭⋆

mob!bucky barnes x wife!reader, 8.8k

⋆.𐙚 ̊. a bwatober oneshot ⋆.𐙚 ̊.

the kinktober prompt: cockwarming · hickeys · lingerie (it's a hattrick!) as a one-year anniversary gift, you propose that you and your husband divorce. he decides to teach you a lesson: that the king of new york doesn’t give anything up, least of all his darling wife.

⚜️ WARNINGS/TAGS: SMUT 18+ MDNI, mafia!au, angst, porn with plot, childhood best friends to arranged marriage to lovers, repressed feelings, noncon mention (does not happen), allusions to age gap but no direct reference, dom!bucky (soft and mean), fingering, oral, unprotected piv, dirty talk, creampie, breeding kink

🔑 READER WARNINGS/TAGS: afab!reader, reader has hair (described to tumble down at one point) and is able-bodied

🔱 AUTHOR'S NOTE: it's not a fic by unificsation if uni doesn't crash out a little when writing it lol. this is my first bwa collab and i worked hard to live up to the talent in the room—i just hope it shows in the story! please be patient when you read this, i beg!

the jewelry aspect in this is inspired by @flockoff-featherface's rendition of mob!bucky in the previous collab! there are some bwa references here, too, though not of everyone because i couldn't fit it naturally and didn't have time to rework things 😭 please know that i love you all, ardently and equally!!

The mahogany door to the suite swings open. Even at night, New York shines beyond floor-to-ceiling penthouse windows, busy streets twinkling like rivers of stars. A switch turns on. Warmth floods the space with its velvet finishes and Canaletto walnut counters, the lights beamed through brushed bronze sconces on the walls.

Two figures slip inside. A laugh rings true—yours.

“I can’t believe you got them to make Mom’s tiramisu! Did you have to ask Dad for the recipe?”

Bucky smiles at your back, watches the tumble of your hair from that updo like he didn’t spend the whole night staring at you. Here in your shared home, he’s free to monopolize. No secret audience in the public eye, just twin flames on the top floor of one of the many buildings he owns.

“Your dad wouldn’t write it down. Said they’d steal it,” he taking off his suit jacket to drape it on an armchair, then drops metal cufflinks on a terrazzo tray. “The people at the Chateau were nice enough to follow his instructions through the phone.”

You giggle, mostly at the image—his father-in-law speaking into a brick phone with glasses all the way down his nose—but also a little bit from the wine.

It was vintage. Older than your husband, but certainly not smoother than he is. He was charming all throughout dinner. Got you blushing from compliments even before they poured you the burgundy Bordelaise.

You catch him rolling his sleeves up in your periphery.

And the Chateau was an excellent place. Great service, equally amazing food. The restaurant was efficient without sacrificing intimacy: tables spaced out and sleek, lights dimmed, carpeted floors dampening the sound of delicate cutlery. Bucky didn’t have to say much to get what he wanted, only needed to spare a glance for the maître d’s full attention.

But maybe that’s more because of who he is, though you don’t doubt the restaurant’s hospitality.

No business in their right mind would leave the king of New York wanting.

What you don’t know is that mob boss James Buchanan Barnes spent a good couple of hours worrying about where to take his wife to dinner.

But he made the right choice, like he always did. It charmed you inside and out: lush interiors, a decadent five-course meal with garnishes as pretty as garlands, powder rooms bigger than some people’s apartments. You passed each second marveling like you yourself weren’t accustomed to a life of luxury. Like you weren’t born in it.

And then there was your soft moan when you bit into the food. He didn’t know if he should be jealous or proud, but he can’t complain.

Not when you’re celebrating your first anniversary as a married couple.

“Can’t believe it’s been a year,” you sigh as limbs drag themselves towards the suede settee. He watches as silk ebbs and flows on your skin, soft dangerous ripples lit by hazy highlights from the floor lamp. The dress is one he hasn’t seen before. He’s a stupid man for not taking you out more often.

“Time flies when you’re having fun,” he sits next to you. You press a smile against his cheek, the peck chaste, thumb brushing against his ringed knuckles.

How you break him with the easiest of touches is beyond him.

The orange dim of the room reflects a look in your eyes that he hasn’t seen in a while. A trace of mischief. Or is it amusement? Either way, it reminds him of bygone eras spent with you: trampolines, tree-houses, and twenty questions. Back when you were young and stupid and free, a foxy daughter and the bloodhound of an old family.

“Bucky?”

“Yes, princess?”

“Close your eyes for me?” you smile. “I got you a gift.”

He shakes his head with an acquiescing chuckle. He’s never said no to you.

Blue eyes close.

“You’re beating me to it.”

“To what?”

“The presents.”

“Ladies first, as you like to say,” your reply is playful, and he hears movement. Shuffles all paper-like. “Anyway, I thought dinner was your gift.”

“Dinner’s not enough, doll.”

Then the couch sinks next to him and his skin holds your warmth even without touch. Something light falls on his lap.

“Open.”

Blue eyes land on an ivory folder sitting innocently across his thighs. Embossed at the front is an ornate B—his family insignia. The one you made yours, too.

His blank face meets a smile that can only mean excitement. You tilt your head to the piece of stationery, a small ‘go ahead’ that nudges his curiosity past the precipice. He flips the cover open.

Inside is a neat stack of papers. The black ink at the very top of the first page screams at him, all capital letters and antipathy:

REQUEST FOR DISSOLUTION OF MARRIAGE

Eyes snap to yours. You bite back a pleased grin.

“Happy anniversary, Bucky.”

The first time you left him so dumbfounded was on his fifteenth birthday.

Yes, Bucky Barnes was once fifteen. Not as tall or muscular. Lighter in both the color of his hair and the weight on his shoulders, compared to the man he is now.

But even a conqueror like him had a childhood: days when his biggest woes were bad weather or Becca’s unending boy problems that he somehow had to hear about.

On his fifteenth birthday, his biggest woe was you not attending the party.

It was a rather big thing. They prepared favors. Balloons, too—despite his insistence on not having them. Indulgent food for the children and an open bar for the chaperoning adults.

All of his family was there and so were his friends, but sweet little you somehow became the best of them despite having nearly nothing in common with him other than interest in each other’s company.

He was older, you were younger. He was a Yankees fan, you thought the baseball diamond was the prize for winning a game. He laughed when he told you that was what they called the field, and then you were laughing too.

It was the most delightful sound he’d ever heard.

Something clicked then, except ‘click’ was too inconsequential a word. Shifted, more like. Fatal like tectonic plates, fated like a story.

At that fifteenth birthday party, Matthew got too into catechism for Bucky to have a conversation with. It was also the year relations with the Starks got slightly tense due to suspected swipes at each other’s assets, which meant he and Tony barely met, let alone spoke. The Romanoffs and their eldest daughter Natasha were away for overseas business.

Sure, Bucky always had Steven Grant Rogers by his side. But you and Steve were the best in his books for entirely different reasons.

Even with Steve there, it hurt when you weren’t.

But it wasn’t your fault. You’d been sick all week, down with a nasty bug he wished were a real one instead of a mere turn of phrase—that way he could actually crush it for you.

That way he wouldn’t be sad because the girl he liked couldn’t make it to his special day.

When his mother asked what cake he wanted for the party, he said your favorite flavor instead of his.

What was the point of that if you weren’t here at all?

Then, just before he was supposed to blow the candles out, you showed up. Pretty dress, pretty hair, even prettier face. For a split second, he thought his wish was granted before he even got to make it. Year-on-year myth made material.

“I got all better for you,” you grinned. A little tired, sure, but happy to see him.

He hugged you as tight as the twinge in his chest. You giggled into his shoulder. The adults melted with a chorus of awwws—only made worse when you parted to kiss his cheek.

Just like that, his birthday was made.

You gave him a gift. The one in the wrapped box was great—but your presence is the better present.

Because that was everything he ever wanted: you next to him.

When he started carving order out of underground chaos with his own two hands, you made him understand why the work was necessary. He wanted to protect you. To keep you safe, even before he was old enough to receive his first Glock.

Before he became king.

He blew on your skinned knee when you fell off your bike. Pulled stray twigs out of your hair. Let you steal the heart of his family dog—then his in the process. The two of you grew taller, and still he took care of you: hid you from the guards while he snuck you out to play, then took the brunt of the scolding when you got found out.

For all his easy smiles, you’d always look at him like it was your fault. Doe-eyed. Guilty.

He’d pull you in, pat your head, say it’s okay. Keep the little thank you, Bucky you murmur into his chest like it was buried treasure.

And then college called.

The Barnes’ had history with Princeton, so that was where he went. But the distance from New York to Jersey had nothing against where your parents decided you’d go.

Europe. You told him about it while he was interning.

He said he was excited for you. He lied.

The night before your flight, you cried in his arms. Not the kind of cry that wrenched guts in its wails—the kind that was hushed. Compliant. You cried like he wouldn’t fly across the ocean every weekend just to see you. Like you were in the final stage of grief. Acceptance.

He held you through it. Stroked your hair. Said it’s okay. Promised to call.

What he didn’t do was tell the truth. Declare feelings. How he realized he’d only ever thought of you when he sat across a revolving door of women that fought to be near him. How he replaced the sound of their laugh with yours, only to be disappointed when the self-afflicted spell broke.

How he’d be so much happier be if you were the one he held at night.

Those thoughts festered over the years. Then they’re locked for at least a few more, because tomorrow, it’d take a seven-hour flight to touch your fingertips. Tomorrow, you’d be a name on his phone, a voice on the line, a specter in the corner of every room.

He wasn’t sure he’d keep the secret if he visited. So he didn’t.

Better for you to be a continent away loving him as a friend than shunning him as a foe.

Better for you to shun him as a foe than forget about him entirely.

Time passed. He changed. His feelings didn’t.

Then a few years later, you returned: smarter and stronger and more beautiful, standing just a little taller. Like you’d come into yourself while he wasn’t watching. But even then, you were still you. The girl with twigs in her hair, who now understands ‘three strikes and you’re out’ and batting orders, just with a degree and acquired confidence. Still laughed that same laugh when he picked you up at the airport.

Neither of you wanted to part from that first hug in years, just hands on each other’s backs. You buried your face in his wool. He memorized the smell of your hair.

Your families must’ve put two and two together after seeing that reunion. Or maybe they’ve noticed for a while, bode their time like the good criminals they are.

The arranged marriage didn’t feel like the punishment many of his cohort purported it to be. But then again, he had it good.

For one, he knew who he was marrying. Didn’t have to go through polished profiles and fake first dates. The Barnes family was prestigious enough to attract posers on the regular—they didn’t need any more. Your folk had things greater than reputation: connections, controlled resources, and you.

For two, he loves you.

He never said so out loud.

And he didn’t dare ask you how you feel, but you never said no to the deal, either, even when the two of you agreed how egocentrically strategic it was. Both your parents wanted a power consolidation. They used affection to get it. Yours.

He lingered with you by the balcony of his summer home where the decision was announced, sipping the night air. Come morning, it wouldn’t taste the same.

“Why didn’t you fight it?” he asked.

“Because it was you,” you answered.

He didn’t push. Not when it could capsize him into saying something he might regret.

“Not like I’d know what to do without you, anyway,” you smiled wryly, voice quiet above the breeze and cricketsong.

“I promise I’ll take care of you,” he murmured back. Eyes looked into yours.

You looked back, then rested your head on his shoulder.

“I know. You always do.”

That was how it happened. Like an avalanche: the late afternoon fittings, lilies, and diamond rings. He didn’t know there were so many types of papers he had to consider for the embossed invitations.

But amidst the flurry, it still didn’t feel like punishment. Never like punishment, but a reward. As if being born in blood and brutality didn’t stop some force of benevolence from acknowledging his patience and deciding he deserved mercy.

That mercy was you in a white dress. An angel before the altar. A kiss followed by church bells.

Matthew Murdock blessed the marriage—Father Matthew Murdock, pardon him. Bastard went from boxing prodigy to priest.

Bucky was ready then, that first night. Ready to spill his guts on the honeymoon suite floor, heart close to bursting with held-back hurt. All the things he felt throughout the years. Things you made him feel, dream, do in the dark. A matrimonial confession that would lead to either crushed ribs or open arms.

Hell or heaven. Nothing in between.

But then he saw you sit in bed with your pajamas—the one with tiny daisies on it—and you beckoned him, patting a spot on the king-sized bed.

Every sentence he scripted was lost in an exhale. What remained was a conviction so cold, it kept him quiet for a year.

He couldn’t lose you.

That night, you ended up cuddling like you were children again. Traded stories about what transpired during the grand reception.

“Your kiss was very convincing,” you smiled conspiratorially.

He didn’t tell you he meant it. The kiss. The vow. The till death do us part.

It’s been a year of that—wedded bliss that you treated like a sleepover.

Touches remained innocent. Gazes remained guileless. You told him his kiss was convincing, but he didn’t know yours would be, too. The soft brushes of lips against his in public dinners. The way your fingers tangled with his.

It was so easy to believe that you married not by circumstance, but for love.

But behind closed doors, it was like the two of you never grew up—or at least you acted that way. Talked about your long day and his dirty work. Fell asleep in innocuous hugs that settled his soul. Took turns being big spoon and little spoon on a whim.

He prefers being little spoon. That way, he feels your breath on his back, and you’re left oblivious to the malady in his sweatpants. Easier for him to escape to the ensuite and touch himself at the thought of you.

Specifically, the thought of you looking at him like a man and not your childhood best friend.

It was a barren purgatory, and he went through like it was all milk and honey.

But now you’ve gone and done it.

He stares at the printed text, slowly crawling back to the present. Your name under petitioner, his name under respondent. He swore to never say no to your wishes, but he never thought you’d wish for this.

Divorce.

The question slips out of him, reeling barely restrained.

“What the fuck is this?”

You tense.

His baritone dips the way it does on his worst days, only now it pulls you under with it. It’s enough to drain the smile on your face until you’re left with a blank look. A canvas for confusion. For turbulence.

Then horror floods the thrum of your veins, making blood run cold.

It reminds you of fear that follows a grave mistake: like the time you accidentally broke an heirloom vase, except the weight in your stomach is a hundred-fold now, and so is the mess on the floor.

You’re glued to your seat by the sensation, instinct to move replaced by ice.

“What do you mean?” you ask, hiding a tremble.

Blue eyes snap to yours. There’s no joking twinkle. No affectionate narrow of them—not when his jaw is as locked as a steel vault. Though you can’t read his expression, it definitely isn’t one you expected him to wear.

He should be happy. This should be what he wanted. But instead he stares at the folder like he’s wondering if this is a dream.

You might be watching a nightmare unfold.

Then he throws it across the room, sending papers and your heartbeat scattering.

“That was my question, princess,” he murmurs, a flash of a storm in his eyes. “Explain.”

Shadow looms over you while he rises to his feet. The movement tears the truth out of you, nervous eyes darting everywhere except his face.

“Well, since the merger’s stabilized, I thought…” you breathe, “I thought that we don’t have to keep this up anymore.”

“Keep what up?” He chases like a dagger: quick, incisive.

“The marriage,” your eyes finally meet his, hoping you’ll witness him see sense. Hoping for awareness to wash over him, that he’ll melt into a kind smile and say: right, I get it now, thank you for absolving us of this thing our parents put onto our shoulders.

That balm doesn’t arrive, and anxiety continues to burn. You stammer.

“Bucky, I’m saying you don’t have to sacrifice your happiness anymore—”

But he scoffs instead, grin devoid of humor. A hand runs through his hair.

“That’s what this marriage is to you then? A burden?”

The turnabout scathes more than his previous silence. Maybe because you never expected this outcome. It is also deeply unjust: why he’s pinning this on you is beyond any logic, especially knowing what he did.

Your eyebrows knot as you stand, a reflection of rising temper more than conscious choice.

“How could you ask me that when you’ve made it clear how much of a burden this is to you?”

“What the hell are you talking about? We just had a great time at dinner!”

You let out a laugh. It’s funny how he thinks you don’t know.

“I’m talking about you smelling like ten different perfumes every night for the past month, Bucky.”

He must think you’re sound asleep each time he slips under the sheets, but the truth you don’t want to admit is that your body stirs at his presence. Even half-conscious, you feel time tick by: one in the morning becomes two, and then three, which is when he comes home most nights.

There in the dark, you breathe him in, wanting comfort, only to find a bouquet of betrayal.

Jasmines and the sea. Camellias, cocoa, and citrus.

They spin like a carousel, switching, erasing his forest green scent only to replace it with the shade of jealousy—one you struggle to school into submission.

You have no right to that feeling. He was never yours to begin with.

And now you watch as his face falls. It fuels your step and the fire beneath your voice.

“I’m not stupid. I noticed. You don’t talk to me about your day anymore, we barely eat together, you come home smelling like women. A great time at dinner doesn’t exactly erase that.”

There’s a pang in your heart. You will it to pass.

“This marriage might have been arranged, and we might not really be husband and wife, but you sleeping around behind my back is still disgraceful. Not just for me. For the both of us.”

Bucky stares back. You speak before he can—he’ll ruin you otherwise, with or without words.

“You could’ve told me, Buck,” you soften. “You know I won’t blame you. You deserve company.”

Company. The kind he won’t look for in you because he’s your good friend—your very best, even.

Expecting him to want to sleep with you is wishful thinking. Expecting him to stay celibate is like muzzling a dog you don’t even own.

“Let’s not pretend this is what we wanted. What you wanted.” There’s nothing interesting about the rug, but you stare at it anyway.

Maybe its modern pattern will rewrite the ancient ones woven in your head. A tangle of old afflictions—expectations, comparisons, the value you brought to the table dictating the love you begged to receive.

A quiet voice prickles in the back of your mind. It tells you it’s not that he doesn’t want an arranged marriage; he just doesn’t want you.

Scheming parents made you a coincidental casualty that landed on his lap, and now you’ve become a problem he’d be better off without. So much that he’d rather distance himself from you than talk about it like you used to.

Even though you’d let him fuck other women if it meant he’d stay.

A greater woman would have cut ties and run. Next to her, you feel like a little girl with a broken sense of self-esteem.

Maybe this divorce is your attempt to prove something. Anything.

Your gaze is blank at the scattered papers on the floor. The only thing you’ve proven so far is your lack of conviction—running away at every shadow of something real.

How did it come to this?

“I just want us to be friends again,” you whisper.

Something crackles against your skin. The air turns into an emotional minefield. An invisible string tugs your gaze, pulling it back to his with the force of nature. The way he looks at you crushes your faith.

It looks like he’s falling apart, too.

You can tell through the clench of his jaws and fists. Through the flicker in his eyes. In the breath you barely remember to take above a tyrannical tension. Tightrope over bear traps.

“Yeah?” he rasps. “Well, I don’t want that.”

Pain and embarrassment punch you with monosyllabic words. He might as well change that last one to ‘you’.

I don’t want you.

But then he steps forward. You look up at him, trying to hold your ground. It doesn’t work. His steadiness knocks you back, feet moving away from him like repelling magnets.

“We can’t be friends anymore,” he says. Your back hits the wall.

“I don’t understand—”

His smile is mirthless.

“‘Course you don’t.”

Bucky stands tall in front of you, silhouette casting a shadow with no escape routes. The hand on your face is the final nail to an uncovered coffin—it holds the hinge of your jaw, the last rites of a relationship. Blue blade-like eyes cut your defenses and drive you into a corner.

His face hovers over yours.

At this distance, he’ll see the sadness past your irises, so you look away. His hand tilts you back to face him.

Then he speaks, soft, and whatever troubling thought you have shatters into a million shards—the second time tonight.

“You don’t know what it’s like to share a bed with the woman you love and not touch her.”

A thumb smooths over your cheekbone, as if to placate the shock. His gaze drops to your lips, then back up.

“And I’ve loved her since she practiced cursive with my name.”

Your missing breath fuels memories, your mind plays a reel. It shows what he’s talking about: a movie, with scenes that slipped between cracks of life lived and fractured.

You’re wearing your favorite skirt. The weather is so nice outside. There’s clumsy handwriting on ruled paper. He smiles when you show its loops and curls:

James Buchanan Barnes is my best friend

The words ‘best friend’ are now overshadowed by a single one with four letters.

Time stands still. Gravity swallows your feet into the ground.

He tips your chin up. A taunt.

You can’t run, the gesture says, now that I’ve said it.

And you can’t because he’s pressing up against you, trapping your body between cold wall and warm chest. As if mocking your speechlessness, his finger swipes at your bottom lip, parting them more.

“Sweet girl doesn’t understand what she does to me,” he hums, tracing the perfect edges of your lipstick, “doesn’t even know she gets me hard just by kissing me good morning and good night on my damn cheek. Why d’you think I wake up first and go to bed last, hm?”

Hot breath fans your ear. Hands move to his torso in a bid to steady yourself.

“I tried to be good, honey, I really did.”

Mouth brushes your jaw. Your head lolls to one side in response: are you running, or are you giving him room to take more of you?

“Tried to take my greed out elsewhere, except it didn’t work. They don’t have your body. Your voice. Your face,” he growls.

“They’re not you.”

He’s nipping at your ear, licking the shell as he murmurs.

“Couldn’t even fucking touch them.”

The confession sinks in the way ink does in water: slow, pulsating, before it grows and takes over.

He loves you.

“I thought you hated me,” you whisper.

He scoffs. “Hated you?”

The look on his face clogs your throat. Eyes dark, lips parted—no sign of focus brought by contempt, though you certainly are the object of his perturbation.

He’s lost. The crack in his voice brings the point home.

“How can I hate you when you’re all I ever wanted?”

“Buck—”

Whatever you wanted to say is cut off by a stern shove of your shoulder against ivory wall. The syllables melt into a single whimper.

“I’m your husband, sweetheart,” he breathes across your mouth. “And if you can’t understand that, I’ll drill it into your pretty little head.”

The first kiss he ever gives you is a devouring.

Lips slot. You gasp. For a second you think the Bucky you know is gone: the man who kneels to fix the strap of your high heels, the boy who held you through thunderstorms. There’s nothing gentle in the way he moves. He takes as if you’re his right, voracious like the jowls of a beast. Tongue and teeth further condemns you to his cause—to collapse your walls.

You crumble headfirst.

But he’s still James Buchanan Barnes, the only constant you’ve ever had in your life, so you hold on to him.

A ragged groan slips past when he feels your fingers in his hair. The touch lights up his nerve endings in a bright, loud yes, God, finally—satiated but already screaming for more. His hand slides to the back of your neck, the other gripping your waist: both of them strong like shackles in a cage.

“Fuck, I went beyond insane over you,” he mouths, “came so close to just taking you in our goddamn bed.”

The thought sends a chill down your spine. It’s not fear, it’s desire and thrill. You moan.

“You wouldn’t,” you pant, “you’d never.”

“Don’t be so sure,” exhales grow heavy as he paws at your flesh, saliva-slicked lips sucking at your neck. “I’m not a good man, honey. You’ve seen my ledger—our ledger.”

You have. It’s red, just like the lipstick he’s smudging right now as he crashes into you with another violent kiss. You clutch the front of his white shirt, crumpling it. He pulls away to survey the wreck he made.

He smiles at the sight.

“I know the first anniversary’s supposed to be paper, but divorce papers?” he hums. “You’re one hell of a gifter.”

“Bucky, I—”

“Sssh,” lips meet yours again. This time the kiss is languid, almost lazy. In his leisure you find vexation.

“Your turn for your present.”

After leading you to the bedroom, the first thing he gives you comes in an unwrapped box. Its contents are designed to wrap you instead. And they do wrap you: beautiful and bridal, deadly and dangerous in one set. White lace, ribbons, garters that lead to sheer tights—a thing like this should make bridesmaids giggle and say ‘he won’t be able to let go of you if you put this on!’

They’d be right.

Because Bucky is already ruining you.

“Bought this for our wedding last year,” he tugs the balconette bra down, letting your tits spill free like he didn’t make you wear it. “Never got the chance to see you in it.”

The warmth of his mouth captures a nipple. You whine when he delivers a mean suck, spine arching off the bed, a tentative coolness of air before you melt into the sheets again. They’re damp with sweat the moment he crowded you onto your shared bed.

“But we’re celebrating our anniversary tonight. The perfect occasion, yeah?”

Fingers hook at the gusset of your pretty underwear, pulling it aside to reveal slick folds. He touches you there and you stir at the coordinated pleasure that catches you unaware. He hums around your chest. The vibrations send sparks in your veins.

Squirming only sets off clinks of metal.

Bracelets of all kinds knock into each other: some charmed, some bangled. Long necklaces tangle with crystal body chains that flow down your skin like sparkling rivers. The weight of diamond drop earrings sink against the pillow.

The lingerie you’re wearing might be from last year, but these? The glimmering riches he took his time to put on you, save for the princess-cut rock on your ring finger? These are all new, their branded boxes forgotten on the floor.

His gift for a year of marriage.

A marriage you’re only consummating now.

“Look at you,” he moans, “so fucking pretty, you should be illegal.”

He lets go of your chest with a loud pop. Your breath shakes.

“Tell me,” he looks down at your pleasure-twisted face, “who helped you get those papers, baby?”

A finger prods at your slick hole, teasing. You surrender with a sob, except you don’t fight him at all.

“J-John.”

Your voice around another man’s name tips him over to villainy.

He adds another finger at your entrance, circling before pushing both of them deep into you.

You let out a cry, walls clenching around him—wet, tight, a vice he’s already devoted the rest of his life to. Love before first touch.

Manicured nails claw at his shoulders, but they soon relax as he waits. You pulse around his fingers while your lungs relearn how to breathe.

God, you’re soaked. Pliant. Warm.

“Yeah? ‘Cause Steve wouldn’t?”

That gets your attention. You blink up, eyes hazy.

“How’d you know…?”

He kisses your forehead, pulls his fingers out, and thrusts them back in.

“A-ah—”

“He asked if we were doing okay,” Bucky pants, watching your lashes flutter at the languid pace his hand sets. “Thought he was talking about me going out to the supper club again.”

His other hand pushes the hair out of your face while you pant, chasing each pump, crystals clinking above the wet sounds.

“Didn’t think he meant this.”

His thumb flicks your clit, punishment and reward in one touch. Tricks of an unfair trade. Your head thrashes.

“Bucky—!”

Your body rocks with his fingers, a byproduct of drawn-out desperation. It’s an awakening, a cryptic hunger yawning at the bottom of your gut. Now that he’s feeding that emptiness, it demands more.

“Walker must be so goddamn ecstatic his queen came to him for help.”

The crystals chains on your skin jingle alongside rolling hips. Bucky traces the sight with drunken abandon, dead set on destroying you first.

Call it payback for the many times he fisted himself at the thought of this, and call it occupational hazard how he’s already planning methodologies: fingers first, mouth second, cock third.

Then again, and again, and again… until you’re too spent to tell him to stop.

“You made him feel important, honey. Made him think we were gonna split,” he chides condescendingly. Fingers hit a spot in you that form stars at the edge of your vision. He watches you squirm. Transcribes every whimper in his brain.

“Gotta pay for that—c’mon, cum for me.”

Your lips part in a silent scream.

If it weren’t for his hand on your face, your cheek would be pressed against the pillow, but one broad grip has you looking straight at him as he pushes you over the edge.

The last thrust squelches as it sinks, lewd sound crystal clear in the empty room. He watches as you spasm like a live wire. Thighs twitch, eyes screw shut. Then his name on your mouth.

“There we go. Good girl. Good fucking girl.”

He doesn’t partake in the family’s merchandise, but this has to be what a drug high feels like.

Because he’s already addicted while your breath reconstructs itself. Already begging for another taste of you when he takes his fingers into his mouth, licking them clean.

“You know I see the way he looks at you?” Bucky murmurs, caressing your face with the same hand that broke you. “Swear he wants me dead just so he can have a chance with you.”

Two seconds pass before your ecstasy-addled brain catches up to the fact that your husband is still talking about John Walker. But any further thought is halted by the heat huffed on your neck.

“Let’s show him who you really belong to, yeah?”

It starts off slow with kisses on the column of your throat, almost kind compared to the rapture of release. His nose traces the slope that leads to your shoulder and he breathes, cataloging your scent: sweat and something floral that you wore to dinner. It pools in his stomach, makes him feral.

You’re prey on a pedestal.

He bares his tongue for the feast. Then teeth.

You sigh, feeling them drag oh so gently across skin. There’s no rush, but when he sinks down, it’s with intent. Purpose. Authority.

Muscles ripple over your lipstick and lace as he latches onto the side of your neck—you hold onto his arms even though there’s nowhere to fall with the mattress against your back. His warmth clings to you in return.

“Oh,” the airy sound slips out when he lets go. Flesh stings with stimulation. That spot will darken tomorrow.

Blue eyes map a path of ruin where he’ll bite next. A plan of attack to spell his name on your neck. The wedding ring isn’t enough of a claim, he reasons to himself.

Minutes later, you’re shaking beneath him wearing a new necklace of his making.

Pinks and reds dot collar to chest in what looks like a botched J-A-M-E-S. In a few hours, they’ll turn into a sunset purple. He marvels at the work of his mouth, stares down at you.

“Walker will learn his lesson. But now it’s time for yours.”

Wide eyes stare up at him.

“You see how the divorce is so uncalled for, honey? You don’t really want me to leave you, do you?”

You shake your head. It hurts, the thought of him leaving, even if it’s for his own good.

Hips pin yours. You feel the hard ridge under his slacks press against damp lace. Blood rushes south, makes you throb.

“Tell me you’re sorry,” he says, but he slips a thumb in your mouth. It presses on your tongue and forces your heartbeat into a stutter.

You say it anyway, stifled, vowels warped.

“I’m sorry.”

“Tell me you’re sorry for making me think of fucking other women instead of you.”

Tears blur your vision. You’re not sure why—maybe from the thought of wasted time, or from the image of him almot rutting into a warm body just to run away from yours. He said he didn’t—couldn’t—but your brain is an errant thing. The space between your ribs tighten.

He’s here to make it right. Are you that transparent? Because the finger in your mouth is still mean, but his other hand strokes your cheek in a manner so opposite you think it might have a mind on his own.

Bucky kisses your temple. Then cheek. Then ear, where his voice rumbles deep.

“C’mon, honey. Say it.”

“I’m sorry for—” drool escapes from the side of your open mouth, “for making you think of f-fucking other women…”

“Instead of?”

“…instead of me.”

“Good girl.”

He grinds down against you harder, the friction catching your clit just right. You keen.

The thumb dislodges, drawing a spit-slick line down your chin, then collarbone, then sternum. He toys with your nipple. The wet touch makes you jolt. Beneath shimmers and gem-studded strings, your skin is smeared with pigment from smudged lipstick.

“Tell me you’re sorry for not giving yourself to me sooner.”

A tear slides down your cheek. He kisses it away.

“I’m sorry for not giving myself to you sooner,” you hiccup.

He leans down to mouth at your nipple again. Spine curling like a big cat above you, hips rolling against yours.

“Now tell me you’ll let me do what I want to you,” he murmurs against you.

The new commandment shepherds silence—not in fear, also not quite submission. You linger at an open doorway while everything about him beckons you to enter, where all the pleasure he’s given you may multiply.

But once you go there, you can’t go back.

He sucks at your chest in a manner so selfish it breaks your reverie. Blue eyes snap to your face when he lets go.

Then he says those words: the exact same ones he said to you the night your fates were sealed.

“I promise I’ll take care of you.”

He rises, face above yours, breathing your air. “I know I was stupid. Stubborn. A damn coward.”

Then, after an inhale:

“I just didn’t want to lose you.”

It’s enough to make you lean up to kiss him, the antithesis of how he started.

Soft, almost solemn. He kisses back like he’s kissed you a thousand times before—and maybe he has in his dreams. It tastes like sticky succumbence, as sweet and as cloying as honey. The more it drips in your mouth, the more you hunger. Your fingers grip his arms, still clothed in that damn white shirt.

The way the both of you are dressed, you can almost pretend this is your wedding night.

He parts first.

“Give me words, sweet girl.”

With instructions so clear, how could you not?

“I’ll let you,” you whisper.

He watches. Waits. It takes every bit of you in your dizziness, but you finally continue.

“...do what you want to me.”

The breath that escapes him is ragged, wanting—like an animal desperate for nourishment. He wastes no time in diving between your legs. Spreads thighs with strong hands, pulling your panties over to one side. You gasp at his breath caressing the apex of your thighs.

“Good,” he rumbles, “gonna make you cum on my tongue.”

Your body becomes his to control. Greedy hands use garters as handles, tugging them to haul your legs over his shoulders as he eats. One of them moves to torment your chest, the other your clit.

He really is a rotten liar, because he makes you cum on his tongue twice. It’s motivated by self-justification: this is what he wanted for so long, surely he’s allowed to take more? He’s been so good, holding back all this time…

The first orgasm rips a loud moan out of you, thighs bracketing his head. He doesn’t stop after that. Eats you like it’s his pleasure. Your stomach twists with the beginnings of overstimulation until the curl of his tongue in your cunt pushes you past that precipice again.

The second time you crest is devastating. You sob under your breath while a strong arm presses both your legs to meet your chest, opening your core up for him like you’re a right and a privilege in one reality.

Seeing you folded in half like that—slick, clenching around nothing—is enough to sever him from sanity.

Or maybe he’s never sane to start with. Not when it comes to you.

“She looks so empty, sweetheart. Let’s fix that.”

A hand takes both of yours overhead, pinning them into pliancy. You’re too weak to even writhe.

Then he feeds his inches into your hole and you cry.

“Bucky—!”

The stretch of his cock is far from comprehensible. It’s excruciating, but each vein inspires addiction. Then there’s the heat, the intoxicating way he pulses inside of you as he pushes ever deeper, nudging places you didn’t know existed, claiming them for himself.

His blunt tip finally sinks all the way in and you feel him in your stomach. In your lungs, your throat.

“Christ, you’re unreal,” he pants against your ear, smokescreens in the form of saccharine things distracting from the dull pain.

“Think she might be made for me, honey. Tight fucking pussy swallowing my cock—”

You moan, walls unwittingly clutching him. He groans.

“Fuck, not gonna last if she’s grippin’ me like that.”

“Bucky,” you murmur.

“Yeah, princess?”

“‘s too much,” is all you can muster, gaze falling to the sight between your bodies. Blue eyes and blown-out pupils follow, and he grins. The grip he has on your wrists tightens.

“Yeah?” he pants in bliss, still buried in you, “This is what I think about every morning. Every night.”

Then he thrusts once, shallow at first. Two strangled voices echo in the room.

“Fuck—wasted my time dreaming of you... could’ve had this all along.”

Your hands don’t know what to do: fingers stretch and claw at air while his hand keeps you where he wants you. He splits you open, hips steadily sawing into yours. It leaves you at a loss, coherence deleted with each rock of him until only three words loop: ‘please’, ‘Bucky’, and ‘more’—because you’re a paradox like that.

A symphony worth waiting years for.

And because he can never deny you, he gives.

Makes you cum on his cock just like that, pounding mercilessly into your sensitive spots. Your hair forms a halo on the pillow while plump lips part, crying out his name again and again. He drives into you just the same, eyes never straying from your face, just to convince himself this isn’t a dream.

The way you clench around your cock tells him it isn’t. Dreams can never feel this good—he knows because he’s had plenty.

“Fuck,” he grunts, cock buried so far up in you that you almost cum again when he does.

You mewl at the hot spurts of him inside. For a second the fever breaks, satisfied with release, but as you’re flooded with his spend, the appetite rises. The ravening isn’t over. His eyes say as much.

A dark intention takes over him, affection corrupted by avarice. What other expressions will you show him? What secrets sounds can he steal from you?

How far can he make you fall?

Minutes melt into hours.

Here you are now, a picture of ruined grace draped across his lap. Lingerie ripped, chains and jewelry in knots, sparkling diamonds in the dark illuminating the blotches around your throat.

He keeps you sat on his cock for god knows how long already. Tears blur your vision, and the feeling in your chest is the same as your poor, plugged up cunt.

Full.

God, you’re stuffed with him—his cock, his cum. A mess in both body and mind, slick with his spend and yours sluicing down your ass and the sheets, overflowing. The drip of it is warm. So is his naked chest against yours.

There are thin pink lines on his skin—your nails dragged down there when he sinks you down onto his length, weak and wanting even after how many orgasms, you don’t know. You lost count. The same scratches must exist on his back from when he fucked you on yours.

Through all this, somehow your husband is still hard as he holds you in his lap. He lets you sob into his neck, big hands caging your hips.

The same hands that dusted dirt off your knee the first time you fell from your bike.

You’re compelled by the cardinal sins. Greed, lust, and gluttony order your hips to roll, to shift, to do anything just to feel something.

He coos, resting his forehead against yours.

“Sssh, you can’t,” and he’s right, because his fingers are bruising stillness into you. “You need to wait, sweetheart.”

You sound like you’re past pathetic. He really meant it when he said he’d drill it into your head: the pace, the pleasure, him.

“Bucky, please—”

“Made me wait all this time, think it’s only fair you should, too.”

Large hands adjust you on him. You gasp, feeling driblets of him escape your cunt before he sits you all the way down his cock again.

“Now, how ‘bout you tell me a story while you learn to be patient?” he breathes. “Something from when you were a kid. About us.”

You want to scream. How are you supposed to speak, let alone think? All you want is to rut into him again, to feel him throb, to drink the friction—

The corner of his lips twitch up.

“Maybe I’ll let you move if you do.”

Either your husband is a telepath, or you’re so wonderfully obvious.

Bucky sees your throat swallow, the gears turning in your mind. His blood sings, and maybe he’s the worst man alive for enjoying this a little too much: watching you work through a haze. His pretty girl, too drunk oncock to function.

One of his hands stroke your cheek, almost coaxing the words out of you, then he coos like he’s not the cause of your misery.

“You can do it, sweetheart. Tell me a story.”

It’s the softness in his voice that damns you.

“I—” you begin, unsure, lungs still clawing for air, “remember that time… after summer break?”

He resists the urge to tease: which summer break? You spent so many together.

“You came back and your voice c-changed.”

“Uh-huh,” he nods, teasing your nipple with a thumb. He remembers. You whimper, the sound pitiful, but you’re being so good for him, staying still even when one of his hands went astray.

“What about it, honey?”

“It was… I was so confused,” your voice hitches.

He doesn’t stop touching you.

“You looked the same, but—ah—you sounded like—”

His hand moves from your chest back to your ass. Fingers sink into the flesh, grip you closer to him, as if there was any room between your bodies in the first place.

“Like?”

Your head drops into the crook of his neck.

“Like a man,” you admit, muffled.

He breathes near your ear.

“Look at you now, finally treating me like one,” you can feel him grin, taking your earlobe between his teeth. “Letting me fuck you like one, ‘s that right?”

The nod you give him is slow, like you’re drugged. He lifts you up just enough to sink you down. A temporary relief that makes you mewl.

“So? Do you still want to be just friends?” he grits.

You shake your head, eyes blank and wet. That one thrust is enough to vaporize your vocabulary.

The tears at your lashes makes his cock twitch. He used to hate seeing you cry. Felt helpless with every cartoon band-aid he smooths over your skin. Reminded him of the time you had to fly halfway across the world for a fucking degree, the damp pillowcase you slept on, the way he couldn’t stop you from leaving.

Now? Crying is all he wants to make you do.

“What am I to you now, hm?”

Your breath breaks.

“H-husband,” you croak, “you’re my husband—”

“That’s right. Smart girl.”

As if to reward you, he bounces you on top of him again. You almost collapse onto his shoulder, a ragdoll to pleasure.

“Please, Bucky, I want—”

“Want what, baby? Wanna stop?”

You whimper, shaking your head again in the crook of his neck, arms around his back. He almost laughs, but the spasm of your cunt around his cock, full with his cum and yours, strangles the sound into a guttural groan.

“Tell me.”

“Want more,” you whine shamelessly. He gladly exploits it.

“Let’s see if you’ve learned your lesson first.” A hand grabs your face, forcing you to peel away from his body to look at him.

You stare back. He’s sweaty, eyes dark, lips swollen. You’re probably about thrice as wrecked.

“Who do you belong to?”

“Yours—I’m yours.”

“You’re my what? Finish that sentence.”

You nearly choke. “I’m your wife.”

“Attagirl. What else have you learned?” His tone is cruel. Cold. But you know better. Blue irises drown you with devotion in a single look. In them, you find your answer.

“You—ah—take care of me. Make me feel good.”

“There you go, sweet thing.” His lips latches onto yours, a thief to your breath as if you had any left to spare. “D’you want me to take care of you now? Wanna feel good on your husband’s cock again?”

“Yes. Please.”

You feel his cock twitch inside of you.

“Still want a divorce?”

“No—” your hips begin to sway, the hunger clawing at you, but his hands are steel restraints, fingers sinking into flesh.

“What do you want, then?”

“You,” you sob, “please, Bucky, want you—”

He watches your face contort, desperation and desire mingling into the most delicious expression he’s ever seen on you.

One day, he’ll take a picture.

“Y’know, I told you I love you earlier, but you never said it back,” a thumb holds your chin in place. “Think you can do that for me? Say it real sweet for your husband.”

Your chest cracks open with feeling. The night tumbles through you like a tidal wave, where everything comes crashing: his confession, the papers thrown on the ground, all the way to your mother’s tiramisu he got the restaurant to make for you.

Still, the wave builds. It sweeps up old memories to the forefront.t

The two of you on the balcony the night you got engaged. You crying in his arms hours before boarding a plane. A birthday party where the cake was your favorite flavor instead of his.

The surge summits at the memory of awkward pencil scratches.

James Buchanan Barnes is my best friend.

Every feeling known to you is suspended like they’re encased in floating water. The nostalgia of youth, unabated longing, dark desires, and a kinship brought about by fate—

—then gravity pulls them down, and they break.

So do you.

“I love you,” you rasp, voice hoarse with timeworn truth. “I love you so much, Bucky, I love you, I love you, I love you—”

He swallows your confession in a kiss, tongues tangled, fingers buried in hair. You grind down once.

He lets you.

So you do it again. And again.

“I love you too, baby, so fucking much,” he murmurs into your mouth. You move with the opposite of inhibition.

“My good girl. My best girl—”

He rips a scream out of you when he stills you again, only to thrust up. You’re already so close, it drives him out of his mind more than he already is.

“Gonna fill my wife up with my cum,” he grits, “make it take. Wanna see you round with me.”

The promise nearly ends you. He senses its impact, feels his own need grow.

“Yeah? You’re gonna leak for days when I’m done with you,” a growl as he mauls your neck more than he already has, “let ‘em see who you belong to.”

“Fuck—Bucky!”

“You’re mine, honey. All mine.”

He triggers your ruin like that. Smiles as he watches you shake in his lap, breathless while he relentlessly ruts into you even as spurts of viscous white oozes down your thigh. He uses his cock to push it back in.

A hint of humor tickles the back of his mind: that after all these years, it took a near-divorce to bring the two of you together.

“Remind me to burn those papers tomorrow,” he rasps against your mouth.

When he pushes you back onto the bed, he’s already making time in his schedule for a renewal of vows.

taglist: @saintserpentine @dolcesaints @sheneedsjesus @flockoff-featherface @houseofhyde @sunara-luna @metal-armed-muse @overwintering-soldier @fluorjscent @princesspinkbaby @pinksplace @buckyfmd @intothesoul @nash-dara @glowingtoenails @sergeantsebastian @superbassbuck @aamourzz @hiraethmae @madambearess @mrsnikstan @retrosabers @daisynotquake @miraclediviner

[stardustrider]

Point Break

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x fem!reader

Authors note: based on this request. Thank you, dear Anon, for this awesome request! I had so much fun writing this, so much that I got completely carried away🙈

Warnings: fluff, angst, SMUT 18+ I really went all in with this one 😅. Canon typical violence, mention of blood and wounds, Bucky’s taking quite a few knocks. Mention of male masturbation, oral (f receiving), p in v. Sunshine reader and Bucky being total Winter Grouch at the beginning, completely lost in his feelings and self-doubt. It's quite a ride and the cherry on the cake comes at the end 😅 Set in the after Thunderbolts timeline

Word Count: 17 K ( I know and I'm sorry 😓)

Summary: Bucky had fallen for you from the first sight, but kept his distance for months, telling himself it was safer that way, until the day Hydra took you, and the choice wasn’t his or yours anymore. Some deals are made knowing they’ll break you.

The jet landed with a metallic shudder, its hydraulics hissing as the ramp descended and exhaust curled into the cool evening air. You were already waiting, standing at the base of the landing pad with your med bag in one hand and a clipboard in the other. 

Another completed mission, another set of bruises and egos to tend.

Yelena was the first off the jet, smirking despite the tear in her sleeve and the dried blood on her temple.

"It was just a tiny explosion," she was saying over her shoulder.

“Tiny?” Alexei grumbled behind her. “Then why did you have to use me as a shield?”

He stomped down the ramp with his usual flair, arms spread like a war hero returning from glorious battle, except he was covered in soot, and one of his boots was clearly cracked at the joint, barely clinging to his foot, threatening to give up with the next step. His suit was dusty, torn in at least three places, and he had a cut just above his brow that had left a streak of blood drying down his cheek.

Still, he was grinning.

“Ah! Little one!” he beamed when he spotted you, gesturing broadly. “I took the brunt of it! Protected the children!” He nodded backward toward the others. “You should have seen it! Fire everywhere, rubble falling, and me, holding up half the building!”

“You also tripped over your own foot and fell into a table,” Yelena added as she walked past, deadpan.

Alexei ignored her.

You smiled warmly as he approached, already reaching for a cloth to gently dab at the blood on his face.

“You’re lucky you’re made of bricks, Alexei,” you said softly, scanning him for more injuries. “Looks like you took more than a few hits.”

He puffed out his chest. “Yes, but look! Still standing. Still beautiful.”

You laughed under your breath, cleaning the cut with careful fingers. “Mostly beautiful. Though I think your nose might be crooked again.”

He gasped theatrically. “No! Not the nose! How will I charm the nurses now?”

“You’re in luck,” you said sweetly, patting his arm. “We’re immune to your charms but I still want you in the med bay, please. Let’s get that arm checked out and your ribs, too. You're favoring one side.”

He let out a dramatic sigh. “Anything for you, solnyshko.” His grin widened as he winked his eye at you. “You patch me up, I’ll tell you all about how I saved everyone. Twice.”

“Deal,” you said with a smile, stepping aside so he could follow the others down the hallway.

You shook your head, watching him lumber off, humming cheerfully, even bruised and dusty, Alexei was still a big child beneath all that bluster.

While Alexei disappeared down the hallway, already beginning his dramatized retelling to a passing tech, gesturing wildly with his good arm, you turned back toward the jet, just in time to see Ava stepping off the ramp with a quiet grunt, one arm wrapped tightly around her middle, the other clutching the railing like it might float away. She moved gingerly, each step measured, the pain clear in her posture, even if she was doing a great job of pretending otherwise.

Your eyes narrowed.

“Ava,” you called gently, jogging a few steps closer, “you’re limping.”

“I’m fine,” she said, her voice was calm, too calm, and she didn’t look at you directly.

“You always say that when you're not,” you replied, already lifting your comm to your mouth. “Medbay, I need a wheelchair to Hangar One. Now, please.”

“I don’t need…”

“You do,” you said firmly but kindly, cutting her off with a smile. “I can see your ankle from here, and I think it’s trying to leave your foot.”

She huffed out a short laugh, shaking her head. “You’re so dramatic.”

“Says the woman who just fell through a collapsing stairwell and landed like a superhero with a pulled ribcage and a twisted ankle. I heard the whole thing over comms, including the extremely creative swearing,” you smiled at her innocently.

That earned you a small smile in return.

The wheelchair arrived within a minute, pushed by a medtech who looked vaguely terrified of Ava. You gently coaxed her down into the seat, ignoring her muttered protests, as you squat beside her to check the swelling at her ankle.

“It’s already puffing up,” you murmured. “We’ll need x-rays, just to be safe.”

She sighed, clearly embarrassed. “I was trying to phase through the floor to break the fall.”

“And you phased into a fridge instead, didn’t you?”

“I... may have misjudged time and space a little bit.”

“Mm-hmm,” you said, fighting a smile as you gave her knee a gentle pat.

“Please don’t make a big deal out of it.”

“I would never,” you said sweetly, then added with mock seriousness, “but I will offer you a deal. No disappearing in radiology this time, okay?”

Ava blinked. “I was nervous last time. I didn’t mean to vanish.”

“You ghosted the technician mid-scan. She still talks about it.”

“That’s not my fault,” she muttered, cheeks pinking.

“Let’s just keep you visible until we get a diagnosis, yeah?” you said with a wink, tapping the edge of the wheelchair lightly.

Ava sighed again, but her mouth twitched like she was fighting a smile. “Fine. Only because it’s you.”

You smiled warmly in return.

As Ava disappeared down the hall, and not literally this time, you turned to find Yelena leaning against a supply crate like she’d been waiting for her moment.

“I didn’t get so much as a hello,” she said with mock offense, arms crossed, a faint smirk playing on her lips. “And I only got half blown up.”

You let out a soft laugh, walking over to her and gently brushing away a bit of ash clinging to her sleeve.

“I saw the blood on your temple. You sure you’re okay?” you asked, your voice already laced with quiet concern.

She shrugged. “Tiny cut. I’ve had worse hangovers.”

You gave her an approving once-over anyway, just to be sure. “Well, you still look good.”

Yelena grinned. “I know.”

Behind her, John Walker strode over, looking smug and sore in equal measure as he adjusted his shoulder strap with a wince, then paused beside the two of you.

“I don’t need patching up,” he said immediately, like it was a point of pride.

You raised a brow. “That’s why you’re walking like your spine was replaced with rusted springs?”

“I’m just sore. That wall came out of nowhere.”

Yelena snorted. “Walls do that, don’t they? Sneaky things.”

You offered him a friendly smile. “Glad to hear you’re unbreakable. Still, I’ve got an ice pack with your name on it, just in case that ‘soreness’ turns out to be something pulled.”

John chuckled and held up his hands. “No need, Nurse Sunshine, but thanks for the concern.”

Yelena’s smirk deepened. “How do you do this? Even the Boy Scout over here likes you.”

“I don’t like her,” John protested weakly, then glanced at you. “I mean, I do. You’re nice. Just… not like that.”

“I’m flattered either way,” you replied with an easy laugh, the warmth in your voice never faltering.

Yelena gave you a fond little nudge on her way past. “Don’t let the Winter Grouch give you trouble,” she murmured. “He’s bleeding and brooding. Prime Bucky mood.”

“Noted,” you whispered, drawing in a deep breath as you prepared to turn and face the inevitable but Yelena caught the subtle shift in your mood and paused.

She tilted her head, studying you with that sharp, perceptive gaze of hers. “Hey, you’re smiling,” she said, “but you’ve got that look.”

“What look?” you asked lightly, fiddling with the strap of your med bag.

“The one you get when someone’s been a jackass to you and you’re pretending it doesn’t bother you.”

Your smile wavered for just a second. “It’s nothing. I just… sometimes feel like I’m in the way. Like I’m being annoying. I know they’re all tired and hurt and don’t want someone hovering but I’m just simply here to help.”

Yelena frowned. “You are not a nuisance.”

You blinked.

“I mean it,” she added, stepping closer. “You walk into the room, and it actually feels lighter. We’d all be dead or grumpier without you and Bucky’s just... well, you know. Bucky. Don’t take him seriously.”

A soft laugh bubbled out of you. “Bukcy grumpier than he already is? That’s a terrifying thought.”

“Exactly, so do your thing, patch us up! Smile at us. Fuss over us. We need it, even when we pretend we don’t.”

You looked at her, clearly touched by the sincerity in her tone. “Thanks, Lena,” you murmured with a smile.

She gave you a quick, awkward shrug and started backing away. “Don’t get weird about it.”

“I won’t,” you teased, eyes shining. “I’ll just journal about it later.”

“Ugh,” she groaned, shaking her head as she walked off, leaving you alone in the almost empty hangar. Almost. 

You knew he was still there, watching from just out of sight in the shadow, hoping that you might forget him and leave. 

You didn’t need to look to know where he was – slightly to the left of the jet, behind one of the grounded transports, where the shadows ran deepest. You sighed, so this time it was the hide and seek tactic. 

He had a whole repertoire of avoidance tactics by now. He’d beeline for the far exit the second the ramp dropped, trying to slip past you in the blur of disembarkment. He’d stride with a confident grimace on his face as if late for something important, trying to hide the limp in gait and muttering ‘I’m good’ without meeting your eyes, hoping you'd be too busy to stop him. Once, he barked at the mechanical crew about malfunctioning weapons so loudly it echoed through the entire hangar, like this could distract you from seeing his dislocated shoulder. 

He’d timed more than a few disappearing acts to the exact moment you were wrapping gauze around someone else’s arm, his absence marked only by a faint smear of blood on the floor.

The thing was: none of those tactics had ever fully worked.

You almost always caught him, not because you were fast, but because you were constant. You didn’t chase; you simply watched, patient and unwavering, and somehow ended up beside him just when he thought he’d shaken you off. And every single time, it ended the same way: a grumpy exchange, his voice clipped and curt, your smile trying its best to stay steady… and then him following you to the med bay with all the warmth of a snowstorm.

And today was not going to be an exception. 

You took a deep breath, adjusted your med bag on your shoulder, and started walking toward him, calm, unhurried, like this was the most natural thing in the world, because it was, because he was hurt, and even if he didn’t want kindness, he still needed care. 

“I can see you, you know,” you said gently as you rounded the transport.

Bucky didn’t move, he stood with his back to you, one hand braced against the metal side of the jet, the other pressed to the steadily bleeding wound on his side, his dark hair was damp with sweat, a smear of grime streaked across his cheekbone – a man made of iron and exhaustion.

“I’m not in the mood for lectures,” he muttered.

You smiled softly, stepping closer. “Lucky for you, I don’t give them.”

“I’m fine,” he grunted trying to pass you by, but the dark smear of red spreading across his t-shirt just beneath his arm was hard to ignore and in addition to that he was walking a little too stiffly, jaw tight.

“No, you’re not.”

You quickened your pace and managed to step in front of him, blocking his path before he could make it to the elevator. You tilted your head up to meet his eyes, those sharp, tired eyes, and gestured toward the wet patch on his side.

“You’re bleeding,” you said, trying to keep your voice even.

“I’ve had worse, they all heal,” he muttered, barely meeting your gaze.

“That doesn’t make this one any less important.”

He exhaled like you were the most exhausting person alive. “Go patch up someone who actually needs it.”

You just gave him another warm smile, the one that always got under his skin, the one that said I’m not going anywhere, Barnes.

“Oh, I am,” you said. “You.”

He gave you a look that could freeze lava. “I said I’m fine.”

“Let me look,” you asked quietly. “Just look.”

He finally turned his head toward you, and for a moment, something flickered in his eyes, something raw, cornered, tired and angry. 

“Why do you always do this?” he snapped. “Why can’t you just leave it?”

The words weren’t loud, but they hit harder than they should have, you swallowed, keeping your expression steady and your voice gentle.

“Because you’re bleeding, Bucky, because it’s my job, and because I care.”

He winced.

“Come to the medbay,” you said, nodding toward the corridor behind you. “Please, let me help.”

He stared at you like he didn’t understand why you were making such a fuss about it, but eventually, wordlessly, he started slowly moving in the right direction.

You walked in silence, a careful distance between your shoulder and his, not too close, never too close. He didn’t like that, or maybe he didn’t like you, and the thought of your arm accidentally brushing his was too much. You weren’t sure.

You used to tell yourself he was like this with everyone and to a certain point that was true, Bucky Barnes didn’t exactly ooze warmth with the rest of the team either, but somehow… somehow it felt different with you - colder and sharper.

At first, you thought it was just because you were new. People like him took time to open up, to let others into their world but time passed, it was six months now, and nothing had changed or maybe it had, maybe it had gotten worse. 

You tried not to dwell on it, but your brain kept cataloging every moment he flinched away from your touch, every time he refused to look you in the eye when you smiled, every muttered “I didn’t ask you,” or clipped “Just don’t talk”, and you tried, you really, really tried to let it slide off your back, to tell yourself it wasn’t personal.

But it felt personal, because you didn’t just care about him as a medic, or even as a teammate. You liked him, even more than that.

There was something steady in him, something tired, yes, angry and closed-off and jagged, but steady and kind, in these brief, flickering moments that he seemed to hate himself for.

You saw that, you felt it, and you liked him, quietly, fiercely, which made the way he shut you out all the harder to swallow.

You wanted to believe he didn’t actually hate you, that it wasn’t your voice or your warmth that irritated him, but something else, some fear or scar you weren’t meant to understand. And yet, every time he pulled away or acted like you were unbearable, it left a bruise in a spot no bandage could reach.

You glanced over at him as you reached the hallway leading to the med bay. He was walking stiffly, blood still blooming through his shirt, jaw clenched like stone, as if he were headed for an interrogation room, not a place meant to help him heal.

He very obviously didn’t want to be here, not with you.

You swallowed hard against the familiar ache in your throat and forced on that small, professional smile, the one you’d worn too many times before.

Don’t take it personally… don’t make it anything… just do your job.

Because if he really did hate you for whatever inexplicable reason… you didn’t think you wanted to know.

The med bay was quiet, even Alexei’s booming voice was absent, which could only mean one thing: everyone else had already been checked, patched up, and cleared. This time, the injuries hadn’t been serious.

You set your bag down and pulled on a pair of gloves, while behind you, Bucky hovered just inside the doorway, tense as a loaded spring.

“You can take the cot,” you said softly, nodding to the padded bench where you treated most of the team.

He hesitated, as if the simple act of sitting felt like surrender but eventually, without another word, he crossed the room and lowered himself stiffly onto the edge.

You pulled out gauze, saline, antiseptic, scissors.

Bucky flinched slightly at the sound of the tray rattling into place, but his face stayed neutral and cold, just as usual.

“I’ll start with your arm,” you offered gently. “Then I’ll take a look at your side.”

“There’s nothing wrong with my side.”

You glanced up, his jaw was locked, lips pressed into a thin line and his vibranium fingers flexed against his thigh.

You kept your tone warm and steady. “You’re still bleeding, Bucky.”

“It’s not deep.”

“It’s bleeding through your shirt.”

“It’ll stop.”

You swallowed and carefully seated yourself in front of him to reach his arm, gently taking his flesh wrist to begin cleaning the cut that ran jaggedly along his forearm. You worked in silence for a few seconds, watching the way his muscles stayed coiled under your touch like he was resisting the urge to bolt. It was nothing new, he always did. 

You spoke softly, eyes still on your work.

“I need to check the wound on your side.”

“You don’t.”

“I do.”

His voice sharpened. “Don’t push this.”

“I’m not pushing,” you said, meeting his eyes. “I just… I care if something’s wrong and it is.”

Something flickered in his expression – not quite anger, not quite fear, you couldn’t name it. 

“Let me help you to pull it off,” you offered and reached for the hem of his T-shirt.

“I can handle it,” he muttered, already shifting, fingers hooking the edge of his tattered black T-shirt. “You’ll see it’s nothing.”

You leaned back slightly, watching as he tried to pull the shirt over his head, his breath hitched mid-motion, a soft sound of pain escaping before he could swallow it down, while the fabric stuck to his side where the blood had dried, tugging at the skin.

You stepped forward quickly. “Wait, don’t hurt yourself more. Let me…”

“No.”

His tone was harsh as he shoved your hand away, his arm still raised, shirt half-bunched around his ribs, every line of his body stiff and defensive.

You froze, a beat passed, then another.

“Bucky, I just want to help you,” you said, desperately trying to bite back tears that threatened to well up in the corners of your eyes. 

He didn’t move, but didn’t say anything either, so you reached for the scissors on the tray, holding them up between you, giving him time to see and react if needed. 

“I’ll be careful.”

Another silence.

Then, finally, a barely audible: “Fine.”

You moved close again, as you gently slid the cold edge of the scissors beneath the hem of his shirt. You felt, rather than saw, the way he tensed, the shallow rise and fall of his chest, the unsteady rhythm of his breathing.

The sound of the scissors snipping through fabric seemed too loud, too sharp. Bucky kept his eyes locked on the wall across, teeth grinding together to keep anything else from slipping out. You worked in silence, peeling the shredded, blood-soaked shirt from his body piece by piece, the fabric clinging to the wound at his side, warm and wet and sticking.

He hated this. Every second of it.

Hated the way the air touched his skin, hated the way he could feel your eyes taking him in, even if they were just scanning for damage, hated the way he sat there like a goddamn puzzle you had to piece back together again, like he couldn’t even take care of himself, couldn’t manage that on his own.

He would rather charge into enemy fire than sit here under your hands and let you see him, let you see all of it - the battered, bruised chest, the old lacerations across his ribs, the jagged web of scar tissue where his shoulder ended in steel.

It was disgusting, he knew it was, he saw it in the mirror when he dared to look, saw it in the way people hesitated when their eyes caught on the place where man became machine.

He waited for that from you, waited for the breath that hitched too long, for your fingers to still, for the quiet, involuntary reaction you didn’t mean to give because no matter how warm your smile was, no one wanted to look at this.

And God help him, he didn’t want you to.

He could’ve taken it from anyone else, from a stranger, a medic without a face or a voice but not you, not when he’d spent months trying to build walls between himself and the unbearable ache of wanting you that was driving him mad every single day.

Because if things were different –  in another world, another life, he still dared to dream of from time to time – you wouldn’t be tending to him like this, you’d be touching him differently.

He’d feel your delicate fingers splayed across his stomach, slow and teasing, tracing lazy patterns over his skin just to hear him groan. 

You’d climb onto his lap in soft cotton sleepwear, fingers curling into his hair, lips brushing his ear and he’d have your legs around his waist, your nails digging crescents into his shoulders as he rocked into you slow and deep, swallowing every whimper and every sigh from your perfect, plush lips.

And maybe, maybe there’d be mornings where you’d wake him with kisses against his jaw, sliding under the sheets to trail your mouth lower, lower, until he was gasping your name and fisting the sheets, your voice humming sweet praise against his skin as you ruined him with nothing but your mouth and that sunshine-soft devotion in your eyes.

In another life, he’d earn the sound of you falling apart underneath him and he’d memorize it, worship it. But in this life?

He was just a grumpy, half-broken supersoldier bleeding on your floor again, a silent burden with a history no one wanted and a body no one could love, something to fix and release, stitch and forget.

He flinched when your fingers brushed the raw edges of the gash on his side.

“Sorry,” you whispered.

He didn’t respond.

Couldn’t.

He hadn’t stood a chance.

Not from the very beginning, not from the first moment you stepped into the med bay, bright-eyed and steady-handed, soft-spoken but somehow commanding the whole damn room without raising your voice once.

Warmth rolled off of you like sunlight through glass, not the loud kind, not the fake, performative shit that cracked when it was tested. You were real, you were constant, you remembered names, remembered birthdays, brought people coffee the way they liked it without asking. 

They’d started calling you “Sunshine” within a week, even Alexei, loud and blunt and impossible to embarrass, had switched to calling you solnyshko in his thick Russian accent, like it was second nature. 

And Bucky?

He’d been gone for you the moment you touched him.

He remembered it too well. The first time he’d been sent to you: reluctant, annoyed, still bleeding from some rooftop mess in Prague with a shallow cut above his brow that wouldn't stop dripping into his eye. He expected antiseptic, cold metal tools, instructions barked without eye contact.

Instead, he got you.

Smiling up at him like he wasn’t some grim relic dropped into your workspace, you’d stepped close, murmured something about how the cut made him look very “stoic and tortured, like a brooding detective” and stood up on your tiptoes to reach him properly, steadying yourself with one palm on his chest, while pressing a patch to his brow.

Plaster, you’d joked, the strongest glue known to mankind, emotionally and medically.

Your breath had ghosted across his cheek, your fingers, so soft and casual, had brushed just under the line of his jaw and Bucky had gone hard so fast it made his stomach twist with panic. He’d stood there frozen, every muscle locked, fighting instinct with sheer will, horrified that you might glance down and notice the unmistakable bulge straining against his suddenly-too-tight pants. 

And two hours later, drenched in sweat and halfway through beating a heavy bag to pulp in the training room, he still hadn’t shaken the feel of you off.

He tried, every day, tried to unsee you, to pretend that he didn’t care, to spook you away with ignorance, tried to forget the sound of your voice saying “you’re okay, I’ve got you” like it was true, like it could ever be true for him. 

He tried to avoid being treated by you whenever he could. It was simply too much to bear, in some ways even worse than anything he’d endured in HYDRA’s basements. Having you so close, breathing against his skin, your touch light and careful… and not being able to touch you in return – it was torture of its own kind.

And now, with your fingers skimming the raw edges of his side, your face so close again, eyes filled with concern that couldn’t possibly be meant for him… he simply wanted to crawl out of his own skin.

Bucky shifted in his seat again, trying to breathe normally, trying to think, and the leather creaked beneath him, betraying every twitch of tension in his body. 

You moved back to the tray beside him, picked up a syringe, and checked the vial like you always did.

“I’m going to give you a local,” you said softly. “Painkiller and a bit of anesthetic. Should take the edge off before I start stitching.”

“No.”

Your head lifted slightly, surprised by the sharpness of his tone but you didn’t flinch.

“Bucky…”

“I said no,” he snapped, eyes locked ahead, jaw grinding tight. “I don’t want anything in my system, not now, not ever. I can take it.”

You just nodded. “Alright,” you said. “Then I’ll be quick. Let me know if it’s too much.”

Too much.

It already was. Not the pain and not the gash.

You.

Your fingers were back on him a moment later, brushing near the edges of the wound, wiping away blood with sterile gauze. The contact was brief, barely pressure but it didn’t matter. It never did.

The moment your hand touched his skin, his body betrayed him.

Heat flushed beneath the surface, cruel and immediate, his breath caught in his throat and his cock throbbed helplessly in his tactical pants, already half-hard from the second you'd knelt in front of him to examine the wound earlier. Now it was worse, aching, twisting up beneath his belt, too present and impossible to ignore.

Fuck. No. Not again. Not here.

He shifted, subtly, or at least as subtle as he could manage with adrenaline roaring in his veins and you so close he could smell the hint of citrus from your tee on your lips.

You moved in closer to thread the needle, and his gaze dropped for a fraction of a second not by choice, but instinct, and there it was again: the way your lips parted slightly in focus, the way the curve of your jaw tilted just so, the shape of your fingers, the slope of your throat, the warmth radiating from you.

And all he could think, all he could fucking think right now, was what it would feel like to have you straddling his lap, your thighs tight around his waist, grinding down against the ache in his jeans while he held you steady by the hips. How would it feel to have your hands buried in his hair, tugging hard, needing him closer, needing more and him giving it to you, gladly, worshipfully, with a hunger he hadn’t let himself feel for anyone in years.

How he’d grab a fistful of your shirt, shove it up, bare your stomach and your breasts to his mouth and kiss his way down until you were shivering, hot and soft and completely at his mercy. 

How you’d moan for him, sweet and desperate, head tipped back, your voice already wrecked from whispering his name like it was the only thing you could remember.

And when you’d finally start to sink down on him, taking him in inch by inch, deep and slow and ruinous, he’d hold your hips down and take his time, grinding slowly up into you until you were crying for him, clawing at his back, writhing under the need for him.

He wanted to hear you beg with voice cracking, breath stuttering, he wanted to see you come apart for him with tears in your lashes and his name spilling from your lips like prayer.

He’d mouth at your throat, your shoulder, sink his teeth into the delicate line of your collarbone just to hear how you’d whimper at the edge of pain, only to soothe it a second later with his tongue.

He wanted to know what kind of sounds you’d make for him, what kind of mess you’d become under his mouth, what it would be like to feel your smile against his skin while you writhed beneath him.

God, he’d give anything, anything just to know how you tasted.

He bit down hard on the inside of his cheek, trying to force his breathing even, trying to shut it all down.

There was no place for thoughts like that, not here, not now, not ever and not with you.

Not when he was a mess of scars and steel, and dark memories still keeping him awake at night, not when all you’d ever seen of him was what was broken. 

He was a soldier, not a man, something salvaged and repurposed, not someone you would ever choose to touch unless it was necessary. Certainly not someone you’d ever moan for, arch for, someone you would want.

Bucky swallowed hard and tried to focus on the sting of the needle entering his skin,  anything to keep the tension from turning visible.

Because if you noticed… if you so much as glanced down… if you knew that your fingers brushing his skin made his breath hitch not in pain, but in desperate, pulsing want.

If you knew that the way you leaned over him, the slope of your collarbone just inches from his mouth, had his thoughts unraveling into a mess of things he had no right to imagine.

If you knew that every time you smiled at him he wanted to drop to his knees and bury his face between your thighs and stay there until you forgot your own name.

If you knew even a small fraction of all that … he wasn’t sure he’d survive the humiliation.

The needle dragged through his skin, a sting, then a tug, again and again, your hands were steady as ever, moving with focus and care. You didn’t rush, you never did and he welcomed the pain, it was at least somewhat distracting.

At some point he must’ve shifted a little too sharply because you paused and looked up at him, brows knitting.

“You alright?” you asked softly. “Is it hurting too much?”

“I’m fine,” he said, too quickly, too sharp.

You kept your eyes on him, studying his face, and he swallowed hard, blinked once and looked away.

“I said I’m fine,” he rasped.

You returned to your work, lips pressed together, gaze dropping to the wound as you continued stitching in silence.

Bucky stayed still as stone, blood thundering through his veins, sweat prickling at the back of his neck, focused on the rhythm of your hands, the even glide of the needle, the way your fingertips ghosted over him as you wiped away the excess blood.

You were nearly done. Just one more stitch, just one more soft sweep of gauze to catch the last streak of blood, just one more whisper of your fingers along the edge of his ribs. 

Bucky’s eyes flicked to you, just for a second, and out of a sudden it was simply too much. You were too close, eyes warm and full of that open-hearted care you gave everyone, but that somehow always wrecked him more than anything.

He could feel himself slipping, unraveling under your touch, under the heat of his own skin, under the pulse pounding between his legs and the ache twisting in his gut like punishment.

You moved slightly, reaching for the tape to dress the wound and your hip brushed his knee, barely, barely, but it felt like fire, and he snapped.

Before you could speak again, before you could even exhale, Bucky shot up from the cot like he’d been burned. The stool beneath you scraped across the floor as he moved, too fast, too rough, and his shoulder caught yours in a hard shove.

You stumbled back, shocked, almost tumbling from the stool.

“Bucky!”

He didn’t hear the rest, didn’t want to, he just bolted through the door and didn’t stop moving, didn’t dare to stop, because if he did, if he let even one more word sink in, he might’ve turned around and done something he couldn’t take back. 

By the time he reached his quarters, his hands were shaking.

He slammed the door shut behind him with more force than necessary, rattling the frame,  pressed his back to it and then just stood there, eyes squeezed shut, fists clenched at his sides, heart thundering against his ribs, blood rushing loud in his ears.

Everything was too much, no, you were too much and yet, all he wanted was to run back to you.

“Fuck,” he breathed, voice hoarse.

He was so hard, so painfully, furiously hard, his cock straining against the inside of his pants, the fabric already damp with precum, throbbing in time with his pulse like it was punishing him for letting you near him again..

It had never been this bad, it was unbearable.

He stumbled into his quarters and barely made it to the couch, fingers shaking as he fumbled with the zipper of his pants, nearly tearing it in the rush, as he slumped on it heavily, dragging his boxers down just enough to free himself, already slick, already leaking so hard it hurt.

His hand wrapped around himself, and he groaned, low, ragged, desperate, head falling back against the cushions. He squeezed tighter, trying to relieve the ache, but it only made the tension worse, the pressure coiling tighter in his gut.

He bit down on another desperate groan, and your name slipped past his lips before he could stop it.

"Fuck, Sunshine…"

Bucky hissed through his teeth, head tipped back, sweat beading at his temple, fisting his cock with rough, tight strokes, eyes clenched shut as image after image tore through his brain.

You on your knees between his thighs, looking up at him with that soft, open smile, your hands trailing up his legs, patient and warm. The sweet flutter of your lashes as you leaned in, the heat of your breath against the head of his cock, your lips wrapping around it, and the aching reverence in your eyes like you wanted him not because you were kind, not because you pitied him, but because you craved him.

You in his bed, flushed and gasping, sheets tangled around your waist as you rocked beneath him, saying his name in that same soft voice you used when stitching him up, only now it was broken by pleasure, by need. He’d have his hands on either side of your head, holding himself there, watching your eyes roll back and your face twist with each thrust, feeling you flutter around him, close, so fucking close.

You bent over the counter in his kitchen, your scrubs still on, pants pushed just low enough for him to take you, your hands braced against the tile, back arched, moaning like you belonged to him while he drove into you from behind, rough and deep, gripping your hips like they were the only thing keeping him sane.

He could practically hear the wet sound of his cock sliding in and out of you, your heart-shaped ass arching back into him, wiggling just right as his palm landed on one cheek with a sharp smack, your breathy curses spilling into the air, broken and desperate, the sweet, wrecked little “please” before his fingers slid between your thighs, rubbing slow, deliberate circles over your clit.

And then… you straddling him in the dark on the sofa, chest to chest, your arms around his neck, your mouth at his throat whispering, “You’re okay, I’ve got you.” Not because he needed saving, but because you meant it, because in this dream, you weren’t afraid of him, you held him tight, rode him slow, deep, grinding your hips down on him, needy moans, spilling over your lips as he came inside you, shaking and undone, filling you to the brim with his cum.

He jerked faster, harder, chasing it, chasing you, the dream of you, the one thing he would never have, not really, not the way he wanted.

Thick, hot ropes of cum painted his belly and hand, his grip still tight around his cock, milking out every last desperate pulse. His chest heaved with shallow, ragged breaths as he slumped back against the couch, utterly spent, his hand sticky and trembling, and looked down at the mess across his stomach. He scrubbed his metal hand over his face, dragging his fingers through his hair with a groan. 

For the next few days, Bucky avoided you like his life depended on it. He disappeared before you entered a room, skipped mealtimes, changed his training hours, and if your footsteps echoed down a hallway, he took the nearest exit. It wasn’t subtle, and it certainly wasn’t kind, but it was the only way he knew to keep the need from consuming him every time he saw your face.

But he couldn’t avoid you forever, so when avoidance stopped being an option, whatever fragile balance had existed between you before suddenly to your surprise shattered into something far more painful.

Bucky had always been gruff, distant, unreadable, barbed around the edges. You could live with it, you had lived with it for months and never taken it personally. You kept telling yourself he was like that with everyone.

But now… it wasn’t just coldness anymore, it was something meaner, something much sharper.

Bucky wouldn’t even look at you when you walked into a room, wouldn’t speak unless he absolutely had to, and when he did, his words were clipped and flat, like they left a bitter taste in his mouth. The warmth you kept trying to offer, the soft smiles, the careful concern, were now met with eye rolls, snorts, and outright dismissal.

And you couldn’t understand why.

You played the conversations back in your head every night, quietly lying in bed long after the tower had gone still. Had you said something wrong? Had you touched a nerve you didn’t know existed? You weren’t pushy, you didn’t force your care on anyone, you just wanted to make sure he was okay, that he knew someone was looking out for him, even if he didn’t ask for it.

Especially because he didn’t ask for it.

And maybe that was the mistake.

But God, you couldn’t stop trying. Every small kindness was an attempt to bridge the gap, every careful word was another thread you cast across the distance he kept growing between you but it never landed.

Instead, it drove him further, every kindness seemed to piss him off more, like he couldn’t stand you caring, like your presence was some cruel trick he couldn’t figure out the punchline to.

Sometimes he glared at you like he wanted to shout, like he was choking on something he couldn’t say, and the only way to survive it was to shove you away as hard as he could.

And still… still, you stayed and kept wondering why on earth the man you had so stupidly fallen for was such a jackass towards you.

You’d never said it aloud, not to anyone, not even to yourself, but it was there, thick and painful in your chest every time he walked into the room, every time he stood too close, every time he looked at you like your love was a burden he hadn’t agreed to carry.

And that, more than anything, made your heart break in silence.

You tried to hide it, God, you tried, but lately, you were tired in a way you couldn’t patch not with excess of coffee and not with sleep, that had started to avoid you too. Your smiles wavered a little more often, your hands hesitated, and slowly you started to wonder if maybe he was right, maybe you were just hovering, just annoying, just… too much.

One morning, you’d brought fresh bandages down to the gym during training. You always did and everyone appreciated it.

Except him.

“We don’t need your charity,” Bucky had muttered as you knelt to check on Ava’s twisted wrist. “Don’t you have something better to do?”

Everyone had heard it.

John had cleared his throat loudly, muttering something like “Jesus, man” under his breath. Ava had looked away, clearly uncomfortable and Alexei had offered you a gentle, apologetic shrug before loudly demanding you to check his very serious (imaginary) injury instead.

Yelena had walked straight over and planted herself between you and Bucky, glaring up at him with a force only she could wield. “Say thank you,” she’d said flatly. “Now.”

But Bucky had just walked off, face like stone, jaw grinding as he pulled his sweatshirt over his head.

Later that day, you’d tried to bring him fresh ice packs after training, you hadn’t even said anything, just offered them quietly, gently, like you always did.

He hadn’t even looked up.

“Don’t hover,” he said, voice low and sharp. “I don’t need them.”

That one had cut deep.

You hadn’t answered, just turned and walked out, your chest hollow, the ice packs still clutched in your hand.

The others noticed, of course they did, and they did their best to soften it, to shield you where they could.

Ava stopped by the med bay more often, even when she didn’t need anything. John lingered longer during patch-ups, tossing you dumb jokes to make you smile, even Alexei, blunt and bumbling, started bringing you terrible coffee and terrible compliments in the mornings.

Nothing of it made the sting go away.

You kept doing your job, quietly, kindly, as if the person you’d fallen in love with wasn’t tearing you down piece by piece until the day he finally broke you.

It was during a briefing, the entire team gathered around the table, mid-discussion about the next mission. You were there to offer medical assessments, speak up when necessary. You always stood off to the side, out of the way.

Bucky had been tense from the start, pacing, arms crossed, clearly on edge, and then you’d made the mistake of speaking without being asked. 

You had noticed that the structure they were infiltrating had weak points that might collapse under heavy stress and that the team should avoid the northwest stairwell if possible, because if that broke there would be no way medics could reach them.

You barely got the words out before his voice cut across the room like a whip.

“Oh, thank you, Sunshine,” Bucky said mockingly, turning toward you with a sneer. “I’m so glad we have a fucking ray of light here to tell us how to do our job. Maybe next time you can bring cookies to the field too. You know. For morale.”

The silence that followed was absolute.

No one breathed.

Your throat tightened, heat prickled behind your eyes, too fast, too sudden, you blinked quickly, trying to smile, trying to laugh it off, but your lip wobbled.

“Bucky…” John started, his tone edged in disbelief but it was too late. 

You pressed a hand to your chest like it could hold the pieces of you in place, gave a soft, choked sound, and turned on your heel.

You left the room as fast as you could, but the tears were already falling before the door even hissed shut behind you.

Bucky just stood there with an annoyed expression on his face before turning around and leaving in fast strides.

Yelena stared at him in silence, then she moved, fast.

She caught up with him in the hallway as he stalked off, hands flexing at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them.

“Hey,” she snapped, grabbing his arm and yanking him around. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Back off, Yelena.”

Bucky yanked his arm free but didn’t move away, he didn’t answer either, didn’t even look at her.

She stepped in front of him, blocking his path. “No. No walking away from this. You’re gonna stand here and tell me what the hell you’re doing.”

“Leave it alone, Yelena,” he muttered.

“No.” Her voice was sharp, deadly. “You’re not just being a grump anymore, you’re hurting her and that deliberately. And for what?”

Bucky’s jaw flexed.

“She didn’t do anything to you,” she went on. “Nothing. She’s the only person in this whole tower who’s never asked for anything back, she’s gentle with you, she’s kind and you treat her like she’s poison. Why?”

He said nothing, just stared at a point past her head like he could will himself somewhere else.

Yelena jabbed a finger into his chest.

“She came in every day this week and smiled at you. She brought you clean wraps, asked how your stitches were healing, even after you walked by her like she’s an empty air.”

His jaw flexed, his shoulders tensed but still, he said nothing.

Yelena stepped closer.

“You’re not just being an asshole anymore. You’re being cruel, you made her cry in front of the entire team.”

“I didn’t mean…” he snapped, then caught himself.

She narrowed her eyes. “Didn’t mean to, what?”

He looked away.

“Bucky.”

Silence stretched and his hands flexed at his sides like he was holding something back with everything he had.

Finally, he spoke. 

“Because I can’t stand it.”

Yelena blinked.

“Because she’s just so fucking nice and bright, and I’m…”

He stopped.

Yelena tilted her head. “You’re what?”

His lips twisted. “I’m this… broken, dark, unnecessary, unlovable something,” he ground out, eyes flashing. “And she’s just… Sunshine. All the damn time.”

Yelena said nothing.

“How can someone be so…” He stopped again, swallowing hard. “So stupidly sweet? So lovely just by breathing? It’s like she doesn’t even know what kind of world she’s in. Like she thinks if she’s kind enough, soft enough, people will stop bleeding.”

He laughed bitterly, shaking his head. “She’ll get herself killed trying to be loved by everybody.”

Yelena’s voice was low, cutting. “She doesn’t want to be loved by everybody.”

Bucky froze.

The air between them went still, almost fragile, waiting for one wrong word to shatter it into pieces too small to sweep up.

He didn’t speak.

Yelena stepped closer, her eyes narrowing, sharp with understanding now. “She wants you.”

He closed his eyes. Just for a moment.

“Bullshit.”

“No,” Yelena said, firm. “It’s not.”

He swallowed hard, jaw grinding like he could chew the words down before they ever reached his throat. “She’s just…” His voice cracked. “She’s kind. She’s like that with everyone.”

“She’s kind,” Yelena agreed, nodding. “But she’s not careless with it. She doesn’t give pieces of herself to just anyone.”

She paused, looking him dead in the eye.

“And you’re not just anyone, you matter to her. More than you think, more than she’d ever say out loud.”

Her voice softened, just slightly.

“She loves you, Bucky. Even if you’re too scared to see it.”

“Don’t.” He turned sharply, like he couldn’t bear the word.

Yelena didn’t flinch.

“Don’t you see it?” she pressed. “The way she looks at you? Like you’re something worth waiting for, like she’s hoping you’ll let her in? But every time she smiles at you, you just look away like it hurts.”

“Because it does,” Bucky snapped, finally meeting her eyes. “Because I don’t know how to take it, because she wants someone whole and I’m not. I’m not some sweet fucking project she can fix with soft hands and careful words.”

Yelena didn’t move.

“I’m not the good guy,” he hissed. “I’m not soft, or stable, or someone who deserves someone like her. I’m a weapon with a retirement plan. That’s all.”

“You’re not.”

He ignored her. “And she, God, she walks around here like a goddamn sunrise, like nothing’s touched her, like she still believes in something.”

“She believes in you.”

“Yeah. Well, then it’s her mistake.”

The words exploded out of him, echoing through the corridor.

He turned away again, dragging a hand through his hair, pacing like he could outrun the way his chest was tightening. Like he could shove the image of your tear-streaked and hurt face out of his mind if he just moved fast enough.

You folded your stuff with trembling hands, but it wasn’t the nerves.

This was heartbreak, settling into your chest like a quiet and cold frost.

You didn’t even know why you were folding things so neatly. It wasn’t like you owed this place a tidy exit but maybe it was instinct, or maybe you just needed to hold on to something you could control while everything else crumbled around you.

You blinked down at your bag where your hoodie sat on top, the soft one you liked to wear on chilly days, the one he had once glanced at for a second too long. You hated that you remembered that, that you still cared.

But God, you did. You cared too much.

You loved him and that was the worst part. You’d fallen so stupidly, quietly, deeply in love with a man who flinched every time you got close, who looked at your kindness like it burned him. who spoke to you like you were a wound he didn’t ask for.

You sniffed, angrily wiping your sleeve across your eyes.

Because damn it, love or not, you weren’t going to keep letting him crush you.

You weren’t someone’s emotional punching bag. You weren’t going to keep showing up every day with soft smiles and careful words just to be told you were too much, too sweet. too naive, too present.

If Bucky Barnes hated you that much, if your love, your existence was so unbearable to him, then fine – you wouldn’t force yourself into his life, and you certainly wouldn’t beg.

You zipped the bag shut, you were retreating, yes, but this wasn’t weakness, this was grace in the face of cruelty, a self-respect.

You paused by the door, glancing once, only once, around the space you’d come to think of as yours. 

It was the place where you’d laughed with Yelena, where Alexei had once shown up with a massive toolbox and a mission, declaring your wobbly desk chair “an insult to your delicate spine” and then spent a whole afternoon fixing it.

He’d left behind a chair that somehow creaked louder than before, but you hadn’t said a word, especially not after he had patted your shoulder and told you in that booming, earnest voice, “You take care of all of us. Someone has to take care of you.”

It was ridiculous and so oddly touching, and had made you smile for hours that day.

And it was also the place where you had sat on your bed in the quiet, wondering how someone so closed-off could have eyes that held such storms.

No more wondering. You were done.

You stepped into the hallway with shoulders squared, holding your chin high, and you kept your eyes forward, even as your chest caved in around the ache.

You were leaving. You loved him, yes, but you loved yourself too, and that meant knowing when it was time to go.

You woke up with your head literally splitting.

That was the first thing you registered – pain, blooming and hot at the base of your skull. Every heartbeat sent a fresh wave of nausea through your gut, and your limbs felt heavy, wrong, disconnected.

The pain pulsed behind your eyes, throbbing down your neck and into your spine. It was a slow, creeping kind of pain, the kind that made it hard to tell where it ended and where your body began. 

The floor beneath you seemed like a smooth metal, cold and way too perfect to be concrete, and the air smelled of dust and oil and something burnt.

There was something over your head, rough canvas brushing your lips, warm and stifling as you could feel your own breath bouncing back at you, too fast, too shallow.

A bag, there was a fucking bag over your head.

Your pulse spiked, dizzy, hot, and you forced yourself to take a slow breath, then another. Keep the panic down. Think.

Your last clear memory was… what? Packing. Leaving. Walking to the garage.

And then… nothing.

Your heart stuttered as faint footsteps echoed in the distance, muffled voices threading between them. Metal groaned, a door, maybe, and the voices grew closer, sharper.

Fear overrode pain as you tensed, every muscle coiling. Keys rattled. A lock turned.

You barely had time to brace before rough hands clamped around your upper arms. The startled cry that slipped from you was pure instinct, but it didn’t slow them.

“On your feet,” one of them barked.

You were hauled upward with no gentleness but your legs buckled immediately and for a moment, you thought you’d crash right back to the floor but a hand gripped under your arm, holding you up as you swayed, half-upright, your head lolling forward.

And then the hood was yanked off.

Your eyes burned at the sudden brightness, not blinding, but after the suffocating dark, it felt like staring into the sun. Shapes swam in your vision and it took a few seconds to focus, to blink back tears and pain.

Concrete walls. Exposed, rusted metal beams stretching into a high, very high, ceiling. Hanging lights flickering overhead. A warehouse. Old, industrial. 

And men – three of them, from what you could see, all unfamiliar except for one – the new tower technician that loved chocolate cookies and always had a silly joke ready to throw your way.

But it wasn’t any of their faces that made your stomach twist, it was the cold, heavy pressure at your throat.

You tried to look down as much as your position allowed and saw it, or rather felt it – a thick metal collar around your neck, black and seamless, with a faint green flicker pulsing just beneath the surface.

You instinctively tried to jerk back, to fight, but your legs didn’t cooperate and the man holding you only tightened his grip, steadying you like you were some auction object that needed to stay upright for display.

“What is this?” Your voice came out hoarse, scraped raw by the bile clawing up your throat. “What… what the hell is this? What do you want from me?”

You were bait, that much was obvious, but for who? It didn’t make any sense. Who would be reckless enough, stupid enough, to walk into this? You had no rich, no powerful friends. You had nobody.

A commotion stirred at the far end of the space, too distant for you to see. Footsteps pounded and another man appeared, breathless.

“He’s here. He’s coming.”

You lifted your head as far as you could manage, straining against the weight in your limbs, as you watched figures emerge from the shadows. There were more men with guns and between them, moving at a controlled, deliberate pace, was someone who made your heart lurch violently in your chest.

You blinked, once, twice, as if your vision had blurred and needed clearing before you almost choked on your own breath.

Bucky?

What the hell was Bucky doing here? The one man on Earth who’d made it perfectly clear he’d rather chew glass than be in the same room with you. The guy who could turn the air in a hallway to ice just by glancing your way. And yet here he was, and your stupid heart still tried to sprint straight out of your chest like it hadn’t gotten the memo.

His hair was tousled and his shoulders taut, every line of him coiled in barely restrained fury. His eyes scanned the room, and the moment they landed on the cage you were standing in, he stopped. 

Not the stop of surprise, not even shock, but the kind of stillness that comes when something deep inside snaps tight, when every nerve and every muscle strains against the need to act.

His eyes found you instantly, locking on like a sniper scope, and didn’t move. The air around him seemed to hum with the effort it took not to launch himself straight at the men flanking your cage. You’d never seen him look at you like that before, so fierce, unblinking, like nothing else in the room existed but you.

After a moment of hesitation he moved again, coming closer, so close that you could clearly see his slow and unblinking gaze sweeping over you, taking in every detail. It lingered at your throat, on the strange collar biting into your skin, at the faint bruise you felt pulsing along your temple, at your bare feet, the cage. Each detail seemed to hit him like another blow to the ribs, and his jaw clenched so hard you thought it might splinter.

You watched Bucky’s fists clenching at his sides, metal fingers flexing with quiet violence, his eyes never leaving you, not even for a second, and you could see it  – the crackling rage just beneath his skin, the split-second decision he wanted to make, to rip through every one of them, collateral be damned.

 “I wouldn’t, if I were you,” a man stepped forward from the shadows, his tone almost conversational, though the smug curl of his mouth made your stomach turn. “You can’t save her.”

Bucky’s stance shifted, subtle but unmistakable the barest lean forward, like he was calculating the distance between himself and the man’s throat.

The man’s smile widened. “See that collar?” He pointed lazily, as though he were pointing out a piece of artwork. “It’s wired. One signal from my friend up there,” he jerked his chin toward a figure on a metal catwalk above, hand resting on a small trigger device, “and her head comes off before you even make it to the bars.”

He rapped his knuckles against the cage. “And this? Vibranium. You could throw yourself at it all day, soldier, and it wouldn’t make a dent.”

Your skin went cold, but you couldn’t look away from Bucky. His jaw worked, his breath sharp through flared nostrils.

“So here’s how this goes,” the man continued, voice dropping into something slicker, deadlier. “You surrender, now, and maybe she walks out of here. She’s unimportant, just a leverage. Hydra only wants its asset back.”

The word asset made Bucky’s face flicker, just for a second, before his expression shuttered again.

Bucky didn’t move at first, his chest rose and fell slowly, his expression almost as if carved from stone, but you could see it, the hesitation, the desperate search for any way out that didn’t end with you hurt.

The man’s smirk widened, sensing it.

“So… what’s it gonna be, soldier?” he drawled. “Or maybe you’d rather take your time deciding? We can make it… educational for you.” His gaze slid to you, and his smile turned wicked. “Maybe let my men have a little fun with that sweet little thing before you come to your senses.”

The man standing at your side shifted, and before you could react, his hand clamped hard around your jaw, forcing your face toward him. His breath was hot and foul as he leered down at you.

“Get your hands off her,” Bucky’s voice was low, almost too quiet to hear, but it carried like a gunshot.

The man didn’t so much as glance at him, instead, he crushed his mouth to yours in a greedy, bruising kiss, his other hand shoving hard against your breast.

White-hot disgust and fury surged up your throat as you screamed into him, twisting in his grip, fighting to wrench free. His fingers dug harder into your cheeks, and unable to get free you just bit down as hard as you could.

The man yelped, jerking back with a curse, blood streaking his mouth, but your small victory lasted all of a heartbeat before a sharp crack split the air, his open palm connecting with your jaw. Your head snapped to the side, the world tilting, and a sharp buzz filled your ears as they rang.

Bucky moved before the sound had even finished echoing. It wasn’t a lunge, but the kind of forward step that made the men around him stiffen, guns rising a fraction higher. His hands fisted at his sides, the vibranium fingers flexing, as if remembering what it felt like to crush bone.

“Touch her again,” he said, voice low and steady, “and I will paint these walls with you.”

The leader’s smirk didn’t waver, but his eyes flickered just for a heartbeat toward the figure high above on the catwalk, the one with his thumb resting lazily on the trigger.

“Temper, temper,” the man drawled. “Make no mistake, Barnes, you’re not in a position to make threats. Every second you stall, she pays for it. You want her breathing? You want her in one piece? Then you get on your knees like the obedient little dog you are, and put your hands where we can see them.”

You caught it, that split-second flicker in Bucky’s eyes, the one that said he was about to do something catastrophically stupid. 

This was insane. What the hell was he thinking? For all the ice between you, all the sharp words and cold shoulders, there was one thing you couldn’t deny: you still loved that man. 

You loved him. God help you, you loved that grumpy, stubborn, impossible man, loved him so much that the thought of Hydra’s claws sinking back into him made bile burn the back of your throat. 

You’d heard enough about what they’d done to him, seen enough of the shadows in his eyes, to know he’d never survive it again, not really. And if he got dragged back there because of you… you’d never forgive yourself.

Your pulse thundered in your ears. You wanted to scream at him to turn around, to not let these bastards use you to drag him under, to tell him you weren’t worth it, but your mouth had gone completely dry and felt as if it had never known how to speak, leaving the words stuck in your throat.

“Bucky, don’t…” you managed to sob, stepping forward, fingers curling desperately around the cold vibranium bars like they could hold back what you already knew was coming.

“Shh, Sunshine.” His voice was soft, steady, and the smile he gave you was something you’d never seen before, surely not from him, and never aimed at you. It was warm, reassuring, achingly tender, like a sliver of sunlight breaking through a storm. You hadn’t even known he could smile like that, let alone at you.

“It’s okay,” he murmured, low and certain. “Everything’s going to be okay. I promise.”

“Bucky, no…” you whimpered, the plea scraping raw in your throat, tears blurring your vision. “Don’t do this. Please. I’m not worth it.”

“Sunshine,” he said, quietly but with such certainty in his voice, like he was telling you the simplest, truest thing he’d ever known. “You’re the only thing in this whole damn world that’s worth it. Nothing else matters. Nothing ever has.”

He didn’t look away, not once, as he moved.

One knee hit the ground first, the dull thud of it echoing through the cavernous space, and for a fleeting, desperate second you thought he might stop there, that maybe he was feigning it, buying time before striking. That maybe you wouldn’t have to watch this but then the other knee lowered, slower, heavier, deliberate, as though every inch cost him something he’d never get back. 

His shoulders stayed square, spine locked in stubborn defiance, even as the posture stripped him of the power he’d fought for years to reclaim. The sound of his breathing filled your ears, controlled, measured, but a little too sharp at the edges.

For one last heartbeat, his hands remained loose at his sides, before he lifted them, palms open, offering himself up to the men surrounding him.

Astonishment twisted with guilt in your chest, squeezing the air from your lungs. It wasn’t surrender. You felt it in your bones, it was a bargain, a trade – him for you. And God, it hurt.

The man who had spent months keeping you at arm’s length, who had made you believe you meant nothing to him, was putting his life in their hands for yours, and all you could do was stand there, caged and useless, as he gave himself away.

Two men stepped in close, one on each side, and grabbed his wrists, yanking them back hard enough to strain his shoulders. You saw the small flex of his biceps, the subtle shift in his posture, the instinct to fight still there, before he forced himself to go still.

The click of the first cuff was sharp, the second came with a twist of his arm, pulling the joint past its natural range. It must have hurt, and you saw it in the slight hitch of his breath, the subtle tightening in his jaw.

One of them gave the cuffs an extra jerk, forcing his arms higher, his shoulders arching uncomfortably, another man stepped in and shoved him forward a fraction, making him bow just enough to strip the last illusion of control from him.

He still didn’t look at them, his eyes stayed locked on you, steady, unflinching, that impossibly warm smile refusing to fade, as if he could will you into believing this was all right.

It wasn’t. God, it wasn’t. It was wrong in every way that mattered, a twisting, aching wrong that hollowed you out from the inside.

And it was all your fault, because you hadn’t been careful enough, because you weren’t strong enough. Yelena wouldn’t have been caught like this. Ava wouldn’t have. You knew it, and you hated yourself for it, you hated that you were the weak link he was about to destroy himself to save. 

The first blow came almost before they’d even stepped back. You screamed, clutching the bards of your cage.

A heavy, gloved fist smashed across Bucky’s jaw, the crack of impact echoing in your ears. His head snapped to the side, a thin ribbon of blood trailing from the corner of his mouth.

The second strike slammed into his ribs, making his bound shoulders jerk, as he doubled slightly, the pull of the cuffs biting into his wrists, but he forced himself upright again, breath sharp through his nose.

"Welcome home, Soldat. Hope you’re enjoying the welcome party," one of them sneered, and a boot drove into Bucky’s side. His muscles jerked under the blow, every tendon straining as he fought to keep his balance.

The hits kept coming, fists to his face, elbows to his back, another kick to his ribs. They didn’t pause, didn’t give him a second to brace. 

Then another kick drove into his side, harder than the rest, and his balance finally broke. He hit the floor on his shoulder, the breath punched out of him, as he sprawled on the cold concrete.

“Stop it!” you screamed, your hands clutching the vibranium bars with knuckles turning white. “Leave him alone! Cowards! He did what you wanted.”

“Not so tough now, huh, Soldier?” one of them sneered, kicking him in the back as he crumpled to the floor.

Bucky didn’t make a sound, he took the hits in silence with nothing more than a grunt when a fist connected with his jaw just right or the smallest, roughest exhale when his head was snapped back by an uppercut.

“Look at him,” a voice jeered over the sound of another strike. “All that muscle, all that metal, and still just a bitch on a leash.”

“Bet she’d scream louder for me than she ever would for him,” someone else laughed.

A kick landed in his back, forcing another breath out of him. 

“Look at you,” one of them said, crouching down to grab a handful of his hair and wrench his head back, making him meet his eyes. “Kneeling like a good little dog for some wet hole. Don’t you worry, we’ll treat her right. We’ll put that pussy to good use, and you’ll get to watch. You’ll get to watch every second of how we’ll fuck all her holes.”

It all stopped as abruptly as it started.

“Enough!” the leader’s voice cut through the room, and the others stepped back instantly. “There’ll be time for more fun later. Get ready to move. We leave in ten.”

They filed out in a loose cluster, footsteps fading until the warehouse fell quiet again.

You dropped to your knees.

The tears came fast and hot, blurring your vision as you pressed your hands to the barrier between you. You didn’t care that your shoulders shook, or that your voice broke when you whispered his name.

“Bucky…”

He stirred. One eye was already swelling shut, blood trickled from the corner of his mouth, his chest lifting in uneven gasps.

Tears slipped down your cheeks. “You shouldn’t have come. You shouldn’t have surrendered. Why did you do that? You hate me.”

A beat of silence followed and you were already afraid he had passed out, but then finally his voice reached you, hoarse but clear.

“Hate you?” he murmured, his voice quiet but steady enough for you to catch every word. “Oh, Sunshine, I’m just a fucking idiot. The biggest damn idiot alive, and I can’t…” He broke off, jaw tightening. 

“I need you to understand something before they… before anything happens,” he went on, each word slow, like dragging glass through his throat. “I don’t hate you, I never did and I never… I never meant to hurt you.”

Bucky inhaled deeply and continued, “Every time I was cold, every time I cut you down or walked out, it was just me trying to get some air, to keep myself from drowning in this thing I can’t shut off. You walk into a room and I forget how to breathe. You smile at me and it feels like the first warm day after years in the snow, and I … I just simply don’t know what to do with that.”

There was no hesitation in him, just that raw, stripped-bare honesty you’d never thought you’d hear from him, not in this lifetime.

His mouth twisted in something that wasn’t quite a smile. “I knew I didn’t have a chance with you,” he went on. “You’re everything I thought was gone from the world. You are so warm, so kind, too damn good. And me? I’m the thing they built in the dark to kill people like you. So I figured it’d be easier, if you just stayed away from me. For you and for me. That if I made you hate me, maybe it wouldn’t hurt so much, that maybe I could survive watching you give that smile to someone who deserved it.”

Your pulse thundered, your fingers tightening around the cold bars until they ached.

“But the truth is,” he went on, voice breaking in the middle, “I love you. I fucking love you, and I’ve never loved anybody like this before, and there’s nothing, absolutely nothing, I wouldn’t give, or do, or trade, to keep you safe. If they take me now, I’m fine with that, but if they lay a hand on you…” his breath shuddered and faded away.

“Oh my God, Bucky…” you sobbed, shaking your head, not believing any of this could be real.

“Listen to me,” he cut in. “Listen carefully! Whatever happens, stick to Ava. She’ll get you out. Promise me.”

“I… I don’t understand.” You covered your mouth with a trembling hand, choking back another sob.

“We just needed a clear view on where they were keeping you,” Bucky said, his tone almost mocking before it hardened. “And those cocky, self-sure idiots were so wrapped up in the idea of bagging the Winter Soldier, they didn’t bother to check me for anything else, just took my guns.” His lips twitched in a smirk, but it didn’t last, as in the next heartbeat, his expression turned deadly serious.

“Remember, no matter what happens, you follow Ava.” His voice was low, urgent, almost a growl. “Promise me.”

“Bucky…”

“Promise me,” he cut in, steel in his tone. “I need to hear it.”

“I… I promise,” you breathed. “But Bucky…”

His head dipped once in relief, “Good, and Sunshine … I’m sorry I hurt you,” he murmured. “I’m so damn sorry.”

You were crying openly now, hunched low against the bars, hands trembling, tears coming in hot streams that blurred the room into streaks of shadow and light. You tried to swallow it down, to find some semblance of control, but your breath hitched and broke in uneven bursts and your bottom lip trembled so violently it hurt with nose running and cheeks wet and blotchy, and you didn’t even care.  

“Bucky, listen to me…” you managed, your voice cracking so badly it didn’t even sound like your own. But the rest of the words wouldn’t come, they just died in your mouth, swallowed by the chaos that suddenly ensued.

It started with a flicker in the corner of your eye, a shimmer in the air, and then she was there.

Ava.

Her form snapped into view inside the cage, crouched beside you, eyes sharp and scanning.

“Hey,” she breathed, quick and urgent. “Hold still.”

“Ava…?” you mouthed, still stunned.

“No time,” she muttered, already reaching for the collar at your throat, her fingers moving with brisk precision. “We’re getting you out of here.”

You barely heard the shouts that followed, the sound of boots pounding, of something crashing, open gunfire, grunts that sounded an awful lot like John, the deep roar of Alexei rising above it all like a battle cry and Yelena’s sharp commands slicing through the din.

They’d come for you. All of them.

But your eyes were on Ava, whose hands shimmered in and out of phase as she tried to disable the collar. She hissed when her fingertips sparked off the tech.

“Shit. This is custom made.”

“Can you…?”

“Yeah. Just…give me a second.”

You nodded, trying to stay still despite the chaos, you couldn’t see Bucky, you just knew he was somewhere just out of your line of sight, still cuffed on the floor where they'd left him.

Your heart pounded so hard it hurt.

With a sharp click and a sudden hiss of pressure, the collar snapped loose and you gasped as Ava pulled it off, tossing it behind her like a venomous thing as she instantly turned her attention to the lock of the cage. It gave in much more quickly and with satisfied huff she turned back to you.

“Come on,” she said. “We’ve gotta move.”

But you weren’t listening because from the corner of your vision just past the open door of the cage you saw something – the leader of the HYDRA men, positioned just beyond the falling debris and shadows with his gun raised and aimed at Bucky. 

Bucky had managed to get back to his feet but his hands were still bound with the vibranium cuffs that refused to yield even to his strength no matter how much he struggled against them. 

Yelena had spotted the gun too, you could see it in the way her shoulders coiled, but she was too far, her path blocked by the chaos.

Bucky saw him too and then… he just stopped struggling, his arms fell still, all resistance gone. Slowly, he lifted his gaze to meet the cold, smirking eyes of the man about to end him.

He looked… so calm, unimpressed, almost bored, with a smile on his lips, like he’d already made his peace with what was going to happen. It seemed he almost dared the man to pull the trigger.

“No!” you screamed, and your body moved before thought could stop it.

You shoved Ava aside and bolted through the door.

Your legs screamed in protest, but you didn’t stop, not for the fear, not for the ache, not for the warning shouts that followed you as you dove forward, the world slowing around you.

The gun fired. 

But you were already there, just in front of Bucky.

The impact slammed into your side like a sledgehammer and you screamed as fire exploded through your ribs.

You hit the floor hard, hands pressed instinctively to your side, something warm and wet seeping through your fingers… blood… so much blood…

The warehouse tilted around you.

Somewhere far away, Alexei roared, a deep, thunderous sound, and the ground seemed to shake as he barreled forward. The gunman didn’t even have time to scream before Alexei’s fist smashed into his chest, sending him airborne into the wall with a sickening crack.

The body dropped. The gun skittered across the floor. 

Yelena appeared in your periphery, face pale, hands shaking as she pressed down on your wound. “No, no, no… stay with me…!” and through the ringing in your ears, another sound cut through – raw, savage, and nothing like a human voice.

“NO!”

Bucky was there, fighting against his restraints like a man possessed until Ava freed him with a sharp snap of the cuffs. His arms were around you instantly, pulling you into him, holding you as if he could shield you from the damage already done.

You turned your head toward him, as you tried to give him a smile, but failed.

“Bucky…” Your voice was thin, trembling, each word tasting of copper. His eyes found yours – those beautiful, deep blue eyes, wild and glassy with terror.

“I love you,” you breathed, coughing red onto your lips. “I love you too. Always have…”

And then the world went black.

Bucky’s boots echoed hollowly against the linoleum floor, back and forth, back and forth.

Pacing. Always pacing.

His bruises were already fading. Supersoldier healing worked as perfectly as always, but he looked somehow worse now than when he had left the warehouse all covered in blood. Your blood. 

He was pale, his jaw tight with tension, and his fingers kept threading through his hair, over and over again, like maybe if he yanked hard enough, he could wake himself from this nightmare.

He had asked.

Then begged.

Then threatened.

But they still wouldn’t let him in.

“She’s in surgery,” the nurse had said gently, hands folded like she knew exactly who he was and how little comfort her words offered. “They’ll update you when they can.”

He’d nearly broken the doorframe when they said "it’s a tough situation". His hands had clenched around the edge of the metal table and crushed it against the wall before anyone could stop him. 

So now, they were keeping him outside, pacing like a caged animal.

Yelena came in quietly, holding a cup of coffee. She crossed the room with that cautious kind of grace, like approaching something volatile. 

“Here,” she said simply, holding out the cup.

Bucky didn’t take it at first, just stared through her like he was still seeing the blood pooling beneath you on the warehouse floor. Then he blinked, hand jerking out to grab it. His fingers trembled around the paper cup.

He didn’t drink.

“Any news?” he rasped, voice barely there. “Yelena, I’m… I’m going mad. I need to see her.”

Yelena leaned against the wall, arms crossed, her expression was softer than usual, even sad.

“I know,” she said. “But maybe next time don’t throw a metal table at a wall when the doctor says it’s a ‘tough situation.’”

Bucky flinched.

“They’ll tell us when they know something. You need to be patient.”

“I am patient,” he growled, dragging both hands through his hair again, the cup completely forgotten and trembling in one hand. “I’ve been patient for months. I just wanted the best for her. Can you understand that?”

“I know you did,” she reassured him with a small nod. 

“Why did she do it? God! Why? Why would she take a bullet for someone like me?”

“Because she loves you, you moron!”

“Dear God, you were right. She does, she really does. She said that when…” Bucky’s voice cracked as if that revelation was the most unbelievable, impossible thing in the world. 

Yelena looked at him, long and steady, he turned away, jaw tight, teeth grinding.

A beat of silence passed before heavy boots entered the room.

Alexei.

“Any news?” he asked, voice gruff but careful.

Bucky didn’t answer.

“She’s strong,” Alexei said, easing into a chair that creaked under his weight. “They’ll fix her up. She’s tougher than you think.”

“She shouldn’t have had to be,” Bucky said, staring down at the cracks in the tile. “If I’d just…”

“Hey.” Alexei leaned forward. “You blame yourself, you’re gonna drown in it. She needs you here. Not spiraling.”

Bucky didn't look up, as his chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths.

Another pair of footsteps entered.

John.

Even he looked subdued, uncertain, hands shoved into his pockets, eyes darting awkwardly around as if seeking for threat.

“Barnes,” he started, cautious. “Hey, I…I just wanted to say…”

Bucky looked up slowly, eyes sharp and wild, and bared his teeth.

“Don’t.”

John stopped mid-step, the snarl in Bucky’s voice was quiet but dangerous.

“Don’t say anything comforting. Don’t tell me it’s gonna be okay. Don’t act like you know a single damn thing about what this is.”

John blinked, opened his mouth and closed it.

Yelena lifted an eyebrow. “Yeah, probably not your moment, Cap Junior.”

Alexei huffed. “Let him snarl. He’s scared.”

“I’m not scared,” Bucky snapped, but it sounded hollow even to his own ears.

He sat down heavily, elbows on his knees, head in his hands, metal fingers digging into his scalp, human hand curled tightly around the forgotten, crushed and leaking coffee cup.

“I’m… fucking terrified.”

The room went still.

“I love her.”

It came out like a confession and a collapse all at once, the kind of truth that had been rotting in his chest for too long, finally clawing its way out.

“I love her,” Bucky said again, more desperate this time, as if he had to convince himself that saying it out loud might make it more real.

“I’ve loved her from the moment she smiled for the first time at me like I wasn’t something broken,” his voice crack.

“She’s the only sunshine I’ve ever had. The only good thing. The only thing that made all the noise go quiet.” 

A bitter, humorless laugh tore from his chest.

“And I pushed her away. Treated her like shit because I thought if I kept her at arm’s length, I’d be safe.”

His voice faltered, the words catching. “And she… she loved me. She fucking loved me all along. Me…”

He looked up with a stunned, hollow expression on his face that told he still couldn’t believe it, that he still couldn’t wrap his mind around the fact that it was possible, that someone could really love him.

He swallowed hard, eyes glassy. “I… I don’t know how to live without her.”

The silence that followed was deafening, sharp and suffocating. Quiet glances darted between Yelena, Alexei, and John, each of them catching the other’s eye, then shaking their heads almost imperceptibly, as if daring anyone to speak, but knowing there were no words that could make it right, no comfort that wouldn’t sound like a lie.

The door swung open, the sound slicing through the silence like a gunshot and Bucky sprang to his feet so fast the chair behind him skidded with a screech and hit the wall.

The doctor, a young man in his forties with soft hands and weary eyes, froze in the doorway, eyes going wide like he’d just walked into a lion’s den.

“No,” Bucky said, already breathless, with uneven steps striding toward the doc.

“No… no… no… don’t tell me she’s…”

The doctor actually flinched.

Bucky surged forward, and Alexei instinctively stepped in front of him, holding out a hand like a shield.

“Easy,” he muttered. “Give him a second.”

Doc peeked nervously from behind Alexei’s shoulder, adjusting his glasses with fingers that visibly trembled. “She… she survived the operation.”

Bucky froze mid-step and the whole world seemed to stop with him.

“What?” His voice broke, low and hoarse, almost too afraid to believe it.

“She made it,” the doc said, gently now, peeking around Alexei to look at Bucky. “There was internal bleeding and a rib fracture, but the bullet missed her lung by a few millimeters. We stabilized her. She’s unconscious but…” He swallowed. “She’s stable.”

For a long second, no one moved.

Then Bucky staggered back and dropped into the chair like his legs had given out, eyes glassy, mouth open in silent shock as he covered his face with both hands, shoulders shaking, and… wept… no shame, no restrain… just two hot streams running down his cheeks.

Two months had passed since you were finally cleared from the med bay, and in that time Bucky had appointed himself your full-time caretaker, and by caretaker, you meant prison warden disguised as a Victorian nursemaid. 

You weren’t allowed to lift a grocery bag, open a door, or even pour your own damn coffee. If your eyes flicked toward the top shelf for more than a second, he was already there, plucking whatever you wanted down like some grim-faced butler with shoulders that could block out the sun.

It didn’t matter if you were perfectly capable, Bucky read your needs straight from your lips and was halfway to fetching them before you’d even realized you wanted them. 

At first, it was sweet, then it was… smothering, and by now you were starting to feel less like a recovering human being and more like a particularly delicate crystal vase he was convinced would shatter if left unsupervised.

And you were horny. 

Suddenly, you had the hottest, most ridiculously built, dangerously attractive supersoldier boyfriend… who insisted on treating you like you might snap in half if he so much as breathed on you too hard. Which was, frankly, a torture, especially when you’d wake up to find him shirtless, hair mussed, sipping coffee like a damn Calvin Klein ad and not doing a single thing about the ache he’d put in you.

It came to a head on a lazy Saturday morning.

You woke to find him already out of bed, hair a glorious mess, standing at the kitchen counter in nothing but a pair of sweatpants slung low enough to make you forget your own name. He was stirring sugar into your coffee, because of course you weren’t allowed to make your own, humming under his breath like some brooding, muscle-bound guest star on Desperate Housewives, the kind who has every bored suburban wife on the block peeking over the hedge just to watch him move.

“Morning, Sunshine,” he murmured, setting the mug carefully in front of you as you came closer like you were a patient in an ICU. “Careful, it’s hot.”

That was it, that was the moment you decided you’d had enough.

You took a slow sip, eyes on him over the rim, letting your gaze linger on his chest, his shoulders, the trail of hair disappearing under those sweatpants and without warning, you reached out and hooked your fingers into the waistband, tugging him a step closer.

“Sunshine…” His voice went wary, but his body didn’t move away.

You tilted your head, giving him your sweetest smile. “I’m healed, remember?” Your hand smoothed over his abs, nails scratching lightly, just enough to feel the hitch in his breath. “And unless I’ve forgotten basic anatomy, I’m pretty sure this,” your palm slid lower, “isn’t a danger to my recovery.”

“Not the point,” he muttered, though his voice had gone rough, his pupils blown.

“Feels like the point to me,” you whispered. “You’ve spent two months treating me like glass, Barnes. But I’m not glass. I’m flesh and blood. And right now, I’m very, very warm flesh in need of…” you pressed your mouth to his ear, “…attention.”

He swallowed hard, his hands twitching at his sides like he was fighting himself. “You keep this up, Sunshine, and I’m not gonna be responsible for what happens next.”

You grinned, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes, your voice dropping to a purr.

“Good. I’m not asking you to be responsible, Bucky. I’m asking you to fuck me, and… I want you to do it right.'

You let the pause hang, then tilted your head, teeth catching your lower lip in mock innocence.

'I’d say you owe me that… seeing as I took a bullet for you.”

That was when the dam finally broke.

It happened fast. One second you were smirking up at him, the next his mouth was on yours, hard enough to steal the breath right out of you, and his vibranium hand slid up your thigh, fingers squeezing possessively, while the other gripped your jaw, keeping you exactly where he wanted you. 

He kissed like a man starved, his tongue swept against yours, deep and claiming, swallowing every little gasp you made as his grip on your jaw tightened just enough to make your pulse race.

“Oh, I will fuck you,” he muttered against your lips, the word low and rough, before kissing you again, harder this time, his teeth grazing your lower lip until you whimpered. 

That sound must have done something to him, because his hand on your thigh moved higher, hooking beneath your knee to drag your leg over his hip. 

The kiss never broke, it only deepened, messy and consuming, until you could taste your own ragged breathing between his. When he finally pulled back, his lips red and eyes pure hunger, it was only far enough to drag his mouth along your jaw, down the column of your throat, where his teeth scraped lightly over your pulse point.

“Do you have any idea,” he rasped, lips ghosting over your skin, “how many times I’ve gotten myself off thinking about this? About you?” his voice roughened with every word he spoke. “For months, Sunshine… I’ve been picturing the way you’d sound… the way you’d taste… the way you’d feel, clenching around me.”

Shit, it was too damn hot to hear, the filthy image his unfiltered confession conjured in your head sending a shiver through your whole body, running so deep he felt it. His answering groan was pure, unrestrained want as his hand slid between you, cupping you through your thin pajama pants, his thumb stroking slow, deliberate circles over your throbbing clit.

“Believe me Sunshine, I will fuck you so good you will forget your own name. Gonna show you,” he murmured, nipping lightly at your neck, as he scooped you up like you weighed nothing, “exactly how much I’ve been wanting you.”

Your legs locked around his waist on instinct as he carried you back to the bedroom. You caught sight of the half-finished coffee cooling on the counter, the sun spilling through the blinds and then his shoulder slammed the door shut with a finality that made your stomach twist in anticipation. 

The next thing you knew, you were flat on your back, his weight settling over you, all heat and muscle and weeks of coiled need. His fingers pushed your shirt up and over your head in one smooth, impatient motion, his eyes darkening at the sight of bare skin.

“Still sure you’re okay?” he asked, but it didn’t sound like hesitation this time, it sounded like a warning.

You hooked your fingers in his hair and pulled him down. 

“Not glass,” you murmured, crushing your lips against his. 

“Not glass,” he repeated with a low growl, and the look in Bucky’s eyes was anything but gentle now as his hands slid slowly down your sides, fingers hooking into the waistband of your pants, tugging them off in one smooth motion.

Before you could even gasp, he was kneeling between your thighs, pushing them wide, spreading you open for his gaze. His tongue darted over his lips like a starving man confronted with a long-denied feast.

The cool glide of his metal fingers traced through your slick folds, lingering just long enough to make you shiver before his thumb found your clit, teasing in quick, perfect circles. Your back arched off the mattress with a moan you couldn’t bite back. God, you were more than okay, you were trembling, aching, soaked for him, almost embarrassingly so, every nerve tuned to the first real touch you’d been craving for what felt like ages.

“Beautiful, so fucking beautiful,” he whisperred as his hands gripped your thighs, thumbs stroking once before he leaned in, his breath warm against you and then his mouth was on you.

The first stroke of his tongue made your hips jolt, a gasp tearing from your throat. He groaned in approval, the vibration shooting straight through you as he licked deeper, slower, savoring you like he’d been dying for the taste.

Bucky’s grip was firm, keeping you spread for him, every flick and swirl of his tongue deliberate, unhurried like he was going to wring every single sound out of you before he let you go.

“Sweet,” he murmured against you, his voice rough, “knew you’d be.”

When you tangled your fingers in his hair, tugging him closer, he growled low in his chest and sucked harder, making you cry out. He didn’t let up, working you with his mouth until your thighs trembled and your breath came in short, desperate gasps.

“God, Bucky…” you choked out, but he only hummed, sending another shiver through you, his tongue pressing exactly where you needed it.

Your fingers fisted in his hair, pulling, urging, but if you thought that would make him hurry, you were wrong. Bucky was thorough, controlled, and so damn focused it made your head spin.

He slid one hand up to your stomach, holding you down when your hips tried to lift off the bed, while the other gripped your thigh, his thumb digging into your skin just enough to remind you who was in control.

He latched onto your clit, sucking with a slow, devastating pull that made your back arch and your breath break. You whimpered his name, and the sound must’ve been exactly what he wanted, because he growled against you and the vibration made your toes curl.

“Bucky… oh, shit… yes… yes… oh God…” you mewled, hips jerking in an instinctive plea for more.

“Shhh, my sweet girl,” he murmured, his lips brushing your slick heat as the words ghosted over you. “Take it easy… let me take care of you.”

Before you could even process that, his tongue slid lower, teasing at your entrance before pushing inside, deep and relentless. Your thighs clamped around his head, but he didn’t seem to mind, if anything, his grip tightened, pinning you in place while he fucked you with his mouth.

You could feel him moan into you, like your taste alone was making him lose his mind and every slow drag of his tongue, every flick against that aching spot, built you higher, tighter, until the pressure in your stomach was unbearable.

“Come for me,” he ordered, voice ragged as he pulled back just enough to wrap his lips around your clit again. “C’mon, baby. I’ve been starving for this.”

Your vision blurred, heat flooded you and then you broke, the orgasm ripping through you so hard you cried out, your whole body shaking as he kept going, licking you through every aftershock like he had no intention of stopping.

Only when you had turned into a whimpering, moaning mess, trying to push at his head, to escape the devastating onslaught of his lips and tongue, did he finally relent and sat back on his heels, lips and chin glistening, eyes dark and hungry as he wiped the back of his hand across his mouth.

He didn’t give you time to catch your breath. Still on his knees between your legs, Bucky crawled up over you, the bed dipping under his weight until his chest pressed to yours. His mouth found yours instantly, hot and hungry, and you tasted yourself on his tongue, heady, intoxicating, intimate in a way that made your cheeks flush and your pulse race.

You whimpered against him, and he swallowed the sound greedily, one hand sliding up the side of your body to cup your breast, his thumb brushing over the hard peak until you arched into him. The other hand found your hip, holding you in place as his hips rolled, letting you feel every inch of the thick, hard length straining against his sweatpants.

“Feel that?” he murmured against your lips, voice a low growl. “Been like this for months… every time you walked into the room, every time you touched me, drove me fuckin’ insane. That time you patched the gash on my side…” his mouth curved in a breathless smirk, “…I bolted right after because if I’d stayed one more second, I would’ve come in my pants like some desperate fuckin’ teenager.”

He kissed you again, slower this time, savouring every drag of his lips against you, before his hand slipped back between your thighs. You gasped at his touch, as his metal finger parted your folds and slid inside you.  

“Still so wet for me,” he said, almost in awe. “Still ready.”

Your hands fumbled for his sweatpants, urgency replacing every other thought. 

He shoved his pants down just far enough for his cock to spring free – thick, flushed, and already dripping precum that smeared against your thigh.

Jesus, he was gorgeous. Heavy and perfectly shaped, a thick vein running along the underside, pulsing like it was just as desperate as you. You wrapped your hand around him, feeling the heat and weight, and his groan was deep enough to make your toes curl.

You tried to guide him to you, pressing the broad, leaking head to your entrance, but his hand closed over yours, firm and commanding.

“Not yet,” he rasped, eyes dark and locked on you.

He took over, sliding himself through your folds in long, unhurried strokes, the wet sound obscene in the quiet. Every pass rubbed your clit just enough to make you gasp, just enough to make you want to scream.

You bucked your hips, desperate for more.

“Please,” you hissed.

Bucky just smirked, finally pressing the thick head into you… only to pull back again. Then he did it again, and again, slow, shallow, infuriating.

“Look at you,” he murmured, dragging the tip against your swollen entrance before retreating. “So beautiful, so fucking needy you’d take it all without thinking. You want it that bad, Sunshine?”

“Yes…God, yes…”

But instead of giving in, he kept up the torturous rhythm, the head of his cock breaching you just enough to stretch, to burn, before he denied you again until you were shaking, nails digging into his ass, trying to drag him forward.

“Beg prettier,” he growled, pressing in one last shallow thrust that made your breath catch. “Then maybe I’ll give you what you’re so fucking desperate for.”

Your nails dug harder into his ass, your voice breaking as you pleaded, “Bucky… please, I need you. I need all of you. I’ll do anything, just… fuck me.”

Something in his eyes changed, the smirk fading, replaced by something darker, hungrier as his fingers tightened on your hips, the metal one biting just enough to make you gasp.

He slammed into you in one brutal, perfect thrust, burying himself to the hilt. The stretch made your mouth fall open in a soundless cry, your whole body clenching around him as your back arched.

You both moaned in unison.  His was low and broken, yours high and desperate as he filled you completely, stretching you until the air caught in your throat. He stilled there, forehead pressed to yours, breathing you in, feeling the tight flutter of your walls around him.

“Fuuuck,” Bucky groaned, head dropping to your shoulder, his voice rough and wrecked. “You feel… unreal… better than I ever let myself imagine.”

The first thrusts were deep and heavy, slow enough to make your nails bite into his skin, forcing little gasps from your throat, but the longer he kept that pace, the rougher his breathing became until the restraint shattered, and he started to drive into you harder, faster, like every second apart had been fuel for this moment, and he was burning it all in you.

His hips snapped forward with a sharp, relentless rhythm that drove you into the mattress, and every sound he made, the low grunts, the hiss of his breath, the occasional broken moan, wound you tighter. 

“You wanted it, Sunshine,” he rasped, fucking you like he meant to prove it. “So take it. Take every…” 

a sharp thrust stole your air  

“... fuckin’ ...”

another made you moan in pleasure as your nails clawed at his back

 “... inch.”

You could barely answer him, your voice dissolving into needy, incoherent moans and pleas, and he was eating up every sound, fucking you harder, chasing both your pleasure and his like he’d been starving for this.

Your moans grew higher, sharper, as his thrusts turned downright punishing, the kind that had the headboard thudding in time with his hips as every inch of him was inside you, claiming, wrecking, ruining you in the best way possible.

“Common, Sunshine…,” he groaned, sweat dripping down his temple, his eyes dark and locked on yours. “let me hear you… let me hear you scream.”

And you were screaming now, or maybe moaning, you couldn’t tell, the sounds tumbled from you without control as he pistoned into you, each thrust harder, faster, his cock dragging over that perfect spot until you were a moaning, drooling, whimpering mess beneath him.

Your nails scored his back, leaving hot trails of sting in their wake, and he just growled at the pain, driving into you harder. You couldn’t even form words anymore, just desperate little sounds, your thighs trembling around him.

“Yeah… that’s it,” he panted, thumb finding your clit and circling it in hard, perfect strokes. “You gonna come for me? You gonna soak my cock like I know you want to?”

“B-Bucky…” you gasped, your entire body winding tight, the pressure coiling low in your belly ready to snap.

“Do it,” he hissed. “Come on, Sunshine. Let go, I want to feel it.”

You shattered, your vision went white and your mouth opened on a cry as the orgasm tore through you, pulsing around him, every nerve on fire. You felt him groan into your neck, hips slamming forward as if he could get impossibly deeper, his rhythm breaking into ragged thrusts.

“Fuck… fuck, I’m gonna…” he choked out, pulling you tight against him, and then he was gone, spilling hot and thick inside you with a deep, wrecked moan on of your name as he held himself there, buried to the hilt, shaking from the force of it.

For a long moment, the only sound was your combined breathing, ragged and uneven. His forehead rested against yours, his body still trembling with aftershocks, and when his eyes opened again, there was nothing but raw, unguarded affection in them.

He didn’t pull out right away, instead, he just kissed you, slowly, tenderly, savouring every drag of his lips against yours, until your heartbeat began to ease and your legs loosened from around him.

When he finally slipped free, you winced at the sensitivity and he immediately stilled, cupping your cheek with that careful, searching look like he was scanning you for damage.

“You okay?”

You almost laughed. “Bucky, I just came so hard I think I saw God and angels. I’m fine.”

He didn’t look convinced, in fact, he looked downright concerned as he disappeared into the bathroom and came back with a warm, damp cloth, kneeling between your thighs.

“Let me,” he murmured, and you knew better than to argue. He cleaned you gently, almost too gently, muttering under his breath about “making sure you’re comfortable” like the overprotective menace he was.

Then came the water, then the blanket adjustment, then him physically tucking you into bed like you were about to be read a bedtime story.

“Bucky, I’m not an invalid,” you grumbled, though you couldn’t stop the fond little smile pulling at your lips.

“Shut up,” he said, but there was no heat to it. “You’re my girl, and my job is to take care of you.”

You shook your head, exasperated, but when he slid in beside you and pulled you against his chest, his warmth wrapping around you like a second blanket, you simply wrapped your arms around his broad shoulders and snuggled closer. His hand traced lazy, grounding circles on your back as he nuzzled against your hair.

“You know you drive me crazy, right?” you murmured into his skin.

“Yeah,” he said, pressing a kiss to your hair. “Guess we’re even.” 

You gave a little huff. “I’m serious. All this… fussing over me like I’m made of sugar. It’s ridiculous.”

He chuckled low in his chest. “You love it.”

“I do not,” you protested, even as your fingers curled into his bare side and your head tucked closer under his chin.

“Mm-hm.” He sounded unconvinced. “That little face you make when I pour your coffee for you? Or when I carry all the groceries in one trip? Sunshine, you practically glow. Don’t think I don’t notice.”

You tilted your head back just enough to glare at him. “I tolerate it because you’d pout if I didn’t.”

Bucky’s lips twitched into a grin. “Pout? I don’t pout.”

“You pouted when I tried to open my own soda last week.”

“That was different,” he said, tone all mock seriousness. “You could’ve hurt yourself.”

You laughed, unable to help it, and shook your head. “You’re impossible.”

“And you,” he murmured, pressing his mouth to yours in a slow, lazy kiss, “are mine.”

That shut you up, not because you agreed (you’d never give him the satisfaction out loud), but because the warmth in his voice went straight to your chest and melted every last bit of resistance. 

You just sighed into the kiss, letting him win this one.

[feelingdozy]

FOOL FOR YOU - Bucky Barnes

Summary: Cooking dinner for the team involves you against knives- and it so happens that you end up giving yourself a cut because bucky, being the handsome man he is, walks in the kitchen as you pick one up. Hidden feelings and worried bucky don't clash very well, especially when it's a reoccurring issue.

Warnings: 18+ friends to lovers, love confessions, fluff and crack, oblivious feelings, requited crush, public events, accidents, description of blood, reader cuts her finger, medbay visits, knives/cutlery, multiple injuries, hitting her head, drink spills etc, forceful/aggresive man (not bucky), team shenanigans, porn with a good amount of plot, p in v, fingering, oral (f!rec), heavy makeout, size kink, praise kink, creampie, unprotected sex, cursing, rough-ish sex, marking, light bondage

req: I need Bucky with the prompt "let me patch you up", the trope "friends to lovers" and please do nsfw... read full

w/c: 6,2k ･ a03 ･ prompt list ･

You had been fine. Had was the keyword there. Until he walked in. Strands neatly over his face, unintentional framing that led your eyes straight to his, the rough stubble that led down his jaw and made his face even more jaw-dropping.

You were cutting vegetables. You were doing it neatly, too. The team had requested all different kinds of foods this time for lunch, so you piled them up to lead into a vote, that led into another, and another- eventually you had given up with an exhausted sigh, announcing you'd combine them all.

Yelena gave you a wide grin, Bob a shy smile. Ava's shoulders perked up, Bucky silent as ways just huffed out, and Alexei boomed with laughter.

So that had you here, cutting up a salad, preparing spaghetti with a special 'surprise' sauce as Alexei had added, along with mac and cheese as if one pasta wasn't enough to satisfy.

It wasn't annoying per-say- just frustrating, clumsily dropped the butter, spilling a drop of milk when it lingered away from the pot, dropping a batch of noodles.

Now you were here, finally on the salad. The last piece of the holy trinity of disaster foods they'd set you up to make, almost like they were plotting to find you dead by the time it was ready.

Starting with cucumbers, peeling, then cutting and adding them neatly to the big bowl with the dust of your hands and a boast at how good you did so far.

The next was some tomato's, cut them- somewhat.. nicely, juice everywhere but still got in the bowl.

Lettuce before the sauce since you had a picky group of people who hated the thought of more leaves in food than necessary.

You thought you had finally cleared it. Past the point of horrible mistakes and no returns.

But then Bucky Barnes walked it.

Graced with a compression shirt that said post-training hunger and sweatpants that gave much more imprint than you wanted to tease yourself with. You tried not to.

Not to look down. Not to look at him at all.

But your heart raced. So did the tips of your fingers, and your cheeks flushed at the sight of him so casual and laid back around you, you swore he was humming a tune-

"Shit!" You exclaimed as you looked down to find a good amount of pain from below- oh fuck, oh fuck you were ridiculous!- you cut your finger cutting lettuce thinking about your teammate and friend undressing you!

"Are you okay, y/n- oh my god-" he, too, had the same reaction looking down at the mildly nauseating pool of blood there on the cutting board, and it might've tripped your gag reflex to have you heaving dry.

"Bucky-" you attempted to get out, "I've got you, stay calm okay? 'gonna get some paper towel real quick then take you down to medbay."

He was surprisingly...calm. But you quickly realized he wasn't- he was keeping it together for you. His shoulders were tensed, and he was hastily opening and closing cabinets like he was searching for a lost key to a very important diary, or top secret files.

He was mumbling under his breath, weren't you ever the annoying one-

"Found it. Give me your finger, sweetheart" blood loss and nicknames combined almost made you faint on the spot. "Let me patch you up."

You looked away as he dealt with the overwhelming view in front of him, a silly, stupid mistake.

"How'd you do this, hm?" There was no mocking tone to his voice, only a pinch of genuine worry.

You sighed in embarrassment, "Cutting lettuce 'nd got distracted from you opening the fridge.. need to cut back on those brownies mister"

He chuckled lightly at that, one of his palms landing on the plain of your back as he led you to the elevator.

"Do you feel lightheaded?" He asked.

"A little," you admitted, "The blood- blood isn't an easy sight either. Not my best moment."

He started to rub your back soothingly, trying to distract with light conversation-

What had you done today so far?

Plans for the week?

Did Valentina give you any new missions yet or just complain and it went in one ear and came out the other?

It became easy.. until the elevator dinged an unpleasant chime at your predicament, and you found yourself treacherously on a bed getting looked at.

Now you really felt sick- the pain amplified, whimpering while they checked it out.

Then suddenly, you were being wrapped in arms. Warm arms. Big arms. His arms.

"Shh, don't look, you don't gotta look." He cooed, rubbing the back of your head gently.

Your brain was running miles per hour and it definitely wasn't from your finger. What was this? What was this man doing. Bucky Barnes?

Silent lady killer, gruffs and groans, stubble and amazing hair after sleepless nights- was cradling you in his arms? Oh my god, oh my god, oh my-

"That was quick, wasn't it?" Pulled away from his chest, you almost sobbed to see the bright lights reminiscing of a doctor's office and the smell of disinfectant flood your senses instead of his cologne that drove you crazy. Inside and out sort of crazy.

"Y-yeah, very quick" you commented with the way of your finger, now looking at the bandage securely wrapped around it better than the paper towel substitute. But.. you sort of wanted it back. Because Bucky had done it for you-

You were insane.

Over the next few days, Yelena could tell you were acting.. weird. Too clumsy, too jumpy, and constantly on edge.

"I can't tell if you're very pent up or mentally unstable" she announced when she found you crouched in the kitchen, trying to find the garbage bags someone had stuffed way too deep in there for comfort.

"Mm, maybe both" you replied back, trying to have a sense of humor, yet she wasn't wrong.

Since that incident, you had gotten either Alexei or John to stir something together, but they always came out in disastrous mixtures and disappointing flavours that never combined exactly right.

Luckily, since then there hasn't been a screw-up so damaging to your reputation.

That was until he walked in again.

Perfectly timed, handsomely dressed, and strikingly distracting for someone with their head under a cabinet.

"Whatcha looking for?" Gravelly, and definitely curious, he witnessed you bang your head in an attempt to look up at him.

"F-fuck!" You'd done it again, except more embarrassing with two people watching, and a second time with Bucky watching.

He was immediately on alert, Yelena watching in interest as his body moved almost instinctively to your lowered form that was, in her case, very funny to watch struggle out from the small space that didn't allow any good amount of room.

You rubbed the spot that ached and throbbed at the hard whack it had taken to the bottom of the sink, Bucky kneeling down to carefully execute removing you from down below.

Huffing and nodding her head in I told you so, "Jesus! How the hell did you do that-" Yelena nearly yelled, very concerned, and very scared for your well-being at this point.

"Are you okay? Is it hurting?" Bucky asked as he parted your hair for any sign of a bad bump, or bleeding- anything that said otherwise of good.

Yelena watched in silent contemplation as you and him made small talk, almost familiar in a way that set off red flags from the get-go

She started to ponder.

She remembered the story from the last time, that suddenly, when Bucky walked in you had lost your concentration and ended up slipping up on your hold.

And now- he was back, and you were losing it again.

She had her eureka moment. And she was not going to let it go.

"Here, let me help," Bucky asked while holding out his hand for you to take, with you hissing out a strained okay.

"Let me take you to the infirmary again." He left no room for argument, yet you still tried to pester.

"Bucky it's really okay-"

"Let him take you!" Yelena barged in, weirdly boisterous and cheerful.

"I mean, if you really don't want to take her, I can, but-"

"I've got her." Matter-of-factly, He was already leading you there at this point, and you were stuck in his reaffirming hold. Though suffering through the pain and kissing your teeth while holding back grunts- you still had a hard time not becoming a flustered mess with his hand safely plastered around your waist.

It was gentle, yet firm, his cologne close and airy. It was both personal- whatever soap he used and something cedar or woodsy, filling your nostrils in the best way ever. Maybe that alone would do the job of making you feel better.

"How's it going there, two-timer?"

"Hah hah. Funny" he laughed a deep chuckle at that, taking in your shrunken, injured form again.

"How d'you keep getting into this situations?" He questioned, nothing mean nor rotten. He was questioning your very valuable ability to make yourself an embarrassment in front of him.

"I- uh-" but before you could even scrape up an answer, you had showed up at the medbay.

"Guess this is our stop for a second time. C'mon, I'll come with you again"

"oh, bucky, you really don't have to-"

"I want to. Promise"

"You're joking"

"Bob. See. You saw right? That was real?"

"that was very real, Yelena" they both whispered from the corner, eyes peeled to bucky escorting you in while promising to 'keep you very, very safe'. At least that's how Yelena put it.

"How long has this-"

"She's done this before. Every. time. he. walks. in."

"Every time?"

"Every time Bob." She was deadpanned, and deathly serious.

And when the two of you came back out, laughing, Yelena held her chest like a heart attack would strike her next- maybe it would with the view she was witnessing in front of her.

"Oh my god" Bob mumbled, more to himself than Yelena when he caught the little whispers of conversation here and there when he focused enough.

"Yeah, can't believe a second time..."

"very clumsy, always there to help..."

"Are they flirting?" She asked, eager.

"Worse."

"Worse? What could be any worse than that!"

"They don't know that they're doing it" She dramatically sighed while rubbing her temples, debating on just going up there and really putting it into the two of you.

"And it's just simple conversation- like neither of them know they're totally down bad-"

"NO!"

"Did you hear that?" You squinted when you scanned the area, bucky still accompanying you to your bedroom.

"Hear what?"He replied, feigning innocence

"I swear I heard a scream.. kinda sounded like Yelena."

He shrugged, "the usual Yelena type of activities" He hid the corner of his lips perking up well, as he knew for a fact it was her.

Well, he knew it was her and Bob- and heard everything they had whispered. Not yet. He convinced himself, not yet.

What he didn't know, was that the moment would come sooner than he thought- very soon.

When a gala came around, and that required you proper, cleaned up, and etiquette that has people's mouths down, flabbergasted.

But that wasn't going to be simple. In fact, it was going to be near impossible while James Buchanan Barnes was strutting around in a fancy suit, slicked back hair-

You were already salivating just thinking about the sight.

You tried to be as normal as you could within the time before it was set to happen. The few hours earlier had been spent away from him, in fact, solely with Yelena and Bob chatting away in your room about nonsense.

You and Yelena had swapped makeup, both doing different styles while also multitasking each other's while Bob sat and watched curiously or scrolled on his phone.

By the time you three were finished, it had already rolled around to the evening- your room was blasting music as you finally scooped the dress that had been laying on your bed all day to put it on, Yelena whistling when you came out the bathroom.

"Yeah?" You asked with an embarrassed little tremble to your lip as you grinned at their shared reaction.

"Yes." They said in unison, Bob patting some areas down while Yelena circled for the zipper on the back to do it up all the way.

The dress you picked had not-so-coincidentally matched the blue of Bucky's deep colored eyes, leaning toward a dark powerful blue that definitely spoke out. Doing your hair the way you liked it, you picked some of Yelena's accessories to spice up the lower cut that revealed a bit of your chest, leaving most to the imagination.

Both their eyes sparkled when you twirled, finished and gleaming within the dimly lit room that held two bundles of absolute excitement and enthusiasm.

"You girls ready? Bob asked while tightening his tie in the mirror while running a hand habitually through his half-slicked locks that ran a little frayed at the front, one sliver very apparent and giving him a gentle formal look.

"Ready!" You exclaimed as Yelena fixed her strays, Bob helping her put the outer coat of her suit on in practised precision.

"Ready m'lady's" she answered following behind your trail, finally exiting the stuffy warmth, evidence of your hour long hangout to the fresh conditioned air of the tower.

You all took a deep breath, both of nerves and the newly felt breeze before going to the elevator and heading down to where Val had planned it.

The first reaction to the area dressed and decorated left you all a little stunned before stepping out, the crowd apparent, and looking very royally scary and rich.

Rich in a literal sense that was- in a way that both your friends had gotten swiped by your side in no time by investors and top payers that they had no choice but to step aside with because Val had made it very clear that if you didn't- you didn't want to know what the consequences would be.

So you were left on the floor with a bunch of middle aged heafty men, and wealthy men all alone. So what does someone do in this situation? Very obvious.

"What can I getcha?"

The bar. Luckily most seats were unoccupied, and you ordered your usual that had you sipping every so often while people watching with a bored expression. Nothing alcoholic. Just something to pass the time.

It was nice, for the most part. Squeaky tiles and overdone little details that meant Val had it down very precisely to whoever was in charge of decorating.

You observed the different groups of people, mostly white-haired and delicately sewn and tailored on the arms that read off as prestigious, almost scarily so. Until you saw him

Like you knew, brown hair slicked back dangerously, stubble not shaved but grown preciously, with an edge that made him look even hotte-

Gentlemanly. Yes. And not very, very, hard to resist pouncing on. His jaw flexed as he spoke, and you could only imagine the gruff tone mixed with the softness of his speech. His muscles fit the suit perfectly.

Like it was sin, they stretched the fabric over every delicate line and bicep and that you clenching the glass in your hand tightly. It was nicely spanning for the expanses of his chest too, built torso and all were very exposed, very obvious to anyone who looked at the way it listened to his command and made him broad and delicious.

Somehow, someway, like he could sense the catch of your breath and the spike of lust and adrenaline flowing newly through you, he met your eyes.

His gaze softened, and his lips curled in tune. A smile reserved solely for you, and you gave one back. Like everything around you had zoned out, you were only focused on the man making his way toward you.

And with that came disaster.

It followed you everywhere. Especially towards the ones that definitely shouldn't have had to go through the misery of your heart and your weary hands.

Because when you raised from your chair to meet him halfway, you were met not with the crinkle in his eyes nor the lingering of his scent.

You were met with the big chest of an investor who got in your path, and suffered consequences when your drink had split all down the freshly dry-cleaned and ironed white shirt that now was stained, colored and ruined.

Eyes widening immediately, you went into shock as he started to curse off at you, muttering countless apologies as he went on.

The anger in his eyes never dulled, instead worsened when he gripped your arm with more strength then needed, unnecessary and outright scary when he started to shake you and explain dumbly like you were a toddler in need of a lesson.

That's when Bucky stepped in. A hand firmly rested on his shoulder, making the older man stop in his tracks and turn back to be met with the darkened gaze of the winter soldier targeted towards him.

You wouldn't say it was scary, no, that's not the right word. He was heavily intimidating. One of the men that you don't want to get on his nerves because you know for a fact he's not going to let it slide no matter what.

And with that, the man let go of you and led himself off somewhere stumbling like he was the one nursing a drink.

"Sweetheart? You alright?" You watched the scene dazed, and coming back when he made it to your side.

Some people heard the commotion and stopped to stare, most resuming their talks and looking away instinctually when seeing Bucky at the scene of the crime.

It didn't make him feel ideal, but in this situation he was glad that there were no eyes on you to make it a huge deal that you'd have to poorly clean up after with sullen apologies and Val's frustrating lectures.

You nodded, not trusting yourself to speak up at the moment.

"Let's go back to your room alright? Get you cleaned up some." When he said that, you finally looked down to see some residual of the liquid splattered on your hand where it once was, like evidence it all happened.

You let him blindly lead you, now listening to the hum of the elevator in comfortable silence.

"Did you.. uh-" he started, almost seeming hesitant to end.

"Wear that dress for a particular reason? Looks familiar."

You huffed a laugh, and nodded lightly.

"Yeah. I did"

"You did?" As he replied, you looked up at him, and he was of course already looking.

"I think you know."

"I-" he almost gulped. "I think I do."

The tension was palpable, but struck down when you took his collar in your fist and pulled him down.

He met your lips with no resistance, and whether it was hunger or devotion, both felt the same at the moment.

The moment you merged with his, everything about him was heavenly- your senses flooded with the way his tongue slid over your bottom lip, nipping to get it in your mouth, reining dominance as he explored you.

Your hands found his waist where they could, chest to chest now, heads slotted perfectly as the movements got sloppier. Fueled, he cradled your jaw and pulled you even closer. While his thumb absentmindedly traces you, you're fumbling with a crooked brow when he's still deepening it, slow and reverent.

His steady hands ground you to earth while he devours you, he's lightheaded when you both pull back and your breathing ragged.

A little breathy, he laughs when he presses your forehead to his, just taking in the contact and the resolved heap of unsolved feelings out in the open.

"I think you like me, Barnes."

"You sure?" He mumbles with a smirk, lost in the way you're still holding onto him like you never want to let go. Newsflash, you don't.

Still a little dazed, you have no motion to hold your words back now. "Unless it was just the dress?"

You question with a raised brow, and he chuckles loudly.

"Mm.. dunno- but it's definitely helping." His eyes scan down your figure, leaving nothing to be hidden as he takes it all in.

Whether the kiss or the view, he doesn't know, he's already half-hard.

"Did y'pick it just to tease me, sweetheart?" He asks as if he's not blown away and hiding his boner in the confines of tight dress pants

"Bucky, for the love of god, please take me to my room right now" As much as he tries to hide it, he's sinister grin throws the work away.

The request makes stutter for a second internally, mind running faster than he can process.

He takes one of your legs and lifts it up against his waist before pressing another kiss onto your lips, finding himself perfectly close to your ear to whisper,

"Jump" And so you do.

He holds your weight up effortlessly, no struggle nor tug of the arm as he leads you to your room with practised precision and with the speed of a man on a mission.

Legs curled around his beefy hips, you can pretty much feel every flaunt of his imprint against the open area of your underwear, heat infectious and utterly undoing when you accidentally grind into him chasing for the unknown friction and he grunts back with a twitch in his slacks.

When he finally makes it to your room, he's opening it hastily and plopping you softly down on the plush of your bed, taking in the image of you a little flushed, hair straying, makeup wiped off some and stained preferably to his lips.

"You're truly a vision, sweetheart." He's mumbling before reaching for you again, kissing you harder, messier, no attention to the way teeth may clatter and tongues might tangle. He's searching for that.

The ruin. The undone. And he hasn't even started.

His hands find their way down your figure, feeling every curve and inch of skin hiding underneath the masterpiece that's your outfit you picked that had his attention away from those old men and glittery women.

"Can I take this off you?" You nod, watching the fabric slip down when he reaches behind you to unzip it, raising your hips so he can fully pull it off before placing it with care on your chair.

"Fuck" he's licking his lips when you're below him, bra only and underwear soaked when he presses down right where you need him, arching into his touch.

He's kneading the padding of your breasts before kissing down your collarbone, biting and licking the skin to hopefully have purplish spots bloom later on to remind him how he tasted every inch of you.

"Bucky, need you s'bad" your reaching out to tug on his tie, and he listens.

"You gonna be a good girl for me?" The way he says it is intoxicating, gruff and dark. He knows exactly what it does to you.

"Yes, yes please-" In the midst of your pleas, he's settling down on the bed to perch himself between the plush and empty space of your thighs.

They were lonely until his breath fanned inside, teasing you devilishly with a couple kitten licks before his teeth dip in to the sensitive area, eliciting an unexpected yelp while you squirm, though it doesn't do anything except food for thought because his grip is firm-

You couldn't close your legs no matter how much you'd had liked to, when his muscles tense so nicely to keep you from hiding anything from him.

He works his way up, leaving the damp spot to grow, almost enveloping the whole piece. And when he finally, finally rubs small circles on your clit, you're immediately whining out for more.

"Bucky, god- I need more, please"

"You need s'more sweets?" Before you can respond, a finger is already tugging the underwear down your leg to find your glistening cunt in front of him, leaving nothing to the imagination now.

And suddenly, he's hungry- his fingers work as fast as his brain processes it, slipping past your entrance easily as your back lifts to chase the friction.

And when his tongue doubles down, you're almost screaming his name for the compound to hear.

"Fuck, you taste so fucking good sweatheart."

"Thank you, thank you" your babbling out when his fingers deliciously curling up like he's already memorized the spot that has you keening, lips latching onto your sensitive bud as he sucks first gently, then harshly when the force of the finger picks up to have you fleeing around.

The sight makes him delirious- his dick is fully hard, rubbing almost pathetically against the softness of your mattress and groaning into your taste mostly because eating you out is helping him get there. He could likely come undone without you even needing to lay a hand on him.

Though it helps when your hands find his hair, not caring about the style and how the gel's firmly in place. No, your latching onto what you can, clawing while holding on for dear life and bringing him closer, both riding him out and backing away.

"Soak my face, you're not getting away from me til you cum." Pussy-drunk and with no regrets, he's urging another one of his fingers into you, and two together are utterly huge. You're wondering just how much he has to stretch you open, the image of the cock hiding behind zipped up pants has you questioning how your sanity's going to be after this.

With how wet you are, it doesn't feel like a challenge to have them both moving in tandem, but the low, buildup in the pit of your stomach isn't showing any mercy when slow stripes and teasing blows of air to your clit turn into the most leg-trembling head you've ever recieved when he finds your clit and never lets it go.

He knows you're close, knuckles never letting up on his hair, and the way you're grinding yourself into him as him moaning- the vibration echoes back, making your rhythm stutter. A cry erupts from your throat, and your toes are curling almost numb.

Clit overstimulated and that spongy spot within you being targeted has the world fading, literally at his fingertips when he curls perfectly and as you soundlessly cumming to his command.

"Doing so perfect for me, sweetheart, christ." He's climbing up you, shaky but recovering when he collides with you again, tasting yourself and seeing the mess you had made when you feel it all over and integrated into his stubble like an oil he had put in.

"How the fuck are you so good at that?" Your voice is strained in a way that makes him huff out a laugh, and not to admit he's flattered that you find him so daringly good.

"Just.. passionate?" He replies while you're laughing back.

And then you feel something. Undeniably huge and aching up against you, the collar of his suit a little soaked with remnants of the night and his tie crumpled, beard glistening.

"you-"

"I think I might've came my pants already" he says it so casually, it almost sounds wrong.

"I want you, Bucky" because you can tell what's going through his head. the contemplation. The aftermath. But you want him on you.

Literally.

"r'you sure, sweetheart?" It's smitten almost, nervously so.

"Yes Buck, and if you don't unzip those pants I'm going to start humping you through them" he's making quick work now, watching him undress while you unstrap your bra as you laugh.

Except your face drops and your eyes widen when he's shirtless, and even moreso when his pants disappear.

You find yourself led downward, landing on every surface of a scar, scrape and bruise. To you, he's beautifully open to you right now and that means more than anything.

On the other hand, you're drooling because of how good he looks, all that's been hidden underneath those tight shirts and multiple layers. And you look down to be met with the most enticing sight of all.

"God Bucky, you're damn built- and holy fuck you're huge.. is that even going to fit.." you're mumbling the last part to yourself, but he grins because he hears it anyways.

"I'll go slowly, sweetheart, don't worry. You tell me if anything's wrong, alright?" Your heart thumps loudly when you realize how real it's becoming, and everything is swimming inside you with anticipation.

He pumped himself once, then twice as he was already red and aggravated- he was weirdly sensitive, too, the tip madly dripping pre-cum while his eyelids were dusted, looking back at yours to find the same lust-evident look.

Glassy and divine, he had lined up against your cunt, rubbing the tip to collect your juices and catching on your clit as you hissed.

"Please, Buck. I can take it, be your good girl." You whined, inching closer and closer desperately that was nothing short of lewd.

"Yeah? You can?" He growled, starting to push himself in.

"Mhm, yes- yeessss" the stretch was genuinely mouth-watering and almost borderline painful with his length and your pussy trying to accommodate it.

"You're doing so well, sweets- fuck you're squeezing me so tight" his breathes were deep and focused, thrusting almost to the hilt. His hands splayed themselves on your hips, almost bruising in a way that had you lightheaded with delight.

The sensation of his dick reaching every crevice and corner of you, so much so that when he laid a hand on your lower stomach, he'd pride you-

"Can feel myself all the way in, you're doing s'good, shit" the pressure was amazing, almost overbearing when he began a steady rhythm that had you doubling down on his name, a mantra that sang like music to his ears.

"s'pretty like this, below me with my cock deep in you-" when you had gotten used to the sheer size and girth the man had inside you, he bent down to take your nipple into his mouth, nursing it like he would a cup of his favorite coffee.

Nipping, your moans got louder when he bit it cheekily and thrusted upwards like he knew where to aim, hips flush against you and sweat beading down both your foreheads as sex and slaps of skin filled the room steadily.

He hasn't displayed his size properly- not yet, so when he runs his hands down the lengths of your arms to obtain your wrists with one palm while holding them together, everything kicks into overdrive.

Suddenly the way he's sucking on your breasts makes you squirm even harder. The way he holds onto your hands, firmly and you can see the outstretched outlines of his built veins that curve along his forearms.

Suddenly you're aware of his beefy girth, the one that's digging into you while he huffs affirmations in your ear. His free hand is bringing you back to him every time, you can feel his tuffs of pubs while your ass hits just right. He can't see it, but he doesn't need to. The view below him is just where he wants to be.

You can feel your orgasm building in the pit of your stomach, gasping when he decides to fully bottom out, your breath is punched out of you and your pleading while your hands reach out to anything they can, familiarly in his hair again.

"Gonna cum, gonna cum deep in this sweet pussy. That okay, sweetheart?" You don't know how he's even forming coherent sentences, but somehow, someway, you're nodding back in agreement.

You hear his groans raise in volume as he bites down on your neck to save some dignity. You can feel the twitch of him present and every vein scraping the inside of your gummy walls- carving it out for his shape to be forever stained in paradise.

"Buck- m'cumming, oh my ffffuck cumming, don't stop" the noises that feel the room are downright dirty and obscene, and his hips are jerking mindlessly into yours, flush against you with force.

"never dreamt of it"

tears are stinging the corner of your eyes when you swear he's rearranged your insides, clenching down on him tightly as you feel your impending release. When it snaps, your absolutely spent, juices coating his cock as he pressed firmly into you.

Pulsing, he didn't let up, letting your climax hit with the pressure. In fact, it spurred him on. Panting, he was close too, hitting his almost at the same time.

mushroom tip filling you to the brim with rope after rope of his cum, legs twitching erratically and pussy utterly tender, and swollen. You could feel his seed everywhere, already probably dripping down your thighs.

He grazes your nipple accidentally, sore and sensitive when the overstimulation from anything and everything hits.

"Careful Buck" you sigh out, smiling crookedly at the bliss of the aftermath.

"You okay? Was it okay?"

"mhm- s'good buck. Real good"

He chuckled dreamily and mumbled, "let me get you cleaned up," retreating to the bathroom to find a cloth hung up to wipe you down, his cum that had spilled out and ran down the inside of your thighs that had him resisting the blood flow down to his dick again.

Your eyes stayed closed before you felt the weight of the bed dip down, his presence known and back by your side where you wanted it. He pressed a peck to your check, nose and then mouth before running a hand through your hair.

"Little sweaty there"

"Mm- don't care. Gonna take care f'you anyways"

You hummed while he did so, admiring your wrecked form. Nothing short of wonders in his mind, he was content while he put a hand over your waist- almost like a claim.

Protective, and saying something words hadn't yet. He broke the silence first.

"Tomorrow- let me take you out. Real dinner. Real date and everything." His voice was a little used, but the way he rubbed soft strokes on your waist told you everything.

"Not going to let me cut myself again, Barnes? What a gentleman" he snorted at that, planting playful kisses in the corners of your neck.

"Can't let my girl get injured again. Wouldn't be proper." Your cheeks flushed at his words, and your hands stilled where they hung over his neck.

"Y-your girl?"

"I knew from the start but.. whenever I saw you get cut like that- I was worried and i- it just made me think of everything else I could've been patching you up for and not just a cut finger. How I wanted to be there if it happened again"

Leaving him with no room to ramble, "Of course, buck"

"Yeah?" He asked with a boyish smile.

"Yeah." You said, stealing a kiss from him.

You slapped his chest when he went in for another, pouting when you wouldn't let him reach you.

"That scream was Yelena, just so you know"

"I knew it! Damn you-" you faked an angry face before asking, "What was she screaming about anyways?"

"I- uh... nothing important, trust me."

THE MORNING AFTER...

The two of you woke up, soaked in each other's embrace and yawning in tandem, legs tangled and pillows thrown to different edges and corners of the bed. You didn't want to leave- warmth radiated off of him, his hand spanning safely to encase you, and tightening every time you threatened to move

"Buuuck- gotta let me get up- needa pee" you rubbed your eyes, and when you opened them he was right next to you.

"mmmff- sweetheart.."

"Don't you dare say five more minutes" he sighed, rolling himself over dramatically to face the wall.

"Hey- you said ten minutes an hour ago! Don't get all fussy!"

When you wrestled yourself out of bed, the two of you eventually made it to the kitchen, unintentionally in his worn, huge t-shirt that you had stolen when you transferred to his room to access a toothbrush. He wore a hoodie and shorts combo- something you definitely wouldn't see on him unless it was a great day.

Yelena was sat on the counter and Bob doing the dishes, both chatting and laying down banter. Until you walked in.

"Did a shark get to you while sleeping?" She commented, whether amused or concerned you couldn't tell.

"What?" You said sleepily, eyes dreary and still half closed.

Bob tripped over his own feet at the sight while putting a dish away, "Jesus!"

You finally realized when you looked down and saw the sea of bite marks. Some purple, some lightly faded already and some skimming yellowish tints.

"Shit" you muttered, hearing their snickers in the back "Hey- you guys! Shut it!"

"Guess you're not pent up anymore!" Jumping off the counter, she ran with a speed never seen before as you chased her around the living room, loudly yelling her name with fire in your eyes.

Bucky was around the corner, watching the situation unfold with a tiny smirk on his face. He hoped to add more love bites to the collection soon.

thank you for reading :) requests are open! || Marvel Masterlist

[deja-you]

return to sender - entry II

bucky barnes x reader

masterlist | previous | next

word count: 2.5k

summary: Europe, 1944. You're the only mechanic on base who can fix a transmission faster than a private can break one, and you've got the calloused hands and sharp tongue to prove it. You don't have time for distractions, especially the one with a cocky smile and the habit of leaving notes in your toolbox.

You threaten to drop a wrench on his boots. He says you'd look pretty doing it. Somewhere between the gunfire and the grease, you start hoping he survives long enough to annoy you tomorrow.

The motor shed is half light, half shadow. Golden beams of late afternoon sun slicing through a cracked windowpane, catching dust as it drifts lazily through the thick, oil-scented air. It smells of iron and exhaust and old rain soaked into wood. Somewhere between the rusting shelves of bolts and the clatter of tools, the war feels like a distant hum, barely louder than the engine growling in protest under your hands.

Your knuckles are scraped again. Third time this week. The bastard of a bike beneath you, a temperamental Harley that only listens when threatened, has thrown another fit.

You lean in, elbow-deep in the engine, sleeves rolled past your forearms, grease streaked across the ridge of your cheekbone like warpaint. The wrench in your grip groans as you twist it with practiced force. The radio, perched haphazardly on an overhead shelf, crackles between static and swing. 

You blow out a sharp breath through your nose and mutter to the machine like it’s capable of shame.

“Sure, take your time, sweetheart. It’s not like we’re in a war or anything.”

The engine sputters once. Twice. Then catches, purring low and steady like a smug tomcat.

You grin, triumphant, until a dull knock rattles your toolkit to the left of your boot. Something has shifted loose. You reach for a socket wrench—

And your fingers brush paper.

You still. Slowly pull the folded square free from the nest of metal.

It’s creased, smudged faintly with graphite. The edges are rough, the corners bent like it was folded in haste and hidden with care. You don’t have to open it to know who it’s from.

Barnes.

Of course it is.

With a sigh that borders on amused exasperation, you wipe your thumb on your trousers and peel the note open.

The handwriting is bold, looping, the kind of confidence born from too much charm and too few rejections. But it’s not the usual quip this time. Not a one-liner. No sarcastic jab.

This one’s longer. Slower. Earnest.

You frown and read it.

You ever think maybe the reason that bike runs smoother than the rest of us is because it’s lucky enough to have you touching it every day?

You blink.

Just a thought. Try not to blush, sweetheart. — Still yours. (Maybe. Hopefully. Eventually.)

Your lips twitch.

“Jesus, Barnes…” you murmur, rubbing the bridge of your nose.

It’s ridiculous.

You wipe your hands on a rag, streaks of dark grease disappearing into canvas, and slip the note into your back pocket like it’s nothing.

Like it means nothing.

And if your fingers linger a moment too long at the edge of the paper?

Well. That’s between you and the wrench.

Outside, someone calls for mess. Boots thunder in the dirt.

You stay where you are, alone with the engine and the hum of a static-laced swing tune and the faint echo of a soldier’s impossible hope folded in your back pocket.

—

The barracks were their own kind of chaos. Boots thudded against the wood-planked floor. Somewhere near the back, Ramirez was cussing out Callahan for misplacing the communal deck of cards. The air was thick with the usual blend of sweat, tobacco, and a faint whiff of motor oil that seemed to follow you no matter how many times you scrubbed your hands raw.

You’d barely settled on the corner of Ramirez’s cot, still dusted with dried flecks of grease from earlier, when Jenkins, the camp’s self-appointed jester, began rummaging loudly through his bunk’s footlocker.

“Where the hell is my lighter? I swear to God if Callahan nicked it again—”

“Check your brain before you start blaming people,” Ramirez shouted from across the room. “You probably left it in your damn boot again.”

You didn’t bother paying attention. You were too focused on unlacing your boots and plotting your next strategy for fixing the radio generator that had shorted out midday. Bucky’s voice had been suspiciously absent all afternoon, which was either a blessing or a trap you hadn’t sprung yet.

Then:

“Hey, hey, hey—what do we have here?”

You turned, ice settling into your stomach as Jenkins held up a familiar-looking piece of paper, crumpled gently at the edges, folded once, tucked precisely into the back pocket of the jacket you’d just tossed aside.

Jenkins squints at it for a second, holding it up for the rest of the barracks to see.

“What d’ya think this is? One of you write a love letter to one of the nurses?” Jenkins asks. 

He unfolds it and begins reading it to himself. When he’s finished reading it, his jaw hangs open a little bit, his wide eyes meeting yours, and a mischievous smile tugging at his lips. 

Your voice cracked like a whip.

“Don’t. You. Dare.”

Which, naturally, meant he absolutely would.

Jenkins, wide-eyed and grinning, held it high above his head like a stolen artifact.

“Aw, c’mon, it’s public property now! You left it in plain sight.”

He cleared his throat with the drama of a Broadway star preparing for curtain call.

“I present to you all: The Ballad of James Buchanan Barnes.”

You lunged, but Callahan caught your elbow with a hoot. “Easy, tiger, let him finish!”

Jenkins, voice dripping with mock seduction, began:

“You ever think maybe the reason that bike runs smoother than the rest of us is because it’s lucky enough to have you touching it every day?”

The room exploded.

Ramirez wheezed, “Touching it—!”

“Oh no,” someone gasped through a fit of laughter, “he did not—!”

Another shouted, “Man’s down bad!”

Steve, bless his heart, attempts to talk Jenkins down.

“Jenkins, maybe don’t–”

“No, go ahead,” you interrupt, “keep reading. Gotta make sure my aim’s good when I throw this wrench at your head.”

Jenkins was undeterred. He flipped the note to its closing line, pitching his voice even higher:

“Just a thought. Try not to blush, sweetheart. Still yours! (Maybe. Hopefully. Eventually.)”

The room became a war zone of laughter.

Your face went up in flames. You were already halfway to murder, and yet, somehow, you knew this wasn’t even the worst part.

“He signed it,” Ramirez shrieked. “Like a love letter.”

“‘Eventually?!’” Callahan howled.

You tore the note out of Jenkins’ hand, muttering something about burning this entire hellhole to the ground. Your ears were scarlet. Your hands shook.

“I hope you all choke on your rations tonight,” you snapped, shoving past them, note clenched in your fist.

That’s when the doorway creaked. And in he walked.

Leaning lazily against the frame, arms crossed, uniform sleeves rolled up to the elbows, Bucky Barnes looked like the picture of post-mission smugness. Dust clung to his boots. There was a smudge on his jaw. He surveyed the room like a man arriving fashionably late to his own funeral.

“What’d I miss?” he asked, though he was clearly enjoying the ruckus.

Steve, who’d been quietly watching from his bunk, raised an eyebrow. “You really gonna keep doing this?”

Bucky shrugged one shoulder. “She kept it, didn’t she?”

The room roared.

Your glare could’ve melted iron. You didn’t say a word. You stomped past him, shouldering the door open with a slam, the note still balled up tight in your fist.

Behind you, someone shouted, “Hey Barnes—eventually might come sooner than you think!”

Bucky just grinned.

—

The sun had long since dipped below the horizon, leaving the camp bathed in a dull amber glow cast by overhead floodlights and the occasional lantern swung from a nail. The air smelled of metal, tobacco, and the kind of fatigue that sinks deep into the bones.

You wiped your hands on a rag, knuckles aching, motor grease still streaked along the edge of your cheekbone like war paint. Another full day elbow-deep in busted axles and temperamental fuel lines, and now Jenkins was hollering from the makeshift table just outside the barracks.

“Come on, grease-girl, let’s see if you can win something other than Barnes’s heart.”

You scoffed but tossed the rag over your shoulder, muttering under your breath as you made your way to the circle of crates and overturned buckets they called chairs. 

“Pretty sure I already won your respect. But sure, let’s gamble for it anyway.”

They welcomed you like a local menace, half teasing, half terrified. You settled in between Ramirez and Steve, the latter already dealing cards with the mechanical precision of someone who’d never quite learned how to flirt.

A stack of cigarettes, two dented cans of warm beer, and a bar of ration chocolate formed the pot. You weren’t interested in any of it. But the company? The battlefield of bluff and bravado? That, you liked.

Callahan, the youngest of the bunch, leaned across the table with that gleam in his eye that said he’d mistaken your smirk for invitation.

“If you win,” he said, fanning his cards, “I’ll take you dancing. Real place. With music and candles. Maybe even champagne.”

You didn’t look up. Just slid a card across the wood with one finger and drawled, “If I win, I want your smokes and your blanket roll.”

Callahan grinned, those ridiculous dimples flashing. “Then I’ll lose on purpose.”

That earned a few whistles from the table. Jenkins elbowed Ramirez. Steve looked like he wanted to vanish.

You cracked a smile. 

And across the circle, seated on an upside-down crate with a bottle of flat beer and a hand of cards he hadn’t glanced at in ten minutes—Bucky Barnes watched.

—

The poker game might as well have been a dream. A distant, distorted one where everyone else moved in slow motion except for you.

You were laughing, that easy, unguarded laugh you didn’t let out often, just once in a while, when your guard dropped and the motor grease didn’t weigh you down. That laugh twisted in his chest like a knife.

Callahan leaned closer.

His hand brushed your forearm in that way that could be passed off as an accident, but wasn’t.

Bucky’s fist clenched around the neck of the beer bottle.

You catch his movements from the corner of your eye. You can feel the heat of Bucky’s gaze burning into the space where Callahan’s shoulder leans into yours. You don’t pull away.

You don’t smile either, not exactly, but you don’t scoff the way you usually did when he said something half as ridiculous. Maybe because Callahan was younger. Softer. Clean fingernails and no bite to his voice.

He stood. Abruptly.

The legs of the crate scraped against the packed dirt like a warning shot.

No one noticed but Steve, who raised his eyes for just a moment, caught the look on Bucky’s face, and said nothing.

Bucky didn’t speak. Didn’t throw his cards down or make a scene. Just turned on his heel and walked away, shoulders stiff beneath his uniform jacket.

The laughter still echoed behind him.

But your voice. He could pick it out even then. Clear as a bell. And he hated how it felt like it belonged to someone else.

—

The poker table quieted the second Bucky’s crate scraped back across the dirt. It was the kind of silence that wasn’t planned, just spilled out like water over cracked earth, heavy, surprised, uncertain.

You didn’t move. Didn’t even blink.

But you’d seen him. Watched him stand and walk away with all the subtlety of a gunshot. He hadn’t said a word, hadn’t looked at you, hadn’t looked at anyone. Just gone.

Someone muttered into the stillness, “Barnes losing his edge?”

You swept your winnings into your palm: the cigarettes, the chocolate, the folded ration wrappers like trophies. You stood, slow and deliberate.

Didn’t explain. Didn’t excuse.

Just left.

Your boots crunched gravel as you crossed the yard, that battered tin of moonlight turning everything into pale metal. The air smelled of war and woodsmoke and something electric you didn’t want to name.

You found him in the motor shed.

Of course you did.

The bulb overhead swayed with the breeze from the cracked window. It cast long shadows across the room, stretching over tool benches, grease-slicked rags, and the figure hunched over a crate pretending to fix something that didn’t need fixing at all.

You leaned against the doorframe. Arms crossed. Voice dry as ever.

“If you’re going to brood in here, at least pretend to fix something that’s actually broken.”

He didn’t turn around. Didn’t flinch. Just kept pretending to twist a bolt that didn’t need twisting.

“Didn’t know you were keeping tabs on me, doll.”

You shrug. “Only so I can tell the medics where to send the smelling salts.”

He snorts.

“Cute.”

You both fall into silence for a moment, Bucky finally putting the bolt down. 

“Didn’t know you liked pouting.” 

You can’t help but try to irritate him.

“Didn’t know you liked soft-handed boys.”

You pushed off the frame with a roll of your shoulder. Stepped inside. The shed creaked around you, or maybe it was just the tension snapping tighter.

“Didn’t know you noticed.”

That made him pause.

Bucky looked up. Slow, deliberate, like it cost him something.

And there it was again: that look. The one that made your lungs fold in on themselves. Like he was seeing you and memorizing you in the same breath.

“Always do.”

The words weren’t flirtatious this time. Not exactly. They carried weight. Like maybe he was tired of pretending this was just a game.

The air went still. Grease and iron and moonlight. You could’ve sworn the entire damn camp stopped breathing with you.

He turned back to the bolt, fiddled with it pointlessly.

You needed to say something, anything to knock the moment off balance.

“You’re gonna pull a muscle glaring that hard.”

Bucky’s mouth curved. Just a little.

“Yeah? You’d patch me up?”

You snorted.

“I’d make sure it hurt worse.”

And he laughed. Just once. Low, under his breath. Like the sound had been dragged up from somewhere buried.

You hated how that laugh made your ribs ache.

Neither of you moved.

You stayed a few more seconds, long enough for it to almost feel like too much. Then you turned.

Didn’t say goodbye. Didn’t slam the door.

But the way your boots hit the dirt on your way out said plenty.

—

After the door creaked closed behind you, Bucky stayed where he was.

He stared at the bolt he’d been turning and thought about how his hands hadn’t stopped shaking until you walked in.

Without a word, he walked over to your wrench set, tucked beneath the bench, right where you always kept it.

He set the note on top.

Didn’t weigh it down. Didn’t second-guess it. Just left it there. Waiting. And walked out into the night.

Doll,

If I was glaring, it’s only ‘cause he plays cards like a blind squirrel and flirts worse.

But hey — if you're into soft hands and bad poker, I’ll start moisturizing and throwing games. Just say the word.

Still yours.

(Maybe. Eventually. Probably.)

—B

[54nboo]

‘incoming.’ bucky barnes.

summary: after two years of you talking into his ear, bucky meets the face behind the voice on the comms after a tricky mission.

pairing: tfatws!bucky barnes x fem!reader

insp by: an instagram reel from an art account that drew bucky on the phone with someone screaming at him…….. guys trust me my brain was thinking big things… also inspired by the goat penelope garcia!!!!!

word count: 10.1k… wowza… read at your own risk

content warnings: usual description of violence (blood and punching and stuff), being trapped under rubble, swearing, mentions of dying death and murder, very slightly suggestive content, explosions, guns and shooting

a/n: my first bucky fic!!!! for @opheliabbarnes since you got me hooked into bucky with all of your bucky propaganda and also becuade you cheated in my poll and used your bucky powers to make me write this. also guys for the sake of the book just imagine that bucky is working with sam and doesn’t divorce him

part one | part two | part three (wip)

"comms are live. hello, can you hear me?"

a pause.

there's a static crackling that rings through your headset before bucky's voice comes in, low and gruff, "yeah, unfortunately."

"good morning to you too, barnes." you smirk as you lean back in your chair, the screens in front of you flickering to life one-by-one. "it's nice to hear that your sunshine and optimism lived to see another day."

"play nice, you two." sam warns, "we haven't even gotten inside."

"i am playing nice." you retort, "that was me being sweet."

"define sweet..." bucky grumbles. you're not sure whether he's forgotten you can hear everything he's saying or if he's doing it just to spite you— but you let it slide.

you glance over to a screen where you can see joaquin's boots— and only his boots— thanks to his poorly angled body cam. it's shaking like he's struggling with something.

"joaquin, you there? i think your mic's off."

"yeah, he's here. he just can't figure out his ear piece." sam sighs. you watch him step into joaquin's screen and grab something from his hands, "you just have to click the button, man. it's not that hard—"

there's an awful screeching noise that pulses through your headset. it sounds like someone had just murdered a sentient robot and then fed its screams through a megaphone.

you pull it off in a hurry, waiting until it goes silent, and then place it back onto your headset with a huff. "everybody just... stop touching things."

another screen immediately catches your eye. blotches of red and orange pop out amongst a deep blue background— heat signatures patrolling the perimeter of the building that sam, bucky, and joaquin are in. you watch as a handful of them enter the warehouse.

"we've got movement." you still up in your chair, zooming in as the thermal overlay focuses, "there's about four patrolling the west perimeter. there's five— no— seven of them have just entered through the east side of the first floor."

sam peaks around the corner, but he can't see much unless he wants to compromise their position. he pulls back, "super soldiers?"

"i can't tell. they move like it, but nothing’s confirmed." you narrow your eyes. your eyes flicker to a smaller screen and a controller that sits beside it, "i'm sending scout. incoming!"

from somewhere in the sky, a grey blur cuts across the roof of the warehouse. bucky rolls his eyes as he watches it zoom past.

on your screen, scout's POV snaps into focus— clear, high-res, infrared, and absolutely glorious. it’s practically your child. you guide the bot with a simple flick of your wrist.

a small drone no bigger than a tennis ball and stamped with a white 'S' on its side zips through the air like a wasp on a mission. it's virtually silent, zipping low as it peaks around the corner of the east wall.

"okay, they aren't armed, but—" you pause as you rotate scout, "wait, there's a truck pulling up on the east loading dock."

sam furrows his brows. they didn't plan for anything other than a simple surveillance and a couple catch and arrests. "can you see what's inside?"

you turn to another screen— a thermal drone that's zoomed into the truck. "one driver and one passenger. there's a few crates in the back, but i can't see what's in them. they must have some sort of cooling system because they're freezing."

joaquin glances between sam and bucky, "that has to be the serum, right?"

"this must be one of the meeting points for their buyers." sam says, "they're gonna be here any second."

"don't worry. i've got eyes on them." you cut in, fingers flicking across your keyboard as another feed pops up, "i'm guessing it's the four black range rovers approaching from the south along franklin street."

there's a pause, then bucky asks, "what's our game plan?"

he's not looking at sam or joaquin. he hasn't moved a muscle. his voice is low and steady, his eyes fixed straight ahead— like he's waiting for your voice to tell him what to do next.

and you don't hesitate.

"we need to seperate them from the buyers. if this is an exchange, they're going to have bodyguards. we can't have thirty armed criminals in one warehouse. can you handle that, torres?"

joaquin nods, "loud and clear."

without another word, he takes a running step off of the warehouse's broken wall. his wings snap out from his jet pack with a hiss, catching the wind as he flies south along franklin street. you watch his tracker blip across another screen, already zeroing in on the buyers.

"and you two have to take these guys out." you continue, focus turned on sam and bucky, "there's five on the perimeter, all armed. there's two that have just wandered off towards you guys. pick them off."

sam's voice crackles in, "i'll take the guys with the guns."

there's a pause—

"we can take the guys with the guns." he corrects himself a moment later— probably after a look from bucky.

"they're unloading the crates now. the truck is electric, so i think can stall it long enough for you guys to get close— maybe cut off their exit entirely. we still don't know if they're enhanced, so be careful and don't be stupid."

you watch sam's body cam as bucky turns to him, his voice flat through the comms, "yeah, sam."

sam scoffs and waved him off as he readjusts his shield, "i think she means you, man."

"i was just throwing it out there." you roll your eyes, fingers flying across your keyboard as you send joaquin backup, "torres has already contained the buyers, so you're up— go."

bucky's already moving before you can even finish your sentence, heavy boots almost silent against the concrete floor. sam vaults the barrier to his left, moving fast and low.

sam closes in. a pacing guard turns just a moment too late— sam drives his fist into the side of his face. he drives into another guard, sending him tumbling into a wall with a dull thud. another one spins around with a gasp. he fumbles for his weapon—

crack.

a metal fist drops him before he can even point it. bucky steps over the guy, barely slowing his pace or breaking a sweat. but then another guard rounds the corner— one who doesn't fumble with his gun— and shoots.

you look over to another screen. the thermal camera shows more figures closing in on sam and bucky, clearly on high alert. the tension in their movements show that they're panicked. the four crates that had been unloaded were now being covered back up.

"you've got six of them heading your way, and fast." you scramble. the truck's screen is visible on your screen, but your software is still trying to figure out the password, "they're unarmed, but be careful."

sam's wing fans out in a practiced motion and shields them both from the bullets. the shots ping right off of the reinforced metal. his wing retreats, and the guard looks terrified. he tries to reload the gun, but he's struggling.

sam's voice comes through, dry but amused, "i guess we're past the stealth phase."

"i didnt like that phase anyways." bucky grunts as he shoves the guard against a wall. he makes a point by grabbing his gun and snapping it in half like a twig, tossing it out reach. he knocks the guy out with one swift punch to the jaw.

they're doing good— clearing the path with ease and making sure to be vigilant— but then they walk into the main area of the warehouse. it's wide open and humming with the sound of the truck and trailers shoving the crates back into the back, and there's at least a handful of masked figures standing there.

the six figures you had seen nearing sam and bucky are already stepping into the light of the warehouses main floor— calm, coordinated, and slightly intimidating.

each one is broad-shouldered and looks battle-worn. their body temperatures come up significantly warmer than both sam and bucky's, and you can tell something is wrong.

"you think they've taken the serum?" bucky shifts his stance, fists already clenched.

you watch as one of the men lurches forwards— blindingly fast— and throws sam across the room, far too fast for sam to catch himself. he hits a pillar, sliding down it with a groan.

"shit." you inhale.

"i think so!" sam yells, voice strained.

the rest of them charge. bucky's the first to meet them head-on. he lands a solid punch to one of their jaws— and it should've dropped him— but the guy just snarls, barely flinching, and drives his knee into bucky's stomach.

sam's back up, his shield snapping into place just quick enough to block a hit. he's fighting hard and moving fast, wings flicking around for balance and defence, but for every hit he dodges, there's another one right after.

you're watching the fight from a drone overhead like a game you can't control. youre working on trying to stall the truck, but it's difficult when youre also watching your friends get their asses beat.

sam takes out one guy with a swing of his wing and a nasty uppercut, but two more corner him. bucky slams a guy through a metal beam— literally through it— but it only buys him a second before another super soldier grabs him by his jacket and tosses him across the room, back slamming into a shelving unit.

then— like a miracle— a screen on your right starts beeping. a red dot farts across the radar, closing in on the warehouse. you spin in your chair to check the corresponding feed just as a figure cuts through the sky.

you grin, "torres incoming!"

not even a second later, joaquin bursts through one of the warehouse windows, wings flaring wide. his visor glints as he absolutely bodies two super soldiers like bowling pins just as one of them winds up to hit bucky again.

he lands with a thud, wings retracting quickly as he jogs up to sam. bucky is close behind, but he's still fighting off two super soldiers.

"about damn time." sam huffs.

bucky wipes the blood leaking from his nose, taking a moment to catch his breath, "what the hell took you so long?"

"traffic." he grins and holds his hand out for sam, who's literally holding on by a thread, trying to prop himself up with his shield, "was getting your asses kicked a part of the plan?"

sam groans as joaquin pulls him up, "don't push it, joaquin."

you're still watching the fight through various monitors. the comms are full of grunts and sharp breathes, but now that joaquin's there, they're struggling a little less.

and then there's a beep— a small, sad beep— and a window that says 'OVERRIDE FAILED' in big red letters. you freeze.

"they've locked me out of the truck's system. they're overriding my remote access." you scramble to restart the process, but it doesn't let you.

you glance at another screen. the camera feed confirms your worst fear— they're escaping. one of the super soldiers is climbing into the driver's seat, the rear doors slamming shut as the engine hums to life.

"they're taking off—" you panic as you watch the truck pull out of the warehouse driveway, "shit, someone stop that truck!"

before anyone can respond, bucky takes off in a full sprint— no hesitation, no plan, and clearly no intention of letting that truck get away or waiting for anyone. his boots pound against the asphalt as he trails it.

"barnes—" you call through the comms, stressed out of your mind.

you hadn't expected him to chase after it. he was the only one without wings or a jet pack, yet you watched him run after that truck like he was chasing all he's ever wanted. the panic in your voice doesn't help. if anything, it only pushes bucky harder.

he barrels out onto the street, only a few metres from the truck. you send a drone up ahead, the camera feed glitching as it races to keep up. you're trying to calculate every route the truck could take to evade capture— until your eyes land on a large clearing.

there's a river glittering under the sun, splitting the city in half. a large drawbridge stretches over it, connecting the two sides of land. just next to it, there's an enormous cargo ship waiting to cross— and your heart stops when you notice the bridge is already at a 70 degree angle.

"they're gonna jump the bridge, barnes." you quickly warn, "if they make it across before the split—"

"they're gone." he finishes, breathless but ready. you can hear his sharp breathes through your headset, "i'm not letting it get away. 'gonna jump it."

"fall back, barnes, you're not going to make it." you bark through the comms, trying to keep your voice steady. you watch as he speeds up, running faster than you've ever seen him run.

"you better listen to the lady, bucky." sam adds, wings slicing through the air as he tries to catch up.

you watch as the truck barrels forwards, climbing up the incline of the rising drawbridge like it's easy work. bucky's close— too close to stop. he digs his feet into the ground harder as he launches himself up the incline.

you can see it all through a drone— the truck about to leap, bucky on its tail, the bridge yawning wide open underneath them, and the water far below shining like teeth. the cargo ship blares its horn as it draws closer to the bridge, wary of what's happening.

it happens too fast—

the truck leaps across the gap. its front wheels leave the ground for just a split second before the back wheels follow, and then its airborne. behind it, bucky jumps too.

you're on your feet now, eyes locked onto the drone feed. your hands are braced on either side of the desk and your knuckles have gone bone-white. you're not breathing or thinking. you're not even sure if your heart is beating.

for a moment, he's airborne. then just as quickly, he's falling straight through the gap and into open air. the wind catches in his jacket, gravity yanking him down towards the water and the cargo ship below.

just before he hits the ship deck, a blur of red, white, and blue zips past— sam.

his wings flare as he dives, hooking one arm around bucky with precision, the two of them twisting mid-air as the momentum nearly sends them spiralling. they hover under the bridge for a moment before sam takes off towards solid ground.

you collapse in your chair and yank the joystick for scout, who zooms towards bucky and sam. its camera focuses, cutting through the haze of the sun to check on them.

"jesus christ, buck, are you okay?" you panic into your mic, already trying to see if he needs medical attention.

"i've caught the princess, he's safe." sam replies, smug as ever.

you lean in closer to the screen as scout zips around him, "are you injured? you might need to take your vest off so i can assess it and let medical know."

"take me to dinner first." he doesn't look thrilled about the rescue. he brushes off his jacket with a clenched jaw, then narrows in on scout, who's circling him. he flings his hand at it like a fly, "and get that stupid drone out of my face. it's ugly."

"rude." you frown, "he just risked his tiny propellor life to check up on you."

"yeah?" bucky asks flatly.

you narrow your eyes, "yeah."

bucky gives scout a fake smile and says an insincere 'thanks buddy'. then— without hesitation— bucky grabs scout mid-hover. you barely have time to shout at him before he launches scout straight up into the sky, spinning wildly and almost vanishing.

the feed spins out of control as the stabilisers struggle to compensate with the speed it'd been hurled at.

sam clicks his tongue and shakes his head, "ooooh, she's gonna kill you."

bucky shrugs, utterly unfazed, but there's a shadow of a smile sitting on his lips, "i didn't like the way it was looking at me."

"you better pray he still works when you get back or else i'll murder you in your sleep." there's a lowness in your voice that should be intimidating, but bucky doesn't falter.

"i'd like to see you try." he retorts, his tone bordering amused.

"you've never seen me." you reply matter-of-factly, "you wouldn't even see me coming.”

"oh, trust me, the moment i hear nasally breathing, i'd know exactly who was about about to beat my ass."

"that sounded like a compliment, barnes." you roll your eyes, ignoring the insult and simply smirk, putting on your best mock-sultry tone, "are you complimenting me?"

"don't flatter yourself. i've just taken too many hits to the head."

he hears you scoff, and it makes his grin widen. he can almost imagine you in your little computer room at the base, sitting in front of your set-up with an unimpressed look on your face, or even pacing back and forth muttering about how annoying he is.

it's weird how he knows so much about you, but still can't really picture what you look like. he's tried, but it's mostly just a blur— almost like a familiar face from a dream.

sam stops walking and turns to bucky with his hands on his hands, "are you guys done flirting or do you want me to circle back in a couple of hours?"

"you should've just let him fall into the river, sam." you grumble through the comms.

"hey guys?" joaquin's voice comes in clear and troubled.

sam pauses, his eyebrow furrowing, "what's up, torres?"

"you might wanna come and check this out."

it's later in the day. the team had gathered back at the base to debrief, worn out and trying to gather themselves after the failed mission.

sam is slouched on a chair, eyeing the information on the screen to figure out what went wrong, bucky's leaning against the wall with a towel around his neck and a band-aid above his brow, and joaquin's icing his shoulder and holding up his phone, where your voice comes through the speaker.

"so youre telling me that they just abandoned two entire crates full of super soldier serum and then just dipped?" you spoke— sharp and unmistakably done with everything.

"uhhhhhhhh... yeah." joaquin blinks, then tilts his head in confusion, "i thought you were already caught up with this?"

"do i sound caught up, joaquin?" you roll your eyes and take a deep breath, "it just doesn't make any sense. they went through all that effort to keep up busy, only to leave the serum behind like its nothing?"

"you think it was a decoy?" joaquin asks.

"i don't know." you half-shrug, "they've barely touched it, and i just got a message that they want me to check it out before they log it and send it into evidence."

sam straightens in his chair, "you want backup?"

"it's sitting in the middle of an air-force base, sam. if someone pops out, they've got bigger things to worry about than me— like the twenty armed guards surrounding it or the drone that's been circling it for the past hour."

"you're actually leaving your cave?" bucky jokes.

"yeah, barnes, i am." you deadpan, hand already on your 'caves' door handle, "since you threw scout into orbit, i'll have to use my eyes like a normal person. he's fine, by the way. just a bit of whiplash."

sam huffs out a laugh, but his shoulders are still visibly tense, "hey, just be careful, okay?"

"always. i'll call back in ten." you say, more to yourself than anyone else, then hang up.

the room is silent for a few seconds. the low him from computer monitors fills the space, punctuated by the slow ticking of a clock nearby.

joaquin sighs, then mutters, "can't believe they left the crates behind." he shifts the ice pack on his shoulder, "feels... off."

sam leans back in his chair with a tired sigh, "if anyone's gonna spot something we missed, it's her."

then another moment of silence stretches through the team. outside the window, the airfield lights burn against the dusk. the base is usually quiet at this time of day.

bucky stares out of the window. then he asks, "is she always like that when she's out in the field?" he doesn't clarify what he means by that, but the others seem to understand what he means.

"what, annoyingly confident?" sam lets a small smile wander onto his face as he thinks about you, "she's about ten times worse when she's not behind those screens. but it's good. she doesn't miss much. and when she's got a gut feeling..."

sam doesn't finish his sentence. he doesn't need to.

"you should see her during intel briefings." joaquin adds with a goofy grin, "she'll shred a guy's whole thesis with like... three words. it's brutal."

"and that weird 'incoming' thing she does?" bucky frowns, like he's genuinely confused, "what is that?"

joaquin laughs under his breath, "she's been doing that since we were recruited. it's like... her thing."

bucky's quiet for a moment. his eyes glance at joaquin's phone where your voice had just crackled through not even a minute ago. it sat idly on the table. there's a weird feeling in his chest— almost embarrassment. he'd known you for two years and was only just now asking questions.

"is she tall?" bucky blurts out.

joaquin blinks, caught off guard, "what?"

there's another beat of silence. sam turns his head away slowly from the monitor, clearly unimpressed, and gestures vaguely to bucky. he deadpans, "he's never seen her."

"seriously?" joaquin raises his brows, "you've been working with her for two years, and you've never ever seen her face?"

bucky runs his tongue against the inside of his cheek. he wants to just get over the subject, but he's brought it onto himself. he shrugs like it's nothing as he pulls the towel from around his neck, but the pink tips of his ears say the opposite.

"she's always behind a screen or..." bucky runs his hand over his face, exhaling like he already regrets having this conversation, "or on encrypted phone calls, or in a control room in some random part of this place. she's not exactly the easiest person to bump into."

"you've never looked her up? never seen a photo?" joaquin still looks utterly amused, inching ever so slightly across the table, "you haven't even stalked her, just a little bit?"

bucky looks at him like he's spewed gibberish, "no."

"she was standing right next to you last week." joaquin exclaims incredulously, "at the debrief? she was standing next to you with her arms crossed? we could go check out to the crates right now. she'd be there."

bucky furrows his brows, completely silent.

sam leans back with a knowing smirk, "trust me, if he'd seen her, he'd remember her."

"what's that supposed to mean?" bucky frowns, unsure if he should be offended or if he actually has a point to make.

"it means she's memorable, man." sam says like it's the most obvious thing in the world, "voice like that? brain like that? you think the looks don't match? she’d have you thinking about her 24/7.”

joaquin raises his brows in agreement, "he's got a point."

bucky doesn't respond, and his silence says more than any smartass comeback ever could. he's just sitting there, absentmindedly playing with the towel in his hands and staring at nothing in particular, his gaze far off— maybe trying to picture you again. maybe trying to figure out if he should go out and see you— but it feels wrong.

sam watches him for barely a second and has already read him like a book. he rolls his eyes and leans forwards with intent, like he's seen this before. and he has. "don't go getting all obsessed, buck."

that snaps bucky out of his head. he scoffs, "i'm not—"

"she called you buck and you didn't say anything about it."

joaquin watches the exchange like its an intense tennis match.

"i've known you for, like... ten years. i called you buck last year and you didn't like it." sam points out, gesturing emphatically, "and you just asked if she was tall like you were filling out your dating profile preferences."

"it was a question." bucky defends.

"a weird question." sam retorts.

"oh, give me a break." bucky clenches his jaw, "you're telling me that if you there was a voice in your ear 24/7 for two years, you wouldn't be going insane?"

and he meant insane. you were everywhere. in his ear during missions, on his phone when you need to let him know important intel at ungodly hours, in briefing folders where half of the intel had come straight from you, and even in conversations he overhears whenever he walks through the base.

you— the genius air-force captain who works directly for the new captain america.

no one really knew how you ended up running tactical for sam, but no one had questioned it either. you were just good. scary good. the kind of smart that made people shut up and listen, and the kind of precise that made bucky trust your voice more than his own gut.

bucky had fought his entire life— in wars, for and against hydra, stared down gods and aliens and wizards— but somehow, it was you, the staticky voice in his ear, that kept him on edge.

how can someone be everywhere, but nowhere to be seen?

but then there's a loud bang— loud enough to jolt sam and joaquin out of their chairs. its sharp and feels wrong in their guts, the kind of sound that doesn't belong in a secure military base.

"what the hell was that?" sam shouts.

an alarm starts blaring in the main sector of the air base— where you are.

the three of them were already sprinting down the hallway before they had even registered that they'd moved. the smell of smoke hits their noses before they even make it out of the doors— acrid, bitter, and smelling off chemicals.

outside, the air is thick of it. it sticks low to the ground, a handful of military personnel already corralling debris and shouting orders at each other amongst the wreckage. something had definitely exploded.

"jesus—" sam mutters with his mouth shielding his face from the smoke, "isn't that where the crates were?"

bucky's jaw tightens. there's a crunch under his boot, and when he lifts it, a tiny vial with blue liquid stares back at him. his eyes sweep through the smoke, but he's not sure he could even recognise you. a figure in fatigues passes by and bucky's wastes no time in stomping towards them.

"hey—" he calls, voice rough with urgency. your name slips from his mouth, "was she here? was she hurt?"

the figure turns and points to the other side of the base, "they took her to medical." they quickly reply.

joaquin wastes no time and bolts in your direction, not bothering to ask any questions or where you are— he'd find you.

sam is already stepping over the debris to try to figure out what had happened. when they'd transported it back to the base, there had been no signs that anything was wrong. and now, after hours of silence, one had detonated after you had checked on it.

"she said she felt something was off." sam stiffens, "and she was right."

bucky rounds the edge of the blast zone, his eyes scanning the ground. bits of scorched wood and metal are strewn everywhere with dark smoke still curling upwards like it's taunting them. his boot kicks something small and metallic, half buried in the dust.

"sam." he calls, crouching down.

sam looks over. his eyes narrow as bucky reaches for a small warped disc. it's blackened, but not completely unrecognisable— a thin casing, circuit etching, and what looks like melted adhesive around the edges.

"they were never gonna come back for it." bucky turns over the deflated bomb, "wanted to cause serious damage to whoever took it."

"yeah, and it worked. they've put our man in the chair in hospital."

bucky rips off a flailing piece of plastic from the bomb. underneath, there's writing writing in minuscule block letters and unintelligible to him at first glance. its not english or in any language he recognises.

he squints, turning it slightly, "you seeing this?"

sam leans over and brushes soot off of the surface, "some kind of... manufacturing tag?"

"could be a location." bucky matters, pointing at a short line of text half-buried under the sticky residue, "this part here looks like latitude and longitude."

sam exchanges a stumped look with bucky, "so what, they booby-trap the crates, nearly kill our comms specialist, and then give us a return address?"

"looks like it."

they both fall silent. there's still a hum of chaos and confusion in the air with military personnel running back and forth to figure out what's happening, and joaquin's still in medical trying to find you. sam's jaw ticks.

"you thinking what i'm thinking?" he asks.

bucky nods once, "yeah. time to pay 'em a visit."

the moon hangs heavy over the towering complex. the building hangs on the edge of a tree line, swallowed by both nature and time. what used to be a lavish apartment complex in the 70s was now home to spiders, rats, and bird nests, the crumbling skeleton of concrete and steel forgotten, but not untouched.

joaquin frowns, craning his neck just to look up at the building, "you guys sure this is the place?"

before he can even finish his sentence, a slow gust of wind passes through. it whistles through the exposed windows and cracked walls, groaning like its alive. the metal structure groans under its own weight and it sways.

"that cannot be good." sam audibly winces.

they shake it off, moving without speaking. joaquin checks his wings and weapons, bucky is staring up at the windows like he's trying to see something through them, and sam is trying to get redwing to scout the area— a poor substitute for the tech they had gotten used to.

there's a silence surrounding them that crawls under their skin. no crackling in their ear pieces, no humming from drones zipping around in the air, and certainly no voice in their ears telling them what to do next. all that accompanies them is the sound of wind and the thud of concrete as chunks occasionally fall from the building.

then joaquin exhales through his nose and shifts uncomfortably like your lack of presence is physically effecting him, "yeah, this feels weird."

"right?" sam lets out a relieved laugh like he's been thinking the same exact thing, "it's almost too quiet. i dont know what to do with myself without someone yappin' in my ear."

he glances sideways at bucky, who looks like he's thinking the same, but is keeping his mouth shut about it. "you miss her too, don't you, buck?"

bucky pauses like he's about to say something witty that'll get sam off of his back, but he lets out a small breath in amusement and nods once instead, "yeah. i guess i got used to her bossing us around all day."

then, as if summoned by pure magic, there's a crackle that hits all three of their ear pieces.

"you guys can't get rid of me that easily." your voice slips in, smug and unhurried— like you'd been listening the whole time and were just waiting for the perfect moment to turn your mic on.

sam jumps so high that he nearly flies redwing straight into a power line, "jesus christ—"

bucky's head snaps straight up. his hand flies to his ear piece like he can't believe that your voice is actually there. "what the hell are you doing on comms?" he asks sharply, but he can't hide the hint of relief he feels.

"it's nice to hear you too, barnes." your roll your eyes, amused.

"they cleared her." joaquin laughs, answering the question before they could ask.

"yup." you nod and gesture to your face as if they can see you, "i'm a little burnt and they had to remove a piece of metal from my cheek, but other than that, i'm fit as a fiddle."

your monitor flickers to life. in one of them, you can see the tips of bucky's fingers pressing against the lens of the small camera he usually wears on missions.

"what are you doing, barnes?" you deadpan as you watch one of your screen flip back and forth.

"i'm trying to put—" bucky sighs as he tries to jam the camera into a small hole in his vest, but it twists and turns and wont stick. "this camera's broken."

"it isn't broken. you're just putting it in upside down."

"... didnt the nurse tell you to stop talking?" bucky grumbles as he messes with the small camera. he flips it around and scoffs when it sticks on with ease, "y'know, to preserve your vocal chords and prevent any more damage or whatever?"

"a bomb exploded in my face, barnes, not in my throat." you roll your eyes, "and look— it's in now. see what listening to me does?"

"i thought i was... zooming in."

joaquin snorts, "dude's out here trying to fight super soldiers with the tech literacy of a toaster."

"i've killed people with a toaster—"

"love the attitude today, guys. very inspiring." sam grumbles. redwing flies back into their radius and clicks back into sam's pack, "now that you're here, you mind checking out the perimeter?

"whatever. scout is in—"

"incoming." the three of them chime in unison, perfectly timed and perfectly familiar. there's a silence before you laugh.

"wow, you guys." you sigh with dramatic flair, a mix of both sarcasm and genuine amusement, "i've babied you guys for so long that you're finally taking after me. wanna call me mama next?"

you can hear joaquin snicker loud and clear through the mic, and you watch through sam's body cam as bucky scoffs, rolling his eyes like he's annoyed with your antics.

sam gives the camera a flat look, knowing that you were probably laughing at their faces, "this is what happens when they let her out of medical early."

scout zips into the scene, a quiet mechanical sound whirring past the team. it flies high up into the abandoned apartment complex, small enough to squeeze into the cracks of broken windows and rusted beams like a bird, scanning the surroundings and mapping them out on sam's tablet.

"scout's in." you announce, weaving scout through dusty cloth and abandoned furniture.

from outside, the guys glance up, watching as scout disappears for a moment before darting back inside.

"i'll never get used to how fast that thing moves." sam mutters as he watches scout zip through the top floor.

"he's faster than redwing." you simply reply, but sam doesn't miss the slight edge of challenge in your voice.

"excuse me?" he scoffs, glancing at bucky's body cam like it's you and you're actually there, "trust me— if your tiny little tennis ball goes down, you're gonna be begging to use redwing."

"i'm not touching your freaky little robot bird. i have standards."

"hey, i met your ex. don't you talk to me about standards—"

there's a sharp bark of laughter from joaquin, but bucky cuts in before you and sam's banter can escalate. "can we focus?"

you roll your eyes, but narrow in on scout's POV.

"something moved on the fifth floor. it could've been the wind and some tarps, but it could've also been— woah."

that gets their attention.

"what is it?" bucky asks, immediately alert.

you zoom in slowly. "there's... something big in here. looks like machinery— lots of it. the whole setup looks old, but it doesn't look abandoned."

"what kind of machinery?" sam asks.

"hang on." scout scoots a little closer, and your eyes widen. "it's a production lab— specialised injectors, gene sequencers, stabilisers— i think this is where they were were making the serum."

joaquin narrowed his eyes in confusion, "they used this place as a super soldier factory?"

you shook your head, "no, not anymore. looks like it's been stripped clean, but the setup's still here. they didn't even bother hiding what it was and just left it to... rot. scout's picking up residual heat signatures, so whoever was here cleared out recently— maybe a few hours ago, maybe less. it should be safe."

“should be." sam mutters under his breath, but he's already pulling his shield to his chest and heading towards the door, "never feels comforting when you say that."

the team fans out as they enter the apartment building— or what's left of it.

sam sticks to the lower floors, descending down stairs leading to a basement. the flashlight on his vest isn't bright enough to cut through the vastness of it.

bucky decides to check out the machinery to see if they left anything of importance behind. he mutters something about it smelling like a meth lab as he heads upstairs.

joaquin jets to the rooftop. he wants elevation, to see the layout of the place and the potential leads that could find the group behind this— but he also wants to avoid being on the ground floor if the building decides to give way.

"scout's overhead if you need backup. keep your comms clear and open. let me know if you find anything." you tell them before turning your microphone off.

"wouldn't dream of ignoring you." joaquin teases.

and then you're alone in the silence of your command room. you lean closer to your monitors, hands intertwined against your mouth as you watch your boys disappear one by one into the dingy bowels of the apartment complex.

it's dark, and even with scout's night vision, you can barely see ahead. the hallways look more like underground tunnels, and you can only imagine how cramped it must feel. the camera stutters with static as scout floats ahead, probably from the lack of service. you're almost afraid you might lose contact with them.

scout rounds a corner. you dont necessarily know where you've guided him— it's too dark to see— but you know you're somewhere down below. you're half-focused, watching bucky's body cam and keeping tabs on joaquin's feed— until something jolts scout off course.

the small drone clips the corner of a wall and bumps into sam's shoulder, startling him.

"what the hell?" he whips around, staring down at scout like he'd just punched sam in the face, "don't sneak up on me like that."

you click your mic on with an apologetic smile, "sorry. wasn't looking where i was going."

sam rolls his eyes and turns back to the basement. it's almost a labyrinth with how many empty boxes and crates are stuffed down there, and it smells of mold and rot. sam scans the room, and you do too. there's an old supply crate shoved into the corner of a hallway, covered by a measly and moth-eaten tarp.

"hang on..." sam mutters as he nears it.

"sam, wait, don't touch it—" you warn, but it's too late. sam nudges the tarp aside, and what's underneath sends your stomach plummeting.

"it's a bomb." you breathe, "get out, sam, now—"

"sh—"

the comms explode with static— not just sam's, but bucky's and joaquin's too. there's a high pitched ringing noise piercing through your headset and sam's screen goes white, then black.

your hands fly to your keyboard, pulling up scout's emergency override system. he's still functional— wobbly and a bit glitchy, but functional— and through his lens, you see smoke and chunks of plaster. there's a section of collapsed ceiling sitting beside scout's whirring body.

before the smoke even clears, another explosion rings out— louder and closer, and then there's another. for a split second, all you can see is light, your screens showering you in a horrible, horrible feeling of dread. for a second, you think you've lost all of them.

"sam!" you yell, "sam, can you hear me? sam?"

there's movement— and then there's a groan.

"still alive." he coughs through the dust, his voice strained, "think i caught the edge of it. damn shield saved me."

"okay. you're okay—" you let out a horribly shaky breath, "just... hold still. i still need to— joaquin? bucky? someone, come in."

there's nothing but static, and then one of your screens flashes back to life. it's joaquin's, who's outside and on flat ground.

"i'm fine— jesus, i barely made it out of there." joaquin pants, doubled-over with his hands on his knees, "the roof's collapsed. i managed to fly out just before it gave out."

you close your eyes for a split second, relief washing over you— but then it's gone just as fast as it came. you whip your head towards the last monitor, the screen still static and your heart clawing in your throat.

"what the hell happened?" sam grunts as he pushes a chunk of concrete off of his chest.

"i don't know, man." joaquin replies, still catching his breath, "i was heading down and there was a POP, and then the whole building blew up like a chain reaction."

"it was a chain reaction. they must've known we were coming." your voice is low, urgent, "one in the basement near sam, one on the roof, and—" you pause as you glance at bucky's feed, "one near the lab."

sam presses his hand to his ear, trying to filter out the crumbling concrete from the static in this ear piece, "bucky, do you copy?"

"barnes?" you call again, leaning over your console like it'll bring you any closer to him, "barnes, can you hear me?"

"come on, buck, say something." sam mutters, pacing through the wreckage, "try bouncing the signal again."

"i am." you snap, more out of fear than anger, "i've already rerouted twice. there's just— there's nothing." then, more quietly you add, "he was right by the lab. that blast radius—" you swallow hard.

"i'm going after him." sam says immediately, already pushing his way out of his entrapment.

"no— no, wait, sam. the buildings not stable. i have to run a structural integrity scan before you can move." you pause, frantically typing, "follow scout— he'll find a way out. i'll find barnes."

sam clenches his jaw, but he listens.

"i'm going to try switching stations. maybe in the explosion he accidentally hit a button. maybe he just lost signal— a tech issue, maybe. either way, i can fix it."

you try reasoning out loud— trying to stay calm— but you're not convincing anyone, least of all yourself.

from the middle floor, bucky lets out a wrangled sound— half-cough, half-groan.

he doesnt know where he is. everything's dark and dusty, choking him every time he takes a breath. his ears are ringing, and the ground is cold and damp beneath him, and it even takes him a moment to register that he’s on the ground.

and there's a throbbing pain in his leg— dull at first, but then sharp, like someone lit a fire in the muscle just below his knee. he tries to shift it, but the pressure doesn't give.

"shit.."

its hard to focus. he can't remember where he was or how he had gotten there. he blinks, once, then twice. it's silent, and he's alone. he can tell before the thought even forms, and a deep unsettling feeling forms in his stomach.

there's no chatter or humming of a drone. there's no voice telling him where to go or what to do— there's no you.

bucky clenches his jaw as he pulls himself up on one elbow. he grits his teeth as he shifts, enough to look down. there's a large metal beam pinning him down just across his shin. he exhales, trying not to move too much— trying not to panic.

he reaches up to his ear, pressing against it just to see if there was anything at all. his fingers press the buttons, trying to switch the dials— anything to get a hold of someone— but there's static.

"sam?” he rasps, "sam, come in.”

a shifting groan in the walls answers him.

"torres?" his voice cracks, "joaq— joaquin, come on. hey—"

the metal beam pinning him down just creaks under pressure.

panic starts to creep into his minds, replacing all logic. the pressure on his leg is sharp now, his side aches, and the silence is starting to weigh on him.

and then— barely a whisper— your name slips from his mouth. once, twice, and then once more, calling for you like you'd appear and rip the rubble from off of his body yourself.

"c'mon, talk to me." he pants, "tell me that i'm holding the camera upside down, or... or that scout's incoming. anything— just— say something."

he waits, and waits, and waits, but only static answers.

bucky doesn't know what to do. if he moves, he's afraid the rubble around him will crush him. if he doesn't, he'll never get out.

he squeezes his eyes shut, his forehead pressing against the dusty concrete as his breath stutters. his heart is pounding in his chest and he can hear it in his ears, unsure if it's from fear or the lack of oxygen.

he doesnt want to die. at least not like this. not alone.

a sharp, dry laugh escapes him— bitter and breathless.

"shouldve told you i missed your voice before i got crushed by a goddamn support beam." he mutters to no one, "that would've been smart."

his hand slips from his ear and falls to the floor. he's tired.

then—

"barnes? barnes?"

his earpiece glitches as he turns his head, looking around like the voice might be there. there's a sputter, and another glitch— but the voice in his ear is unmistakably you.

"bucky, can you hear me?"

your voice cuts through the static like a blade of light in the dark. youre clearer now, sharper— desperate.

and bucky laughs. its all he can do. a soft, disbelieving laugh into the stagnant air, his chest stuttering with pure, aching relief. its the sound of someone trying not to fall apart.

"you—" he coughs, dragging a shaky breath into his lungs, "you dont know how happy i am to hear your voice. where's sam and joaquin?"

he can hear a loud breathy laugh and then a thud, almost like you just collapsed at your desk from sheer joy, "they're fine. they're out. you just... you scared the hell out of me, barnes—"

"call me bucky’."

there's a silence on your end— like you're letting his words find their way into your brain. like maybe you needed to hear that.

then softer, you smile. "okay. bucky."

he closes his eyes again. he lets the sound of his name in your voice carry him through the weight pressing down on your leg.

"can you move? are you bleeding? are you—"

"i'm trapped." he cuts you off. he knows you're stressing yourself out far too much, "there's a support beam pinning my leg down, but otherwise, i think i'm fine. i can't get a hold of sam or joaquin, so... you're all i've got now."

"good. i've got you all to myself now." you try to joke— trying to keep bucky from panicking— but he can hear the quiver in your voice and the way your words wobble just enough to betray you.

"hey." he softens, "you don't need to worry. i'm okay. i'm alive."

"right. sorry, i'm just—" you swallow, eyes boring holes into bucky's monitor, "i was scared."

there's a silence, and for a moment, you're afraid bucky's been knocked out— but then he laughs. with his usual calm certainty you're so used to now—

"takes a little more than bombing a building to get rid of me."

you smile— watery and breathless— even if he can't see it. but he can hear you, and that helps with his pain. bucky huffs out a soft laugh, but it catches in his throat when the rubble around him shifts against his chest.

you catch the sound immediately. "what was that?"

"i'm under five hundred pounds of concrete and steel." bucky grunts under his breath, "i don't think it likes me moving."

"okay, okay. hold on. i'm pulling up scout's last scan of your level." you're already typing, eyes darting between monitors. "there's a structural weakness about two feet to your left. if you can push against it, i think i can guide you out."

"you think?" he mutters.

"barnes—"

"bucky."

you sigh, "i'm going to get you out, bucky. just.. trust me."

"i do." he says without hesitation.

you breathe in. "alright— now lean over and try to pull out your leg out from under that beam. it's cracked and scout thinks you can snap it. from there, you should be able to push some of the concrete away on your left and climb out."

"i'll try."

there's a deep rumbling sound coming from bucky's mic, and it was now more than ever that you wished his body cam had worked. there's a sharp grunt from bucky, and then—

there's a metallic groan, and then a cracking noise.

"bucky?"

"i'm out."

"jesus christ, bucky, don't ever do that again. i thought you broke your leg or something."

"you just told me to do it."

"that's not the point. i just—" you stop yourself and place a restless hand against your forehead like you can scrub the panic away, "i'm re-routing scout to find you. sam and joaquin are moving to help you from the outside.

there's a pause— just the low hum of your tech and the faint hiss of static in bucky's ear.

"you're doing great." bucky says gently as he pulls away a handful of debris, "seriously. you've got me halfway out already."

"halfway doesn't count." you mutter. youre focused on scout's monitor as it zooms up multiple levels towards bucky. you're barely blinking, and you're thumbnail is torn up from where you've been nervously chewing on it.

he smiles faintly— dusty, tired, but honest. "it counts to me."

scout clears the floors— each level scanned and discarded— and then, like a light in the dark, you can spot the unmistakable glimmer of bucky's vibranium arm under the rubble.

you switch back to sam and joaquin's channel, your voice breaking through the comms, "bucky's on the sixth level's east corridor. he's trapped, but he's okay."

"copy that!" joaquin responds instantly.

before long, bucky can hear two pairs of boots thudding against the ground. he blinks slowly as a flashlight burns into his face. he turns his head just enough to see them through the haze— sam on the left and joaquin on the right.

"took you long enough." bucky jokes as he shoves another piece of debris out of the way.

"oh, he's alive." joaquin exhales as he grabs at chunks of metals, "i thought we were gonna be digging out a corpse."

bucky rolls his eyes, holding out an arm, "love the optimism."

sam practically leaps forwards, crouching beside him, "you're a damn cockroach, you know that? an explosion, six floors of concrete, and you're still alive." he says, grabbing bucky's arm and slinging it over his shoulder, "can you walk?"

"i'll manage." bucky leans on sam and joaquin more than he wants, but at least he's upright.

as they make it out, scout trails behind them like a loyal shadow.  your voice crackles through, but not in their ear pieces— through scout. "you've got a clear past east. the stairwell's stable, but don't waste time."

bucky glances up, and although he can't see you, there's a softness in his expression as he limps down the hallway, "still with me?"

you smile, "still with you."

joaquin glances awkwardly at sam, then rolls his eyes, "alright, you can flirt later. let's just get out of here."

the hangar is dim, lit only by overhead lights that flicker slightly and the occasional sensors that turn on when a janitor walks by. sam, bucky, and joaquin stand in a semi-circle staring down at atleast ten full crates of super soldier serum, the lids pried open and the vials staring— almost mockingly— back at them.

no one speaks for a while.

"so you're telling me..." sam pauses as he holds his hand to his mouth, trying to make sense of the unbelievable situation in front of him, "we almost died... and the serum was in john walker's hands?"

joaquin tilts his head, "hell of a sentence."

bucky leans over and plucks a vial from it's foam confine. it's heavier than he expected. he tilts the vial, watching the blue liquid slink to its side, an inkling of suspicion growing in his chest.

"who's to say this isn't a trap?" he places it back into the crate and crosses his arms against his chest, "walker drops off ten crates of serum and walks off, no questions asked? i mean... how'd he even manage to take these guys down? he doesn't have the shield or the government's support."

sam turns around and shakes his head, too stressed out of his mind to even think about it anymore, "i don't even wanna know, man."

behind them, a door opens with the familiar hiss of hydraulics. and then there's footsteps— soft, but certain.

"what are you guys looking at?"

bucky freezes.

it hits him like a punch in the chest— he knows that voice. he hears it in his sleep. in the quiet between missions. in the static of a dead ear piece. and now it’s just here— fast approaching.

it’s you. he knows it’s you.

he doesnt want to turn around— not yet— because turning around would make it real, and if it’s not— if its just his mind trying to comfort him with something familiar in a world that keeps pulling itself from under his feet— then he’s not sure he can handle it.

but then—

“why do you all look like someone died?”

and something breaks lose in him. bucky turns— he can’t stop himself— and there you are. you’re walking towards them, headset around your neck and your sleeves rolled up, clearly just finished with reports, debriefing and damage control. you look tired, but so alive that it almost knocks the air out of his lungs.

he doesnt know what he expected, but you look better than anything he could have possibly conjured up in his mind.

it’s instant, like something short circuits in him. you’re safe. you’re here. there’s no more static through a headset, no dust, and no explosions. you’re real and you’re standing ten feet away, completely unaware of the fact that he hasn’t stopped thinking about you since you said his name over comms.

you walk closer, hands on your hips as you peer into one of the crates. you speak, but bucky barely hears you over the roaring in his ears.

she’s fine. she’s fine. she’s fine.

he swallows hard. his metal hand twitches. you feel his stare before you see it. you glance over.

there's dust still smudged along the side of his jaw, and a faint scrape just above his eyebrow. but he's standing there and breathing, watching you like he can't believe you're real.

“hi, bucky.” the corner of your mouth twists up into a warm smile as you give him a proper once-over, “you look good.”

you say it like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

as you walk up to them, your shoulder brushes his for a fraction of a second. you just stand beside him like it's nothing— like this isn't some world-shattering event for bucky and that you weren’t a disembodied voice talking in his ear less than an hour ago.

even sam and joaquin are surprised, side-eyeing each other over the crates with identical expressions of is this really happening right now? and why is he just staring?

he's trying to play it cool, but he can't— he just can't keep his eyes off of you.

"holy shit, is that—" your jaw almost goes slack as you peer into the crates, eyes glazing over the glass vials in their foam casings, "where the hell did these come from?"

joaquin lets out an exasperated laugh, "you'll never guess."

you blink, "john walker?”

sam snorts, “okay, maybe you’ll guess.”

"i heard you say his name before i came in, i just didn’t think he was the one who dropped these off." you exclaim. you’re sort of impressed, "are you kidding me? how'd he even manage to get in here?”

your voice pitches with incredulity, the question half-rhetorical, half pure disbelief. you’re already running through possibilities in your head, and none of them are good.

you’re still peering into the crates, but bucky’s barely processed a single word since you walked in. his brain short circuits a little, and he speaks before he can stop himself.

“you’ve got… pen on your cheek.”

you blink, caught off guard, “what?”

bucky gestures vaguely to his own face, like his hand can explain for him, “right there. blue. it’s… smudged under your eye. must’ve been from the, uh… debrief reports or something.”

there’s a pause.

"seriously?” sam turns to face bucky’s, his brows raised so high that they’re practically part of his hairline, “you see the lady's face for the first time and that's what you say?

joaquin chokes on a laugh. you stare at bucky with an amused grin. he looks absolutely mortified.

“wh— it was distracting.” bucky waves sam off, trying to get him off of his back.

but you only laugh as you watch bucky scoff, "two years and you still don't know how to greet me. you could at least tell me i look good.”

he furrows his brows, caught somewhere between embarrassed and flustered “that’s a bit egotistical, don’t you think?”

you shrug, “oh, my bad. i forgot that you were the only one who’s allowed to be a little full of yourself around here.”

joaquin sucks in a breath through his teeth, “she’s got you there, man.”

bucky rolls his eyes and sighs. he opens his mouth, then closes it, and then he just shrugs, “you look good. really good.”

its awkward and a little stiff, but something about the way he says it makes it feel real— a little vulnerable— like he means it more than he knows how to physically express it.

you soften, just a little, “thanks, bucky.”

a short silence passes again, more comfortable now.

“okay, but seriously, what the hell are we gonna do with these?” you nod towards the crates, nudging one with the toe of your shoe.

sam blows out a breath, “i don’t know, but i do know one thing.”

you, bucky, and joaquin all look at him as he claps his hands together like he’s had a brilliant idea.

“i think we deserve a drink— y’know, to celebrate not dying.”

joaquin raises his hand, “i second that.”

“best idea you’ve had all day, sammy.” you grin, “i’ll go grab the good stuff.”

bucky watches as you turn and leave, something unreadable in his eyes. he stays frozen as he watches you disappear behind a door.

once you’re out of earshot, sam turns to bucky and pats him firmly on the shoulder—

“don’t worry.” he says with a knowing grin, “i’ll make sure you get another chance to say something better.”

bucky doesn’t reply, but the faintest smile pulls at the corner of his mouth.

[blowingbarnes]

Out of My Mind (Bucky Barnes)

A/N: this came from a collection of drabbles, thank @opheliabbarnes @chateaubarnes and @heldbybarnes for posting the absolute best shit ever and feeding my brain ideas.

I may or may not have gone overboard.

Summary: Bucky is too old, too weathered, too scarred, and she’s soft, and happy, and deadly, and the way her mouth- yeah he really should stop thinking about her like that.

Word Count: 12.4k

Warnings: sparring, SMUT (18+ MNDI) (p in v, oral f&m receiving, fingering, metal arm kink if you squint), drinking. Bucky short circuits, reader kinda likes to fluster him, YEARNING. Nat, Steve and Tony are still alive because I said so. Manhandling.

It had been weeks—no, months—ever since they’d met. If Bucky was honest with himself, the change had started the very first day.

It hadn’t been some big, thunderclap revelation, more like having the ground gently but irrevocably shift beneath his feet. She’d slipped into his life so easily that he hadn’t realized what was happening until he was already in too deep.

She was just… easy.

Easy to talk to.

Easy to laugh with.

Easy to breathe next to.

She never prodded too far into the places he didn’t want to go, but somehow still managed to pull him out of himself. She remembered the smallest things—how he took his coffee, that he hated working with sticky trigger mechanisms, that he read the same dog-eared paperback before missions. On the field, she was always where he needed her before he even asked—most often a ghost on a rooftop, breath steady through her scope, covering him like her own life depended on it.

Which was exactly why he’d done nothing about the way he felt.

He was too damaged, too weathered, too damn old, too… him.

And she was—

Everything.

So when she handed him the strip of black cloth with that infuriating little smirk, he had to hide the warmth curling in his chest with a different kind of expression.

“You can try all your tricks, I’m too good to miss, sweetheart,” he said, letting his voice take on that low, smug drawl.

“Good,” she countered, eyes glinting, “then it shouldn’t be an issue to spar blindfolded.”

He gave her a look, but tied the cloth around his head without another word. Darkness swept over him.

The thing was—he didn’t need his eyes. He could feel her in the air between them, the slight shift in her stance when she moved, the rhythm of her breathing. He knew what she’d try before she tried it. Every step, every strike, every sweep of her leg—blocked. Effortlessly.

He could feel her. The way she shifted her weight barefoot on the mat. The rustle of her tank top. The subtle shift of air pressure as she circled. Her heartbeat—a steady flutter like wings in his ear.

She moved.

So did he.

Block. Twist. Counter.

Again.

Again.

He anticipated everything. She was fluid, quick, precise—but he was older, stronger, and maybe most dangerous of all… he knew her. He knew how she moved. He had spent so long memorizing her rhythms, he could practically see her with his eyes closed.

Every strike met his forearm. Every sweep was dodged. Every jab parried. Until—

Her frustration started to show in the subtle sharpness of her movements, in the light scoff she let slip when he caught her wrist again.

“S’this all you hoped it would be?” he murmured, lips curving as he turned his head toward where she was circling. “Gotta say, I’m getting a little bored here.”

“Oh, I haven’t really been trying,” she said, voice light, teasing. Then, lower, with a heat that cut straight through him:

“Too distracted by how pretty you look blindfolded, Buck.”

And just like that—she had him.

The tiniest hitch in his breath, the faint tilt of his shoulders—enough. Her leg hooked behind his, the momentum sweeping him down hard enough that the mat thudded under his back.

She was on him in an instant, straddling his hips, hands braced on either side of his chest. His pulse was thundering against his ribs, his world narrowing to the heat of her body over his. He tugged the blindfold down, letting it rest around his neck.

Those blue eyes met hers—startled, darkened with something he couldn’t quite keep out of his expression.

Her smirk deepened.

“What?” she asked, head tilting, eyes shamelessly drinking him in.

“Cat got your tongue?”

Bucky was stunned, for the first time in a while words couldn’t come out of his mouth. None that were appropriate anyway.

Bucky didn’t linger after training.

He grabbed his towel, muttered a quick goodbye to the others, and left before anyone could see the state he was in. His chest was tight, his skin hot like it had been scorched from the inside out, every nerve still wired from having her straddling him. From that smirk. From those damn words.

By the time he stepped into his quarters, he was already stripping out of his shirt, jaw tense. He headed straight for the shower, twisting the handle all the way to cold.

It didn’t help.

The water hammered down his back, icy enough to sting, but his skin still felt fever-hot. He braced one hand against the tile, head bowed, breath coming unevenly as if he’d just finished a sprint. She was everywhere—in the echoes of her laugh, in the feel of her thighs bracketing his hips, in the heat of her leaning over him, smug and merciless.

He could still hear her voice, low and teasing, looping in his head until it burned:

Too distracted by how pretty you look blindfolded, Buck.

His hand slid down over his stomach before he could stop himself, wrapping tight around himself with a hiss through his teeth. His other arm flexed where it held him up, the vein standing out under the spray.

He worked himself slow at first, trying to take the edge off, but it wasn’t enough. His hips jerked into his palm, a strangled sound catching in his throat. The cold water did nothing to put out the fire—if anything, the contrast made every touch sharper.

Her face wouldn’t leave him. The press of her body over his. The cocky tilt of her head. The way she’d looked at him like she knew exactly what she was doing to him.

“Fuck…” The word slipped out on a shaky exhale, followed by another, quieter. “Shit.”

The rhythm quickened, the tension coiling so tight in his gut it almost hurt. He bit down on a groan, trying to keep quiet—like even here, alone, it would be dangerous for anyone to hear.

The moment hit fast and hard, the pressure snapping as his release spilled hot against the tile. He gritted his teeth, eyes squeezing shut, her name trapped behind them, never spoken aloud but vibrating through his chest with the force of it.

Bucky stayed there a moment longer, forehead resting against the cool wall, water pounding over him while his pulse gradually slowed.

The next morning, Bucky was at the gym before sunrise.

He didn’t sleep—how could he? Not when every time he closed his eyes he saw her above him, smirking like she owned him, thighs around his hips and voice in his ear like honey wrapped in every dirty thought he ever had.

So he did what he always did when things got under his skin.

He trained.

Now he stood under the harsh fluorescents, shirtless, sweat glistening on his chest as he loaded yet another set of plates onto the barbell. The amount of weight was borderline reckless—ungodly, even for a super soldier—but he didn’t care. Every curl of muscle, every tremble in his arms, every clang of metal was penance.

He dropped into a set of deadlifts with brutal focus. Over and over. Veins in his arms bulging, jaw locked, eyes narrowed. The gym shook with the sound of iron hitting the mat, and he didn’t even flinch.

Across the room, she paused mid-sip of her water bottle, eyes narrowing.

“Okay, what the hell is his problem?” Yelena muttered under her breath, watching Bucky like he might rip the barbell in half.

Nat smirked without looking up from her towel. “Probably a certain someone swept his legs and sat on his lap yesterday.”

Y/N’s eyes went wide. “I did not sit on his lap—”

Yelena cut in, grinning. “Sure, sure. You just… accidentally straddled him in the middle of a sparring session and stayed there for ten seconds too long while he looked like he forgot how to breathe.”

Nat arched a brow, her voice syrupy with mischief. “He’s lifting like he’s got something to prove. Or like he’s trying very hard not to think about something. Or someone.”

Y/N scoffed and turned away too quickly. “You guys are insane.”

“Mmm,” Yelena hummed. “Right. So it’s just a coincidence he nearly snapped the bar in half the second you walked in?”

She looked back.

And sure enough—Bucky’s eyes had flicked up the moment she entered. Just for a second. Barely more than a glance. But it was enough to see the way his jaw tightened. The way his next lift came harder, rougher, like he was punishing the ground for daring to hold him up.

“You should put him out of his misery,” Nat said smoothly, wiping her neck with her towel.

“I am not doing this with you two,” Y/N muttered, cheeks warming as she turned back to her warm-up stretch.

Across the gym, Bucky dropped the barbell with a growl and ran a hand through his hair, sweat dripping down his temples. He didn’t know what was worse—the ache in his arms or the one in his chest.

Either way, it had a name.

And she was standing twenty feet away, laughing at something Yelena said, like she didn’t even know she was driving him crazy.

Late afternoon light bled through the high windows, warm and golden across the mats as Bucky circled her with practiced ease, breathing steady, movements fluid and contained.

Y/N, on the other hand, was breathing hard—sweat beading on her collarbone, hair up in a Dutch braid but still messy, her stance shifting as she tried to anticipate his next move.

She was good. Really good. But he was still winning. Always winning.

He landed a soft jab against her ribs and she twisted out of range with a huff, eyes sharp, footwork precise. But not precise enough. He caught her wrist in the next pass and flipped her over his shoulder like she weighed nothing. She landed on her back with a soft thud, groaning.

“Again,” she muttered, already sitting up.

“You sure?” he asked, brows raised.

She rolled her eyes. “I’m not that fragile, Buck.”

He offered a hand, but she waved it off and stood on her own.

This had been going on for an hour.

“Why the sudden obsession with hand-to-hand?” he asked, arms folded as she reset her stance.

Her answer was immediate. Honest. “Because if I ever end up facing someone like you—someone enhanced and actually trying to kill me—I need to last long enough to call for backup.” She shrugged. “I know I won’t win. But I don’t want to die in the first thirty seconds.”

Bucky blinked. Something about the way she said it hit him harder than it should’ve. Because it was practical. Tactical. Smart. And terrifying.

She was preparing to fight someone like him. Like what he used to be.

He swallowed. “Alright.”

“What?”

“You want to see what it’s like when someone’s trying to end you?” His voice dropped, low and careful. “You sure?”

She met his eyes and nodded. No flinch. No fear. Just steel in her spine. “Do it.”

He didn’t like it.

But he did it.

The next pass was faster. Harder. He moved like a threat instead of a partner—shoulders hunched forward, fists tighter, footfalls quieter. His strikes came faster, feints sharper. She was quick, ducking, weaving, barely keeping up. But she was keeping up.

Until she wasn’t.

One misstep—one pivot that was a second too late—and he caught her full-force with a sweep and a shoulder slam that sent her sprawling onto the mat with a crack of impact that echoed through the gym.

“Shit—“

He was kneeling by her in an instant, hand hovering just shy of her waist, guilt already curling in his gut. “You okay? I didn’t mean—”

She blinked up at him.

And smiled.

Not a grimace. Not a wince. A slow, delighted, smug little smile that made his stomach flip.

“Again,” she said, voice low and almost breathless. “Do it again.”

Bucky stared at her.

She looked like the damn cat that got the cream, like getting thrown down by him had just made her week. Her eyes were dark, cheeks flushed, lips parted just enough to be a problem.

“…You’re insane,” he said softly, chest still rising and falling with adrenaline.

“Maybe,” she murmured. “But I’m not dead yet.”

And God help him—he wanted to pin her there and kiss her stupid. But instead he stood, offered her a hand, and pulled her up like she didn’t already own him.

“Again,” she said, already circling.

And this time, he didn’t hold back.

He should’ve stopped.

Should’ve pulled back, told her no, reminded her she wasn’t enhanced and this wasn’t smart, wasn’t safe. But she kept coming. Kept resetting. Kept circling him with that glint in her eye—like she wanted to get thrown around.

So Bucky gave her what she asked for.

Again. And again. And again. And an extra time after that.

She lunged again—fast, sharp, trying to sweep his leg, but he was quicker. He caught her mid-motion and used her momentum against her, spinning her in the air before slamming her flat on her back again, chest-first to the mat with a grunt.

She lay there for a second, breath knocked out of her.

And then she giggled.

He blinked. “Y/N.”

“I’m fine,” she said, voice muffled into the mat.

He hauled her up by the waist before she could protest, hands firm but gentle. She was flushed, sweaty, and grinning like she just won the lottery.

“You’re enjoying this,” he said, half-accusation, half-bewildered.

“Maybe a little.” She was already settling back into position, braid messy, sports bra sticking to her skin, wild energy radiating off her in waves. “Don’t stop. Again.”

He exhaled through his nose, hard. She was out of her mind. But also?

He was kind of losing his mind, too.

Because the way she moved—determined, stubborn, fearless—lit something inside him that hadn’t sparked in years. And the way she looked up at him every time he slammed her to the mat? Like she liked it? Like she trusted him completely, even when he was manhandling her like a weapon?

It undid him.

Next round, she tried to catch him with a low kick—he dodged, hooked an arm around her waist, lifted her clean off the floor like she weighed nothing, and threw her down on her back with enough force to bounce.

She groaned, breathless.

But she didn’t stay down.

“Oh my god,” she panted, laughing now. “Bucky, that one rattled my teeth.”

Bucky froze mid-step, muscles tense, sweat sliding down his temple. “You’re not supposed to like getting rag dolled.”

She rolled onto her side, propping herself up on an elbow, gaze flicking shamelessly down his chest. “You’re doing a great job. A+ brute force.”

He dragged a hand down his face, exasperated. “You’re gonna be sore for a week.”

“Do you promise?” she muttered, still smirking, and then—God help him—bit her bottom lip as she looked him over like he was the dessert.

“You’re a menace,” he muttered, walking past her.

She grabbed his ankle.

“You throwing in the towel, sergeant?”

Bucky turned back, looming over her, and let out a dry, breathless laugh as he crouched beside her. “Oh, sweetheart. You have no idea what you’re asking for.”

And from the way her eyes darkened, breath hitching just slightly?

Yeah.

She absolutely did.

The gym had quieted, the sun dipping lower in the windows, painting the walls in soft amber as the dust settled—literally and figuratively.

Y/N sat cross-legged on the mat, drenched in sweat and radiating satisfaction. Her sports bra was damp and clinging to her, her knee was starting to throb in that familiar post-adrenaline way, and her abs felt like they’d been personally insulted by a truck.

She tilted her head back, eyes closed, trying to cool down, when a cold thud landed beside her.

Ice pack.

She opened one eye. Bucky stood in front of her, towering and shirtless, holding out a water bottle with his usual gruff scowl.

“For the knee,” he muttered. “And drink. You’re already dehydrated.”

She raised a brow but took both.

“You always this bossy after manhandling someone for an hour?”

His mouth twitched.

“You always this bratty after getting your ass handed to you?”

She smirked. “You wish you were handing my ass anything.”

Bucky’s nostrils flared. He looked away sharply—too sharply—and crossed his arms over his chest. The metal one caught the low light, gleaming across his shoulder.

She uncapped the bottle and drank slowly, knowing full well he was still watching her from the corner of his eye. The ice pack rested on her knee, making her hiss as the cold bit into the fresh bruise.

“You’re gonna feel that tomorrow,” he said, voice low, distracted.

“I feel it now,” she replied, rolling her neck. “But don’t act like you didn’t enjoy throwing me around.”

He crouched in front of her, pressing the ice pack onto her knee a little harder, eyes locking onto hers. “You liked being thrown around.”

Her lips curled. “Maybe. Depends who’s doing it.”

There it was.

That little shift in the air. That thing between them that always hovered in the space just shy of spoken. Heavy. Charged.

He looked at her like he was weighing every consequence, every inch between them, every pulse of heat still radiating off her skin. His voice dropped.

“Lucky for you,” he murmured, “you’ve got a sparring partner who knows exactly what you can handle.”

She licked her lips, slow. Intentional.

“And what if I can handle more than you think?”

Silence.

Tension coiled thick between them. Her knee ached, her knuckles throbbed, and her chest was tight for a whole different reason now. Bucky didn’t move. Just stared at her like she was a problem he both wanted and couldn’t solve.

Eventually, he reached out and nudged the ice pack higher on her knee, his fingers brushing warm against her skin.

“You’re insane,” he muttered.

“And you’re still here,” she whispered.

He didn’t argue.

Didn’t say a word.

Just stood again, grabbing his towel, and paused at the edge of the mat.

“I’ll be down the hall if you need me,” he said, voice unreadable.

She smirked to herself as he walked away.

Oh, she needed something alright.

She just wasn’t sure how much longer they were both going to pretend it wasn’t the same thing.

The next morning, Y/N hobbled into the compound kitchen like she’d been hit by a truck.

A Bucky-shaped truck.

Her tank top was loose, hair scraped into a bun with strands falling out in all directions, and she had an ice pack rubber-banded to one knee. She moved like someone who had done about 300 squats followed by getting tossed across a mat for an hour—and enjoyed it.

She didn’t even make it to the coffee machine before Nat, Yelena, and Joaquin pounced.

They were seated at the kitchen island like a well-rested, overly-interested jury.

Joaquin smirked first. “Good morning, sunshine. You look like you got dragged behind a jet.”

“I feel great, thanks,” She muttered, heading for the coffee. “Perfectly fine. Muscles intact. Core function… mostly restored.”

Yelena popped a grape into her mouth. “Mm. So that explains why Barnes was wandering around last night looking like he had been in a fight with a sex demon and lost.”

Nat sipped her tea. “Interesting choice of words.”

Y/N froze, mid-pour.

Joaquin grinned. “You really let him toss you around like that, huh?”

“It was training,” She said, spinning on her heel with her mug in both hands like a shield. “Combat scenario prep. Realistic sparring. You know—completely normal, professional things.”

Nat raised one perfect brow. “Uh-huh. You’re telling me he realistically had to pin you by both wrists and hold you down with his thigh?”

“Also—” Yelena leaned in, eyes dancing with glee. “—who trains by saying ‘do it again’ like they’re in a damn romance novel?”

She groaned, dragging a hand down her face. “I knew one of you was creeping around the gym.”

Joaquin pointed to himself proudly. “Guilty. I only saw the aftermath. You on the floor, looking very pleased with yourself. And him walking away like he had just committed a felony in slow motion.”

Nat tilted her head. “You’re flushed. Your heart rate’s elevated. And you’ve been glancing at the hallway every three minutes like he might walk in.”

“I am not—”

“You are,” all three said in unison.

She downed half her coffee in one desperate gulp.

Yelena smirked. “So when’s the wedding?”

“There’s nothing happening,” Y/N gritted out. “We’re just… training partners.”

“Mm,” Nat hummed. “He brings you ice packs. Makes you drink water. Pins you to the floor and still looks like he wants to apologize and devour you.”

Yelena leaned forward, conspiratorially. “You like it when he tosses you around, don’t you?”

She looked away, cheeks turning pink. “That’s not the point.”

Joaquin leaned back, satisfied. “I give it a week.”

The rest of the day was quiet. Briefings, running over intel, training new recruits, and then me time.

Not the strained kind of quiet, not the post-sparring-charged silence full of tension and unresolved heat. This was soft—the kind of quiet that felt like being let in on a secret, like finding stillness in the middle of noise.

Bucky padded into the kitchen early the next day, hoodie on, hair damp from the shower, and already bracing himself for a typical chaotic morning. He expected her teasing, maybe Ava’s side-eyes, Joaquin’s smirks—but the kitchen was empty.

Except for one thing.

A familiar silver and blue bag of coffee grounds sat on the counter. The fancy stuff. The kind from that café downtown—the one that always had a line out the door, too many people in too tight a space, too many eyes, too much everything. He hated going there. She knew that. He loved their home brew. She also knew that.

He picked up the bag slowly, thumb brushing over the label, and turned when he heard soft footsteps behind him.

She stood in the doorway, hoodie oversized, sleeves covering her hands. Hair still messy. Face open and quiet in a way that wasn’t like her usual smirking self. She shrugged one shoulder like it was nothing.

“Thought you might want real coffee today,” she said casually, moving to grab a glass from the cabinet. “Figured it might save you from drinking whatever burnt tragedy Joaquin brewed before his run.”

Bucky stared at her, then down at the bag.

“You went to Corvus for this?”

She didn’t look at him. “Yeah. Left early. The line wasn’t that bad.”

He raised a brow. “They wrap the block at six a.m.—”

“I know,” she said, glancing at him. “I waited. It’s not a big deal.”

But it was.

Because she knew. She knew he wouldn’t go there himself. Knew it made him feel boxed in, overwhelmed. She did it anyway—got up early, stood in a crowd for him, just so he could have something small and good without asking for it.

Bucky swallowed hard. His voice was quiet. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I know,” she said again, softer this time.

And she didn’t smile, didn’t joke, didn’t make it into something flirtatious or clever. She just moved around him, brushing his shoulder lightly with hers, and started rinsing out the French press without a word. Like she did this all the time. Like it was easy for her to care about him.

And God, maybe it was.

Maybe that’s what made it so hard.

Because this—this simple, quiet thing—was the kind of intimacy that rattled him more than her on top of him, more than the heat, more than the teasing. It was the way she saw him. The way she didn’t ask him to earn it. The way she made space for him without saying anything at all.

He stood there for a beat longer, the coffee grounds in his hands.

Then he reached up, tugged gently at the end of her hoodie sleeve.

She glanced up.

“Thanks,” he murmured.

She gave him the smallest smile. Not cocky. Not playful. Just warm.

“Anytime, Buck.”

He nodded, looking down. Like if he looked at her too long, he’d say something he couldn’t take back.

Something true.

So he stayed quiet.

Pretended it was nothing.

Even though his chest felt too full and too exposed, and the smell of her shampoo mixed with the fresh coffee grounds was going to haunt him for the rest of the day.

The gym was mostly empty in the late morning—just the steady thump, thump, thump of fists hitting heavy bags and the low hum of classic rock playing from the corner speaker.

Bucky’s hands were wrapped tight, knuckles red, sweat slicking down the back of his neck. He drove his fist into the bag again, harder this time, the chain above it rattling from the force. He hadn’t said much since he walked in, just started throwing punches with a tension Sam immediately clocked.

Sam jabbed at the bag next to him, side-eyeing Bucky in the mirror. “You planning to knock that thing off the chain or are you working through something?”

Bucky didn’t answer. Just threw another hard right. Jaw clenched.

Sam ducked under his own bag, shaking his head. “Uh-huh. That’s what I thought.”

“I’m fine.”

“You always say that when you’re two hits away from breaking your own wrist.”

Bucky grunted, stepped back, shook out his arms. “It’s nothing.”

Sam grabbed a towel and tossed one to him. “Sure it’s not about Y/N?”

That stopped him cold. His expression didn’t change much, but his next punch was slower. Less focus. More distraction.

Sam caught that, too. “C’mon, man. Just talk to me. You’ve been in a fog for weeks. Ever since she started walking around all bruised and smirking like she survived a full round with a bear—and you’re out here trying to pretend like it wasn’t you who threw her around like a rag doll.”

Bucky huffed out something like a laugh, breathless and tight. He leaned against the bag, arms draped over the top of it, eyes low.

Sam waited. Didn’t push. Just gave him space.

Eventually, Bucky spoke, voice low and rough. “It’s hard.”

Sam turned to him fully. “What is?”

“Pretending I don’t feel what I feel.”

That surprised Sam, if only because Bucky never admitted things like that out loud.

Bucky kept going, words slow but honest. “She makes it too easy. Being around her. Laughing with her. Sparring. Sitting in silence. It doesn’t matter what we’re doing, it’s like she… I dunno. Made space for me in her life like it was always supposed to be there.”

Sam was quiet. Watching. Listening.

“And then yesterday, she shows up with this stupid bag of coffee from that place I hate going to—the crowded one, Corvus.” He exhaled hard through his nose. “She knows I hate that place. Knows I can’t stand the crowds, the noise. So she goes for me. Gets up early, waits in line. Doesn’t even say anything about it. Just leaves it there on the counter.”

His fists clenched around the towel.

“I didn’t even ask.”

Sam’s voice was quiet. “That’s just how she is.”

“I know,” Bucky muttered, like that made it worse. “She just… gives. Doesn’t expect anything back. Doesn’t realize how much that shit wrecks me.”

—

It was past 2 a.m. when Bucky gave up trying.

Sleep just wouldn’t come.

He’d tossed and turned for hours—hot, then cold, then hot again, sheets twisted around his legs, chest tight with something he couldn’t shake. He even tried jerking off, quietly in the dark, hand slow and rough beneath the blanket, biting his lip to stay quiet while thinking about her—always her. The way she looked on the mat. The way she said “do it again.” The way she’d smiled when she handed him his favorite coffee like it cost her nothing and meant everything.

He came with her name in his mouth and that ache still lodged behind his ribs.

Didn’t help. Not even a little.

So he got up, pulled on a t-shirt and sweatpants, and padded barefoot through the darkened compound halls, the silence heavy and familiar. He told himself he was going to the kitchen for water. Maybe tea. Something to give him an excuse to be awake.

But when he walked in, the smell hit him first.

Brownies.

Rich, chocolatey, warm.

And there she was.

Y/N stood in front of the oven in her big gray sleep shirt and socks, hair falling around her shoulders, backlit by the open fridge as she grabbed milk. She didn’t jump when he came in—just glanced over and smiled like she’d been expecting him all along.

“Insomnia?” she asked softly.

He nodded. “Yeah. You?”

She shrugged, already plating two brownies. “Wanted something sweet.”

He moved toward her like he couldn’t stop himself, like gravity pulled him. “You’re making brownies at 2 a.m. and watching—what is this?” he squinted at the TV in the living room beyond the kitchen, where soft romantic music played from a half-muted speaker, “27 Dresses?”

“It’s a classic,” she said without looking at him, offering him a plate. “And the perfect comfort movie when you’re wide awake and a little emotionally unstable.”

He let out a quiet laugh, sitting down on the floor in front of the couch without even thinking about it. She followed with her own plate, flopping onto the couch above him and pulling the throw blanket over her legs.

They didn’t talk after that.

Just sat.

The only sounds were the quiet murmur of the movie, the occasional clink of forks against plates, and the soft rustle of her shifting as she laid down, one leg hooked over the armrest.

Bucky leaned back against the couch, resting his elbows on his knees, head tilting slightly toward her without realizing it.

At some point, he felt her fingers in his hair.

Slow. Gentle. Just barely there at first, like she wasn’t sure if he’d let her.

But he didn’t move.

Her nails scraped lightly over his scalp, smoothing back his hair, again and again, until his shoulders stopped tensing. His eyes got heavier. The movie blurred in the background, and the only thing he could feel was her.

Her hand. Her breath above him. The warmth of her knee brushing his back through the blanket.

He didn’t remember falling asleep.

But she did.

Because when she finally drifted off too, he was sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of her, head resting against her thigh, and she had one hand still tangled in his hair—her fingers curled like she never wanted to let go.

And so they kept living like that. Close enough but not too close. She had protein bars in her gear bag in missions, exactly the chocolate fudge ones he liked, her guns somehow were always clean (nothing to do with the very expert 108 year old sniping super soldier that stayed back in the armory for extra time to clean it for her), and there was flirty banter in the comms during missions. Nothing to get them off game but enough to make her blush and bucky let out a breathy chuckle.

The team was doing so great, Tony thought a party was the way to go. Celebrate, get a few photo ops, and so they did.

The party was loud. Music pulsing through the walls of the tower, laughter echoing from the bar to the balcony, the sound of glasses clinking and the occasional whoop from the pool table corner. It was one of those rare nights where every Avenger—or former one—could finally let loose. After a couple of hours, the only people that stayed were on a need to know basis. And by that, they mean no press, no photographers or journalists waiting for a juicy scoop.

And Y/N?

She was glowing.

Her black silk mini dress shimmered like liquid ink every time the light caught it. The open back dipped dangerously low, revealing smooth, warm skin he could trace with his eyes closed. No bra—not with that dress—and Bucky could barely look at her without his palms itching to touch. Her hair was blown out and curled in that way that framed her face like something out of a vintage ad, sultry and soft all at once. And her heels—those strappy YSL ones she’d muttered were a splurge, but worth it—lengthened her legs in a way that should’ve been illegal.

He couldn’t stop staring.

She was laughing at something Sam said, head tipped back, one hand holding her drink, the other resting lightly on Bucky’s bicep like it belonged there. Her nails were painted a deep, wine red. Her perfume, the one she always wore when she wanted to feel “like a princess fairy frolicking in the rain” as she so eloquently put it—clung to the space between them like a secret. Every time she leaned closer to talk to him over the music, it seeped into his bloodstream, thick and sweet and warm.

And she was dangerous. Because she smiled up at him like he hung the damn moon just for her. Looked at him with those doe eyes and long lashes like he was the only person in the room worth seeing. She laughed at all his quiet jokes he didn’t think anyone caught, pulled him into her orbit like it was effortless, and stood just close enough for his fingers to brush the soft curve of her lower back if he moved an inch.

But he didn’t.

He couldn’t.

Because he was too tightly wound, too aware of the fire under his skin. Every muscle in his body was tense, his jaw clenched, hands shoved deep in his pockets so he wouldn’t give in to the need—to press her up against the wall of Tony’s ridiculous marble hallway and kiss her until her lipstick smeared across both their mouths. To tangle his hands in that perfect hair and ruin it. To tear that damn silk dress at the seams and drop to his knees.

Instead, he stayed exactly where he was. Silent. Still. Burning.

“You okay?” she asked softly, glancing up at him, unreadable but warm. Like she knew.

He gave her a crooked half-smile. “Yeah.. Just… takin’ it all in.”

She didn’t push. Just smiled back, slow and knowing, brushing her shoulder lightly against his arm as she turned back to the group. But that look stayed with him.

That look.

The one that made it so damn hard to keep pretending this was nothing. The one that made him wonder—again—how much longer he could last before he finally gave in and kissed her like he’d been dying to since the first day they met.

And if she kept smiling at him like that, he knew the answer was: not much longer at all.

Everyone was tipsy by that point. The dance floor was booming, a playlist carefully curated by the chaos triplets (her, Yelena, and Joaquin) and after flip cup, tequila pong, and some other drinking game that she won by making Joaquin drink most of it, they were sitting on the couch.

Her legs curled under her and his arm sprawled on the back of the couch almost close enough to touch her, and conversation came easy, like it always did. And it got interrupted. Like it always did.

He was about to say something in response to the nerdy comment she let out when an arm snaked around her waist.

“Come on,” Yelena said, tugging her toward the bar with a gleam in her eyes.

“What now?”

“Blowjob shots,” Yelena replied, like that explained everything.

“I—” But she didn’t have time to argue; Yelena was already pushing two glasses toward the bartender. Whipped cream, liqueur, the works.

“Hands behind your back,” Yelena ordered with mock sternness.

She laughed, giving in, and they both leaned down to knock them back without using their hands, earning a round of cheers from nearby onlookers. When she straightened, the sweet burn of alcohol warming her throat, her eyes instinctively sought him out across the room.

Bucky was still where she’d left him—leaning against the couch, beer in hand, blue eyes locked on her like she was the only thing worth looking at in the entire party.

And then the opening notes of Usher’s Nice & Slow rolled through the speakers.

“Ohhh yes,” Yelena grinned, seizing her wrist. “Bar top. Now.”

She laughed again, letting herself be pulled onto the bar. The music was slow but heavy, the kind of rhythm that made everyone move closer. She danced with Yelena, letting the crowd sway around them, but her gaze kept drifting back—always back—to where he sat.

He hadn’t moved, but she could feel the weight of his stare from across the room, heat crawling up her neck every time their eyes met.

She wanted—achingly, desperately—to be back on the couch beside him, knees brushing, leaning in close enough to feel his breath. It was almost physically painful to be this far, to have the bass thrumming in her chest instead of his voice in her ear.

Her lips curved softly, not the playful smirk she usually gave him, but something quieter. Warmer.

And Bucky—God help him—looked like he’d stand there all night if it meant keeping her in his sight.

Somewhere in the song, Sam convinced Bucky to get a refill of whatever they were both drinking, as if regular alcohol did anything for him except give him that faint burn in his throat.

The hem of that silk dress flirted with indecency every time she moved, catching the glow of the lights in a way that made it impossible for him to look away.

And then—just as she spun to face the crowd—her foot slipped.

She gasped, arms flailing for half a second before gravity took over.

Bucky was already moving.

By the time her feet left the bar, he was there, catching her against his chest like she weighed nothing. The impact pressed them close, her perfume wrapping around him, the warmth of her body soaking straight through his shirt.

They froze there.

The noise of the party blurred, the cheering fading to the background as her wide, slightly glassy eyes locked on his. His hands were firm at her back and thigh, steadying her, but neither of them moved to let go.

It was a beat too long—long enough for the crowd’s whoops to turn into knowing laughter, for Yelena to smirk down from the bar like she’d orchestrated it herself.

Her lips parted, but no words came out. Bucky’s chest rose and fell against hers, his grip not loosening, not yet.

Finally, she cleared her throat, the faintest smile tugging at her mouth. “Thanks, Buck.”

He didn’t trust himself to answer. Not with her still in his arms like that.

—

Bucky lost track of her for a while—saw her laughing near the bar with Wanda, then weaving through the crowd with a fresh drink in hand. Every so often, she’d glance up and catch him looking.

And each time, she didn’t look away right away.

Just let it hang there—eyes on his, a faint curve at her mouth, the smallest tilt of her head—before turning back to whoever she was talking to.

It was driving him insane.

“Buck.” Steve’s voice cut in, low but amused. He followed Bucky’s line of sight. “You’re staring again.”

“I’m not—”

“Sure,” Steve said, sipping his drink. “Not like I’ve watched you track her like a sniper all night.”

Sam wandered over in time to hear that. “Oh, he’s absolutely staring. Look at him. Man’s ready to risk international incidents over a dress.”

Bucky glared. “Don’t you have a bar to bother?”

“Not as fun as this,” Sam grinned.

The second the thudding beat of “Don’t Stop the Music” drops, the dance floor lights shift into a rhythmic kaleidoscope, strobes of crimson and gold spinning over the crowd—and Bucky sees her.

Striding back toward him, dress clinging to her like second skin, cheeks flushed from dancing and shots and laughing too hard. Her hair is a little messier now, like someone’s fingers have already been in it—his fingers, in a dream he can’t stop replaying. Her heels click across the floor, and she’s beaming like a girl with a mission.

His mission.

“You look like a ghost over here, Barnes,” she says, leaning in close enough for her lips to brush his ear. “Come dance with me.”

He lifts a brow, legs still planted like he’s resisting gravity itself. “Don’t know how to dance. Not in this century anyway.”

She backs up, grinning wicked and sweet, her voice playful and soft.

“Please? You owe me.”

“Owe you what?”

She tilts her head, pouting. “For tossing me around like a chew toy in the training room.”

He opens his mouth to argue—then closes it. Because she’s right. And because, if she’s asking, he’d walk through fire barefoot.

With a sigh, he stands. “You’re lucky I like you.”

Her eyes flicker, warm and too knowing. “I know.”

She laces her fingers with his, tugging him through the crowd. When they reach the center of the floor, the music swells—Rihanna’s voice wrapping around them like velvet, pulsing through the floor, through their bones.

“Do you know what you started? I just came here to party…”

She turns to face him and takes his hands, places them gently—intimately—on her waist. He swallows hard. Her skin is warm beneath the silk, and she smiles up at him like she’s handing him the sun.

“Just follow me,” she says, stepping closer. Their bodies brush, chest to chest, her thigh slipping between his legs, her hands trailing up his arms like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

He tries. God, he tries. Lets her guide his hips in time with hers, matching the slow sway of the rhythm. Her hands on his shoulders, his sliding lower—hesitating for just a breath—then resting firmly on her hips.

That’s it. He’s gone.

“We’re hand in hand, chest to chest, and now we’re face to face…”

His heart’s pounding. She smells like rose and sugar and something warm and sinful. The lights catch in the waves of her hair, casting glints of gold across her cheekbones. Her smile softens, eyes hooded and bright as she moves against him, rolling her hips just so.

He can’t think. Can’t breathe. She’s everywhere. The music blurs behind the pounding of blood in his ears.

Her fingers brush the back of his neck, pulling him closer. “You’re doing fine,” she whispers, and it’s intimate the way she says it—like it means more. Like she’s not just talking about dancing anymore.

His fingers tighten on her hips without meaning to. His head dips a little, so their foreheads nearly touch.

And the worst part?

He’s hard. Hard—from nothing but the way she smells and feels and moves, from the way she’s looking at him like she wants him just as badly. His jeans feel too tight, and he’s silently praying she doesn’t notice—but she does. She definitely does.

Because when her hips roll a little slower and her smile turns into something smug and devastating, her lips brush the edge of his jaw like an accident.

Across the room, from their booth near the bar, the entire team watches with open-mouthed awe.

Yelena practically leans over Nat’s lap, whisper-yelling, “LOOK at them! He’s about to combust! I give him two minutes before he does something illegal.”

“I mean,” Joaquin says, sipping his beer, “that man is at 110% capacity. He’s holding onto her like the Geneva Conventions don’t apply anymore.”

Nat takes one sip of her drink, completely unbothered. “She’s going to end up in his lap before this song ends.”

“He’s going to melt,” Yelena mutters. “His brain is short-circuiting. He has no idea what to do with her being all…” She gestures vaguely toward the dance floor. “That.”

They all watch in stunned silence as she tilts her head, leans in, and presses her lips—barely—against Bucky’s jaw, soft and slow and achingly deliberate. His hand spasms on her hip, and his eyes flutter shut.

Sam just whispers, “Dead man walking.”

The song ends in a blur of heat, heartbeat, and breathless tension.

The final beat fades and the lights shift, but Bucky doesn’t move. He’s still holding her—one hand on her hip, the other on her lower back, close enough to feel every inch of her, even as the rhythm slows and the crowd around them begins to disperse or shift partners.

She doesn’t pull away either.

She just looks up at him with flushed cheeks, the kind of quiet smile that could crack a man in half.

His head is spinning.

And then—

“Barnes!”

Tony’s voice cuts through the tension like a knife. “I need you for a second. Something about the heat sensors in the garage triggering—probably nothing, but Friday’s being dramatic.”

Bucky stiffens, jaw tight, eyes snapping back to her as if silently begging her not to move.

She smiles a little. Gentle. Understanding. Doesn’t say a word. Just brushes her fingers down his chest lightly as she steps away.

He walks away, slow and steady, but the second he’s out of view, he beelines for the balcony—cold air slamming into his lungs like a mercy. He braces both hands on the railing, heart thudding so hard it echoes in his ears, and closes his eyes.

The scent of her is still on his skin. The curve of her body still mapped on his hands. His brain is a mess—tequila, silk, her mouth near his ear, the roll of her hips to the beat, the softness in her voice when she looked up at him like he was something worth holding onto.

“Buck.” Sam’s voice is the first to cut through the haze.

Followed by footsteps.

Joaquin and Steve join them a moment later, all three of them lined up like a judgment panel at a very inappropriate emotional support group.

Bucky doesn’t turn around.

“I don’t wanna hear it.”

Sam crosses his arms. “We’re not here to tease you.”

Joaquin: “I am. But I can wait till you’ve calmed down a little.”

Steve leans on the railing beside him. “You okay?”

Bucky exhales sharply, still staring at the skyline. “I just—fuck, I don’t know.”

“She looked at you like you hung the moon,” Joaquin says. “You’re acting like she threw you off a cliff.”

“She danced with me,” Bucky mutters. “In that dress. Smelled like her perfume. Said things that—” He stops himself, swallowing thickly. “It’s not just the flirting. It’s her. Everything she does, everything she is, just makes it harder to pretend like this doesn’t matter.”

Steve’s voice is calm. “So stop pretending.”

“I can’t.” Bucky’s voice is strained, quiet. “Because the second I stop pretending… I won’t ever be able to stop. I’ll want everything.”

There’s a long silence.

Sam finally sighs. “You already want everything. You’re just suffering in a darker corner while it happens.”

“I’m trying to keep my shit together,” Bucky mutters. “That’s all I’m doing.”

Joaquin pats his back. “Brother, respectfully… you’re losing. Bad.”

Inside, the party hadn’t slowed down.

The music was still loud, the lights still spinning, people still drinking like the night had no end.

Y/N was dancing, laughing, shot glass in hand—but something about her was different now.

The spark hadn’t gone out. It had just dimmed.

Wanda noticed first. She leaned over from their little dance circle and murmured, “You okay?”

“Yeah,” she said too quickly. Too brightly. “Totally. Great.” She forced a smile, took the tequila shot, and joined Yelena in a loose sway to the beat of some Dua Lipa remix. Her movements were smooth, effortless even—but detached.

Because every few seconds, her eyes flicked toward the hallway.

The stairs.

The kitchen.

The bar.

Anywhere he might’ve gone.

Anywhere he might come back from.

But he didn’t.

Not once.

Not even for a second.

Still no Bucky.

Not even a glimpse.

She reached up and tucked a piece of hair behind her ear, fingers brushing her cheek where the warmth of his touch had lingered earlier, like her body was still remembering something her brain was trying not to hope for.

She smiled at someone walking by. She complimented Wanda’s dress. She joked with Yelena. She took another shot.

But the ache in her chest kept blooming.

Because if he left after that moment—after everything she said, everything she let him feel, everything she let herself feel—then maybe she had been wrong.

Maybe he didn’t want her like that.

And maybe pretending again was the only thing left.

He’d half expected her to stay inside.

To keep laughing with her friends, to let the night run its course without making this any harder than it already was.

But then the balcony door cracked open, the hum of the party spilling out for a second before it clicked shut again.

She stepped out into the cool air, arms wrapping lightly around herself, her heels clicking softly against the stone as she crossed to him.

“I think I went too far,” she said quietly.

Bucky straightened from the railing. “What?”

“With the dancing.” Her gaze darted to his, then away again. “And the shots. And—” she exhaled, her breath misting faintly in the night air—“just the whole night. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

“You didn’t,” he said immediately, the word sharper than he intended.

Her brow furrowed. “You left.”

“I needed air.”

She looked up at him then, searching his face. “Because of me?”

He hesitated, the truth burning a hole in his chest. “Because you…” He stopped, shook his head. “You make it hard to think sometimes.”

Her lips parted, but she didn’t move, didn’t push. “I’m sorry if I—”

“Don’t be.” His voice had gone low, steady, even though inside it was anything but. “You didn’t cross any lines. If anything…” He trailed off, the rest caught somewhere between his throat and his better judgment.

The faintest crease softened from her brow, replaced by something warmer. “Okay.”

They stood there for a beat, the muffled bass of the party behind them, the scent of her perfume threading into the night air, her bare back catching the glow from inside.

She didn’t go right back in.

Instead, she stepped up beside him, resting her forearms on the railing, her gaze settling on the city spread out below—lights twinkling, the distant hum of traffic like a low tide.

He mirrored her posture, close enough that her bare arm brushed his sleeve when the wind shifted.

For a few beats, neither of them spoke. Then her right leg flexed slightly, brushing against the back of his left calf in a slow, idle motion—barely there, but impossible to ignore.

“I’m glad you came out tonight,” she said at last, eyes still on the skyline. “I know you hate this kind of thing. The crowds, the noise, the… glitz.”

Bucky’s mouth quirked, his gaze fixed somewhere in the middle distance. “I don’t hate them when you’re around.”

Her head turned toward him then, a soft smile tugging at her lips. “That’s sweet.”

He kept looking at the city, but there was the faintest warmth in his voice. “It’s true.”

She let her gaze linger on him for a moment longer, then turned back to the skyline. The city lights reflected faintly in her eyes, her perfume threading through the cool air between them.

The quiet felt good. Easy.

And then the balcony door slid open.

“There you are!” Yelena’s voice broke in, bright and unbothered. “We’re starting another round of shots, come on.”

Her leg stilled against his, but she didn’t move right away—just glanced at him with that small smile again before pushing off the railing.

“Don’t disappear on me,” she said softly, and then she was gone, heels clicking against the stone as she slipped back inside.

Bucky stayed where he was, staring at the city but not really seeing it, the ghost of her touch still burning against his leg.

—

The party winded down slowly, like the last embers of a fire—guests trickling out, music fading to something mellow and soft, heels dangling from tired hands and laughter tapering off into warm, late-night sighs. The compound glowed with golden light, casting everything in that sleepy, after-midnight haze.

She was barefoot now, dress wrinkled from dancing, curls loosened and falling around her flushed cheeks. She held her heels in one hand and Bucky’s in the other, fingers laced like it was second nature now.

Neither of them said much on the walk to her room.

There was a calm between them, thick and charged but sweet, their shoulders bumping gently as they made their way down the quiet hallway. The world had quieted but something between them hadn’t. If anything, it pulsed louder now in the silence.

When they reached her door, she turned to face him, thumb brushing softly along his knuckles.

“Thanks for staying with me tonight,” she said, voice barely above a whisper. “Even when it got… complicated.”

He smiled, tired and crooked and full of something real. “There’s nowhere else I’d wanna be.”

His eyes flicked to the door behind her, and then back to her face, jaw tightening slightly like he was bracing himself. “I should let you get some rest,” he murmured, already starting to release her hand.

But she didn’t let go.

Instead, she stepped closer. So close her chest brushed his. So close her breath ghosted across his jaw when she looked up at him through those lashes and asked, softly—

“Will you come inside?”

She pressed her body gently to his, looking up at him like a prayer wrapped in perfume and silk. Her voice was barely there. Sweet. Devastating.

“I know,” she whispered. “You’re being good. Always good.” She reached up, her fingers slipping into his hair, thumb brushing behind his ear. “But I don’t want you to be a gentleman tonight. I just want you.”

God help him.

She could’ve pushed. Could’ve teased.

But she was asking.

Soft. Open. Wanting.

And that was what broke him.

Not the look in her eyes.

Not the warmth of her hand on his chest.

Not even the sweet, aching kiss she gave him just before she whispered “stay with me.”

It was the way she meant it.

He didn’t speak. Just nodded, quiet and reverent, and followed her in.

She closed the door behind them, turned to face him, and his hands were already on her hips, already backing her toward the bed like he’d been dreaming of this moment for months. And he had.

Her room was warm and dim, lit only by the faint city light bleeding through the curtains and the soft glow of the lamp she’d forgotten to turn off earlier. It smelled like her—rose, linen, skin—and for the first time in what felt like forever, Bucky didn’t feel like a soldier or a ghost or something caught between centuries.

He felt like a man. And she was looking at him like he was hers.

She took his hand and led him wordlessly to the bed, her dress whispering against her thighs with each step. Then she gently pressed at his chest, coaxing him to sit, and he went willingly—like there was never a world in which he wouldn’t.

He sat at the edge, legs apart, fingers twitching against his knees like he didn’t know what to do with himself now that she was this close and everything was real.

She stood between his knees, barefoot and flushed, looking down at him like he held every answer in the world. Her fingers hovered near his jaw before finally brushing along his cheek with a tenderness that made his throat tighten.

He kissed her like she was the only thing he’d ever get to taste again.

Like he needed her.

Like he’d earned this—every sigh, every shiver, every inch of skin he was about to memorize.

Bucky shifted gently, turning and laying her back against the mattress like she was something precious, his hands strong and steady as he guided her down with him. Her legs stayed curled around his hips, but her arms stretched out above her for a moment, hair spilling like a halo across the pillow, messy and radiant in the low golden light. Her lips were swollen from kissing, cheeks pink and eyes heavy-lidded and so full of trust it nearly undid him.

She looked up at him like he was everything she wanted.

And it broke his heart a little—because she was everything he didn’t know he could want.

His metal hand braced beside her head, while the other brushed her hair back with tender fingers.

“You sure?” he murmured, voice low, gravel-soft. “I’ll stop right now if you want me to.”

She reached up, curled her fingers gently around the collar of his shirt, and tugged him down until their foreheads touched. Her voice was barely a breath. “Bucky, I think if I ask you to stop I’ll slap myself into a different dimension.”

He kissed her again—soft and deep and lingering—before beginning his slow descent.

First, her mouth.

Then her cheek.

Then the edge of her jaw, warm skin beneath his lips.

He pressed another kiss just below her ear, then lower, along the curve of her throat, sucking gently until she sighed, her hips twitching against his. He smiled against her skin.

“Sensitive?” he murmured, teasing.

“You’re mean,” she whispered, grinning, breath catching as he kissed lower, slow.

“Not yet,” he said, and her soft gasp when he said it told him exactly what she liked.

He trailed down, mouthing gently along her collarbone, nuzzling the dip there before kissing lower—pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses over the front of her dress, feeling the warmth of her through the silk.

Her hands slipped into his hair again, hips rolling subtly beneath him.

Bucky slid his hand up her thigh, pushing the silk of the dress higher as he went. When he kissed just above her breast, he paused, giving her time to stop him.

She didn’t.

Instead, she arched up into his touch.

“Off,” she whispered, voice breathy and low. “Take it off.”

He helped her sit up just enough to slip the straps of her dress down her shoulders, letting it fall away, slow and reverent, like he was unwrapping something sacred. The fabric pooled at her waist, exposing her bare chest, and Bucky stilled.

For a moment, he didn’t move. Didn’t even breathe.

She was beautiful. Beyond reason. Every inch of her soft and warm and real beneath his hands. The soft curve of her breasts, the line of her ribs, the flush of her chest—all of it was hers, and she was giving it to him.

She brushed her thumb over his bottom lip. “Yours,” she said again. “I want to feel your mouth everywhere.”

He groaned like it hurt.

Then did exactly what she asked.

He kissed her breast, slow and warm, his tongue flicking gently over her nipple before he sucked—just enough to make her moan, soft and needy, back arching into his mouth.

“James,” she gasped, breath breaking.

He moved lower.

Kissed down her stomach.

Trails of fire where his mouth touched her skin, his hands smoothing down her sides as he dropped to his elbows, worshiping her with every inch he uncovered.

Each kiss was permission.

Each sigh from her was a plea for more.

He took his time.

Because he could.

Because she deserved it.

And because no part of him ever wanted to forget what it felt like to undress her with his mouth and hands and hear her whisper his name like it was the only thing she’d ever known.

Her dress was a crumpled mess of fabric in the corner of the room in no time.

He kissed the inside of her thigh, then again, higher this time. Her fingers curled in the sheets. Her breath caught in her throat. Her chest rose with every shiver he drew from her, every gentle nip of his teeth.

But even through the haze of pleasure and fire, she noticed it.

He was only touching her with one hand.

His flesh hand skimmed up her ribcage, cupping her breast, brushing his thumb across her nipple. It trembled slightly with the weight of restraint, thumb circling slowly, eyes locked to her face like he wanted to memorize every expression she made.

But his metal hand?

Still.

On the bed.

Braced beside her, fingers flexing against the sheets like he was scared of his own grip.

And suddenly she knew.

He didn’t think she noticed, but of course she did. He always did this—always kept that hand in his pocket when they walked, always reached for her cheek with the other when they hugged. Not because he was ashamed of it. But because he thought she might be afraid of it. That it might hurt her. That it wasn’t gentle enough for this.

Her heart ached.

Because it was his. All of him was.

And she wanted every inch.

So while his mouth found the crease of her thigh and kissed it open—while she let her head tip back and moaned soft and low as his tongue began to tease her gently—her hand reached down. Found his metal wrist. Cool and tense beneath her fingertips.

He hesitated.

She guided it up.

First, to her throat.

His breath hitched.

“I want all of you,” she whispered, voice shaky but sure. “Touch me. Please. Don’t hold back.”

His fingers, stiff at first, settled gently around her throat. Not squeezing. Just resting. Measuring the beat of her pulse. Feeling how she thrived beneath him.

He groaned softly, mouth never leaving her, tongue now licking deeper, slower, groaning when she rocked her hips against his face like she was unraveling for him and him alone.

“Fuck,” she breathed, a whimper curling from her throat. “Bucky, yes—”

His metal thumb brushed up over her pulse.

Still careful.

Still hesitant.

So she let her hand drift from his hair, down his arm, until she gently tugged it from her throat—then guided it to her breast.

His breath stuttered.

And then he groaned—deep and guttural—because she arched into his touch, chest rising against his palm, moaning louder now as his mouth moved faster and the cold metal cupped the heat like it belonged there.

It did.

He wasn’t too rough.

He wasn’t too much.

He was hers.

And when she came on his tongue, thighs shaking around his head, her nails digging into his forearm—flesh and metal—he looked up at her like a man lost to devotion, mouth slick with her, chest heaving, every inch of him aching to worship her again.

And again.

She lay there trembling, flushed from head to toe, her chest rising in soft, shaky breaths. Her skin damp with sweat and the lingering heat of release, and her lips parted in the aftermath of a moan that still echoed faintly in the air between them.

Bucky hadn’t moved yet.

He was still between her legs, still on his knees on the bed, chest heaving, mouth wet and pink and kissed raw from how thoroughly he’d worshiped her. His hair had fallen over his forehead, his pupils were blown, and his lips were parted as he stared at her like she was the first good thing he’d ever been allowed to have.

She reached for him, eyes still hazy but full of something tender—not just want, not just lust. Something deeper.

“C’mere,” she whispered, voice rasped.

He moved like he’d been summoned. Crawled up over her slowly, every inch of him controlled, caged, careful—still treating her like she might break.

But she wasn’t fragile.

She was his.

He braced himself on either side of her, the mattress dipping beneath his weight, and kissed her again—slower now, like he was trying to remember the shape of her mouth forever. She tasted herself on his tongue and moaned softly into it, fingers threading into his hair, tugging until he pressed harder, deeper, hips grinding against hers just enough to draw a shared gasp between them.

That’s when she felt it.

The thick, aching bulge pressed against her inner thigh through the fabric of his pants.

And God, the way he kissed her—desperate but reverent, like he was asking for permission even now, even after she’d fallen apart under him.

She broke the kiss first, breathless. “Take these off.”

He blinked, dazed. “What—?”

“Your clothes, Buck.” She cupped his jaw, guiding his gaze back to hers. “I want to see you.”

His throat bobbed. “You sure?”

She smiled, soft and utterly unshakable. “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”

He nodded once, shakily, and sat back on his knees again to strip.

He started with his shirt, pulling it over his head, slow and unsure—and when the fabric fell away, her breath caught.

Because God.

He was carved muscle and scars and history—shoulders broad, chest thick and dusted with hair, that metal arm catching the light as it flexed, still braced beside her. The blue glow from the city bled in through the curtains and danced over his collarbone and the sharp cut of his waist like it knew what it was doing.

Her eyes swept down the rest of him as he unfastened his belt and slid his pants down his hips. He didn’t say a word, didn’t preen or act cocky—but the way he saw her watching him?

It made his cock twitch.

And when he kicked the last of his clothes to the floor and settled between her thighs again, fully bared, she reached for him like she couldn’t stand another second of not touching him.

Their skin met, and both of them gasped.

“Fuck,” she whispered, hands running up his chest, over the metal plates of his shoulder, then down again to where he was now pressing, heavy and hard, against her center. “You’re so warm,” she breathed. “Everywhere.”

“Not everywhere,” he rasped, voice breaking.

She looked down between them—where he was thick and flushed and leaking against her skin, dragging slowly through the mess between her thighs.

And then she looked back up, gaze locked to his. “Then let me warm you up.”

She guided him to sit against the headboard, and he groaned, full-bodied, and moving up to kiss her again—this time messier, hungrier, his hand (the metal one) sliding under her thigh to grab at anything he could.

He lined himself up, rubbing the head of his cock through her folds, dragging it against her clit, teasing her with maddening slowness as they both panted into each other’s mouths.

She arched into him, desperate. “Please,” she whispered. “Bucky—please, I need you—”

“You have me,” he said, and then she sank down.

Slow.

Thick.

Deep.

Her mouth fell open with a gasped cry, her head tilting back, eyes fluttering shut as he filled her inch by inch.

And he—

He was fucking ruined.

His jaw clenched hard. His head tipped back against the headboard with a low, wrecked groan that vibrated deep in his chest. “Fuck— baby, you’re so—tight, so warm—”

Her fingers braced on his chest, nails dragging lightly through the hair there as she rocked her hips forward another inch, then another, watching him the whole time.

He was staring at her like she was the most sacred, sinful thing he’d ever seen.

The way her breath caught. The way her eyes fluttered closed for just a second before opening again. The way her lips parted on a sigh when she finally bottomed out and sat flush against him, completely full.

She shuddered above him, breathless.

The stretch was intense, almost too much—but exactly what she craved. That aching, burning fullness that made her feel his in the most intimate, undeniable way.

“Jesus Christ,” Bucky groaned, his hands gripping her hips tighter, eyes wide as he looked down between them, then up at her again. “You feel like—fucking heaven.”

She smiled softly, still catching her breath. “You okay?”

He laughed under his breath, almost in disbelief. “I’ve never been more than okay a second in my life until right now.”

She rolled her hips slightly, just once, just to feel him shift inside her—and his hands spasmed on her hips, head dropping forward to rest against her chest.

She cradled the back of his head with one hand and whispered into his hair, “We can move when you’re ready.”

“I am moving,” he muttered against her sternum, voice tight. “I’m moving closer to God.”

She giggled—and then moaned when he lifted his head and thrust up into her, slow but deep, pulling a sharp gasp from her throat.

Her eyes fluttered shut for just a second before she forced them open again.

“Keep looking at me,” she whispered. “I want to see you. Every time you fill me up.”

His pupils blown, lips kiss-swollen, face flushed and reverent—he obeyed.

Held her gaze while she rocked her hips against his, slow and deliberate, while she began to ride him. Controlled and sensual, meeting every upward thrust with a roll of her hips that left them both shaking.

Each time she sank down on him, they gasped—together. Her nails dug into his shoulders. His hands mapped every inch of her waist, her back, her thighs.

She felt like home.

He felt like worship.

“You’re gonna kill me,” he groaned. “You’re—fuck, baby—”

“Yours,” she breathed again, lips brushing his.

He kissed her. Deep and messy and filthy.

And still not nearly enough.

Their mouths crashed together again, all teeth and tongue and raw, panting heat. She rolled her hips down just as Bucky thrust up—deep—and they both moaned into each other’s mouths like the sound had nowhere else to go.

Her thighs quivered around him, every muscle tight and trembling with the effort of how slow they were going, how much it was building. Every drag of his cock inside her was perfect—thick, full, devastating—stretching her in a way that made her toes curl against the mattress.

And he watched her.

Eyes dark, wild, locked to the way her brows furrowed and her lips parted as she sank down on him again and again, the soft bounce of her breasts with each roll of her hips, the slick heat that gathered between them, shining on his cock every time he nearly slipped out.

“You feel so good,” she whispered, forehead pressed to his. “So full. Like I’m made for you.”

He groaned—choked on it—and buried his face in her neck, mouthing at her skin, tongue trailing over the salt-sweet curve of her collarbone as his hands gripped her tighter, one flesh and one metal.

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he panted, voice ragged. “You’re killing me—riding me like you own me—”

“I do own you,” she whispered, smiling against his cheek.

And fuck, he loved the way she said it—teasing, sure, but also true. Because she did. Had for a long time. Had him wrapped around her finger, around her thighs, around the sweet heat of her body like a ribbon.

He kissed her again—rougher now, deeper—and started thrusting up harder, faster, matching the pace of her hips as the rhythm built between them. She gasped into his mouth, nails dragging down his back, head falling back to expose the line of her throat.

“Look at me,” he rasped again, hand on her jaw, tilting her face toward his. “I wanna see you come. Right here. On me.”

She nodded frantically, whining, eyes wide and heavy-lidded, her hips stuttering as the angle hit just right—again, and again, and again—the thick drag of him stroking over every nerve inside her until her thighs started to tremble.

“I’m close,” she whimpered. “Oh my God, Bucky—don’t stop—”

“I won’t,” he promised, breathless and earnest and wrecked. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you, baby—come for me.”

And with one more deep, perfect thrust, she shattered.

His thrusts were stuttering now, deeper, more erratic, like his whole body was unraveling from the inside out.

Bucky’s forehead pressed against hers, breath shaking, metal hand wrapped tight around her waist while the other gripped her hip like a lifeline. Her pussy was fluttering around him, still soaked and pulsing from her orgasm, her moans breathy and desperate in his ear.

“Y/N,” he groaned, nearly broken. “Fuck, baby—I’m close, I’m gonna—shit—”

“Inside,” she begged. “You can—”

But something in him hesitated.

Not fear. Not shame. Just old instinct. He pulled out at the last second, thick and flushed and leaking—his hand already moving to finish himself, the hot rush of pleasure surging up like a wave about to crest. He was going to come all over her stomach, maybe her thighs, maybe his own hand—but then—

She moved fast. Too fast for him to stop her.

Dropped to her knees between his spread thighs on the bed, eyes burning into his as she gripped the base of his cock with one hand and took him in her mouth.

His entire body jerked.

“Fuck— Angel—Jesus!”

He hadn’t expected that. Hadn’t even thought she would—he’d pulled out to be good, to be safe, to keep things controlled. Whatever that means now.

But now?

Her mouth was hot and wet and perfect, sucking him deep without hesitation, and his control shattered in an instant.

He came hard.

Groaned her name like it was ripped from his throat, one hand braced behind him against the headboard while the other—his metal one—curled into her hair on instinct as he spilled onto her tongue, pulse by pulse, gasping for breath like she’d knocked the air from his lungs.

She moaned around him—moaned—as she swallowed, lips wrapped tightly around him, not letting a single drop go to waste. Her hand stroked him through it, slowly, lovingly, her eyes fluttering closed like she was the one being given a gift.

“Holy shit,” he panted, watching her with wide, awe-struck eyes, chest heaving. “You—you didn’t have to—”

She pulled off of him with a little pop, licking her lips, smiling like she’d just devoured him whole.

“I wanted to,” she said softly, like that explained everything.

And it did.

Because she always knew what he needed—even when he didn’t.

She crawled back up his body, slow and graceful, straddling his lap again, her kiss tasting like sweat and salt and him. He wrapped his arms around her, dazed and undone and full of nothing but her.

[ilovolderman]

Tactical Romance

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

Summary: Sam assigns you and Bucky to go undercover as a couple in love. Too bad you’re already secretly together.

Word Count: 2.7k

Warnings: humor, fluff, secret dating, mild language.

A/N: this can be read as a standalone even though it's part of a series called "You Said What". it doesn't necessarily follow a specific order, but if you want to check out the other parts, here they are: part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6, part 7, part 8, part 9, part 10, part 11, part 12, part 13, part 14. thanks for reading, i hope you like it :)

"Okay," Sam said, walking into the briefing room with the energy of a man who knew he was about to start drama. "I’ve got a mission. I need two agents to pose as a couple."

You instantly made eye contact with Bucky across the room.

Do not react, you told yourself.

He blinked once. Internally, you knew he was screaming.

“Now,” Sam continued, clicking the projector like he was running a middle school PowerPoint on volcanoes, “this op involves a gala, high society, and a suspicious arms dealer named Claude who only talks to married couples—don’t ask why.”

Natasha raised a brow. “Is that in the briefing packet?”

“No,” Sam said, “it’s in the vibes.”

Bucky raised a hand, deadpan. “Why not send a real couple?”

“Great question, Barnes!” Sam said, pointing at him with both hands. “But everyone else is busy.”

“Then just send Nat,” you offered. “She can flirt better than any of us.”

Natasha smirked. “True. But I already told Sam I’m not wearing heels for a mission unless it involves international espionage or revenge.”

You and Bucky exchanged another look.

Sam was absolutely waiting for someone to say it.

So of course, he didn’t wait.

“I’ve made an executive decision,” he said, with the smugness of a man about to kick over a tower of secrets. “Bucky and Y/N—you’re the couple.”

You choked on your coffee. “Come again?”

“You heard me. Fake married. Matching outfits. Holding hands. Possibly light cheek kissing if the situation calls for it.”

Bucky blinked. “Why do you sound excited about this?”

“Because,” Sam said, hitting the projector remote again, “I’ve already booked you a honeymoon suite.”

There was a long pause.

Then Natasha asked, “Do they at least get room service?”

“Only if they send me proof of cuddling,” Sam said.

Natasha turned to you with a perfectly neutral face. “I’ll pack the champagne.”

The ballroom glittered.

It was the kind of high-society gala where everything sparkled a little too much—chandeliers like miniature suns, polished marble floors that made your footsteps echo like plot twists, and champagne that probably cost more than your monthly rent. Twice.

You tugged at the neckline of your gown as you stepped into the ballroom, arm hooked through Bucky’s, your smile surgically affixed in place.

“Relax,” he murmured under his breath, hand gently settling on the small of your back. “You look perfect.”

You shot him a sideways glance. “We’re pretending to be married, Barnes. You’re supposed to say ‘You always look perfect, darling.’”

He arched a brow, lips twitching. “Sorry. I left my 1950s husband voice in my other tactical suit.”

You bit back a laugh. His palm stayed against your back, warm and steady. A grounding presence in the chaos of music, silk gowns, and political sharks in tuxedos.

Natasha’s voice crackled softly in your comm. “Target spotted. Claude Lemaire. East side of the ballroom. He’s drinking something fluorescent. Approach casual. You’re a couple in love, remember.”

You sighed, keeping your smile sweet for the passing diplomats. “I’m gonna strangle Sam for assigning us this op.”

“I’ll hold him down,” Bucky said, smile tight.

Your gaze flicked around. You spotted Claude—smug, suspicious, currently being schmoozed by an arms broker in a floor-length sequined cape.

Showtime.

Bucky leaned down slightly, murmuring in your ear, “Ready to be disgustingly in love in public?”

You tilted your head up. “You’ve been training your whole life for this, Barnes.”

He smirked. “I am very good at suffering in silence.”

As you approached Claude, Bucky adjusted your hand in the crook of his arm—then, unexpectedly, laced your fingers with his.

Your heart flipped. Not because it was new—you’d held his hand a hundred times in private. But here, now, under chandeliers and mission stress and the eyes of an international arms dealer?

This was allowed.

This was on purpose.

You squeezed his fingers back.

“Okay,” you said, “be charming and mildly intimidating. Claude likes couples who are affectionate but could also kill him.”

“So us,” Bucky said simply.

You blinked. “...That’s alarmingly accurate.” as you approached Claude, the target—who immediately smiled and said, “Ah, the newlyweds! I can always tell.”

Bucky didn’t miss a beat. “It’s the way she glares at me with love.”

Claude laughed, delighted. “And you—what do you love most about her?”

You froze.

But Bucky didn’t.

He leaned in slightly, eyes soft. “She’s the only person who ever makes me feel calm. And she lets me finish her fries.”

Your heart did something illogical.

Claude cooed like you were puppies.

God help you.

As he turned to fetch another drink, you pulled Bucky aside, into the quieter corner of the ballroom. Behind you, strings swelled into a sweeping waltz.

You looked up at him. “Okay. That was almost too convincing.”

He stepped closer, voice quieter. “I meant it.”

Your chest tightened. The lights glinted off the cuff of his sleeve, the faint silver of his dog tags just peeking out beneath his collar.

“I know,” you said softly. “But here, right now—we’re allowed to mean it.”

He watched you, gaze steady. “How weird is it that pretending feels easier than hiding?”

“Very,” you whispered.

“Do you want to… pretend a little longer?”

He held out his hand—not mission protocol. Not because Natasha was watching. Just because he wanted to.

You took it.

He pulled you into a slow, quiet dance. Not at the center of the room. Not under a spotlight. Just off to the side, in the warm gold of chandelier light and the faintest breeze from an open balcony door.

You moved together easily. Like you’d done this before. Because you had.

Just never in public. Never like this.

His hand settled on your waist. Your other hand rested lightly against his chest. You could feel the steady thump of his heart beneath your fingers.

No one interrupted. No one questioned it.

Here, in this room, you weren’t hiding. For once, the mission gave you a reason to be exactly who you were.

And the look Bucky gave you?

That was real.

Natasha’s voice came back in, low and amused.

“Claude bought the story. He’s requesting a private meeting to ‘discuss business ventures’ with the newlyweds. Good work, lovebirds.”

You didn’t reply.

You were too busy trying not to smile too wide as Bucky leaned in, brushed a kiss—not dramatic, not flashy, just real and yours—against your temple.

He pulled back just enough to murmur, “Let’s pretend again tomorrow.”

You nodded. “And the next day.”

“And the next.”

His thumb traced your knuckles, slow and deliberate.

Outside, the gala continued—music and laughter and glittering espionage.

Inside, you swayed slowly with Bucky in a room full of people, hearts pounding just a little too loud.

And for once?

You didn’t mind being seen.

Back in the van (because of course there’s a van) Sam and Natasha watched the feed in silence.

After a moment, Natasha said, “He’s gonna blow it.”

“No,” Sam whispered. “He’s too smooth. No one’s that smooth unless they’re in actual love.”

“Maybe he’s just committed to the bit.”

Sam narrowed his eyes. “No one commits to bit-cuddling.”

Then he gasped and zoomed in.

“Did you see that hand placement?! That’s not fake couple hand placement. That’s kitchen slow-dancing at midnight hand placement!”

Natasha blinked. “Wow. You’ve been single a long time.”

“I’m gonna prove it,” Sam muttered. “If I have to stake out their honeymoon suite and wear a fake mustache, I will.”

The suite Claude arranged for the “private meeting” was obnoxiously luxurious. Velvet chairs. Crystal decanters. Some sort of art installation that looked like an angry glass squid. Too much.

You and Bucky sat on a plush couch that was absolutely too small for two people to sit on without touching.

Which, you suspected, was very much the point.

You’d barely sat down before Bucky’s thigh brushed yours. Not by accident. Not entirely on purpose either. Just inevitable. His knee tilted slightly toward yours, as if even his body couldn’t help it anymore.

He didn’t pull away. You didn’t either.

Claude was droning on across from you, gesturing with a fancy whiskey glass, talking about “cross-border investments” and “risk tolerance.”

You barely heard him. You were focused on Bucky’s hand. His right hand. The human one.

It was resting on the couch cushion, two inches from yours.

Then one inch.

Then—casually, quietly—he tilted his pinky so it just barely touched yours.

You felt it like a current.

You didn’t move. You didn’t even breathe.

Across the room, Claude chuckled at something he said. You laughed politely. So did Bucky. He leaned toward you just slightly to whisper in your ear—something about Claude’s fake laugh—but his breath hit the sensitive spot just beneath your jaw.

You flinched. Barely.

He noticed.

You turned your head. Slowly.

His eyes were right there. Closer than they’d been all night. Blue and unreadable and full of that quiet, dangerous softness he saved for late nights and safe houses.

“You okay?” he murmured, voice low.

You nodded. “You?”

He didn’t answer immediately.

Instead, his fingers brushed the inside of your wrist. Light. Thoughtless. Like he didn’t even know he was doing it.

“Hard to concentrate,” he said finally, just for you.

You smiled faintly. “Claude’s very boring.”

“I meant you.”

You turned fully toward him. “You’re not supposed to say things like that when we’re in character.”

He smiled, slow and tired of pretending. “I thought being in character meant I could.”

That quiet settled between you again—the kind that felt warm and electric and entirely too much for a diplomatic arms deal.

Then his arm moved behind you, stretching lazily along the back of the couch, but the motion brought his body just slightly closer. Not enough for Claude to notice. But enough that you could feel Bucky’s breath when he exhaled. Slow. Careful.

You reached up and rested your hand on his thigh. The way a partner would. Calm. Unthinking. But your fingers curled slightly—possessive, grounding.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

Then his hand slid down from the couch back, settled at the curve of your waist.

Just resting.

Warm.

Familiar.

God, this was so much easier when you weren’t allowed to touch him. Because now, in front of someone else, for the sake of a lie, you got to have the thing you usually had to hide.

It wasn’t fair, but it was also irresistible.

You turned your head just slightly and leaned into him. Not dramatically. Not for show. Just… letting your shoulder rest against his chest, your temple near his jaw.

You whispered, “You’re going to ruin me.”

He whispered back, “You’re going to marry me if you keep looking at me like that.”

You blinked up at him. “That a proposal?”

He smiled, soft and secret. “It’s a warning.”

Your pulse skipped. Not because it was just banter. But because the way he said it—it didn’t feel like a joke. It felt like a promise he hadn’t let himself say out loud until now.

Claude was still talking.

You had no idea what he was saying.

All you knew was that Bucky Barnes had his hand on your waist, his thigh against yours, and a look in his eyes that said:

I’m not pretending anymore.

Later, you and Bucky entered the suite, door clicking shut behind you.

It was comically romantic. Rose petals. Candles. One bed. (Obviously.)

“I swear Sam did this on purpose,” you muttered.

“I swear I’m not mad about it,” Bucky replied, loosening his tie.

You turned to him. “So… we sleep top-to-toe? Classic sitcom panic mode?”

He grinned. “Or we sleep normal. Because we’re adults. Who have definitely shared beds before.”

You rolled your eyes but smiled. “Fine. But no funny business. I know Nat’s watching the security feed.”

“She’s probably betting on how long we’ll cuddle before falling asleep.”

“I give it ten minutes,” you said.

“Five,” Bucky replied.

In the next morningSam burst into the suite with a camera. “AHA! Caught in the—”

He stopped.

You and Bucky were fast asleep.

Fully dressed. On opposite sides of the bed.

A pillow fortress between you.

Sam stared, defeated. “Dammit. They’re good.”

Natasha strolled in behind him, sipping coffee. “Told you. You’ll never catch them.”

“But I know! I feel it in my soul!”

She patted his shoulder. “Maybe your soul’s just lonely.”

Sam sulked. “They’re smug. I hate smug couples.”

She grinned. “You love them.”

“Shut up.”

Lateras you were walking back to the surveillance van Bucky slid a note into your pocket. You opened it.

“Reason #3: You fake-slept through Sam’s 5 a.m. ‘gotcha’ ambush. That’s dedication.” – B

You turned, caught him watching you, and mouthed, Reason 4?

He smiled and tapped his heart.

You grinned.

Sam muttered, “They’re either the world’s greatest spies or a Hallmark movie waiting to happen.”

“Can’t it be both?” Natasha leaned back, smirking. “So. The Claude meeting. Anything to report?”

Bucky answered first. “He’s interested. Nat’s recording should give us enough to start mapping the transfer routes.”

You nodded, trying to sound normal. “We played the part. He bought it.”

Natasha, sipping from a travel mug that definitely wasn’t just coffee. “He’s a narcissist. Loved being the only one in the room who wasn’t making eyes at someone.”

Your stomach flipped.

Sam’s eyes narrowed. “That’s funny. Because when I reviewed the van feed—”

You groaned. “Please don’t say van feed like that.”

Sam powered on the tablet dramatically. “—it looked less like ‘pretend married’ and more like ‘emotionally compromised barn animals.’”

Bucky blinked. “What does that even mean?”

“You were making heart eyes like a Disney prince. There was forehead touching. Wistful sighing. And at one point, I swear to God, you grazed her wrist like you were reading poetry off her pulse.”

You pressed your palms to your face. “You are not a stable witness.”

Sam leaned forward, squinting. “You’re holding hands right now, aren’t you?”

Your heart stuttered.

You looked down—

Yep.

Your fingers had laced together automatically, Bucky’s thumb tracing lazy, soft circles on your knuckles. It hadn’t even been conscious.

You started to pull away.

Bucky didn’t flinch. Just shifted casually, reaching for a crumpled mission report, letting your hands fall apart like nothing had happened.

“Just reviewing the debrief notes,” he said smoothly.

Sam didn’t catch it. He was too busy flipping through surveillance timestamps. “I swear there was a moment. Like a moment moment. At 17:43. Don’t lie to me, Barnes.”

Natasha didn’t look up. “He’s not lying. He’s deflecting.”

You folded your arms. “Maybe you’re just projecting. You want there to be something.”

Sam made a sound of pure disbelief. “Why would I want that?”

Natasha shrugged. “Because you’re bored. And nosy. And deeply emotionally invested for someone who claims not to care.”

Bucky nodded, flipping through the report without looking at it. “Also you made a slideshow called Operation: They’re Totally in Love and Lying About It.”

“That was a working title,” Sam muttered.

You nudged Bucky’s foot under the bench. Quick. Hidden.

He tapped back.

Natasha noticed. She always noticed. But she just sipped her coffee like it was tea.

The rest of the debrief was more of the same—Sam theorizing, you deflecting, Bucky offering occasional vague phrases like “mission cohesion” and “emotional rapport under cover.”

Sam threw up his hands. “Fine. Maybe you’re not dating. Maybe you’re just weirdly co-dependent and touchy.”

You nodded solemnly. “Mission chemistry. It happens.”

“She’s very comfortable to lean on,” Bucky added, deadpan. “Physically. Strategically. Emotionally.”

Sam pointed wildly between you both. “That’s not normal.”

Natasha tilted her head. “Neither are you.”

As you stepped out of the van, Bucky caught your hand—briefly, barely noticeable to anyone passing by.

You didn’t look at each other.

Didn’t speak.

Just let your fingers brush once before dropping back to your sides, like nothing happened.

Like there wasn’t a storm of warmth between your ribs.

“Good job in there,” he murmured under his breath.

You smirked. “You too. Very smooth deflection.”

Bucky glanced down the hallway. “Think Sam’s convinced?”

“No,” you said. “But he’s tired.”

He grinned. “We should buy Natasha lunch or something.”

“Or a secure USB with all the evidence she’s sitting on.”

Bucky laughed under his breath and walked beside you down the corridor—shoulder to shoulder, hands apart, hearts very much not in mission mode anymore.

Still a secret.

Still yours.

next part

a/n: thank y’all for being so patient with me and always showing you said what so much love <33 i already have the next part done, so i promise the next update won’t take long! love you sm!

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[street-smarts00]

two bodies riddled with scars

Bucky Barnes x fem!reader

post TFATWS

Summary: Your past is catching up with you. When the ghosts you’ve tried to hide in your closet threaten your boyfriend, you have to revisit your past, do things you swore you’d never do again, and make a deal with the devil. 

When Bucky is returned, you both help patch up each other's wounds. Physical and emotional ones.

wc: 5.7k

Tags/Warnings: Kidnapping, implied torture, mentions of murder! Made up lore for reader (Inferno is completely made up by me) Angst, hurt/comfort, heavily inspired by TV show scandal and based on request

A/N: To the person who requested this fic, sorry this took so long to post. I almost finished this like three weeks ago but didn’t have time to write the ending until now. Also I binged up until mid season 4 of Scandal that show is so fucking good. I hope y’all like this one. I really liked writing it and coming up with the backstory. beta read by @whats-yesterday00

Your phone started ringing as you put in your earrings. You quickly ran over to your phone to see the caller ID, expecting it to be Bucky. A sigh escaped you at the ‘Unknown Caller’ on the screen. Ignoring the call, you walked back to the mirror and finished putting in your earrings. 

Bucky was supposed to pick you up soon for your date. The relationship was still fresh, only a few months old. You’d only just said ‘I love you’ for the first time last week. Yet after all the dates you’ve been on, Bucky always treated you like it was your first. 

As you fixed your necklace, your phone started ringing again. A brief flash of hope ran through you until you saw the return of ‘Unknown Caller.’ You groaned with disappointment and turned away from your phone. Bucky never replied to your Sorry, I’m running a little late. Let me know when you’re on your way ;) text, so now it felt like the unknown calls were mocking you. Bucky was a bit old fashioned and had a habit of calling you instead of answering your texts. One of the many things you found endearing about him. 

You finished adjusting your jewelry and grabbed your phone. There were still no updates from Bucky which was strange. It’s not that he had his phone glued to his hand. But considering you had a date planned soon, it was odd for him to not respond. 

The phone in your hand buzzed and rang once more. The same annoying caller ID flashed on the screen for the third time. You muttered something under your breath as your thumb smashed against the green button. 

“Who is this and what do you want?” you snapped, expecting silence or a telemarketer.

“I can’t believe you blocked my number.” 

A shiver ran down your spine at the voice on the other end. The voice that reminded you of all the things you hated about yourself. That voice was the source of all your nightmares.

“Well, you missed birthdays 6 through 14 so, I guess we both just keep disappointing each other.” 

“Sweetie, you know I was busy with work. I didn’t like bringing the office home with me,” the man answered with humor in his voice. 

“I suppose you’ve got a point,” you played along. “What kind of parent would you be if you came home to your daughter on her birthday with your hands and coat covered in blood?”

You heard the short sigh leave his lips at your reminder of what life was really like all those years ago. 

“Look dad, as much as I miss these little chats of ours, what do you want?” You shot back at him. “You and I both know you’re only calling because you want something.”

“Why do you assume I want something?” He sounded offended but you knew it was fake. He knew you were right.

“Because blocking you does nothing. You have an infinite amount of ways to contact me. But I did it to send the message to leave me alone.” You started pacing in your living room as anger slowly began to boil in your chest. 

“So I’ll ask again,” your voice was laced with venom, “what do you want?” 

There was a pause before you heard the voice again. “Your new friends, the avenging world saving ones, are sniffing around where they shouldn’t be. You’re tracking one of my associates.”

You stopped pacing the room. Your body tensed up at the mention of your friends. Ever since you met them, you’d hoped and prayed that they would stay far away from these people, this part of your life. The one you left behind years ago. 

With your help, Sam, Bucky and Joaquin were asked to assist in the search for an assassin. That morning they had just discovered his identity. 

“Dalton is one of yours?” 

“Unfortunately,” he grumbled with disappointment. “And although he’s caused quite a bit of trouble for me, I am responsible for him at the moment.”

You shrugged, as if he could see you. “So, what do you expect me to do about it?”

“Tell them to stop their search. Let my men and I handle it and find him.” 

You scoffed, knowing he was only asking to back off because Dalton's identity was exposed, and that put the rest of his men at risk. “If by handling it you mean hide him until the whole thing blows over? Then no.”

“Come on sweetie, I asked nicely,” he urged with fake kindness. Like a kind of poison that tastes sweet before it kills you. 

“No dad,” you huffed as you pinched the bridge of your nose. “He blew up part of a building and killed three people! One of which was a government official. Unless you plan on turning him in I’m not interested.” Your voice slowly rose in volume as you spoke.

“I think you’ll be very interested in making a deal with me.” 

His comment sounded far too suspicious for your liking. You hated the way you could hear the smirk in his voice. “Why’s that?” 

“That boyfriend of yours lives up to his reputation.”

His comment made your heart sink. 

“The famous Winter Soldier,” the voice on the phone continued. “It didn’t take him very long to realize he was being followed. He’s smart. He led them away from the public. A vacant area. No civilian casualties.” 

Dread ran through your veins and made your stomach churn like you were going to throw up. Your heartbeat was pounding so hard it could’ve bursted out of your chest. 

“It took eighteen of my men to bring him in. Eighteen! I’ve never had to use that much force in my life against one man. He’s impressive. I'll give him that,” your dad finished like it was a normal thing to talk about. Like he didn’t just kidnap a man- your man. The man you're in love with. 

He talked about it like your entire world wasn’t crashing down. 

You took in a shallow breath. Why is it hard to breathe right now? “Dad, I swear to god if you hurt him-“

“I won’t have to if we can make a deal,” your dad insisted. 

“I take no pleasure from hurting my possible future son in law. You know, if you guys make it that long.” There he is again making jokes. Joking like this was a casual conversation. 

“You always take pleasure from hurting people. That’s why you do it. That’s why you’re making this personal,” you snapped. Your eyes were burning. Tears were threatening to escape but you blinked them back. 

“Let him go,” you warned through your teeth. 

There was a pause on the other end, before your dad’s voice returned. “Back off.” This time he sounded calmer. His tone was darker and more serious than before. “If my guy gets arrested, if I hear anything about this group- what I’ve built- in the media or whispered between law enforcement, you'll lose a boyfriend.”

You almost hung up before his voice returned with one last thing to say. 

“It’s quite a shame. James seems like a good boyfriend. He was buying your favorite flowers when we found him.” 

The line went dead as a tear rolled down your face. You stared blankly at the floor like it was going to swallow you whole. 

~

You didn’t know who else to call. Sam and Joaquin were at your apartment in 15 minutes. He might have run a few red lights. Give or take. 

All three of you stood in your living room. None of you had even an ounce of calm in your bones. 

Your mouth went dry and your throat almost closed up before you spoke. “I know who took Bucky.” 

They looked at you with curious anticipation, on the edge of their metaphorical seats because you were all too tense to even think about sitting down. 

“Inferno.” 

Sam all but deflated, looking at the floor. “Man,” he mumbled under his breath. 

Joaquin looked confused. He glanced between you and Sam, “what?” 

“You sure about this?” 

You nodded. Why is your mouth still dry? You grabbed a cup of water from your coffee table and took a sip. “Trust me. I’m sure,” you returned, voice firm. The cup didn’t slam on the coffee table when you set it back down, more like a hard meeting. 

“What’s Inferno?” Joaquin interjected again. 

“They’re a group of mercenaries, assassins, spies, hackers, basically anyone who will do your dirty work,” you explained. “They live normal lives but when hired for a job they steal, torture, make you disappear, make it look like an accident.” 

“How do we find them?” he asked.

“That’s the problem. You can’t,” Sam answered. 

“They’re pretty much a ghost story. It’s impossible to prove they exist let alone find them,” you crossed your arms. You still didn’t know what you were feeling. Emotionally that is. Physically, your stomach still twisted like you were going to throw up. 

“What did the guy on the phone tell you?” Sam questioned. “What do they want with Bucky?” 

“They have Bucky because of our search for Dalton. Dalton’s part of Inferno and somehow they know we figured out he’s the assassin.” You sighed, your breath shaky, and bit your lip before continuing. “He said, if we arrest Dalton or if word gets out about Inferno being involved… he’s gonna- he’ll,” the words died on your tongue.  

Anger? Sadness? Dread? Maybe despair? No, none of those words were enough to explain the emotions you're feeling. 

You cleared your throat, uncrossed your arms and ran them against your jeans. Something, anything to get rid of this feeling. “They don’t want to risk him getting arrested because that could expose their organization. Members of Inferno do not get arrested. They do not get caught. That’s why this is such a big deal.” This was starting to sound more like a rant and less of an explanation. 

“They do whatever it takes to stay in the shadows.”

Anguish. Characterized by severe pain or suffering. Maybe that’s what you’re feeling. 

Sam watched you with a simmering skepticism. You could practically smell the curiosity radiating off of him. “For an organization that’s supposed to not exist, you sound like you know a lot about them.” 

There’s that tightness in your chest you thought was gone. Funny how it can come rushing back in seconds. 

You swallowed down the lump that formed in your throat. “I may have a history with Inferno,” you said with hesitance. 

He raised an eyebrow at you, “what kind of history?” 

~

Now you three were sitting down. After the long explanation you offered them, they needed to sit down to absorb the information. 

Joaquin leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. “Wow, that’s a lot,” he huffed, still taking it all in.

Sam looked less visibly shocked than Joaquin. His surprise was internal. You couldn’t see it on his face other than the slight tension in his brows. 

“I thought you said your dad died years ago,” Sam  pointed out.

“He might as well be dead. I haven’t spoken to him in years and I changed my last name to my mom’s.” Your hands played with your bracelets as you spoke. Fingers ran over the beads, focusing on the smooth material as a way to ground yourself. 

Bucky bought you those bracelets as a gift.

You shrugged, “plus, there’s no way to casually say my dad runs the most secretive crime syndicate in the country. That I almost became part of said crime syndicate.”

Joaquin nodded, “that’s fair.” He ran a hand through his hair. “So, what do we do now?” 

“We can’t let Dalton go free. But if we arrest him, they might-” You paused, and your breath came out shaky. “-they will kill Bucky.” 

Sam stood up.“Okay, first, we hold off on telling the authorities,” he announced. “Say we still don’t have a name yet, we’ve hit a dead end. Buy ourselves some more time.”

“More time to what?” Joaquin questioned. 

“Find him ourselves.”

~

The building was cold. Not so cold that you were shivering, but cold enough that you kept your jacket on. 

You brought Dalton to a small abandoned apartment building. The heating obviously wasn’t on so the chilly fall temperature found its way inside. 

He was tied to a chair in one of the small bedrooms. You didn’t know what was happening or what was being said because you waited outside the door in the hall. Instead, Sam and Joaquin went in first due to your reputation and history. 

Dalton joined Inferno after you left so you had no clue who he was, but there was a chance that he knew who you were. 

At the sound of the door opening, you pushed off the wall you were leaning against. Sam and Joaquin walked out, a little less energetic and hopeful than they were when they walked in. 

“Well?” You asked with tense eagerness. 

Joaquin shook his head, but Sam spoke first. “He won’t talk. Keeps saying he doesn’t know what we’re talking about. We’re getting nowhere with him.”

You sighed and rubbed your hand over your face. “We’re running out of time. My dad’s gonna find out we have him.”

The clock was ticking for the inevitable. You needed to get information, something, anything out of him. 

You needed to find Bucky. 

“I’m going in. I’ll talk to him.”

Sam’s face softened with concern, “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

“Sam, I need to do this,” you answered, standing firm and as tall as you could. 

He nodded and stepped out of the way of the door. You walked closer but froze as your hand held the door knob. “Can you promise me something?” 

“Promise what?”

You couldn't see his face, but you could hear the worry and confusion in his voice. 

“Promise me that once I close this door, you won’t come in here.”

He spoke your name. Not like a warning. But like he wanted to save you from something. Like he tried to stop you from jumping into the deep end. 

“Sam, please,” you pleaded. “I’m saying this not just because you’re Captain America, but because you’re my friend.” 

Sam was a talker. He always tried talking to people before throwing punches. That’s what makes him like Steve. That’s what makes him a good Captain America. 

You’re not a talker. You weren’t trained- you weren’t raised to be a talker. At least not without giving a few bruises to show for it.

If you were going to revisit your past, you didn’t want him to see it. 

“Promise me you will not open this door.”

There was a pause behind you. You could imagine the two men exchanging worrying looks before Sam spoke again. 

“Okay, I promise.” 

You mumbled back at him, “thank you,” before pushing the door open and crossing the threshold, back into your old life.

Dalton still sat in the chair they tied him to. Your footsteps echoed in the empty room, alerting him of your presence. He looked up from the floor and the corners of his lips turned up ever so slightly. 

He knew who you were. 

“Well well well, it is a pleasure to finally meet you Spin,” he said calmly. 

Your expression was hollow. Your eyes were empty as you looked at him. “Can’t say the same about you.” 

He smirked, “So, I must be in pretty big trouble if you’re getting involved.”

You crossed your arms and took a step closer. “They have my boyfriend as leverage. In exchange for you not getting arrested.”

“Well,” he looked around the room dramatically, “looks like you are doing a fabulous job at leaving me alone.”

You offered a fake smile in return. “Where is he?”

“I don’t know,” he answered, looking pleased with himself. 

Your jaw clenched before you slapped him. The sound echoed off the walls. You braced your hand on the back of the chair and leaned down closer to him. “Tell me where they could be keeping my boyfriend, you son of a bitch.”

He still looked amused. “You really think I know? I didn’t even know they took him until your buddies asked where he was.” He shook his head and chuckled, “There are hundreds of places all around the country that he could possibly be at. You know better than anyone that the locations are constantly changing and are almost never permanent. And after you left, after I joined, the boss made sure to use extra precautions.” 

There was a look of mischievousness in his eyes as he stared back at you. “You know he keeps tabs on you right?” 

Your jaw clenched again. So hard you might break a tooth.

“The boss knows what you’ve been up to since you left. He asks us for monthly updates on you,” he continued with an evil smile. 

Your grip on the back of the chair was so tight your knuckles turned white. 

“I swear, I didn’t know they took your precious boyfriend, but I knew you had one. Which by the way-” He whistled. “-The Winter Soldier? I heard that you wanted to leave because we had too much blood on our hands.”

He looked you up and down, “Face it girly, your boyfriend has got more blood on his hands than any of us. You traded one monster for another.” 

Your nostrils flared as you stared daggers at him. You released your grip on the chair and backed away. It took a few slow deep breaths to calm your breathing back down.

“I had a feeling you wouldn’t know,” you said, glancing around the room. Your eyes landed on another wooden chair. “I just had to be sure, before I used plan B.” 

He tilted his head, “what’s plan B?”

In a quick motion, you took your jacket off and hung it on the door knob. Even with the slight chill in the air, you rolled up your sleeves.

“You tell me who hired you to kill those people. Tell me how deep that hit really goes.”

You walked to the chair, ran your fingers over the smooth wood. After picking it up by the backrest, you slammed it against the wall. Pieces of wood flew in the air as the seat broke off. You smashed it against the wall once more, until all you had left in your hands was a long back post. 

With slow steps, you walked back to Dalton. 

The amusement had fallen from his face as you placed the end of the back post under his chin to lift his head up to look you in the eyes. 

~

The air in your apartment felt frozen in time. Frozen from the moment you got that stupid phone call and found out your worst nightmare was coming true. 

Your body felt heavy, like it was trying to sink into the sofa. The longer you laid there the more you became paralyzed. Just staring at the wall, waiting for the time to pass. Which was moving excruciatingly slow. 

It's been four hours. Four hours since an arrest was made and Bucky was supposed to be released as per your new agreement with your dad. Every second that rolled by was another second Bucky was still missing. And every second was pure agony. 

After the first three hours, Sam drove you home, suggesting that you should get some rest. He offered to stay and keep you company. You told him you appreciate the offer, but you needed to be alone. He gave some pushback at first and advised against it. But at that point, it didn’t matter who was with you. 

They weren’t Bucky.

It was starting to become hopeless. Thinking that your dad would give him back. Thinking your dad would really agree to the terms of your deal. 

You never thought something like this would happen again. You knew there was a possibility, given who your father is. But after spending so many years away from him, you thought maybe just maybe, he might finally leave you alone. Leave your loved ones alone. 

The sound of your phone ringing startled you out of your thoughts. You reached for it on the coffee table and looked at the screen. Unknown Caller. 

You were tempted to throw the phone across the room until it smashed against the wall. 

Unfortunately, you didn’t throw your phone against the wall. No matter how tempting. Instead you pressed the answer call button after staring at the screen. 

“I hate you,” you shuttered under your breath, but loud enough for him to hear. 

“Open your front door.”

“Fuck you,” you spat back into the phone. “You’re a piece of shit. You’re not my dad.”

“Open. Your. Front. Door.” He spoke slowly, enunciating every word. 

Your head quickly turned to the door in question. Your eyes lingered there for a second. Weary to actually approach it. As if there was some cruel fate waiting for you on the other side. 

But part of you was still hopeful. Part of you was still sitting there waiting for him to come home. 

You peeled yourself off the couch and sprinted towards the door. So fast, you almost gave yourself a head rush. In seconds, you switched the deadbolt and opened it. On the other side you were met with relieved blue eyes. The same blue eyes you fell in love with long before you actually said “I love you.” 

The voice on the other end of the phone came back. “I may not be your father anymore, but you will always be my daughter.”

The line went dead. 

Bucky leaned against the doorframe like it was a lifeline. His face was bruised and bloody. A deep cut sat above his right eyebrow followed by a black eye that sat under it. There was dried blood on his neck like someone held a knife to it. 

He looked like he had the shit kicked out of him. You’ve seen him bruised and worn out after he came back from missions, but nothing could’ve prepared you for this. 

“Hi baby,” he muttered weakly with a small smile pulling on his lips. You couldn’t respond before his legs gave out and he collapsed on the floor.

You immediately followed him to the ground, gently placing a hand on his face and the other on his bicep. 

“I got you, I got you.” You whispered to him. 

You helped him stand back up, wrapping an arm around his middle and supporting his weight. He was overzealous in trying to walk, as if he was fine. You urged him to take his time, reassuring you’d help him walk every step of the way. 

Bucky followed you to the bathroom. With your help, he settled on the floor, propped up against the sink cabinet. 

You gently pressed your lips to his forehead. “I’ll be right back,” you muttered, before running to the kitchen. In less than one minute, you were back with an ice pack and first aid supplies.

“Here, put this on your face, it'll help with the swelling,” you handed him the ice pack and sat down on the floor next to him. With a damp cloth, you carefully wiped the blood off his skin, cleaning the wounds. 

Silence fell over the room. All you could hear was the faint sound of the ac vent and the damp cloth running over Bucky's skin. His breathing had calmed down since you sat him in the bathroom, but he still seemed so tired. His posture was slumped. His head rested against the cabinet like he couldn’t hold it up. 

As you cleaned off the blood from his arm, Bucky lowered the ice pack from his face to lift up his shirt. “There’s more,” he revealed a few more scrapes, bruising, and a deeper cut on his abdomen that would definitely need stitches. 

There was no stopping the guilt boiling over in your gut and rising up in your throat. 

“How’d you do it?”

You snapped back to reality, swallowing that guilt back down. “Do what?”

His voice was hoarse and quiet, “What deal did you make with your dad?”

“We found Dalton, brought him in. Went under the radar. Without the authorities,” You finished washing all the small wounds and dropped the washcloth in the sink. 

“Technically it might be called kidnapping,” you cringed slightly at your previous actions. 

“Depending on who you ask.” Bucky replied with a hint of humor. The corners of your lips threatened to perk up at his comment. 

“Sam and Joaquin couldn’t get anywhere with him. He refused to talk to them so I tried. After some-” You hesitated, that familiar guilt rising back up and burning your chest “-different interrogation methods he finally talked.”

He noticed your hesitation, but didn’t speak on it yet. Instead, he let you finish talking, explaining what happened while he was gone. 

“I found out who hired him. A senator who has a long history with Inferno. Used them to get elected, rig votes, blackmail people, the works. A few people found out so he hired Dalton to take out anyone who knew.”

You grabbed the first aid box and prepared the supplies to add stitches. 

“I told my dad that we would let Dalton go and make the senator take the fall for everything. He agreed but only if absolutely nothing came out about Inferno being involved,” You froze, holding the suture in the needle holder. “I mean technically it is all his fault. The senator is the one who ordered the hit.”

Your voice fell. It was quieter, smaller. “He loaded the gun, I just had to lie and say he shot it too.”

Bucky interrupted your spiraling thoughts. 

“You’re not like him.”

“I know.” You mumbled, barely audible. You didn’t believe him.

“Look at me.” He commanded calmly.

Your head perked up, your scared eyes met his. Both of them. He lowered the ice pack again to really see you. 

Bucky’s voice was stronger now. It sounded more like him. 

“You’re nothing like your dad.”

You brought in a shaky breath and thanked him with a smile.

You returned your attention to the wound. With careful hands, you pierced his skin with the needle. The suture ran through his skin, pulling the wound closed. 

Bucky clenched the fist that wasn’t holding the ice pack. You heard a low, quiet groan from him. Normally his pain tolerance was concerningly high, but it seems after what he went through today his threshold for pain is much lower.

Just as you were almost done, tightening the ripped skin together, he hissed sharply from the pain. 

“I know, I know. I’m sorry.” you cooed to him. 

You swallowed nervously and tied the suture closed. The metal needle holder clinked as you tossed it back in the first aid box with a now shaky hand. The guilt was becoming overwhelming. It was burning your chest and twisting your stomach. Every inch of you except for your vocal chords were screaming. 

“I’m sorry,” you repeated, voice cracking. “I am so sorry, Bucky.”

He said your name in a soft tone.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about my past. I’m sorry I lied about my dad being dead. I’m sorry you got hurt.” Your eyes became glassy, trying to blink away incoming tears. 

His warm hand took yours, “This isn’t your fault.”

“But-“

“Don’t,” he interrupted, firm but not angry. “Stop blaming yourself for what your father did.”

You still didn’t believe him yet. But you knew he would keep telling you until you did.

“Still, this shouldn’t have happened to you.” Your head hung, looking down at your intertwined hands. 

“I’ve been through worse.” 

That sounded way too relaxed for your liking. The way he said it made your jaw clench. Like it was an easy thing to say. That it didn’t matter what crap he went through now after all the trauma he endured. 

And the worse part, it sounded like he thought he deserved it. 

“You’ve been through enough.”

That was something you’d tell him until he believed it. That his hurting should be done. He should never have to go through anymore pain. 

You let go of his hand and reached for the gauze and bandages in the first aid box. Your hands still had a slight tremble as you placed the gauze against his skin. With the other, you wrapped the bandage around his abdomen. 

“It should’ve been me.” you said under your breath, barely above a whisper. 

“Baby.”

“It should’ve been me instead but because he’s a monster he always goes after the people I love. He knows that hurts more than any pain he could inflict on me. It's not fair to you.”

There was a beat of silence that followed your strained voice. 

“Always?” 

You hummed in confusion as you stared at the wrapping on his abdomen.

He leaned closer to you and asked in a quieter tone, “Has he done this before?”

Your face looked expressionless, numb, as you nodded. 

“It’s the reason I left,” you confirmed. “That's why I lied and said he was dead.”

You went back to bandaging the rest of his smaller wounds. 

He watched you with a careful gaze. “Who was it?”

Your thoughts traveled to a place you didn’t like to visit often. It felt like running your hand over a scar that has long healed, but still won't go away. That scar will always be there, deep, rough and dark against your skin. 

“My best friend.” 

You didn’t explain any further. 

Didn’t say when. Didn’t say how. But you would one day. Bucky knew that. 

He knew that one day you would feel comfortable enough to show him those old wounds the same way he has shown you his. How you ran your fingertips over the physical scars that bleed from his metal arm and into his skin as he told you about the Soldier. 

Bucky knew that for now you’d reveal the bits and pieces of your past that your heart could handle.

You finally finished bandaging up the various cuts and scrapes that covered his body. The last bit of gauze and wrappings were placed back in the first aid box. You stayed seated next to him, leaning against the sink cabinet.

Bucky removed the now thawed ice pack from his eye and placed it on the sink counter behind him. He turned to fully face you. He watched your eyes scan over his now covered injuries.

“Why did they call you Spin?” 

Your head shot up to meet his eyes. The nickname felt foreign coming from his lips. “What?”

“One of them said I was Spin's boyfriend. Was that your code name?” Bucky inquired.

The momentary surprise fell from your face. “Yeah it, was,” you nodded in confirmation. 

“What does it mean?”

“Spin is short for spinster.”

Your lips just barely perked up in amusement. Only for a second. You didn’t recall the memory like you were fond of it, but rather you still couldn’t believe your life had taken that turn.

“None of them wanted to make a joke or nickname about how I was the boss’s daughter. That was too easy,” you answered with an underlining hint of humor.

“They called me Spin because I was a young woman in my 20s, single, and I spent all my time and energy on joining Inferno.”

Bucky tilted his head in intrigue. “You never became official?”

You shook your head. Bucky noticed the small flicker of light that started to return to your eyes was now dwindling again. “Nope. Not after what happened to my best friend.”

With his real hand Bucky reached out and held yours. Your fingers intertwined with his with a soft firmness. 

“I never wanted you to get dragged into this. Ever. I wanted you to stay as far as possible from my dad and all this bullshit.” 

You gently squeezed his hand with yours. Like if you even had a loose grip on him, he would disappear from your hold. 

Again. 

“You mean so much to me. I’m pretty sure I’d lose my mind if he-” You paused, the words caught in your throat, “if I lost you.” 

“I’m not going anywhere,” Bucky comforted, his Brooklyn accent slipping out. “I’ll always find my way back to you.” 

He brought your intertwined hands up to his mouth and pressed his lips to the back of your hand. 

Your face softened at the action. He watched the spark return back to your eyes. “And I’ll always find a way to save you.” 

He raised an eyebrow at you. “Aren’t I supposed to be doing the saving?” he asked with a playful smirk on his lips.

You grinned at him as your thumb ran over his knuckles, “We save each other Buck.” 

His smirk turned into a loving smile before he closed the gap and pressed his lips to yours. He could feel your lips relax against his. Like that last bit of worry was crumbling away with the touch of his lips. 

When you separated, he rested his forehead against yours, “I like that plan.”

[crybabycabin]

phantom limb | s.r.

**read touch and go here** ✮ synopsis: steve rogers has spent two years keeping you at arm’s length. but when a mission goes wrong and his skin meets yours, suddenly every wall he’s built starts crumbling.

(or: the soulmate fic where touch is the one thing captain america can’t fight.)

✮ pairing: steve rogers x soulmate!reader

✮ warnings: gunshot wound, severe blood loss, near-death experience, touch starvation/deprivation, PTSD, panic attacks, grief, hospitalization, steve's crippling self-destructive tendencies, some bone-deep yearning, angst with HEA, explicit sexual content

✮ word count: 17.2k (ur girl doesn't know how to shut up)

✮ a/n: this was supposed to be a drabble. like. idk. (I think I might like it more than 'touch and go' WHO SAID THAT)

series masterlist bonus drabble 1 bonus drabble 2

The first time you see Steve Rogers cry, you're not supposed to be there.

The SHIELD medical bay at 2:47 AM is meant to be empty—just you, a dislocated shoulder from a mission gone sideways in Prague, and the ice pack you're too stubborn to ask someone else to help you position. But there he is, Captain America himself, hunched forward in the uncomfortable plastic chair beside bed seven with his face in his hands, shoulders shaking in that particular way that says everything hurts and I'm trying to be quiet about it.

You freeze in the doorway, good arm holding your bad arm, heart suddenly hammering against your ribs like it's trying to break free. The fluorescent lights hum overhead, too bright, making everything look sharp-edged and surreal. Your mouth goes dry. There's a metallic taste on your tongue—adrenaline, maybe, or just the copper-tang of exhaustion that's been following you since your transport touched down six hours ago.

He's still in his tactical gear—dirt-streaked and blood-spattered from wherever he's been. You'd heard whispers in the hallways. A Hydra facility. The Winter Soldier, recovered. Captain Rogers, who never fails, who never breaks, bringing his best friend home after seventy years. You'd seen him from a distance when they'd brought Barnes in, shield on his back like it weighed a thousand pounds, and thought what you always think: beautiful and untouchable as a monument.

Now, though. Now he's just a man in a room that smells like antiseptic and grief, crying over—

The bed. There's someone in the bed.

Barnes. James Barnes. The Winter Soldier. Bucky. Whatever name he's wearing today. This is your first time seeing him up close, seeing him as something other than a ghost story whispered in SHIELD corridors. He looks smaller than the legends suggest, more human than weapon.

He's unconscious, or close to it, hooked to machines that beep in rhythms that must mean something to someone who isn't you. But what catches your attention—what makes your stomach twist and drop like you've missed a step going downstairs—is the woman curled against his side.

You don't know her, have never seen her before, but you know what she is. It's in the way she fits against him, like two pieces of something broken made whole. The way even unconscious, his body angles toward hers, his metal arm—and God, that's the arm that's killed presidents—draped protectively across her waist. The way her hand rests over his heart, monitoring his breathing even in sleep.

His soulmate. The Winter Soldier has a soulmate.

And Steve Rogers is crying over them.

Your shoulder throbs, sending white-hot spikes down your arm, and you bite the inside of your cheek hard enough to taste blood. You should leave. This is private, sacred, none of your business. But when you try to shift backward, your shoulder screams—a sharp, electric agony that races down your spine and makes your vision go spotty at the edges. The small sound that escapes your throat—half-gasp, half-whimper—cuts through the quiet like a gunshot.

Steve's head snaps up.

His eyes are red-rimmed, devastated, the blue of them turned dark and stormy with an emotion so raw it feels like looking directly at an exposed nerve. There are tear tracks on his cheeks, catching the harsh fluorescent light, and his lips are parted like he's forgotten how to breathe properly. For a second, neither of you moves. You're caught in the doorway like a deer in headlights, your pulse thundering in your ears, and he's frozen mid-grief, and the moment stretches taut as wire between you.

The air feels charged, like the moment before lightning strikes. Your skin prickles with it, every hair on your arms standing at attention.

Then his face closes off. All that naked emotion disappears behind the Captain America mask, so fast you'd think you imagined it if your heart wasn't still trying to claw its way out of your chest from the impact of seeing it.

"You need help?" His voice comes out rough, scraped raw, gravel and exhaustion and something else threaded through it. He clears his throat, stands, and suddenly the room feels smaller, the walls pressing in. He's always so much—six feet of genetically enhanced perfection that makes your body confused about whether it wants to fight or flee or something else entirely that you refuse to examine.

"I—" Your voice catches, sticks in your throat like you've swallowed glass. You force yourself to look at your shoulder instead of his face, but that means looking at the way his hands flex at his sides, the way his weight shifts like he's fighting the urge to move toward you. "Dislocated. From Prague. I can manage."

"You can't." Matter-of-fact, not unkind, but there's something underneath it—a tension that makes your stomach flip. He crosses the room in three strides, and you have that thought again—monument—but monuments don't usually smell like gunpowder and sweat and something cedar-sharp that makes your hindbrain light up with interest you absolutely cannot afford.

He stops just short of you, close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off him, close enough that you have to tilt your head back to meet his eyes. The movement makes your shoulder scream, and you can't quite suppress the way your breath hitches.

"Really, I'm—"

"Stubborn?" There's something almost like amusement flickering across his face, just a twitch at the corner of his mouth, but it makes your chest go tight and warm. "I know. You once tried to extract yourself from a building collapse with three broken ribs and a concussion."

You blink, stomach doing something complicated and uncomfortable. He knows that? He noticed that? Your skin feels too tight, like your body's trying to contain something that won't fit.

"Sit." He gestures to one of the beds, and when you don't move immediately—frozen by the way he's looking at you, intent and focused like you're a problem he needs to solve—his head tilts slightly. "That's an order, agent."

"You're not my CO," you point out, but you're already moving, because arguing with Steve Rogers while your shoulder feels like it's full of ground glass and your body is betraying you with all these inconvenient reactions seems like a losing proposition.

He follows, and you're hyperaware of him in that way you always are—the space he takes up, the way air seems to bend around him, the way your skin prickles with awareness even though he hasn't touched you. When you sit on the bed's edge, the paper crinkles beneath you, too loud in the quiet. He stands in front of you, and you have to focus on the SHIELD logo on his chest because looking at his face feels dangerous right now, like staring directly into the sun.

"This is going to hurt," he says, and his voice is lower now, closer. You can feel it rumble through the space between you.

"I know." Your good hand is gripping the edge of the bed so hard your knuckles have gone white. Your heart is doing something irregular and concerning in your chest.

"I mean it's going to—"

"Captain Rogers." You finally look up at him, find him watching you with an expression you can't parse—something intense and careful and guarded all at once. The fluorescent light catches in his hair, turns it more gold than blonde. There's a smudge of dirt on his jaw. "I've been in the field for six years. I know what a shoulder reduction feels like."

Something shifts in his jaw, that little muscle tick you've catalogued along with a hundred other Steve Rogers tells. Your breathing has gone shallow, and you don't know if it's from the pain or the way he's looking at you—like you're something he needs to be careful with.

Finally, he reaches for your arm.

He's wearing tactical gloves.

Of course he is. Steve Rogers always wears gloves on missions, black leather that make his already large hands look even more capable. You've never thought about it before—lots of agents wear gloves. Protection, grip, a hundred practical reasons.

But now, with him this close, with his hands carefully bracketing your injured arm, you notice the deliberateness of it. The way the leather covers every inch of skin from fingertip to wrist. The way he's careful, even now, not to let any exposed skin above the glove brush against you. There's a gap, barely an inch, where his sleeve has ridden up, revealing a strip of pale skin. You stare at it, pulse jumping in your throat for reasons you don't understand.

"On three," he says, and his voice is closer now, quieter. You can feel the heat of him, the solid presence that makes your good hand want to reach out and—

Your fingers twitch on the bed. The paper crinkles.

"One."

He adjusts his grip, and even through the leather, even through your tactical shirt, your nerve endings light up like a circuit board. Your breath catches, stops, starts again too fast.

"Two."

You're watching his face because you have to look somewhere, and that's when you see it—a flicker of something that looks like resignation. Like loss. Like he's steeling himself for something that's going to hurt. The tendons in his neck are taut, and there's a bead of sweat trailing down from his temple despite the cool air.

"Three."

The world whites out. Pain floods your system, sharp and immediate, and your vision goes sparkly at the edges. Your good hand flies up instinctively, searching for something to anchor you, and finds—

His vest. Your fingers curl into the tactical fabric, knuckles brushing against the solid wall of his chest beneath. You're falling forward, or maybe he's moving closer, and suddenly your forehead is almost touching his chest, and his hands have shifted to your shoulders—careful, still gloved, but holding you steady.

"Breathe," he says, and maybe it's the pain, but his voice sounds different. Softer. Rougher. His thumb moves in a small circle against your shoulder, probably meant to be soothing, but it sends electricity racing down your spine. "You're okay. Just breathe."

You realize you're making small, hurt sounds into his vest, and his body has curved around you slightly, protective, blocking you from the rest of the room. Your working hand has somehow fisted completely in his tactical vest, and you can feel the rise and fall of his breathing, too controlled to be natural. His heart beats against your knuckles, faster than you'd expect for someone with enhanced everything.

"I'm good," you manage, though your voice comes out embarrassingly breathy, wrecked. "I'm—thank you."

You pull back, look up, and freeze.

He's so close. Close enough that you can see the flecks of green in his blue eyes, the way his pupils have dilated slightly. Close enough to count individual eyelashes, to see the faint scar on his lower lip. Close enough that when his lips part slightly, you feel his exhale ghost across your face.

His eyes drop to where your hand grips his vest, and there's something almost stricken in his expression. His throat works as he swallows, and you track the movement helplessly.

Then his gaze snaps to your face, and for a second—just a second—his eyes drop to your mouth.

The air between you goes electric.

His hand on your shoulder tightens infinitesimally, leather creaking, and you're suddenly aware that your bodies are still curved toward each other, that if you just leaned forward an inch—

He jerks back. Takes three full steps back, actually, like he needs the distance. Like proximity to you is somehow dangerous. His breathing is slightly uneven, and there's a flush high on his cheeks that wasn't there before.

"You should get that x-rayed," he says, and his voice is too loud in the quiet room, just slightly unsteady. He's Captain America again, professional and distant, but his hands are clenched at his sides and he won't quite meet your eyes. "And ice. Twenty minutes on, twenty off."

"I know the drill." Your voice sounds strange to your own ears, throaty and affected. Your good hand is still raised slightly, fingers tingling from where they'd gripped his vest.

He nods, sharp and efficient. Turns to go back to his vigil beside Barnes's bed. But something makes you speak, words tumbling out before your brain can catch up with your mouth.

"He's lucky."

Steve stops. His shoulders go rigid, the line of his spine straightening like someone's put electricity through it.

"Barnes," you clarify, though you shouldn't. Your tongue feels thick in your mouth, clumsy. "To have someone who—to have her. His soulmate. They're both lucky."

When he turns to look at you, there's something hollow in his eyes, something that makes your chest ache with recognition you don't want to examine. The muscle in his jaw is working again, and his gloved hands clench and unclench at his sides.

"Yeah," he says quietly, and the word comes out like it's been dragged over broken glass. "Lucky."

He says it like the word tastes like ash, like something burned and bitter on his tongue.

"Steve—" You don't know what you're going to say, don't know why his name feels like something precious in your mouth, why your body is still leaning toward him like a plant toward sunlight.

"You should rest." He cuts you off, gentle but firm, and there's something almost desperate in the way he's not looking at you. "That shoulder needs—"

An alarm goes off. Not the gentle chime of a normal medical alert, but the sharp, angry wail that means something's wrong. Steve's already moving, heading for Barnes's bed where machines are screaming and the woman—his soulmate—is sitting up, hands pressed to her temples, saying "Something's wrong, something's—"

Barnes jackknifes upright with a sound that isn't quite human, metal arm swinging blindly, and his soulmate catches his hand without flinching. The moment their skin connects, some of the wildness bleeds out of his eyes.

"Bucky." Her voice is steady despite the chaos. "You're in medical. You're safe. I'm here."

You should leave. This is definitely not for you to witness. But you're frozen, watching how Barnes's entire being reorganizes itself around her touch, how his breathing slows to match hers, how the machines gradually stop their shrieking as his vitals stabilize. The way she runs her fingers through his hair, and he melts into it, face pressing into her palm like he's trying to absorb her through skin contact alone.

And you watch Steve watch them, standing two feet away but somehow miles distant, his gloved hands clenched so tight at his sides that the leather creaks.

You've never wanted a soulmate. The odds are astronomical, the chance of finding them slim to none, and you've seen what happens to people who lose them—the hollow-eyed grief that never quite fades. Better to never have one than to lose them. Better to be whole on your own than broken in half of a pair.

But watching Barnes fold into his soulmate's arms like coming home, watching her hold him together with nothing but touch and presence and fierce, protective love—

Your chest aches with want so sharp it steals your breath. Your skin feels too tight, too hot, like your body is trying to tell you something your mind won't acknowledge.

When you look at Steve, he's already looking at you. For just a second, you see your own longing reflected in his eyes, the same hollow ache of watching others have what you'll never possess. His gaze drops to your hand—the one that had gripped his vest—and something flickers across his face, too fast to read.

Then he looks away, jaw tight, and the moment breaks, and you're just an injured agent who needs to stop projecting feelings onto a superior officer who barely knows you exist.

"Get some rest," he says without looking at you, voice carefully controlled. "That's an order."

This time, you don't argue. You leave him to his vigil, to his grief, to whatever it is that makes Captain America cry in hospital chairs over other people's happy endings.

Your shoulder throbs in time with your heartbeat as you walk away, and you tell yourself that's the only reason your chest hurts. That's the only reason your skin feels like it's burning where he almost touched you. That's the only reason you can still feel the ghost of his vest under your fingers, the phantom heat of him curved around you.

You're very good at lying to yourself at 3 AM.

But your traitorous body remembers the way he'd jerked back from you, the way his eyes had gone wide with something that looked like fear when he'd realized how close you were.

Whatever Steve Rogers is afraid of, you're starting to think it might be you.

The next time you see him is three days later, and your body knows he's in the room before your brain catches up.

You're bent over a terminal in the east wing surveillance room, trying to make sense of intel that feels like it's been encrypted in ancient Sumerian, when every hair on the back of your neck stands at attention. Your spine straightens involuntarily, muscles tensing like an animal sensing a predator—or worse, like iron filings responding to a magnet.

"Agent."

Just that. Just your title in his Captain America voice, all professional distance and careful neutrality. But your treacherous body reacts like he's whispered something filthy in your ear—pulse jumping, skin flushing hot, stomach doing that uncomfortable flip that's becoming alarmingly familiar.

You don't turn around. Can't. Not when you know what you look like right now—haven't slept in thirty-six hours, hair in a messy bun that's listing severely to the left, yesterday's coffee staining your SHIELD-issued crewneck. Not when you can feel him taking up all the oxygen in the room just by existing in it.

"Captain Rogers." You're proud of how steady your voice comes out, even as your fingers have gone white-knuckled on the edge of the desk. "Something I can help you with?"

Silence. Long enough that you almost turn, almost give in to the gravitational pull of him. Then: footsteps. Measured, deliberate. He's moving closer, and your body tracks his approach like sonar, every nerve ending pinging with proximity alerts.

He stops just outside your peripheral vision—close enough that you can smell him (soap, leather, that cedar-sharp scent that makes your hindbrain whimper), far enough that there's no chance of accidental contact. You notice he does that a lot. Maintains exact distances like he's calculated the precise minimum safe zone between bodies.

"The Brussels intel." A pause. You hear him shift, leather jacket creaking. "Fury wants us to run point together."

Your hands still on the keyboard.

Us. 

Together. 

Run point.

"Us," you repeat, carefully neutral, still not turning around because if you look at him right now your face will do something stupid. Something that reveals how your stomach just dropped through the floor at the prospect of working closely with him. Of being in proximity to Steve Rogers for an extended period when just standing in the same room makes you feel like you're about to vibrate out of your skin.

"Is that a problem?"

There's something in his voice—a challenge maybe, or a test. Like he's waiting for you to admit what you both know: that whatever this thick, electric tension between you is, it's becoming harder to ignore.

"No, sir." You turn then, because not looking is starting to feel more obvious than looking, and immediately regret it.

He's in civilian clothes—dark jeans that shouldn't be legal on someone with his thighs, a navy shirt that clings to his chest in ways that make your mouth go dry. The leather jacket that does things to his shoulders that ought to be classified. But it's his face that kills you—that careful, composed expression that doesn't quite hide the way his eyes darken when they meet yours, the way his jaw ticks when you unconsciously wet your lips.

"Good." He steps closer—just half a step, but your body reacts like he's pressed you against the wall. Your breathing goes shallow, chest rising and falling too fast, and his eyes track the movement before snapping back to your face. "Briefing's at 0800."

"I'll be there."

He should leave. The conversation's over, message delivered. But he doesn't move. Just stands there, looking at you with an expression you can't read, and the air between you feels like it's getting thicker, harder to breathe. Your skin prickles with heat despite the aggressive air conditioning, and you can feel your pulse in your throat, your wrists, between your legs—

"Your shoulder." The words come out rough, like he's had to drag them from somewhere deep. "How is it?"

"Fine." Your voice sounds breathy, affected. You clear your throat, try again. "Good. It's good. Thanks to you."

Something flickers across his face at that—almost pained, like you've said something that hurts. His hand comes up, and for a heart-stopping second you think he's going to touch you. Your whole body goes still, waiting, wanting, every cell screaming yes, finally, please—

But he just runs it through his hair, a gesture that's so uncharacteristically unguarded it makes your chest ache.

"Steve—"

"I should go." He cuts you off, already stepping back, and the loss of proximity feels like someone's turned off the sun. "Early morning."

He's halfway to the door when you speak, words tumbling out without permission.

"Why do you do that?"

He stops. Doesn't turn. "Do what?"

"Pull back." Your heart is hammering so hard you're sure he can hear it with his enhanced everything. "You get close, and then you just—" You make a frustrated gesture he can't see. "It's like you're afraid of me."

His shoulders tense, and when he turns to look at you, there's something raw in his eyes for just a second before he shutters it away.

"I'm not afraid of you."

"Then what—"

"I'm afraid of what I want from you."

The words hang in the air between you like a grenade with the pin pulled. Your breath catches, stops entirely. Your body goes hot and cold at once, skin too tight, like you're having an allergic reaction to honesty.

He looks as surprised as you feel, like the admission escaped without his permission. His hands clench at his sides—you notice he's not wearing gloves, and for some reason that feels significant. Dangerous. His fingers are long, elegant despite their strength, and you have the sudden, visceral thought of what they'd feel like on your skin.

"Captain—"

"Steve." His voice is rough, wrecked. "Just... when it's just us, call me Steve."

Your throat feels like you've swallowed glass. "Steve."

He makes a sound—small, strangled—and takes a step toward you before catching himself. The muscle in his jaw is working overtime, and his hands—Jesus, his hands are actually trembling.

"This isn't—" He stops. Tries again. "I can't—"

"Can't what?" You stand, and your legs feel like water but you need to be closer to him, need to understand what's happening in the space between his words. "Steve, what—"

"0800," he says, and it sounds like surrender. "Don't be late."

He's gone before you can respond, leaving you alone in a room that feels too cold without him in it. Your skin feels raw, oversensitized, like you've been flayed open and exposed to the elements. You sink back into your chair, legs finally giving out, and press your palms against your burning cheeks.

I'm afraid of what I want from you.

Your body is still humming, vibrating at some frequency that feels like it's going to shake you apart. You can still smell him in the air—leather and soap and something unmistakably Steve that makes your hindbrain want to follow him down the hall, pin him against a wall, and find out exactly what he wants from you.

But you don't. You sit in your chair, stare at intel you can't process, and try to convince yourself that whatever's happening between you and Steve Rogers is just chemistry. Just proximity and adrenaline and two people spending too much time dancing around each other in small spaces.

You're getting better at lying to yourself.

But your body remembers the way his eyes had gone dark when he watched you breathe. The way his hands had trembled. The way he'd said your name like it was being torn out of him.

0800 can't come fast enough.

The briefing room is too small.

That's your first thought when you walk in at 0755, coffee clutched like a lifeline, to find Steve already there. He's studying a holographic map of Brussels, one hand braced on the table, the other holding a tablet. The morning light from the floor-to-ceiling windows turns his hair gold and throws his profile into sharp relief, and your step falters in the doorway because he looks like something out of a Renaissance painting—all strong lines and perfect angles and terrible beauty.

He doesn't look up, but his shoulders tense slightly. He knows you're there.

"Morning," you manage, proud when your voice doesn't crack.

"Agent." Back to titles, then. Back to distance. But when he glances up, his eyes catch yours and hold for a beat too long, and you see him swallow.

You take your seat—across from him, with the whole width of the table between you like a demilitarized zone. But it's not enough. The room's too small, the air too thin. You can see the rise and fall of his chest, the way his thumb taps against the tablet in a rhythm that matches your elevated pulse.

"The target's a bioweapon," he says without preamble, swiping something on his tablet that makes the hologram shift and expand. "Hydra remnants, we think. They're moving it through Brussels tomorrow night."

You force yourself to focus on the intel, not on the way his hands move when he talks, precise and economical. Not on the fact that his sleeves are rolled up, revealing forearms that make your mouth water—all corded muscle and prominent veins and a dusting of hair that catches the light.

"Extraction point?"

"Here." He rounds the table to point at a specific building, and suddenly he's beside you, close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off him. Close enough that when you breathe in, you get a lungful of his scent that makes your head spin. "Warehouse district. Minimal civilian presence after dark."

You turn your head to look at the map, but that's a mistake because now his face is inches from yours. You can see the barely-there freckles across his nose, the way his lips part slightly when he breathes. His eyes drop to your mouth for a fraction of a second before he jerks back, stepping away so fast you feel the displacement of air.

"We'll go in quiet," he says, voice rougher than before. His hand comes up to rub the back of his neck, a gesture you're starting to recognize as his tell for when he's affected. "Two-person infiltration. Quick and clean."

"Just the two of us?" The words come out more breathless than you intended.

He nods, still not looking at you. "Fury wants it kept small. Discreet."

Discreet. Right. You can be discreet. You can be professional. You can absolutely handle being alone with Steve Rogers on a mission without doing something stupid like wondering what his hands would feel like in your hair, or how his voice would sound saying your actual name in the dark, or—

"Questions?"

You realize you've been staring at him, and your face goes hot. "No. No questions."

"Good." He's already moving toward the door, eager to escape, but he pauses at the threshold. When he looks back, there's something almost vulnerable in his expression. "We leave at 1400. Quinjet bay three."

"I'll be there."

He nods, starts to go, then stops again. His hand tightens on the doorframe, knuckles going white.

"You should wear tactical gear," he says without turning around. "Full coverage. It's going to be cold."

There's something about the way he says it—careful, deliberate—that makes you think he's not really talking about the temperature. But before you can respond, he's gone, leaving you alone in a room that still smells like him.

You spend the rest of the morning trying to focus on mission prep, but your mind keeps circling back to the way he'd looked at your mouth. The way he'd jerked back like you'd burned him. The way he'd specified full coverage like he was trying to minimize the chance of—what? Of skin contact? Of touching?

By 1400, you're wound so tight you feel like you might snap. The tactical gear feels heavy, constrictive, like it's pressing all your sensitivity inward. Every brush of fabric against skin feels amplified, every movement hyperaware.

You find him in the quinjet, running preflight checks with the kind of focus that suggests he's trying very hard not to think about something. He's in his Captain America suit—the deep blue that somehow makes his shoulders look even broader, red and white accents catching the cabin lights. No skin visible except his face and that thin strip at his neck where the cowl doesn't quite meet the collar, every inch of him covered like armor against something more than physical threats.

"Ready?" He doesn't look at you when he asks.

"Always."

The flight to Brussels takes six hours. Six hours of sitting across from each other in a quinjet that suddenly feels impossibly small. Six hours of trying not to stare at the way his hands move over the controls, sure and competent. Six hours of him studiously avoiding your gaze while the tension ratchets higher with every passing minute.

Halfway through, you shift in your seat, and your knee brushes his under the table. It's barely contact—layers of fabric between you—but you both freeze. His hands still on the tablet he's holding. Your breath catches in your throat. For a moment, neither of you moves, like you're both waiting to see what the other will do.

He pulls his leg back.

You curl your hands into fists and stare out the window at clouds that look soft enough to touch, trying to ignore the way your knee burns where it brushed his, trying to ignore the way he's breathing just a little too carefully across from you.

"You should get some rest," he says finally, voice neutral. "It's going to be a long night."

You don't tell him there's no way you could sleep, not when every cell in your body is hyperaware of his presence. Not when you can feel the weight of his carefully maintained distance like a physical thing.

Instead, you close your eyes and pretend, counting your breaths, trying to ignore the way your body hums with proximity to him. Trying to ignore the fact that in a few hours, you'll be alone with him in the dark, dependent on each other in the way that missions make necessary.

Trying to ignore the way your skin already aches for something you've never had.

When you fake-wake an hour later, he's watching you.

The look on his face—unguarded, soft, almost pained—makes your chest tight. But the second he realizes you're awake, his expression shutters, locks down, becomes Captain America again.

"Descending in twenty," he says, all business.

You nod, start checking your gear, and pretend you didn't see the way he was looking at you like you're something he wants but can't have. Pretend your heart isn't racing from that single, stolen moment of his true face.

Twenty minutes to Brussels.

Twenty minutes until you're alone with him in the dark.

Twenty minutes until whatever this is either snaps or shatters.

Your hands shake as you load your weapons, and you tell yourself it's just pre-mission adrenaline.

You're getting worse at lying to yourself.

The warehouse district in Brussels looks like every other warehouse district you've ever infiltrated—all concrete and shadows and too many places for things to go wrong. Your breath mists in the December air, visible for half a second before disappearing, and you're hyperaware of Steve beside you, the way his body heat seems to radiate even from three feet away.

Three feet. Always three feet.

You've been in position for forty minutes, watching the target building through night vision, and the tension between you has ratcheted so high you can practically taste it—metallic, electric, like the air before lightning strikes.

"Two guards, northwest corner," you murmur into comms, watching them through your scope. Your finger rests against the trigger guard, steady despite the way your whole body feels attuned to Steve's presence. "Rotation in approximately ninety seconds."

"Copy." His voice in your ear makes your stomach flip, low and authoritative. Through your peripheral vision, you catch him adjusting his shield, the movement precise, controlled. Everything about him is controlled. Has been since you touched down three hours ago. Maybe since before that. Maybe since that moment in the briefing room when he'd told you to wear full tactical gear like he was trying to armor you against something more than bullets.

The silence stretches, fills with things unsaid. Your skin prickles beneath the kevlar, every nerve ending hyperalert. Not from danger—not yet—but from proximity to him that feels more intimate than touch. You can hear him breathe, steady and measured. Can smell that cedar-sharp scent that cuts through the industrial stink of the district. Can feel the weight of his attention even when he's not looking at you.

"You know," you say quietly, because the silence is becoming unbearable, "for a stealth mission, you're thinking very loudly."

A pause. Then: "I'm not thinking anything."

"Liar." The word slips out before you can stop it, soft and knowing, and you feel him go still beside you.

"Agent—"

"You said when it's just us, I could—" You swallow, throat suddenly dry. "We're alone, Steve. You can use my name."

Another pause, longer this time. When he speaks, his voice is rougher. "The guards are moving."

He's right. You track them through your scope, watching them disappear around the corner, and try to ignore the way your name apparently burns in his throat, the way he can't seem to say it even when you've given him permission.

"Window's open," you confirm. "Ninety seconds, like clockwork."

"Let's move."

You're up and moving before the words finish forming, bodies falling into perfect synchronization. He goes high, you go low, covering angles with the kind of wordless communication that feels like dancing, like inevitability. Your breath syncs with his as you cross the open ground, and you tell yourself it's just tactical breathing, just professional compatibility.

You're getting worse at lying to yourself.

The side entrance is exactly where intel said it would be. Steve makes quick work of the lock while you cover him, and the domestic intimacy of it—you protecting his back while he works—makes something twist in your chest.

"Got it." The lock clicks open, and he pulls the door wide, weapon raised.

You follow him into darkness.

The warehouse is a maze of shipping containers and scaffolding, all deep shadows and blind corners. Your night vision paints everything in shades of green, turning Steve into something otherworldly as he moves ahead of you, all lethal grace and coiled power. You've seen him fight before, but there's something different about moving with him like this, just the two of you in the dark. Something that makes your body hyperaware of every gesture, every signal.

He holds up a fist—stop. You freeze instantly, trusting him implicitly. He tilts his head, listening to something you can't hear, and you watch the line of his throat, the way his pulse beats steady and strong beneath the skin.

Then you hear it too—footsteps, multiple sets, coming from the east corridor.

Steve looks back at you, and even through the night vision, you can see something pass across his face. He points to himself, then forward. Points to you, then to a stack of crates that would provide cover.

You shake your head. You're not letting him go alone.

His jaw ticks—that tell you've catalogued along with all his others. But there's no time to argue. The footsteps are getting closer.

You move together, silent as shadows, until the first hostile rounds the corner.

Steve takes him down in one fluid motion, shield connecting with a dull thud that the man doesn't get up from. But there are more—so many more—and suddenly the warehouse explodes into chaos.

"Contact!" you shout into comms that suddenly fill with static, jamming signals flooding the frequency. "Multiple hostiles—"

A muzzle flash in your peripheral. You pivot, fire twice, watch the figure drop. Steve's shield sings through the air, ricocheting off three targets in quick succession before returning to his hand. You move back to back without thinking, covering each other's blind spots, and the contact—even through layers of tactical gear—makes your skin burn.

"We need to move!" Steve shouts over the gunfire. "The bioweapon—"

"I know!" You drop two more hostiles, reload with practiced efficiency. "Northwest stairs, we can—"

The explosion knocks you sideways.

Your shoulder hits concrete hard, night vision flickering, ears ringing. Through the smoke, you see Steve fighting like something out of legend—shield and fists and absolutely ruthless efficiency. But there are too many. They keep coming, and you're separated now, a wall of hostiles between you.

"Steve!" You fight toward him, muscle memory and desperation driving you forward.

"Get to the weapon!" His voice cuts through the chaos. "I'll hold them—"

"Like hell!"

But more fighters flood in, and you're forced back, forced to watch him disappear behind a wall of bodies. Your chest goes tight with something that's not quite panic but close—the thought of losing sight of him, of something happening while you're not there to cover his six.

You fight harder, brutal and efficient, trying to close the distance. Your body moves on autopilot while your mind tracks him through glimpses—the flash of his shield, the sound of his voice calling out positions.

Then you hear it. His sharp intake of breath, pained.

"Steve?"

"I'm fine." But his voice is strained, and you catch sight of him favoring his left side, blood dark on his tactical suit. "The weapon—"

"Fuck the weapon." You slam a new magazine home, determination crystallizing into something sharp and desperate. "I'm coming to you."

"No!" The authority in his voice stops you short. "That's an order—get the bioweapon. I'll meet you at extraction."

Every instinct screams against leaving him, but he's right. The mission. Always the mission.

You run.

The stairs are clear—too clear. Your instincts scream trap, but there's no time. You take them three at a time, hip protesting from the earlier fall, listening to the sounds of fighting below. Steve's still engaged, still fighting, and you track his progress through the warehouse by sound alone.

The lab is exactly where intel indicated—third floor, northeast corner. Also exactly as unguarded as you'd feared.

Trap. Definitely a trap.

But the bioweapon is there, contained in a small metal briefcase that seems too innocuous for something that could kill thousands. You grab it, already turning back toward the stairs when you hear Steve's voice crackle through the static.

Not "Agent." Your name, sharp and desperate, and the sound of it makes your blood freeze. "Get out. Now. They're—"

The static cuts him off.

"Steve? Steve!"

Nothing.

You're already running, taking the stairs so fast you nearly fall, the briefcase clutched tight against your chest. The warehouse has gone quiet—too quiet. No more gunfire. No more fighting.

Just silence.

You round the corner into the main warehouse floor and see him.

He's surrounded, on his knees, blood running from a cut above his eye. Six hostiles have weapons trained on him, and his shield is nowhere to be seen. But what makes your blood turn to ice is the seventh figure—a man in tactical gear holding something that looks like—

"No!" The word tears from your throat as you recognize the device. Sonic disruptor, strong enough to disorient even a super soldier.

The man's finger depresses the trigger.

Steve convulses, hands going to his ears, and the sound he makes—

You're moving before conscious thought catches up, pure instinct driving you forward. The briefcase clatters to the ground as you raise your weapon, laying down cover fire that sends three hostiles scrambling. But you're exposed now, in the open, no cover between you and—

The first shot catches you in the vest.

The impact slams you backward, driving all the air from your lungs in a whoosh that whites out your vision. Your body armor holds—SHIELD makes good gear—but the force spins you sideways, and before you can recover, before you can breathe—

The second shot finds the gap.

Right where your vest meets your hip, that vulnerable slice of space where mobility trumps protection. The bullet tears through tactical fabric and skin and muscle like tissue paper, and the pain—

The pain is exquisite.

White-hot agony blooms from your hip, spreading like wildfire through your nervous system until every cell is screaming. You hear yourself make a sound—sharp, breathless, more surprise than scream—and then your legs are failing, and you're falling, and the concrete rises up to meet you like an old friend.

Your name rips from Steve's throat like something being torn from his chest cavity.

Through blurring vision, you see him move.

The sonic disruptor doesn't matter. The six weapons trained on him don't matter. He erupts from his knees with a sound that's barely human, pure rage and desperation, and bodies go flying. He fights like something mythical, like something out of the stories they tell about Captain America, except there's nothing heroic about this. 

This is brutality. Devastation.

Your hands shake as they try to find the wound, fingers slipping on something warm and wet that's spreading way too fast. The pain is enormous, eating at the edges of your consciousness, white-hot and pulsing with each heartbeat. Your tactical pants are already soaked, the fabric clinging to your skin, and when you lift your hand it's painted crimson in the warehouse's emergency lighting.

That's... that's too much blood. Way too much.

Your body starts to shake—shock, probably, or blood loss, or just the simple animal recognition that you're badly hurt. Your teeth start chattering, and you can't make them stop, jaw clenched so tight you taste blood from where you've bitten your tongue.

"No, no, no, no—"

Steve crashes to his knees beside you so hard the concrete cracks. His hands—his bare hands, when did he lose his gloves?—hover over you for a fraction of a second before pressing against the wound. The pressure makes you scream, body trying to curl away from the pain, but he holds you down, holds you still.

"Hey, hey, look at me." His voice cracks completely, nothing like Captain America's steady authority. This is just Steve, terrified and desperate. "Look at me. Stay with me."

You try to focus on his face, but it keeps fracturing, splitting into doubles and triples before reforming. Your eyes won't track right, keep sliding away like they're too heavy. His face is covered in blood—from the cut above his eye, from other wounds you can't catalog—and there's something wild in his expression, something that makes your chest tight for reasons that have nothing to do with the bullet.

"Steve—" Your voice comes out wrong, too wet, copper flooding your mouth. When you cough, something warm splatters across your lips.

"Don't talk, don't—just stay still. I've got you." He's pressing so hard against the wound that new pain blooms, sharp and bright, making your vision white out at the edges. But his hands—his hands are shaking where they press against you, and that seems wrong somehow. Steve Rogers's hands don't shake. "Med evac's coming. Two minutes. Just two minutes, you have to—"

His voice breaks completely, and you realize he's crying. Captain America is crying over you, tears cutting clean tracks through the blood and dirt on his face.

"'S okay," you slur, though it's not, though nothing is okay. Your tongue feels thick, clumsy. "'M okay."

"You're not okay." It comes out harsh, angry, but his hands on your wound are so careful, desperately trying to hold you together. "There's so much blood. Why is there so much—"

That's when you see it. His bare hands are pressed against your wound, skin to skin where your tactical gear has been torn away, and you wait for something—for warmth, for electricity, for whatever cosmic sign is supposed to indicate a soul bond. But there's just the cold creeping up your limbs and Steve's devastated face above you.

"Please," he's saying, over and over, like a prayer or a plea. "Please, just hold on. Just—"

He reaches for your face with one blood-slicked hand, maybe to check your pupils, maybe to keep you conscious, and that's when it happens.

His palm cups your cheek, and the world explodes.

Not with pain this time, but with something else entirely. Something that races through your dying body like lightning finding ground, like coming home, like every cell suddenly remembering what they're made for. The bond slams into place with the force of a freight train, decades of waiting condensed into a single moment of contact that rewrites everything you thought you knew about existence.

The warmth that floods through you has nothing to do with healing and everything to do with recognition. With rightness. With the soul bond that's singing in your bones, drowning out even the pain, making everything else fade to background noise. You can feel him—not just his hand on your face but him, his emotions crashing into yours like a tidal wave. Fear and longing and desperate denial and—

He rips his hand away like you've burned him.

"No." The word comes out strangled, broken. He's staring at his hand like it's betrayed him, then at your face with something that looks like pure horror. "No, not—not like this. Not now—"

The loss of his touch hits worse than the bullet did. Your body convulses, a sob ripping from your throat that you can't control, can't stop. The bond—new and raw and screaming—feels like someone's reached into your chest and started pulling things out. Every nerve ending is firing wrong, confused, desperate for the contact that just got ripped away.

"Steve." Your voice breaks on his name, barely human. The world is going fuzzy at the edges but this—this burning absence where his hand was—this is crystalline. "Steve, please—you're—we're—"

"Don't." He's pressing against the wound with just fabric between you now, using torn pieces of his uniform to maintain pressure without skin contact. His whole body is shaking, violent tremors that make his hands unsteady. "This can't—I can't—"

"Please." The word comes out slurred, desperate, all your walls crumbling with your blood pressure. Your body moves without permission, trying to arch toward him, and the movement sends agony through your hip but you don't care, can't care, not when every cell is screaming for him. "Need—need you t'touch me. Please. Hurts—hurts so much without—"

A whimper escapes, high and broken, and you're crying now—real tears mixing with blood from where you've bitten through your lip trying not to beg.

"I can't." He's sobbing openly, pressing harder against the wound as your blood soaks through the fabric barriers he's maintaining. His face is wrecked, destroyed, tears cutting tracks through dirt and blood. "I can't do this to you. I can't—everyone I touch—everyone I—"

"'M dying." It's matter-of-fact, clear even through the growing fog. Your body knows it, feels it in the way everything's going cold and distant.

Your hand lifts, trembling so hard it's more spasm than movement, reaching for his face. He catches your wrist with fabric-covered fingers, holding you back, and the sound you make—wounded, animal, barely human—seems to physically hurt him.

"You're not dying." Fierce, desperate, a lie that cracks in his throat. "You're not. Med evac's thirty seconds out. You're going to be fine, you're going to—"

"Hurts." The word is pure anguish. Not just the wound but the rejection, the bond screaming, tearing, dying in your chest. Your body's shutting down but somehow the ache of his denial cuts deeper. "Steve, please—am I—did I do something wrong? Am I not—not what you wanted—?"

"No." The word rips from him with enough force to echo off the warehouse walls. He's shaking so hard the fabric between you vibrates with it. "No, you're perfect. You're everything. You're—Christ, you're everything I never let myself want. That's why I can't—"

"Don' understand." Your vision is tunneling fast now, darkness eating the edges. Your body won't stop shaking, violent tremors that make your teeth chatter. "'S supposed to—soulmates supposed to—to help. To make it better. Why won't you—why won't you just—"

Another sob tears from your chest, weaker this time. Your reaching hand falls, fingers still twitching toward him.

"Because I'll destroy you." Raw, bleeding, the words torn from somewhere deep and wounded. "Because everyone I've ever—because I'm not meant for this. For you. You deserve someone who—someone whole. Someone who isn't—"

"Jus' wanted—" Your voice is fading, each word a monumental effort. Your body feels like it's floating and sinking at once. "Jus' wanted to know what it felt like. To be yours. Steve—'m so cold—”

Your eyes are sliding shut, but you force them open one more time, finding his face. He looks shattered. Broken. Like watching you die is killing him too.

"'M sorry," you whisper, and you don't know what you're apologizing for. For dying? For being his soulmate? For not being enough to make him want to hold you? "Sorry I'm not—not worth—"

"Stop." His voice breaks completely. "You're worth everything. You're worth—"

But you're already going under, the last sensation being the phantom burn of where his palm touched your cheek for those thirty-seven seconds. The bond screams and screams and screams, and then—

The med evac arrives in a thunder of sound and motion, but you can't process it anymore. Hands are moving you, lifting you, but all you can focus on is Steve's face, the way he's looking at you like you're taking his soul with you.

"I'm sorry," he's saying, over and over, his voice following you into the darkness. "I'm so fucking sorry. You deserve better. You deserve everything."

The last thing you see is him standing there, your blood painting his bare hands red, looking like a man who's just given up the one thing he wanted most in the world.

The last thing you feel is the phantom burn where his palm touched your cheek, the bond screaming for a connection that's been severed, your body trying to reach for something that's already gone.

The last thing you think, with the last conscious part of your mind, is that you would have been good to him. You would have been so good to him, if he'd let you.

But maybe that's why he pulled away.

Maybe he knows something you don't—that good things don't last, that soulmates are just another pretty lie the universe tells to make the dying easier.

Your hand falls limp, still reaching for him, and the darkness takes you under.

The medbay ceiling has exactly 247 tiles. You know because you've counted them approximately forty-three times since waking up, which was—what? Two weeks ago? Three? Time moves differently when your body is trying to rebuild itself from the inside out and your soul is trying to tear itself apart looking for someone who won't come.

The gunshot wound is healing. Slowly, methodically, with the kind of grinding precision that modern medicine excels at. They'd had to do surgery twice—once to stop the bleeding, once to repair the mess the bullet made of your intestines. The scar will be ugly, they tell you with professional sympathy, as if that's what you're worried about. As if the external scarring could possibly compare to whatever the fuck is happening inside your chest where the bond lives.

Or dies. You're not really sure which anymore.

Your nights follow a pattern now, predictable as clockwork. At 10 PM, the ward goes quiet, lights dimming to that particular hospital twilight that never quite achieves darkness. At 11:47 PM—always 11:47, like he's calculated the exact time the night nurse finishes rounds—you hear it.

Footsteps in the hallway. Careful, measured, but with that particular weight that only belongs to him. Your body recognizes them before your mind does, skin prickling with awareness, the bond flaring to life like struck kindling.

The first night, you'd opened your eyes.

He'd frozen in the doorway, silhouetted by hallway fluorescents, and for thirteen seconds (you counted), you just stared at each other. His face was—God, his face was something you'd never seen before. Raw. Destroyed. Like someone had reached inside him and rearranged everything until it no longer fit right.

"I—" he'd started.

You'd waited, heart hammering so hard the monitors had started alarming, bringing nurses running.

By the time they'd cleared out, satisfied you weren't dying, he was gone.

Now you know better. You keep your eyes closed, breathing deep and even, and let him have whatever this is. Whatever he needs.

He sits in the chair by the window—always the same chair, the one that creaks slightly when he shifts his weight. For the first ten minutes, he just sits there, breathing. You match your inhales to his, careful to keep them sleep-slow even though your heart is racing, even though every cell in your body is screaming to reach for him.

Sometimes he talks.

"They're releasing you tomorrow," he says tonight, voice barely above a whisper. "Fury told me. Said you're healing well. That you'll be able to—that you'll be fine."

Fine. The word sits between you like a lie neither of you believes.

"I know you're awake."

Your breath doesn't catch. You've gotten very good at this game.

"I know you're awake," he repeats, softer. "Your heartbeat changes when I'm here. Just a little, but—" A pause. The chair creaks. "I memorized it. Before. The sound of your heartbeat. Didn't mean to, it just—happened. Enhanced hearing and all."

You want to open your eyes so badly it's physical pain, but you don't. Can't. Because if you do, he'll leave, and even this—this careful distance, this monitored proximity—is better than nothing.

"I'm being reassigned."

Now your breath does catch, just slightly. You hear him shift forward.

"Fury thinks it's best. For both of us. Different divisions, different missions. Clean break." His voice cracks on 'clean' like the word itself is cutting him. "It's better this way. You can—you can find someone else. Someone who isn't—"

Broken, you want to finish. Scared. Frozen in a past that no longer exists.

But you keep your eyes closed, keep your breathing even, keep pretending that your chest isn't caving in with every word.

"I watched Bucky with his soulmate," he continues, and you've never heard him sound like this. Lost. "Watched how easy it was for them. How she touched him and suddenly he was whole again, was himself again. How the bond just—fixed things. Made sense of them."

The chair creaks again. Closer now. You can feel the heat of him, smell that cedar-sharp scent that makes your body ache with want.

"I thought—" He stops. Starts again. "I thought if I didn't have a soulmate, I could pretend I didn't belong here. Could keep one foot in the past, you know? Keep waiting to go home to a time that doesn't exist anymore. But then you—"

Silence. Long enough that you almost open your eyes, almost give up the pretense.

"You make me want to stay," he whispers, and it sounds like a confession. Like something torn from him against his will. "You make me want to belong here. In this century. In this life. And that fucking terrifies me."

Your eyes burn behind closed lids. Your throat aches with words you can't say.

"So I'm leaving. Because you deserve someone who isn't terrified of wanting you. Someone who can touch you without feeling like the universe is ending. Someone who—" His voice breaks completely. "Someone who didn't let you bleed out rather than accept a bond."

You hear him stand, the chair scraping slightly against linoleum. Feel him hesitate, that particular stillness that means he's fighting himself.

Then warmth. Just for a second. The ghost of fingers near your hand where it rests on the blanket, not quite touching but close enough that you can feel the heat of his skin, the way the air shifts between you.

"I'm sorry," he breathes. "I'm so fucking sorry."

Then he's gone, and you finally let yourself cry—silent, body-shaking sobs that you muffle in the pillow so the night nurse won't come. The bond aches like a severed limb, phantom pain for something you had for exactly thirty-seven seconds in a warehouse in Brussels.

Tomorrow, they release you.

Tomorrow, you go back to a life where Steve Rogers is just someone you pass in hallways, someone who looks through you like you're a ghost, someone who touched your face once while you were dying and then decided you weren't worth the risk.

Tonight, though. Tonight you lie in a hospital bed and count ceiling tiles and pretend you don't know that he stands outside your door for another twenty-three minutes before he finally makes himself leave.

Your apartment feels like a crime scene you're returning to.

Everything is exactly as you left it three weeks ago—coffee mug still in the sink, laptop still open on the counter, the ghost of your normal life preserved in amber. Except you're different now. Hollowed out and reconstructed wrong, like someone took you apart and lost a few crucial pieces in the reassembly.

The first night is the worst.

You'd thought the hospital was bad, with its antiseptic smell and endless fluorescent twilight. But at least there, you could pretend Steve might appear. Could lie to yourself that the footsteps in the hallway might be his.

Here, in your own space, there's no such illusion.

The bond aches constantly. Not the sharp, immediate pain of the first few days, but a bone-deep throb that makes everything feel wrong. Food tastes like ash. Sleep comes in fragments, always interrupted by dreams of warehouse floors and the phantom warmth of a palm against your cheek. Your skin feels too tight, like your body is rejecting itself in the absence of touch it's only had once.

You try to go back to work after a week.

Fury takes one look at you—hollow eyes, hands that won't stop shaking, the way you flinch when anyone gets too close—and sends you home.

"Medical leave," he says, not unkindly. "Take the time you need."

You want to tell him that time won't fix this. That you could take a year, a decade, and you'd still be searching every room for a ghost who won't appear. But you just nod, gather your things, and pretend you don't see the pity in his eye.

The second week is when the anger arrives.

It starts small—irritation at the barista who makes your coffee wrong, frustration with the TV remote that won't work properly. But it builds, feeds on itself, until you're standing in your kitchen at 2 AM, hurling the mug Steve never saw you drink from against the wall, watching it shatter into pieces that still somehow hold more cohesion than you do.

How dare he.

How fucking dare he.

To touch you, to activate a bond you didn't even know existed, and then rip himself away like you're something toxic. To visit you every night but never when you're awake to actually see him. To make decisions about your life, your future, your soul without even asking what you want.

You track his missions through the internal SHIELD networks you're not supposed to have access to anymore. London. Moscow. Cairo. Always moving, always running, like distance could somehow break what's already broken. Your clearance hasn't been revoked yet—an oversight, probably—so you read his reports, clinical and detached descriptions of operations that tell you nothing about whether he's eating. Whether he's sleeping. Whether his soul feels as flayed as yours.

Probably not. He chose this, after all.

The third week is when you see him.

You're not prepared. How could you be? You're just buying groceries, standing in the cereal aisle like a normal person pretending to care about fiber content, when you feel it—that familiar prickle of awareness, the bond flaring to life like muscle memory.

You turn, and there he is at the end of the aisle. Frozen, like he's been caught. He looks—

He looks like shit.

Hollow eyes, sharp cheekbones like he hasn't been eating, a carefulness to his movements that speaks of bone-deep exhaustion. His hands are shoved in his pockets, probably to stop himself from reaching for you. Or maybe just to hide how they're shaking.

For a moment, you both just stand there, two people separated by twenty feet of fluorescent lighting and an unbridgeable chasm of his making.

You watch his mouth form your name. Not quite speaking it, just shaping it, like even that much is more than he's allowed himself.

Your body moves without permission, taking one step toward him, and he takes a step back.

Right.

The message is clear. Crystal fucking clear.

You turn around, leave your half-full cart in the middle of the aisle, and walk out of the store with as much dignity as you can muster. Make it all the way to your car before the shaking starts, before you have to grip the steering wheel just to keep yourself anchored.

Twenty feet.

He couldn't even stand to be within twenty feet of you.

That night, you draft seven different resignation letters. Because fuck this. Fuck playing this game where you pretend you're okay, where you pretend that seeing him doesn't make you want to scream or cry or claw your own skin off just to escape the constant ache of the bond.

You don't send any of them.

But you keep them, just in case.

Week four is when Natasha shows up at your door.

"You look like hell," she says without preamble, pushing past you into your apartment.

"Thanks. Great pep talk. You can go now."

She ignores you, taking in the disaster you've let your living space become—dishes piled in the sink, curtains drawn against the afternoon sun, the general apocalyptic ambiance of someone who's given up.

"He's not doing any better, you know."

You laugh, bitter and sharp. "Good."

"He sits outside your building sometimes." She says it casually, like it's nothing, like it doesn't make your heart stutter and race. "At night. When he thinks no one will notice. Just sits in his car and stares up at your window like a fucking Victorian ghost."

"He made his choice."

"He made a stupid choice," she corrects. "Because he's a stupid, self-sacrificing idiot who thinks he's protecting you."

"From what?" The words explode out of you, months of frustration and hurt finally finding voice. "From having a soulmate? From being loved? From fucking touching another human being?"

"From him." Her voice goes soft, which is somehow worse than when she's being cutting. "From what he thinks he is. What he thinks he'll do to you."

"That's not his choice to make."

"No," she agrees. "It's not."

She leaves after that, but not before placing a small piece of paper on your counter. An address. A time. Tomorrow, 3 PM.

"He won't be there," she says. "But you should go anyway."

You stare at the paper for a long time after she's gone, memorizing numbers you'll probably never use.

But when tomorrow comes, you go anyway.

Because maybe you're just as much of a self-sacrificing idiot as he is.

Or maybe you're just tired of being angry.

Maybe you're just tired, period.

The address leads to a small gym in Brooklyn, the kind that smells like old leather and determination. You expect it to be empty—Natasha said he wouldn't be there—but there's someone in the ring.

Barnes.

He's working the heavy bag with mechanical precision, each punch measured and brutal. The sound echoes in the empty space—thud, thud, thud—rhythmic as a heartbeat. He doesn't look up when you enter, but his shoulders tense slightly, that particular stillness of someone who's hyperaware of their surroundings but pretending not to be.

Your stomach does something complicated. You've seen him around the Tower these past couple months since Steve brought him in, but always at a distance. Always with her—his soulmate, the one who somehow reached through seven decades of programming to find the man underneath. The one who touches him like it's breathing, casual and constant and necessary.

"Natasha send you?" His voice is flat, careful.

"Yeah."

He stops punching, turns to face you. Takes you in with those winter-gray eyes that see too much, catalog too much. There's still something unfinished about him, like he's a sketch someone's only halfway through shading. Two months of freedom haven't quite erased seventy years of being someone else's weapon.

"You look like shit," he says, which isn't what you expected.

"Thanks. Everyone keeps telling me that."

His mouth twitches—not quite a smile, but close. "Steve looks worse, if it helps."

"It does, actually."

This time he does almost smile, just a flash before his face settles back into its usual brooding. He unwraps his hands slowly, methodically, like he's buying time to figure out what to say. The motion is practiced, automatic—muscle memory that belongs to James Barnes, not the Winter Soldier. You wonder how many things like that he's had to relearn. How many small, human gestures he's had to excavate from under decades of conditioning.

"This is..." He stops. Runs a hand through his hair, leaving it sticking up at odd angles. The gesture is so remarkably normal it makes your chest tight. "I don't usually do this. The talking thing. That's more—" A pause, like he's trying to remember who handles these things now, in this new life where he has friends instead of handlers. "That's not really my thing."

"Then why—"

"Because Steve's an idiot," he says bluntly. "And someone needs to explain why he's being an idiot, and apparently that someone is me." He tosses you a pair of wraps. "You know how to use these?"

"I'm on medical leave."

"Not asking you to fight. Just asking if you know how to wrap your hands. Gives you something to do while I..." He makes a vague gesture that somehow encompasses the awkwardness of the entire situation.

You do know how to wrap your hands. The familiar ritual of it—loop around the wrist, between the fingers, across the knuckles—gives your body something to focus on besides the constant ache under your ribs where the bond lives. He watches you do it, noting the slight tremor in your fingers that hasn't gone away since Brussels. 

"He ever tell you about Peggy?" Barnes asks suddenly, like ripping off a bandaid.

You pause, stomach twisting into something complicated. "No."

"Course not." He leans against the ropes, and for a moment looks older than whatever age he's supposed to be. "From what I remember—and my memory's not exactly..." He taps his temple with his metal finger, the soft whir of recalibrating plates filling the silence. "But from what I remember, and what I've been able to piece together since, he loved her. Real love, not just wartime desperation. Had her picture in his compass, carried it everywhere. Used to moon over her like she hung the goddamn stars."

Your chest tightens, ribs suddenly too small for your lungs. You focus on wrapping your hands, but the fabric keeps slipping because your palms have gone sweaty.

"But he knew they weren’t soulmates."

"Yeah. And it didn't matter to him. He chose her anyway." Barnes's jaw ticks, and you can see him working through memories that might be his or might be stories he's been told—the confusion of it flickers across his face. "I was already gone when he went into the ice. But from what I've learned, when he woke up, she'd lived a whole life without him. Found her actual soulmate. Got married. Had kids. The whole American dream he thought he was fighting for."

The words land like stones in your chest, each one heavier than the last. 

Steve chose Peggy. Chose her without destiny, without the universe's intervention, without biological imperatives. Just looked at her and decided she was worth defying fate for.

And you?

You're just what the universe assigned him. The consolation prize. The participation trophy for surviving into a century he never wanted to see.

Your hands still on the wraps. "That's not—she couldn't have known he'd survive—"

"Doesn't matter. Logic doesn't factor into it." His metal hand flexes, a nervous tic you've noticed before. "I think—and look, this is just my theory, thrown together from bits and pieces—but I think Steve maybe saw it as proof. That the universe was right all along. That choosing her was just him being stubborn, going against what was meant to be."

The words settle heavy in your stomach like you've swallowed cement. "So when he found out I was his soulmate..."

"Proof he's supposed to be here. In this century he's never felt like he belongs in." Barnes's voice goes quiet, almost careful. You can see him choosing his words, this man who's spent two months relearning how to have opinions. "Look, I've only been... back... for a couple months. I'm still figuring out who Steve is now versus who he was then. Half my memories of him are probably more fantasy than fact at this point. But from what I can see, if he accepts you, then he has to accept that this is where he's meant to be. That this is home."

"And he doesn't want that."

"He wants it so much it terrifies him."

Barnes moves to the speed bag, starts a rhythm that's almost meditative. His metal arm moves differently than the flesh one—more precise, less natural, like he's still learning to inhabit it.

"When they brought me in, when I was still more Winter Soldier than anything else, my soulmate—she didn't give me a choice." The rhythm falters for a moment. "Just kept showing up. Kept touching me even when I tried to—" He stops. Restarts. The sound fills the gym like a heartbeat. "Even when I was dangerous. Even when I couldn't remember her name five minutes after she said it."

You know this story, or pieces of it. Everyone at SHIELD does. But the way he tells it—halting, like he's still surprised by it—makes it feel different. Raw. Like he still can't quite believe someone chose to love him through the worst of it.

"I could have killed her. Almost did, more than once those first few weeks. But she kept coming back." The speed bag stills. His hands drop to his sides, and for a moment he looks lost, like he's forgotten what to do with them when they're not fighting. "I didn't get to push her away. Didn't get to decide I was too broken or too dangerous. She made that choice for both of us."

"And it worked out."

"Yeah." His voice does something strange here—goes soft in a way you didn't think it could. Like even after decades of violence, there's still something in him capable of gentleness. "Yeah, it did. But Steve—Steve's got this idea that he's protecting you. From disappointment. From loss. From him."

"That's not his choice to make."

"No. It's not." Barnes looks at you directly, and there's something almost sympathetic in his expression. "But he's gonna make it anyway unless someone stops him. And I'm too fucked up myself to be giving relationship advice, but—"

The gym door opens, cutting him off, and Barnes's entire demeanor changes instantly. It's like watching winter thaw in fast-forward—his shoulders drop, his face loses that careful blankness, even his breathing seems to ease. You turn to see a young woman entering, all bright eyes and gentle energy that seems to fill the space with warmth.

"Hey," she says, and Barnes is already moving toward her like she's got her own gravitational pull, like his body just naturally orbits hers. "You ready to go?"

"Yeah, doll. Just—" He gestures vaguely at you, and she turns that warm attention your way.

"Oh! You must be the one Nat mentioned." She extends her hand, and her smile is so genuine it makes your chest hurt. There's something knowing in her eyes, something that says she understands what it's like to love someone who thinks they're unlovable. "I've heard about you."

"Hopefully not all bad."

"Never." She squeezes your hand gently before releasing it. "How are you holding up?"

The question is so earnest, so carefully kind, that you almost start crying right there in the gym. Your throat goes tight, eyes burning with tears you refuse to shed.

"I'm—" You stop, unable to lie to this person who radiates the kind of empathy that makes dishonesty impossible. "Managing."

She nods like she understands, and somehow you think she does. Then she turns back to Barnes, and it's like watching a completely different person emerge. He leans into her space without seeming to realize it, his hand finding the small of her back with the kind of casual intimacy that speaks of constant touch, constant contact. The metal hand, you notice. The one that's caused so much damage. She doesn't flinch from it.

"You eat today?" she asks him quietly, reaching up to brush his hair back from his face. The gesture is so tender it makes your chest ache.

"Yeah, sweetheart." His voice is impossibly soft, private.

"What did you eat?"

A pause. His mouth quirks slightly—a ghost of whoever James Barnes was before the war, before the fall, before everything. "You."

She smacks his chest. "That doesn't count as food, James."

"Seemed pretty filling to me."

"Oh my god." She turns to you, cheeks pink but biting back a smile. "Six decades as an international assassin and he thinks he's a comedian now."

"I'm hilarious," Barnes says, completely deadpan, but his hand is rubbing small circles on her back, and the look she gives him—fond and exasperated and completely besotted—makes something crack in your chest.

Because this is what choosing looks like. This is what wanting looks like when it's not forced by biology or destiny or the universe's sick sense of humor.

Steve chose Peggy like this. Without destiny. Without force. Just looked at her and knew she was worth everything.

And you? You're just the assignment. The universe's way of telling him he can't go home. The anchor keeping him in a century he never asked for.

Your hands curl into fists inside the wraps, nails digging into your palms hard enough to hurt.

"We're gonna grab dinner," Barnes's soulmate says to you, still tucked against his side like she belongs there. "Real food," she adds with a pointed look at him. "You should come."

"I—no, thank you. I should—" You gesture vaguely at nothing, at the door, at escape.

"Think about what I said," Barnes interjects, not unkindly. His eyes are serious, understanding in a way that makes you want to run. "And..." He pauses, seems to wrestle with something. "Steve's an idiot. But he's an idiot who's been looking at you like you hung the moon since before Brussels. That's not the bond. That's just him."

They leave together, her hand in his, talking quietly about dinner plans and everyday things. You watch them go, Barnes letting her guide him toward something as simple as a meal, and the comparison burns in your throat like acid.

He never pushed her away. Even when he was dangerous, even when he was broken, even when he couldn't remember her name. He let her choose him.

But Steve? Steve took one look at the bond between you and ran.

Because with Peggy, he had a choice. He chose to love her.

With you, he doesn't. You're just what he's stuck with.

Your phone buzzes. A text from an unknown number.

He has a mission briefing tomorrow at 0900. Conference room C. Just saying.

You delete the text, but the information burns in your brain.

Maybe it's time to stop letting Steve Rogers make all the choices.

Even if you're just the consolation prize.

Even if you'll never be Peggy Carter.

Maybe especially then.

Conference Room C is empty.

You stand in the doorway like an idiot, staring at the polished table and empty chairs, at the blank whiteboard that mocks you with its pristine surface. The digital clock on the wall reads 09:07. You've been lurking in the hallway since 08:45, watching people filter in and out of different rooms, none of them Steve.

Of course.

Of course Natasha's intel was wrong, or maybe it was right and he changed locations when he realized you might—

Fuck this.

Fuck all of this.

The anger that's been simmering for weeks boils over, hot and sudden. 

You're done. 

Done waiting, done hoping, done letting Steve Rogers dictate the terms of your existence with his absence. Your hands shake as you turn to leave, the bond aching with fresh disappointment, and you're so focused on not crying that you don't hear the footsteps until—

A hand wraps around your elbow.

Even through the fabric of your shirt, you know it's him. Your body recognizes his touch like a key in a lock, every nerve ending suddenly alive, suddenly screaming. You're yanked sideways—not roughly, but with desperate efficiency—into a supply closet that smells like printer toner and industrial cleaner.

The door clicks shut, and you're plunged into darkness cut only by the thin strip of light under the door.

Your eyes adjust slowly, and when they do—

Jesus Christ.

Steve looks destroyed. 

No, destroyed doesn't cover it. 

He looks like someone reached inside him and hollowed him out with a rusted spoon. His uniform is torn—actually torn, with what looks suspiciously like blood staining the blue fabric black. There's a cut on his cheekbone that's already healing, but slowly, like even his enhanced body is too exhausted to properly function. His hair is matted with ash and something darker. His eyes are wild, pupils blown wide in the darkness, and he's breathing like he can't get enough air, like his lungs have forgotten how to work properly.

"Steve?" Your voice comes out tentative, barely a whisper.

He makes a sound—broken, animal, completely unintelligible. His hand is still on your elbow, grip tight enough that it should hurt but doesn't, and you can feel him trembling. Not just his hand. All of him. Vibrating with something that looks like shock but feels like barely contained devastation.

For a moment, you just stare at each other in the dim light. His chest heaves with each breath, and you can smell the mission on him—gunpowder and smoke and something else, something that makes your stomach turn. Death. He smells like death.

"Steve, what—"

He breaks.

With a deep, shuddering breath that sounds like it's being torn from the very center of him, Steve pulls you against him. It's not gentle. It's desperate, consuming, like a drowning man finding solid ground. One hand tangles in your hair, fingers twisting in the strands hard enough to make your scalp sing with that perfect edge of pain-pleasure. The other arm bands around your waist, and then—

His hand slides up under your shirt, fingers splaying wide against the bare skin of your back, and you both gasp.

The bond roars to life.

It's not the gentle warmth you'd imagined soulbonds to feel like. It's a flood, a tidal wave, every point of contact sending liquid heat through your veins like you're mainlining pure sensation. Your knees buckle, but he's got you, holding you up with desperate strength as he buries his face in the crook of your shoulder.

The noise he makes then—God, you'll hear it forever. Half sob, half relief, muffled against your neck as he breathes you in like you're the only thing keeping him tethered to earth. His body curves around yours, too tall, too broad, trying to eliminate every millimeter of space between you.

"Had to—" His voice is wrecked, barely recognizable, words pressed hot against your throat. "Had to find you. Couldn't—fuck, I couldn't breathe—"

His hand on your back moves restlessly, seeking more skin, and when his fingertips brush the edge of your bra, you shiver so hard he groans. The sound vibrates through your chest where you're pressed together, and you can feel his control fracturing, feel the way his hands shake with the effort of not taking more.

But he does take more.

His hand in your hair tightens, tilts your head back to expose your throat, and his mouth presses to your pulse point—not kissing, just resting there, feeling your heartbeat against his lips. The hand under your shirt spreads wider, slides higher, until his thumb brushes your ribs and you make a sound you've never made before.

"The mission," he says against your skin, and you feel more than hear it. "There was—Christ, there was this couple. Shopping for groceries when the building came down."

His whole body shudders, and he presses closer, pins you against the door with his weight like he needs the contact to stay upright. You can feel every line of him through the torn uniform—the hard planes of his chest, the way his stomach muscles clench with each ragged breath, the thick press of his thighs against yours.

"She died instantly." The words come out broken, wet. "But he—he lived long enough to feel the bond break. Have you ever—" His voice cracks. "I've never heard anyone scream like that. Like his soul was being ripped out through his chest."

"Steve—"

"All I could think about was you." His confession comes with another full-body shudder, and suddenly his mouth is moving against your throat, not kissing but talking, like he needs the contact to get the words out. "What it would feel like if—if I lost you before I ever—"

He pulls back just enough to look at you, and his eyes are wet, devastated, completely without walls. "I can't lose you. I can't. I'll die. I'll actually fucking die."

"You won't lose me," you breathe, but he's already shaking his head, already pulling you impossibly closer.

"You don't understand." His hand slides from your hair to cup your jaw, thumb brushing across your cheekbone with reverent desperation. "The bond—it's not—for normal people it's intense, but for me—" He makes a sound like he's in physical pain. "The serum amplifies everything. Every sensation, every emotion, every—"

He cuts himself off by pressing his forehead to yours, and you can feel him trembling with the effort of holding back.

"Steve."

"I need—" His hand at your back shifts, slides around to span your ribs, thumb brushing the underside of your breast through your bra, and you both freeze. The touch is electric, sends sparks racing down your spine, pooling low in your belly. "Fuck, I need to touch you. Need to—please. Please, just let me—"

"Yeah." The word comes out embarrassingly breathy, but you don't care because his hands are already moving, already taking.

He spins you suddenly, presses your back against the door, and then his hands are everywhere. One slides up to cradle your throat—not squeezing, just holding, feeling your pulse flutter against his palm. The other pushes your shirt up, fingertips tracing your ribs like he's memorizing you through touch alone.

"So soft," he murmurs, and it sounds like prayer. "How are you so fucking soft?"

His thumb finds the hollow of your throat, presses gently, and your head falls back against the door. He makes a sound like you've killed him, and then his mouth is on your neck, open and hot and desperate. Still not kissing exactly—more like tasting, like he needs to experience you with every sense.

Your hands come up to clutch at his shoulders, and he crowds closer, presses you harder against the door. His thigh slides between yours, and the pressure makes you gasp, makes your hips cant forward involuntarily.

"That's it," he breathes against your throat. "Let me feel you. Let me—"

His hand at your throat slides down, palms the curve of your breast through your bra, and the sound you make is embarrassing and needy and you don't care because he echoes it, his hips pressing forward to pin you completely.

"Been dying," he confesses against your collarbone, words muffled by skin and want. "Every day, dying by inches. Watching you walk past, smelling your shampoo in the hallways, hearing your laugh and knowing I couldn't—"

"You could have." Your hands find his hair, tangle in the sweat-damp strands, and he groans. "This whole time, you could have—"

"No." He pulls back to look at you, and his pupils are blown so wide there's barely any blue left. "Would've destroyed you. Consumed you. The bond, the way I need you—it's not normal. It's not healthy."

"I don't care."

"You should." But even as he says it, his hand is sliding up your ribs again, fingertips tracing patterns that make you shiver. "You should be terrified of how much I want you. How much I need to—"

He cuts himself off, jaw clenching, but his body betrays him. His hips press forward, and you can feel him hard against your hip, can feel the way he's shaking with want.

"Show me," you breathe, and he makes a sound like you've shot him.

"You don't know what you're asking."

"Then show me."

His control snaps like a rubber band stretched past its limit.

His mouth finds yours with the kind of desperation that makes your knees buckle, and it's nothing like you imagined during those long, empty nights. Nothing soft or careful or sweet. This is drowning. This is Steve Rogers trying to climb inside your skin through your mouth, one hand fisted in your hair to angle your head exactly how he needs it, the other pressed flat between your shoulder blades like he's trying to fuse your chest to his.

His tongue slides against yours, hot and demanding, and you taste copper—blood from where he's bitten his lip raw—mixed with something that's just fundamentally him. Something that makes your brain short-circuit, makes you grab at his shoulders just to stay upright. The bond roars to life under your skin, weeks of rejection suddenly reversed, and the whimper that escapes you would be embarrassing if you could think past the electricity racing through your veins.

"Fuck," he breathes against your mouth, not really pulling back, just speaking the word into you like he needs you to swallow it. His teeth catch your bottom lip, tug just hard enough to make you gasp, and he uses the opportunity to lick deeper into your mouth, thorough and filthy and completely at odds with Captain America's public persona.

Your back hits the door harder as he presses closer, and you can feel how affected he is—the way his chest heaves against yours, the tremor in his hands, the hard length of him pressed against your hip. It's overwhelming and not enough, too much and not nearly—

"Perfect," he growls, breaking away just long enough to trail his mouth down your jaw, teeth scraping in a way that's definitely going to leave marks. "You're so fucking perfect. Do you have any idea—" His hand slides under your shirt, fingertips tracing your ribs like he's mapping you for memory, "—what you do to me? How many meetings I've had to leave because you walked by and I could smell you?"

"Steve." Your voice comes out wrecked, barely recognizable. Your hands are in his hair now, tugging probably too hard, but he groans like you've given him a gift.

"I know, sweetheart. I know." His mouth finds your pulse point and sucks, and your vision whites out for a second. "I've got you. Let me—just let me—"

His hands shift with purpose now, one sliding down to grip your hip hard enough to bruise, the other pushing your shirt up, up, until cool air hits your stomach. And then—Jesus Christ—he's dropping to his knees with a fluidity that shouldn't be possible for someone his size, pressing his mouth to the skin above your waistband like communion.

You look down and nearly combust. Captain America—Steve—on his knees in a supply closet, eyes closed like he's praying, pressing open-mouthed kisses to your stomach that are somehow both worshipful and obscene. His tongue traces the line where your pants sit low on your hips, and your hands fly to his shoulders because your legs have forgotten how to work.

"Should've been doing this for months," he murmurs against your hipbone, and you feel the words more than hear them, vibrating through skin and muscle and straight to your core. "Should've been worshipping you. Should've—" His voice cracks, and suddenly his arms are banded around your waist, his forehead pressed to your stomach like he's hiding. "That man today, when his bond broke—the sound he made—"

"Steve." You card your fingers through his hair, gentle this time, trying to soothe whatever demon is riding him. He shudders against you, full-body, and presses closer.

"I can't lose you." The words come out muffled by your skin, but the desperation in them is crystal clear. "I can't. I won't survive it."

"You won't lose me."

It's probably a lie. You're both in a dangerous line of work. People die. Bonds break. But right now, with him on his knees looking like you're the answer to every prayer he's never let himself voice, you'd promise him anything.

"Promise." His hands tighten on your waist, and when he looks up at you, his eyes are wild, desperate, nothing like the composed soldier the world knows. "Promise me."

"I promise."

He surges up and kisses you again, different this time. Still desperate but searching, like he's trying to memorize you—the shape of your mouth, the sound you make when his tongue slides against yours, the way you shake when his thumb brushes the underside of your breast through your bra. It's overwhelming in a different way, intensity without hurry, and you're dizzy with it, drunk on the sensation of being wanted this badly by someone who's spent months pretending you don't exist.

When he finally pulls back, you're both wrecked. His lips are swollen, slick, and his pupils are blown so wide there's barely any blue left. You probably look worse—you can feel your hair sticking to your face with sweat, your mouth tender and used.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, thumbs stroking your cheekbones with a gentleness that makes your chest ache. "For Brussels. For after. For being such a fucking coward."

"I know." You do. It doesn't fix anything, not yet, but you know.

"I'll make it up to you." His thumb traces your lower lip, and you can't help the way your tongue darts out to taste it, salt and skin and Steve. His breath hitches. "However long it takes."

"You can start now." It comes out more breathless than the sultry suggestion you were aiming for, but something about your desperation makes his eyes go dark again.

He laughs, rough and ruined, and presses one more kiss to your mouth—this one soft, almost chaste, if not for the way his hand tightens possessively in your hair.

"Tonight," he says, and it sounds like a prayer. "Let me—let me shower, change, become human again. And then dinner. Real dinner. Where I pick you up and we go somewhere and I don't run when the bond makes me feel everything."

"And if you run?" You're trying for threatening but it comes out vulnerable, scared. Because he's run before. He's so good at running.

His hand slides to your throat, not squeezing, just holding, thumb pressed to where your pulse hammers against your skin. "You have my full permission to hunt me down and make my life hell."

"I will." And you mean it. You're done being the one left behind, the one reaching for someone who's already gone.

"I'm counting on it."

He steps back, and the loss of contact hits like cold water. Your skin feels too tight, too sensitive, nerve endings firing confused signals—where is he, why isn't he touching us, bring him back. You can see him feeling it too, the way his hands clench and unclench at his sides, the way his body sways toward you like you've got your own gravitational pull.

"Tonight. Eight o'clock."

"Steve?"

"Yeah?"

"Next time you have a bad mission, come find me. Don't wait. Don't hide. Just—come find me."

Something in his expression cracks open, vulnerable and raw and so un-Captain America it makes your heart skip. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

He kisses you one more time—quick, fierce, a brand, a promise—and then he's gone, leaving you slumped against the door on legs that feel like jello. Your mouth is swollen, your skin still burning everywhere he touched, and you're pretty sure you've soaked through your underwear, but the bond...

For the first time in months, the bond doesn't ache.

It purrs.

It fucking purrs.

Tonight. Eight o'clock.

You're going to need a very long shower. And possibly a new pair of pants.

And maybe—just maybe—you're going to get what the universe has been trying to give you all along.

Even if you're not Peggy Carter. Even if you're just the consolation prize.

Right now, with the taste of him still on your tongue and bruises already forming on your hips in the shape of his fingers, you can't bring yourself to care.

"Tell me about Peggy," you say, and it comes out embarrassingly breathy because Steve's just shifted his hips in a way that makes stars explode behind your eyelids.

"Fuck." His hands tighten on your hips, fingers digging into soft flesh with bruising intensity. The pressure sends heat pooling low in your belly, makes your inner muscles flutter around him. "Can we... not?"

It's not the most unreasonable request in the world. He's inside you, after all, thick and perfect and stretching you in ways that make coherent thought impossible. You're straddling him on the couch, and he's maneuvering you exactly how he wants—one hand gripping your hip hard enough to leave fingerprints, the other splayed possessively across your lower back, controlling your rhythm with casual strength that makes you dizzy. Like you weigh nothing. Like you're his to position and please and wreck completely.

"Bucky says—"

A growl rumbles through his chest at the name, vibrating through your body where you're joined. His hand slides from your back to your throat in one fluid motion. Just resting there, feeling your pulse race beneath his palm. A reminder. A warning.

"Another man's name?" His voice is dark, edged with something primal that makes your stomach flip. "While I'm inside you?"

You gasp as he lifts you slightly, changes the angle, and your thighs shake with the effort of holding yourself up. "S-says she's the reason you stopped believing in soulmates."

Steve goes still. Not completely—he's still buried deep, still hard, still breathing like he's barely holding onto control—but his hands stop their restless movement, and his eyes snap to yours with something like exasperation mixed with disbelief.

"Are we really doing this?" His thumb presses against your pulse point, and you feel your heartbeat stutter. "You want to talk about someone else while I'm trying to fuck you through this couch?"

"I just—oh god—" Your train of thought derails as he rolls his hips up, deliberate and punishing, hitting that spot that makes your vision white out.

"What you need," he says, voice dropping to that Captain-giving-orders tone that should not work in this context but absolutely does, "is to stop overthinking and let me take care of you."

One hand slides up your spine to tangle in your hair, tugging just hard enough to make your neck arch, exposing your throat to his mouth. The other grips your hip, holding you still as he rolls his hips again, controlled and devastating.

"She wasn't my soulmate." The words are pressed hot against your throat between open-mouthed kisses that feel more like claims. "Loved her, yes. A long time ago. Thought I'd marry her if I survived the war. But she wasn't mine."

His teeth graze your collarbone, and your whole body shudders, nerve endings singing. The bond between you pulses with each heartbeat, amplifying every sensation until you can't tell if the pleasure is yours or his or some perfect fusion of both.

"Not the way you are." His hand in your hair tightens, forces you to meet his eyes. They're blown dark, barely any blue remaining. "Not even close to the way you are."

"But—"

"Sweetheart." He stops moving entirely, and you make a sound of protest that would mortify you if you could think past the need coiling tight in your belly. "Listen very carefully, because I'm only saying this once."

His hand leaves your throat to frame your face, thumb stroking across your cheekbone with gentleness that contrasts sharply with the possessive grip in your hair.

"She chose someone else. Her actual soulmate. And yeah, it messed me up. Made me think the universe was laughing at me." His hips flex slightly, involuntarily, and you both gasp. "But you know what I realized?"

"What?" The word comes out wrecked, barely audible.

"The universe wasn't wrong. I was." He releases your hair only to grip the back of your neck, holding you steady as he starts to move again, slow and deep and deliberate and exquisite. "I wasn't meant for that time. If she'd been my soulmate, I'd have stayed in the forties. Lived a quiet life. Had the house and the kids and the picket fence."

"That sounds—"

"Like everything I thought I wanted," he agrees, punctuating the words with a particularly deep thrust that has you seeing stars. "Until I woke up here. Until you walked into that briefing room two years ago, looking so goddamn competent and untouchable, and my body knew you were mine before my brain could catch up."

Your nails dig into his shoulders as he picks up the pace, and you feel his pleasure spike through the bond, mixing with yours until you can't separate them.

"I fought belonging here for so long," he continues, voice getting rougher, more breathless. "But you—Christ, you make me want to stay. Make me grateful the ice gave me you instead of her."

"Steve—"

"That’s it, sweetheart. No more names but mine," he commands, and then he's kissing you, deep and claiming and filthy. His tongue slides against yours, and you taste desperation and possession and something that feels dangerously close to devotion. When he pulls back, you're both panting. "And I want to keep hearing it. Preferably screamed."

You nod, words beyond you, and something dark and satisfied flashes across his face.

"Good girl."

The praise shoots straight through you, makes your cunt clench around him. He groans, forehead dropping to your shoulder, and his control finally, blessedly shatters.

He fucks up into you with purpose now, each thrust deliberate and devastating. His hands are everywhere—gripping your hips, sliding up your ribs, palming your breasts with possessive familiarity. Every touch feels magnified, the soul bond amplifying sensation until you're drowning in it. You can feel his pleasure mixing with yours, feeding back on itself in an endless loop that has you both gasping, clutching at each other like you might dissolve without the anchor of skin on skin.

"This is what I think about," he confesses against your throat, words punctuated by the snap of his hips. "Not the past. Not her. You. Always you. How you feel around me, how you taste, the sounds you make when you're close."

Your nails rake down his back hard enough to leave marks, and he hisses, the pain-pleasure bleeding through the bond making you both groan.

"The serum," he pants, rhythm getting erratic. "Fuck, the goddamn serum makes everything more intense. Every touch, every—I can feel you everywhere. In my blood, in my bones. Under my skin where I couldn't get you out even if I wanted to."

"Don't want you to," you manage, chasing your release, that coil in your belly wound so tight you might shatter.

"Never." It's a vow pressed into your skin with teeth and tongue. "Never letting you go. Mine. My soulmate, my—fuck, I'm close—"

His hand slides between your bodies, thumb finding your clit with unerring accuracy, and you're gone. The orgasm crashes over you like a tidal wave, pleasure so intense it borders on transcendent. You do scream his name, just like he wanted, and he follows you over, your name on his lips like a prayer, his hands holding you against him like you might evaporate if he loosens his grip.

You collapse against his chest, both of you panting, sweat-slick and trembling. The bond hums between you, satisfied and warm, and for the first time in months, you feel whole.

"So," you say once you can form words again, unable to help yourself, "just to be clear—"

He flips you suddenly, pressing your back into the couch cushions, and the predatory look in his eyes makes your breath catch. He's still hard, still inside you, and when he rolls his hips experimentally, you both groan.

"You want clarity?" His voice is dark, promising. He hitches your leg higher around his waist, slides deeper, and your head falls back. "Let me be very, very clear."

He pulls almost all the way out, then slides back in with devastating slowness, making you feel every inch.

"You are the only person I think about," he says, setting a rhythm that's slow and deep and intentional. "The only person I want. The only person who's ever made me grateful to be exactly where I am, when I am."

His hand slides up your thigh, grips behind your knee to open you wider, and the new angle has you gasping, clutching at his shoulders.

"The past is the past," he continues, voice steady despite the way his control is visibly fraying, tendons standing out in his neck. "And I plan to spend my future making up for lost time. Starting now."

"Steve—"

"That's it," he praises when you say his name, and rewards you with a particularly deep thrust that has your back arching off the couch. "Just like that. Let me show you exactly how not hung up on the past I am."

And he does.

Thoroughly.

By the time he's finally satisfied you understand, you've forgotten not just her name, but your own. The only thing that exists is him, the bond between you singing with contentment, and the absolute certainty that the universe knew exactly what it was doing.

Even if it took Steve Rogers seven decades to appreciate the gift.

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[bartonsparrow25]

Don't Be Stubborn

*Photos are not mine, they are courtesy of Pinterest and Google*

Pairing: John Walker x F! Reader - nicknamed Mouse. The whole team is here though!

Warnings: some angst, self doubt, family drama. Also some smexyness, kissing and some swears.

A/N: This is the third chapter of Working Out The Kinks. It begins immediately after Two-Step. I hope you enjoy. Please like, comment, reblog amd share. Love all my readers! Also thanks to @e-dubbc11 as always for beta reading!

Word count: 5,260

You woke up in a tangle of soft sheets and warm Bucky. He was curled up behind you, arm across your middle, hand over your heart. The time on your phone read 6am, definitely not time to get up yet. Bucky's breathing was heavy and even, still deep asleep. You tried to go back to sleep, but after a few minutes, you knew it wasn’t going to happen.  You reached for your eReader, fingers just barely managing to grab it, because even in sleep Bucky held you tightly. You made sure to turn the screen brightness down and snuggled in to read until it was time to get up.

You were just getting to the part where Bilbo is taunting the spiders in Mirkwood when Bucky’s breathing changed, and you felt him nuzzle into your neck. “Whatcha reading gorgeous?”

“Faerie smut” you said nonchalantly, rolling over slightly to look at him.

“You’re reading what now? What is faerie smut?”

“Smut, but with faeries. Not little faeries, they’re people sized…” then you burst out laughing, because the look on his face said his brain had come to a grinding halt. “I’m kidding, I’m reading The Hobbit! See?” You held your eReader out for him to see. "Bob and I watched the movies, and he liked them, so I lent him my paperback copy. Then I decided to re-read it too. I’ve always loved it.”

“Me too. I read it when it first came out.”

“I read it for the first time in third grade, I think. I’d do some pretty sketchy things to get my hands on a first edition. I love that Tolkein created an entire world, complete with different languages. And his friendship with CS Lewis was unhinged. They were menaces!”

“You’re a menace” Bucky said, voice low.

“How so? I’m just laying here, reading my book, snuggled into my…um, my…you. Nothing menacing there.”

“You’re laying here, reading my favorite book, a smile on your face, snuggled up with me like you’re meant to be here. Definitely a menace to my heart. And I’m yours if you’re mine baby. It’s okay to say it. I already claimed you, remember?”

“I remember. And I like it. So, mine, and yours.” You pointed to him and then yourself. Then you pulled him down into a kiss.

Later that morning, you were perched on the counter, trying to reach the cabinet above the fridge where someone had decided it was a good idea to store the glass baking dishes. You had one foot on the counter and one on top of a tall chair, trying to get just one more inch closer to grab the damn dish you needed. Just as your fingers grazed it, you heard someone walk into the kitchen. “Mouse, what the hell are you doing? Get down from there?!” It was John, and he sounded horrified. You didn’t know if it was because you were standing on the counter or if it was your balancing act that had him sounding like that, and you didn’t care. You needed the dish for breakfast, and if tall people weren’t around to get it for you, well, you’d get it yourself. Being short, having to climb things to reach was nothing new for you.

“I need this dish. No one tall was around, so, I’m getting it myself! Yes!” You had finally gotten a good grip on it and now you were figuring put how to set it down without falling or dropping it. “Here, take this.” You held it out to John, your other hand pressing into the top of the fridge for balance.  Instead of grabbing it from your hand, John reached up and grabbed you around the waist, pulling you off the counter with the dish in your hand. “Short women are terrifying. You’re fearless little gremlins. I think my heart stopped twice in the last ten seconds seeing you balanced up there like that. How were you gonna get down?”

You just shrugged as he set you on your feet. “I would’ve figured it out. That’s not the first time I’ve done something like that. My brothers used to put things up high just to see what I would do to be able to reach them. Mostly my books.”

“No offense honey, but your brothers sound like assholes.”

“Sometimes they are.  They’re triplets and they were established as a unit by the time I came along. I don’t think they appreciated having a sister until I was older and could run around with them.”

“They all serve, right?”

“Yeah. Marines, Air Force and Navy. Dad wanted me to go to West Point, so he could have a kid in each branch, but that life wasn’t for me. I’m happy doing what I do, and supporting the boys. I make a heck of a care package.” John laughed at this. “I bet you do. Do you want help with breakfast? I can scramble eggs like no ones business.”

“Then get scrambling. We’re going to add ham and cheese and hash browns, put that all in this dish I risked life and limb for, then bake it. After that I’ll show you how to make the best French toast you’ll ever eat.”

Ava declared your French toast the best she had ever had, and everyone enjoyed the egg casserole. “I’m going to go take a nap after eating all of that.  Bob, come with me.” Yelena held out her hand to Bob, and he took it with a smile. “Someone better clean up, since John and I cooked!”

Alexi volunteered to clean up, and the team started drifting away. Bucky gave you a sweet kiss and told you he had meetings, but he would be back later.  “Can I take you out tonight, on an actual date?”

“I think, since you’re sleeping in my bed, a date would be good. Let me know what time to be ready and where we are going, so I’ll know what to wear.”

“Let’s say 7:30. Wear something pretty.”

“I can work with that. Kiss me again, then I need to set up for John.”

“Have fun with that. Don’t let him give you a hard time.”

“He should be worried about me giving him a hard time!”

“Go get ‘em baby.” He gave you one more lingering kiss, then headed to the elevator.

A little while later, you were standing on a box, hanging the last of your framed certifications, when John walked into the PT area. “Sweet lord Mouse, what are you doing now?” In his defense, you were standing on a wooden box that was balanced on an aerobic step, which wasn’t as stable as, say, a ladder. In your defense, you weren’t able to find a stupid ladder, so you made do.

“Hanging up the stuff that says I’m qualified to do this job. Will you hand me that frame please?” You pointed to your framed Sports Certified Specialist certification. “Damn darlin’, what are all these?” John asked, scooting you aside to hang the frame himself. “My degrees and certifications, starting with my high school diploma, ending with my Emergency Medical Responder certification, which I also need to hang. It’s a lot of years of education, and I wanted to hang it all up finally, make myself at home.”

“It’s impressive. Guess you do know what you’re doing here. Question is, what am I doing here? Told you I’m all healed up.”

“First, I definitely know what I’m doing. Second, you’re not all healed up. I didn’t miss the face you made when you pulled me off the counter, and I know it was from that pulled muscle in your back. I know you’ve got serum running through those veins, but it’s not an instant healing potion.  Third, even if you were at 100%, you’re here so I can get a baseline on you, that way if you get hurt, I know where you started and can rehab you accordingly.” You gave John a level look that told him in no uncertain terms that you were in charge here. He stared back for a long minute, deep blue eyes assessing. Finally, he nodded.

“Yes ma’am. Where do you want to start?”

“With basic strength and range of motion and flexibility. Then I’ll move you to the treadmill, then the heavy bags – I made sure they are reinforced. After that we will finish up with the shoot course. I want to watch you move like you would on missions.”

“Should I have brought my shield?”

“Nope! I’ve got that part covered.” You couldn’t wait to show John how you had it covered. You had called Valentina and gotten John a brand new, not bent shield. You had told her he needed a new one, and if you needed to write a prescription for it, you would. The man needed one that wasn’t bent to do his job the right way and avoid injury. You had it in a box with a ribbon around it, waiting at the last part of his eval.

You began running him through his strength and range of motion tests, noting that his right side was just the slightest bit weaker than his left, likely from that pulled muscle healing so rapidly. On the treadmill, John moved like he was hunting a target. Fast and graceful, especially for someone as tall and muscled as him. He ran head up, form perfect. You maxed out the treadmill, just to see how fast he could go. When you stopped him, he was breathing hard, sweaty but looking proud of himself. “You’re amazing John. Perfect form, and I’ve never seen someone run like that and not be dying after. I saw the study MIT did on you pre-serum, and I was completely blown away. You’re even more impressive now. The way you’ve adapted to the serum…anyway! Let’s see what you’ve got on the heavy bags. I want you to wrap your hands. Super soldier or no, split knuckles don’t happen on my floor.”

What he had, was precision, power, and a chip on his shoulder. He was laser focused, but every strike was made like he was punishing the bag, like he had something to prove. You had seen it in other fighters, especially after a loss. That drive to prove themselves inevitably ended with them injuring themselves, either in the ring or during training. They went too hard and did damage to themselves, as well as their opponents. It made you worry for John on missions.

“Alright, lastly, the shoot course. I have nerf guns for you, and there are targets throughout for you to hit.”

“Why are some of them padded like that?”

“So you can hit them with your shield.”

“You said I didn’t need my shield! And you know it’s bent, right? Bob made it into a taco…” He trailed off, because you had pulled out the box wrapped in a ribbon. “Open it!”

“Honey, did you get me a present?”

“Something like that, Georgia boy. Now open it!”

John opened the box and pulled out his brand new shield. He looked at you with wide eyes, mouth hanging open. “How…?”

“I told Valentina you needed a new one. After telling her if I wrote a prescription for it and she didn’t comply that I’d file a complaint with the Feds, she got one. It came while you guys were on that last mission.”

John put the shield down and grabbed you, pulling you into a bear hug. He squeezed so hard you felt your entire back pop. “Too hard John, can’t breathe” you squeaked out. He let you go, but then grabbed you again, softer this time. He dropped a kiss to the top of your head and stepped back. “Thank you y/n. I can’t tell you what it means that you would do that.”

“You’re welcome John. Now show me what you can do.”

Like Bucky, John was lethal. He hit target after target, moving with speed and precision. Unlike Bucky, who moved with silent grace like a big cat, John moved with force. He commanded the course, moving with the authority of a man not that long out of the military. When he threw the shield, you watched how his body flexed and moved, making notes on shoulder and back exercises to keep him strong and flexible. When he finished the course, he was beaming. “Okay, I see why Bob had so much fun with this. Kinda disappointed you didn’t ambush me though.”

“It’s not as much fun if you’re half expecting it. Don’t worry, I’ll get you one of these days. Let’s walk over to the massage area and talk about what needs my help.”

“Really Mouse, I feel fine. You don’t have to take care of me.” John looked a little sad when he said this. “Look at me John” you ducked down so you could look into his downcast eyes. “You deserve just as much TLC as anyone here. You deserve to be cared for, and to feel like your well being matters, because you matter. So yes, I do have to take care of you, because you need me. Okay?”

John looked at you, eyes shining with what looked like unshed tears. He nodded once. “Okay.”

“Good. Now, let’s get your massage going. I want to work your back.” You showed him the tools you used, then left so he could get undressed. You had pulled the blankets back and made a point to let him know to get under them. When you walked in, he was under the blanket, face down. You went to work, starting with his feet and working your way up to his back. When you got to the area he had pulled, you worked in with the percussion massager, as well as the fascia scrapers. John groaned and squirmed the more you worked the area. “Am I hurting you?”

“No, but I didn’t realize it was still sore.” “You had a pretty good knot here. Almost done though.”

When you were done with John, you showed him the stretches and strengthening exercises you wanted him to do. “I want to keep those shoulders healthy, and your back, especially with the way you throw the shield. Let’s have you come in 4 times this week, with another massage on day 5. Do those exercises twice a day please.”

“Will do. Thanks again.”

“Welcome. Now go relax some more."

You were finishing up your notes on John when Bucky walked into the PT area. He looked grim. “Uh-oh. Either you’re hurt again, or you’re going to miss our date tonight.”

“I’m so sorry sweetheart, we have a mission. It’ll be me, Alexi, Lena and Ava on this one. Bob and John will be here with you. I promise, when I get back we will go on a real date.”

“Just come home safe. Try not to get hurt.”

“It’s just recon, we shouldn’t have to be anywhere near any bad guys this time.”

“I’ll keep my fingers crossed it stays that way.” Bucky picked you up out of your chair and you wrapped your legs around him. He kissed you fiercely, all tongue and teeth. You nipped his bottom lip and he growled. Before you knew it, you were in your room, pressed against the wall, Bucky flush to your body. You pulled him in tighter with your legs, until there was zero space between you. You could feel him between your legs and you made a sound like a whine in your throat. Bucky left a trail of kisses down your jaw, then gently bit you where your neck meets your shoulder. You started pulling on his shirt, when you heard a very insistent pinging sound. Bucky pulled back and swore. “Shit sweetheart, I need to go. When I get back…”  You nodded, trying to catch your breath. “When you get back.” He kissed you, quick and hard, then he left. You flopped face down on your bed with a groan. Neither of you was doing well at taking this slowly. You wanted him so much you could barely think straight. You went and took a cold shower.

You were playing cards with John and Bob later that night when your phone rang. You hoped it was Bucky, but instead it was your older brother Jake. You answered on speakerphone. “Hey, what do you want?”

“Hey now sunshine, that’s not a nice way to greet your favorite brother.”

“Jamie is my favorite followed by John. They’ve never blown me off for some two night stand when I flew out to Japan to visit them.”

“I said I was sorry! I’m a terrible brother. But I want to make it up to you”

“Yes, you are. How are you planning to make it up to me?”

“Well, I’m in town. Want to take you out to dinner. And I’ll buy you something shiny as an apology.”

You looked at Bob and John, and smiled, coming up with an idea. “You’ll pay for dinner for me AND two friends, minimum. You’ll also pay for a new tattoo of my choosing. Then you can finish your apology with something shiny and penguin themed. Then I’ll consider forgiving you.”

“That’s a deal. Where are you living now? Mom said you moved recently. And speaking of that, do you have room for me to stay?”

“Of course I do. I’ll text you the address, let me know when you get here. It’s a…secure…building.”

“Good. I want my baby sister safe in the big city. See you soon. Oh, and these two friends…are they hot?”

You looked at John and Bob and held back a laugh. “Very. They’re both tall, one is blonde and the other brunette, and they have these amazing blue eyes.”

“You know I love a tall girl with blue eyes. ETA is 30 minutes. Oh, and Emma is with me.”

“Really?! I can’t wait, I haven’t seen her in way too long. Now I’m excited.”

“Hey!”

You hung up and burst out laughing with John and Bob. “That was evil Mouse. What is he gonna do when he gets here and sees that the tall blue eyed girls are actually tall blue eyed guys?”  

“Trust me John, Jake deserves it. That’s what he gets for thinking with his libido.” “Did he really ditch you in Japan?” Bob asked.

“For two days while he was chasing some Marine chick. He’s in the Air Force and he was there for a week. We were supposed to meet up and hang, but when he ditched me I flew to Tokyo and hung out by myself. He got mad that I left, and we haven’t completely patched things up yet. I’m sure we will while he’s here. None of my brothers let me stay mad too long.”

“How long has it been?”

“Three months.”

Just then, your phone rang again. “Hi sis. I think we might be at the wrong address.”

“Are you at the Watchtower?”

“Yeah. Are you next to it or something?” “Nope! I live in the tower. Go ahead and come in, I’ll let security know. They’ll send you up to the right floor.”

The elevator dinged, and you turned to look at your brother. Despite Jake being a jerk, you missed him, and your other brothers, like you would miss a limb.  He held out his arms, and instead of hugging him, you kicked him in the shin. “Ow! What the hell?”

“You know what you did. You want a hug, you earn it.” You turned to Emma next. The pretty brunette had been your friend since childhood, and she was transitioning from the Army to civilian life. You had been trying to convince her to come see you and look at jobs in the city. Looked like she was at least considering it.

“Guys, this is Bob Reynolds (you pointed at Bob, who gave a little wave) and John Walker. Bob, John, this is Emma and Jake. I’ve known Emma since we were kids living on base in Iwakuni.”

Jake stood and stared, first at Bob and then at John, then shook his head. “Guessing these are the two hot friends?” “You guess right! I never said they were women.” Emma spoke next, walking forward to shake John’s hand, looking a touch star struck. “Good to meet you Captain Walker. I followed your career, it’s impressive.” John’s ears turned pink, but he shook Emma’s hand with a nod.

“So baby sis, how’d you end up working here? And where are we going to dinner?”

You filled them in on your life lately, leaving out that you and Bucky were…something to each other already. Jake was overly protective when it came to you and men. He had hated the last guy you dated. He was also the family gossip, and since you and Bucky hadn’t quite defined things, you weren’t ready to give Jake something to tell the entire family.

You all went out for pizza and drinks, since it was easy and there was a good place not far from the Tower. John and Bob were playing pool, leaving you chatting with your brother and Emma.

“Okay spill, who’s the guy?” Emma said after watching you check your phone repeatedly. You didn’t want to miss if Bucky called. “What? What do you mean?” You tried giving her the “shut up for now” look with your eyes, but she doubled down. “You’re checking your phone constantly, and you have that look. And before you ask, it’s that new guy shiny look. So spill! Who is he?” Jake looked from you to her and back to you.

“Shit, is it Walker?! Is that how you got the job? I thought you were smarter than that!”

You glared at Jake and his insinuation. You also knew John had heard, because he put the pool cue down and was walking over, jaw clenched. “First of all, who I’m with is none of your business, and never has been. I am an adult. Second, I don’t have to be fucking a super soldier to get a job working with them. I did over a decade of school and certifications to be qualified for this job. And third, don’t you ever say John Walker’s name like that again! The man has three medals of honor, and has treated me more like family since I met him than you have in years! Tell you what, you find somewhere else to stay, and we can try this again when you’re done being a jackass.” John stopped dead behind your brother, reaching for him like he was going to grab him and toss him across the room. You shook your head at him and got up to leave, grabbing John’s hand and Bob’s on your way to drag them with you. You stopped short and turned back, remembering Emma was with you.

“Sorry Em, but your boyfriend is dumb and I’m ashamed of him.” Emma looked at you with wide eyes. “How’d you know?”

 “I’m not blind. His hand has been on your thigh since we sat down. Call me later and we can meet, just the two of us.”

You made it back to the Tower, still fuming. When you got back to the common area, the wave of your temper crashed over you. “That absolute bastard! How dare he?! Acting like sleeping with you (here you pointed at John) is the only way I could get this job! A job he didn’t even know about until today! And saying your name like you’re a bug or something, or like you’re not good enough for me?!” John just stared at you, letting your rant wind down. Bob stood behind you rubbing small circles on your back. As your temper ran down, the tears started. You walked over to John and grabbed his hand. “John, I am so sorry he acted that way. You don’t deserve to be talked about like that, and I should’ve punched him in his stupid face for it.” You started sobbing, the thought that your brothers careless words could have hurt John  or caused him to doubt his worth more crushed you.  John pulled you over to the sofa, nodding at Bob above your head. “I’ll make you some tea Mouse” Bob said, giving you a quick squeeze.

You sat on the couch next to John, and wiped your tears with your hands. John spoke quietly “Listen y/n. I have been hearing stupid things like that said by bigger assholes for a while now. It doesn’t bother me like it did, thanks to someone special finally getting me talking to a therapist. What did bother me, and what made me want to throw him across the room, is that he talked to you that way. He implied that one of the most caring, smartest and loving people I have ever met only got her job because she was fucking someone, not just me. When I heard that, I saw red. Because if I had a sister like you, I would count myself as a lucky guy. In fact, all of us are lucky, because you walked into our lives. So don’t apologize for that asshole honey. You have nothing to be sorry for. You stood up for me and for yourself, and I’m…thank you.” Then he leaned forward and wrapped you in a soft hug. “Okay well now I’m crying because that was incredibly sweet John. Thank you.”

Bob walked in with tea, handing it to you and bending to drop a soft kiss to the top of your head. “Safe to say you’re stuck with us now Mouse” he said. You gave them both a smile and sipped your tea, feeling the weight of the fight with your brother lifting, thanks to the two incredible men sitting with you. For the first time in so long, you felt seen and accepted, even loved.

All in all, the team was away four days. When they came home, you, Bob and John were sitting in the TV room, all the lights off, watching a scary movie and eating popcorn. Well, you were eating popcorn and watching the movie. Both guys had tried to Nope out at least twice since the movie started, so you were leaning on Bob and had your feet resting on the edge of the blanket John was using, effectively pinning him down. You had just gotten to the scariest part of the movie when Bucky and Ava walked in, trailed by Yelena. “Thank God you’re back. Help us. She won’t let us leave” John said, sending a jokingly pleading look at the three of them. “She’s half your size John, how is she keeping you here?” Ava asked with a laugh, settling herself on the arm of the couch, leaning against him slightly. “She's stronger than she looks, and she fights dirty. I tried to leave and she looked at me with puppy eyes!” Bob nodded and added “She grabbed my hand and said please. She said there was safety in numbers and if we leave, that’s how every horror movie starts, with splitting up. We had to stay.”

Yelena laughed, moved Bobs blanket and curled up in his lap like a cat, settling the blanket back over them. “Don’t worry lyubimaya, I’ll protect you.” Bob grinned and turned back to the screen.

Bucky scooped you up, blanket and all, then settled on the couch with you in his lap. “Missed you” he said, brushing a soft kiss just below your ear that made you shiver. Then a little louder he said “You being a terror doll?”

“Don't say doll!” John said, just as the possessed doll in the movie popped up on the screen again, making him jump. You leaned into Bucky more, wiggling to get comfy. “Missed you too. And there’s safety in numbers! If we are all together, the evil doll can’t get us.” You felt, more than heard Bucky chuckle. You looked over and saw Ava lean in closer to John, whispering in his ear. His smirk made you raise your eyebrow at him, which he pointedly ignored. You nudged him with your foot. “Don’t make Ava sit on the arm John, be a gentleman and give her a seat!” He gave you a mock scowl, then scooted closer to you so Ava could slide down between the arm of the couch and him. “Come on darlin’, you can keep me safe from the doll and Mouse.” Ava laughed and stuck her tongue out at you playfully. “Real subtle babes.” You just laughed and turned your attention back to the screen.

Later that night, after ordering pizza and making the team sit through the second movie in the series, you were in the kitchen gathering snacks for yourself and Bucky, when you heard a quiet step behind you. You spun around to see Ava, clad in nothing but a t-shirt with the name Walker on the back, trying to dart back around the corner. “Freeze!” you told her. She stopped mid-step and turned to face you. You got a good look at the front of her shirt. “I didn’t know you went to West Point. How’d you like it?” you asked her with a devilish grin. Before she could reply, you heard John’s voice. “Baby, you coming back?” Ava’s face turned beet red  “In a moment, just grabbing snacks.” She made grabby hands at your snacks, and you handed them to her. “Have a good night” you told her with a wink. She phased through the wall and you went back to gathering snacks, happy for them both.

Bucky was waiting for you in your room, already under the covers. “Did you get lost sweetheart?”

“No, I caught Ava coming to grab snacks, wearing John’s West Point shirt.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s a new thing. I heard her call him while we were gone. I can’t unhear what they said” he shuddered dramatically.

“I think it’s cute!”

“You’re cute” he said, pulling you until you were straddling his lap. He leaned forward and kissed you gently, hands resting on your hips. “Can we go out tomorrow night? I want to do this right.” You nodded. “I would love a date with you Bucky. I really did miss you.”

“What did you do while I was gone, besides terrorize John and Bob?”

You filled him in on giving John his new shield, and your fight with your brother. When you confessed what he had said about you only getting the job because you were sleeping with John, Bucky growled. “Please tell me you let John take him apart.”

“No, because John would’ve gone to jail, and I would have had to deal with telling my mom her youngest son was in the hospital for being an idiot.”

“Fair enough. Wish I had been here for you.”

“You’re here now” you said, leaning to place a kiss on his chest. “I don’t want to be anywhere else baby. I’m home” Bucky told you, pulling you down until your head was resting on his chest, has arms around you. You wondered how much longer you were going to be able to keep the fact that you had fallen head over heels for him to yourself, or if he could already hear it in the beat of your heart.

He could, you just didn’t know it yet. He hoped you could hear it in his too.

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