Untitled...basically

ADULT Content...FanFics.... mostly... My Masterlist is pinned.. I'm too old for this

[hhiggs]

Masterlist

My Masterlist was updated after tumblr drama/changes and subsequent ‘flagging’ >:(    if there are any links that are still not working, please let me know.  Some of these stories are nsfw/smutty and should only be read if you are of age.  If you are not comfortable with that, please leave my page.... NOW.  :) 

A Long Night  (The Freshman/James x MC x Zig- part 1- after L.A.)

From Your Sadness    (The Freshman/ Zig x MC-part 2)

Late Night Disturbance   (TRR-The Royal Romance/Drake x MC)

To Get You Out of My Mind   (The Freshman/ James x MC x Zig- part 3)

Ruin’d Love    (The Freshman/James x MC- part 4)

The Leap of Lover’s       (The Freshman/James x MC)

Sparks Fly    (Random Poem-not necessarily Choices related)

My Prince    (TRR-The Royal Romance/Liam x MC/Panic attack)

Texts (Text message conversations from The Freshman/ James x MC)

Moving On…   (The Freshman/James x MC x Zig)

Jealous   (The Freshman/James x MC/ James POV)

Rough Night (TRR-The Royal Romance/ Liam x MC-the morning after Tariq’s assault)

So Good and Now It’s Gone   (The Freshman/Zig’s POV)

My Man  (The Sophomore/ James x MC) (NSFW)

Not Good Enough (The Freshman/James x MC)  (a couple of different snippets of conversations)

What If… (The Freshman/James x MC)

F.M.K. (The Freshman/pre-hook ups)

Am I standing in your way? part 1  (The Sophomore/James x MC)

Am I standing in your way? part 2 (The Sophomore/james x MC)

Am I standing in your way? part 3 (The Sophomore/James x MC)

5 Years Later (after Am I standing in your way?) (The Sophomore/James x MC)

Waiting… (The Royal Romance/ Liam x MC)

The Wedding (The Sophomore/The Freshman/ James x MC)

Trouble Sleeping (The Royal Romance/ Liam x MC)  ( a little NSFW)

J.J. (The Sophomore/The Freshman  / James x MC/ James as a dad)

Maybe there’s an explanation? (TRR Liam x MC)

The Wish I Wish Tonight  (TRR/ Liam x MC)

Nothing more to say (The Freshman/The Sophomore/ James x MC)

Alone (TRR / Liam x MC)

Alone (part 2) (TRR/ Liam x MC)

Alone (part 3)  (TRR/ Liam X MC)

Alone (part 4) (TRR/Liam x MC)

No butterflies (The Sophomore/ James x MC)

No Words Left to Speak (The Sophomore /James x MC) (NSFW)

Two Whole Weeks (TF/TS  / James x MC)

Over Time (TF/TS/ James x MC -Reyna’s POV)

Priorities (TF/TS/ James x MC, James x Reyna (James’ POV)

Another Chance (TF/TS James x MC)

Don’t Leave (TRR / Liam x MC) (NSFW)

A Letter (pt.1)(TRR / Liam x MC)

Drakes Vow (TRR/ Liam x MC)

Legendary (The Freshman/ James x MC / NSFW)

A Letter (pt.2) (TRR/ Liam x MC)

Stay with me (TRR/ Liam x MC)

Assassination (TRR/ Liam x MC)

My Heart Breaks (TRR/ Liam x MC)

Change (The Sophomore/ james x MC /Jomes)

Decisions (TRR/ Liam x MC)

Congratulations (The Sophomore/ James x MC) NSFW

The Contract (TRR/ Liam x MC)

Little Princess (TRR/ Liam x MC)

It’s been a while (The Sophomore/ James x MC)

So sweet (TRR/ Liam x MC)

Be careful (TRR/ Liam x MC)

A Conversation (TRR/ Liam and Drake talk about MC)

Still Friends (TRR/ Liam x MC)

All I Care About (TRR/ Liam x MC)

Safe House (TRR/Liam x MC)

12 weeks (TRR/ Liam x MC)

Protect Her (TRR/ Liam x MC)

Weak (Bloodbound/ Adrian x MC)

Feeding (Bloodbound/ Adrian x MC)

The Kiss (Bloodbound/ Adrian x MC)

One Decision (Bloodbound/ Adrian x MC)

Normal Again (Bloodbound/ Adrian x MC) NSFW

Dangerous Companions (Bloodbound) Adrian x MC & implied Jax x MC)

I’m Sorry (Bloodbound) Adrian x MC  Follow up to Dangerous Companions

Cheat (Bloodbound) Adrian x MC)

[societyfolklore]

Let Me Carry Some of It

Title: Let Me Carry Some of It

Pairing: Farmer!Hal Carter x Farmer!Female Reader

Summary:  Your husband walked out and left you to face your first winter on the farm alone. You’re determined to keep the land in your family, even if it grinds you down to the bone. Until your neighbour Hal Carter turns up with a truck full of feed, a steady pair of hands along with the terrifying suggestion that you don’t have to carry all of this by yourself.

Word Count: 16.4k (…this got out of hand…)

Warnings: /Explicit Content / 18+, Minors DNI, Friends-to-lovers, grump/hidden sunshine v Sunshine, small-town, Unprotected Sex, fingering, FEEELINGS! Themes of partner abandonment (Readers Ex Husband) Self worth.. No Beta..

A/N: For Small Town  challenge Week 2 @thezombieprostitute  and  @1000plants  again first Hal Fic… this one… really umm.. yeah.. I don’t know what happened..Kinda went bang.. Still set in Silver Ridge

You’d forgotten how heavy the hitch bar felt when you were the only one lifting it.

Your gloves were already damp, the cold seeping through the worn patches as you tried to wrestle the implement into place. Metal clanged against metal, the sound too loud in the still morning air, sharp enough to make your teeth ache. You grunted, braced your boots in the frozen mud and dragged the attachment another inch toward the tractor.

It wasn’t enough.

“Come on,” you muttered through your teeth, breath puffing white in front of you. “Just- cooperate for once.”

The tractor didn’t care. The cold didn’t care. The land sure as hell didn’t.

You leaned your shoulder into the frame and heaved, feeling something in your back protest. The implement shifted with a screech, then stuck again, just shy of where it needed to latch. Your hands slipped on the icy steel, knuckles slamming against the hitch. The pain was immediate, hot and shocking under the numbness.

“Shit.”

You shook out your hand, flexing your fingers. They didn’t want to bend. The winter air bit harder this far up the ridge, the wind funneling through the valley and cutting straight through your jacket like it knew exactly how thin your layers were under it.

First winter alone. You hadn’t exactly given yourself a warm-up.

You straightened slowly, shoulders tight and squinted down over the paddocks. Frost still clung to the grass in glittering sheets, but the cattle would be moving soon, noses steaming, waiting for feed that didn’t care about your timetable or the fact that your life had imploded.

You should’ve kept at least one hand on. Someone to help with the heavy lifting, with the day-to-day grind that didn’t stop just because your marriage did. But that would have meant explaining, answering questions. Letting people see the empty side of the bed and the cleared-out half of the closet.

Instead, you’d told them he’d gone to care for an unwell family member.

A mother. A grandmother. The story shifted depending who you were talking to, a patchwork lie that frayed at the edges more every time you said it. The town wasn’t stupid. They saw the boxes you’d shipped at the post office. They noticed the way your smile got tighter when his name came up.

They knew he wasn’t coming back long before you dared to admit it.

You set your jaw and bent again, forcing the thoughts away. Thinking didn’t get the snow cleared or the stock fed. Thinking didn’t keep pipes from freezing or troughs from icing over.

Work did.

You grabbed the implement again, fingers slipping into the cold gap between worn metal pieces and pulled with everything you had left.

Your boots dragged trenches in the frost. Your lungs burned. A dull throb started behind your eyes, a headache born from too little sleep and too many nights listening to the house creak and settle around you while you lay awake, counting the things that could go wrong.

For a second, the weight moved. Just a fraction.

“Come on,” you hissed.

It wasn’t enough. Your grip slipped, legs buckling, and you had to drop the damn thing before it tore something in your shoulder. It hit the ground with a heavy thud, vibrating through your boots.

You stood there, chest heaving, hands on your thighs, staring at the stubborn hunk of metal like if you glared hard enough it would hook itself up out of spite.

The wind picked up, slipping under your jacket, sneaking down the back of your collar. Your fingers throbbed in your gloves, aching in that bone-deep way that promised they’d sting like fire when they finally thawed.

Christ for someone not even thirty yet, your body was starting to feel like your were closer to fifty.

You swallowed hard, blinking against the sudden sting in your eyes.

No.

You were not going to cry over a tractor.

You straightened again, rolling your shoulders back until something cracked. The sound echoed too loud in the early quiet, but it grounded you. One more breath. One more attempt.

You could do this.

You had to.

This was your place.

You’d just decided on one last try, just one more heave before admitting defeat and switching tactics when the low rumble of an approaching engine cut through the morning stillness.

You froze, hand still braced on the hitch as you listened. The sound grew louder, tyres crunching over the rutted gravel of your long drive. For a heartbeat your chest kicked, stupid hope flaring that it might be the light, familiar bounce of your husband’s old ute rolling back up the lane.

It wasn’t. The weight was wrong. A truck, by the sound of it, something heavier. Deeper.

Your stomach dipped all the same.

You wiped the back of your glove across your nose, straightening as the truck came into view between the bare-branched trees that lined the track. The dark green body, the dent in the front bumper, the way it shifted its weight as it rolled to a stop near the barn. You recognised it before the driver even killed the engine.

Hal Carter.

Of course.

You exhaled, something like relief and irritation tangling up in your chest. You’d completely forgotten the  feed delivery was due today, and the realisation made your shoulders sag a little. He climbed out of the cab with the easy, loose-hipped stride you’d seen a hundred times at the co-op and the feed store, denim already dusted with the work of his own morning. Hat pulled low, jacket unzipped despite the cold, like the weather knew better than to mess with him.

He spotted you almost immediately.

“Morning!” he called, voice carrying just fine across the yard.

You straightened instinctively, trying to smooth down the wild edges of your hair with your gloved fingers. “You’re early,” you replied, hoping you sounded more composed than you felt.

Hal swung the tarp off, revealing the stacked winter feed in the back; bags of pellets, some mineral lick blocks, and two rows of hay bales tied neat.

“Could’ve fooled me,” he said lightly. “Sun’s been up for hours.”

You snorted, wiping your palms on your jeans as you wandered closer. “Yeah, well. Some of us had a disagreement with machinery.”

His gaze flicked to the half-attached implement and the mess of disturbed frost around your boots. His mouth flattened, just a touch. Not quite a frown, but close.

“That thing giving you grief?”

“It’s fine,” you lied, already feeling your hackles lift. “I’ve almost got it.”

Hal hummed, the kind of non-committal sound that said clearly he did not believe you for a second.

“Funny,” he said, rounding the truck to come closer. “From here it looks like it’s winning.”

You shot him a look, but there wasn’t much heat in it. You were too tired for that.

“I didn’t call an audience, Carter.”

He grinned, warm and lazy, but his eyes were sharp as they took you in, your hunched shoulders, the way you shifted your weight from one foot to the other like something hurt, the faint tremor in your fingers where they clutched the edge of your jacket.

“Lucky for you,” he said, “this here’s a full-service delivery.”

Before you could protest, he stepped past you, boots crunching in the frost and crouched by the hitch. He sized up the misalignment with a practiced eye, then glanced back at you.

“Mind if I…?”

“I’ve got it,” you said automatically. The words came out sharper than you intended. “You’re here for the feed. I can handle my own equipment.”

One of his eyebrows ticked up.

“I know you can,” he said, and there wasn’t a hint of doubt in it. “Question is if you need to do it with your hands shaking like that.”

You stiffened. “They’re not- ”

You looked down.

They were.

Not violently. Not enough a stranger would notice. But Hal wasn’t a stranger. Never had been. Your fingers flexed uselessly in your gloves, the cold and the strain combining into a fine, betraying tremor.

He sighed softly through his nose, turning back to the tractor.

“Tell you what,” he said. “You stand there and supervise, make sure I don’t mess up your system. I’ll get this hitched and then I’ll unload your feed, Oh and you were short on your order, added it in. No extra charge.”

“I didn’t order extra,” you muttered.

“Yeah, well, you got it anyway.”

He braced a shoulder under the implement and lifted, muscles bunching under his jacket as he hauled it into place with a grunt, the metal clanking as it finally slid where it belonged. It took him all of thirty seconds.

You hated him a little for that….only a little though..

He locked the pin, gave the hitch an experimental shake, then stepped back, dusting his gloves off.

“See?” he said, flashing you a small, satisfied smile. “No trouble.”

You realised you were breathing harder than he was, even though he’d done all the work. Embarrassment burned hot in your chest. You folded your arms, tucking your numbed hands into your armpits, trying to look less rattled than you felt.

“You got the feed?” you asked, clearing your throat.

“Sure do,” he replied, jerking his chin toward the truck. “You wanna open the barn up for me? I’ll back her in.”

You nodded, grateful for something to do that didn’t involve proving how out of gas you were.

“Yeah. I’ll- ” You swallowed. “I’ll get the doors.”

As you walked toward the barn, you could feel his eyes on you- steady, assessing, not unkind. Like he was cataloguing every crack you’d tried so hard to plaster over.

You kept your chin up anyway.

This was your place.

You weren’t going to crumble in your own damn yard.

By the time you’d wrestled the barn doors open. The metal latch stuck halfway, swollen with cold and rust, and you had to put your full weight into it before it finally jerked free with a sharp, protesting squeal.

Hal eased the truck back with the practiced confidence of someone who’d done this a thousand times; straight line, no fuss, tyres crunching over the packed dirt as he reversed into the barn’s shadow. The engine rumbled low for a moment, then cut off, leaving a heavy quiet in its wake.

You swallowed, rolling your shoulders once like that alone might shake off the exhaustion. Six months of doing this one your own, it was starting to hit you.

He hopped down from the cab, glancing around the barn. You tried not to fidget under it.

“Any preference where you want these?” he asked, hitching a thumb toward the bed of the truck.

“Same as always.” you said, jerking your chin toward the far wall where the old haystack had dwindled to a sad, uneven pile. “Pellets by the door. Easier to get to when it ices over.”

“Got it.”

He popped the tailgate and hauled the first bale off one-handed, muscles shifting easily under his jacket. It landed on the barn floor with a muted thump, straw scattering like dust motes in the chilly light.

You stepped in beside him before you could overthink it, reaching for the next one.

“I can help,” you said.

“I know you can,” he repeated, same calm tone as earlier. “But you don’t have to.”

“I’m not going to stand there and watch you do all the work on my property.”

His mouth twitched. “Didn’t say you had to watch. I said you didn’t have to lift.”

You ignored that, fingers already digging into the twine of the nearest bale. The coarse fibers bit into your gloves as you heaved it up against your thighs, breath punching out of you in a small grunt.

The weight hit different today. Heavier. Or maybe you were just more tired than you wanted to admit. You’d been born into this life? You were young by all standard. This wasn’t supposed to drain you.

You staggered a step, boots sliding slightly on the straw-dusted floor, and corrected your balance before you could drop it.

“See?” you puffed, trying for breezy, the cold was getting to you. “Still useful.”

Hal’s eyes flicked over your face, then down to the way your chest rose and fell too fast beneath your jacket.

“Didn’t say you weren’t,” he replied, voice easy. “Just said I could manage.”

He grabbed another bale, hefting it like it weighed nothing and carried it across the barn without the slightest hitch in his stride. You watched the line of his shoulders, the sure, unhurried set of his stride. You used to have that kind of reserve, energy in the tank, strength you didn’t have to think about. Maybe it you slept more..

Now you were counting the tasks left in the day like tally marks on your bones.

You reached for another bale. Your fingers slipped on the twine as you hoisted it, the edge catching you under the ribs when you misjudged the swing. The breath whooshed out of you in a small, shocked noise.

Hal was there in an instant.

“Hey.”

His hand closed around the side of the bale, taking the weight before you could drop it on your own foot.

“I’ve got it,” you said automatically, even as your arms wobbled.

“I know you think you do.” His tone didn’t sharpen, but it firmed in a way you weren’t used to from him. “But I’d rather not watch you crush yourself trying to prove a point.”

You clenched your jaw and let go. The bale sagged into his grip and he shifted it easily, stacking it with the rest.

Your hands felt useless suddenly, empty and shaking as they curled in at your sides. You stuffed them under your arms, hugging your own ribs, trying to trap some heat there.

“I don’t need special treatment,” you muttered.

“Good thing this isn’t special,” Hal said. “It’s just help.”

He grabbed another bale, then another, moving with a rhythm that made your head spin to watch. He’d always been like that- strong in that unshowy way, like the work was just an extension of his body.

You hovered uselessly near the truck, shifting your weight from one cold boot to the other.

“Why don’t you go open the feed boxes?” he said after a few minutes, not looking at you, just talking as he worked. “Or go make yourself a coffee? I can do this.”

“No, it’s- ”

You reached for the next bale anyway, stubbornness flaring hot in your chest. The moment you tried to lift it, your arms protested, your left knee giving a small, concerning twinge. You staggered, grip slipping.

“Sit” Hal said.

The word wasn’t loud, but it landed like a command.

You froze.

“I meant right here,” you said weakly, gesturing to an overturned bucket by the wall. “I can just-”

He finally stopped, turned to you fully, and shook his head.

“I meant in your house,” he clarified, gentler now. “In the warm. Maybe put some coffee on for both of us before you pass out on the barn floor.”

A flush crawled up your neck. “I’m not going to pass out.”

“Maybe not,” he allowed. “But you’re about two steps from shaking apart, and I’m not gonna stand here and pretend I don’t see it.”

There was a joking lilt to his words, but underneath it was something firmer. Something that made you feel twelve again, told off for climbing a fence you knew was loose.

You swallowed, throat thick.

“I can help unload,” you tried one last time.

“You did help,” he countered. “You opened the doors. Delegation. Very management of you.”

You gave him a narrow look. “I don’t like being bossed around on my own land.”

“Good thing I’m not your boss,” he said easily, turning back to the truck. “Just your neighbour. Now go inside, would ya? It’s cold enough to freeze your stubborn to the ground.”

You stood there another heartbeat, pride and exhaustion at war. Then, slowly, you exhaled, your breath fogging in front of your face.

“Fine,” you muttered. “But if you stack those bales crooked, I’m calling... Someone....”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “Deal. Coffee. I’ll be in when I’m done.”

You turned toward the farmhouse, boots crunching over the hard-packed dirt, feeling strangely lighter and heavier all at once.

~#~#~#~#~

The warmth hit you like a wall as soon as you stepped into the kitchen. It wasn’t hot, not really, the old heater never quite reached that, but compared to the bite outside, it felt almost indulgent.

You tugged off your gloves with your teeth, fingers tingling angrily as the blood returned. They still shook a little as you set them on the counter and reached for the kettle.

Coffee. You could do coffee.

The motions were automatic: fill the kettle, flick the switch, reach for the clean mugs that had been in this house longer than you had. One of them still had his favourite football team’s logo on it. You hesitated over that one a second too long before choosing a plain one for yourself and sliding the branded mug to the back of the cupboard getting one of the others out. 

Old habits. Old ghosts.

While the water heated, you opened the pantry and scanned the shelves. You hadn’t exactly been stocking up for company. Meals lately had been whatever you could throw together between chores, toast over the sink, a bowl of stew eaten standing at the counter, spoon in one hand and tomorrow’s to-do list in the other.

Your gaze snagged on the shelf where you’d stashed the packet of shortbread Yelena had tossed into your order at the store the other week

'for when you remember to stop working and eat girl,’ she’d said, shoving it at you before you could protest.

“Yes,” you breathed, spotting the familiar logo peeking out from behind a sack of flour. You reached in, fingers brushing the crinkling plastic, and pulled the packet free. At least you had something to offer the man currently unloading your winter survival in the cold.

The kettle clicked off.

You poured, the smell of cheap instant coffee blooming up into the air. It wasn’t anything fancy, but it was hot and dark and strong enough to strip paint. You fixed one mug the way you knew Hal took it; two sugars, splash of milk..before catching yourself and blinking.

You hadn’t made him coffee that many times.

You just… noticed things.

The back door creaked a few minutes later, a gust of colder air curling along the floor and around your ankles. You glanced up as Hal stepped inside, boots thudding on the mat. He took his hat off at the threshold like he always did, fingers running through his hair to shake off the chill, then toed off his boots, leaving them by the door without tracking too much mud in.

Considerate. Of course.

“Smells good in here,” he said, closing the door behind him. His cheeks were pink from the cold, breath still visible in faint puffs.

You slid his mug across the table as he sat, the chair creaking under his weight. The shortbread tin sat open between you, biscuits lined up like an apology for all the other things you couldn’t offer.

He wrapped his hands around the mug, closing his eyes for a second as the warmth seeped into his fingers. Then he took a sip and sighed, long and content.

“Now that’s a proper cup,” he said.

“Instant,” you replied dryly.

“Still better than what the boys make at mine. Pretty sure last week someone tried to brew it with bore water.”

You huffed a quiet laugh and nudged the tin toward him. “Shortbread?”

His eyes lit, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Now you’re spoiling me.”

He took one, bit into it, crumbs dusting his stubble. For a moment the only sounds were the faint tick of the old kitchen clock and the distant, muffled clank of the heater cycling.

“You been into town this week?” he asked eventually, like it was the most casual question in the world.

You shook your head, fingers tracing the rim of your mug. “No. Been busy.”

He made a soft, unconvinced sound. “Ted's niece turned up, she’s been making rounds, hasn’t quite got to us all on this side yet. But heard from Turner that she's a nice girl.”

“You think every girl’s nice, Hal,” you said before you could stop yourself.

His grin widened, unabashed. “Never met one who didn’t like being told she had a nice smile.”

You rolled your eyes, but your lips twitched.

“What can I say? I’m consistent.” he admitted.

He took another sip of coffee, gaze sliding over your face in that way that made you feel both seen and a little exposed.

"Anyhow, seems that Ari's making sure she’s feeling real welcome."

You raised an eyebrow at that.

"Turner told you that?"

"Yep," he said, like that explained everything. "He rang to have a gas, plus he wanted to know when I'd be coming past here."

You put your cup down, it was like being in high school again. "Swear none of you boys talk nearly this much about me when-" 

“Point is,” he added cutting back in, “folks’ve been asking after you.”

Your shoulders tensed. “I’m fine.”

“I didn’t say you weren’t.” He broke another piece of shortbread off, crumbs scattering on the table. “But you don’t have to do everything on your own, you know.”

You stared into your coffee, the surface swirling slightly where your hand shook against the ceramic.

“This place needs a bit of work before the real cold hits,” Hal went on, that light, conversational tone returning. “Seen a few things just driving in. Gutters need clearing. Pipes should’ve – well they need wrapping. You got a hole in the fence right near the gate..”

“I’m getting to it,” you said, a little too fast.

“I know you are,” he said. “But there’s only one of you right now and winter doesn’t exactly wait its turn.”

You bristled, heat prickling behind your eyes. “I can manage.” You had been, you Pa had taught you that before leaving the place to you and heading off to warmer weather.

“I don’t doubt it.” He leaned back slightly, mug cradled in his hands. “But managing and running yourself into the ground aren’t the same thing.”

There was a beat of silence. The house creaked softly, settling.

“I can come up,” he said at last. “Next few days. Help you get things winter-ready. Won’t take long with two sets of hands.”

You shook your head immediately. “Hal, you’ve got your own place. Your own stock. Other deliveries. I can’t-”

“Don’t go pushing back help,” he cut in, not unkindly, but firm. “That’s just foolishness.”

Your throat tightened. You opened your mouth, ready to insist, to trot out the same old line, the same excuse you’d been feeding everyone and yourself.

“He ain’t coming back…” Hal started. Your heart lurched, stomach dropping clean out under you. He saw it. The flinch. The way your fingers locked white-knuckled around your mug. “…before spring, right?” he finished smoothly, like he hadn’t just grazed the rawest part of you. His eyes were steady on yours, giving you a lifeline. An out.

You swallowed. The lie tasted worse every time.

“He…” Your voice cracked. You cleared your throat. “He doesn’t think he will.”

There it was.

Not quite the whole truth. But closer than you’d let yourself get in months.

Hal nodded once, like you’d just confirmed something he’d known a long time.

“So what’s the harm in letting me come up?” he said softly. “Place like this needs more than one pair of hands right now. That’s not a judgment. That’s just math.”

You stared at the scarred surface of the table, at the faint rings from old mugs and the knife marks from when your grandmother used to cut bread right there.

You were so tired.

“Just for a bit,” you said finally. “Until things are set up for winter.”

His smile was small but genuine. “Just for a bit,” he agreed. “All I want in return is dinner after we’re done.”

You huffed. “That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

You considered him for a long moment. Hal Carter, who flirted with every woman in town and yet had somehow never brought one home. Hal, who showed up when your fences went down in the flood last year, unasked and didn’t complain when he left soaked to the bone. Even when your husband had whined the whole day about being wet and cold.

“Feels like I’m getting the better end of the deal,” you said.

His eyes softened. “You have no idea.”

~#~#~#~#~#~#

You’d half convinced yourself that Hal wouldn’t come the next morning. That he’d said it to be kind. Men said things all the time they never planned to follow through on.

But before it was even eight, you heard that familiar engine again. This time, your chest didn’t kick with stupid hope. It settled.

You wiped your hands on your jeans as his truck pulled in, this one empty of feed but full of tools. The tray was loaded with things you hadn’t asked for; ladders, a coil of pipe wrap, a battered toolbox, even a shovel, pick and the chainsaw you recognised from the time he’d helped clear a fallen tree after a storm.

He hopped down, gave you a little wave like this was just another Tuesday.

“Morning,” he called.

“You’re… early,” you said, glancing at the sky. The frost had barely begun to melt. “You don’t need to- ”

“Yeah, I do,” he cut in lightly, slamming the truck door. “Got a full schedule today. Gotta start before the sun remembers it has a job.”

You huffed, but your lips twitched.

“I made a list,” you said, lifting the notebook in your hand. Pages of cramped handwriting, tasks circled and underlined.

“Course you did,” he said, amusement sparking in his eyes as he took it from you. He flipped it open, scanning quickly. “Gutters, pipes, stall doors…” He read on in his head “Not bad.”

“Not bad?” you echoed. "What, you think I wouldn't write stuff down?" 

“Alright then,” he said ignoring you, snapping the notebook shut and handing it back. “You handle your usual rounds. Make sure nobody’s wandered off, make sure they’re fed… I’ll pick off what I can up here.”

“You don’t want me to tell you where everything is?”

He jerked his chin toward the house and sheds. “I got a fair idea what’s where. Plus, a man can use his eyes. You can fill in the blanks when you get back.”

“Fine,” you said. “But if you reorganise my tool shed, I will throw something at you.”

“Wouldn’t dream of touching your shed,” he replied, already heading for the ladder.

~#~#~#~

You headed down to the lower paddocks, the work there swallowing a few hours. The cattle were restless but manageable, breath steaming in the cold air as you checked their water, broke thin sheets of ice on troughs, spread out fresh hay. The rhythm of it calmed you. This part you knew. This part you’d been doing since you were old enough to hold onto the back of your Dad’s shirt.

Still, every so often, your mind drifted back up the hill.

When you finally headed back toward the house around midday, the first thing you noticed was the gutters. Or rather, the conspicuous lack of foliage spilling out over the edges.

You slid off the quad, frowning up at the roofline. Clean. All the way around as far as you could see. The downpipes had been wrapped too, silvered insulation snug around the vulnerable joins.

The far fence post by the gate near home paddock, the one crooked for months, now stood straight, freshly tamped earth mounded around its base.

You ducked inside just long enough to put the kettle on, rinsing out your old thermos while it boiled. The sandwiches you’d thrown together that morning ‘just in case’ were still in the fridge, wrapped in wax paper; you grabbed those too, stuffing them into a battered lunch tin.

It felt right to walk back out with something in your hands that wasn’t a tool or a list, but an actual break.

Hal was in the horse stalls when you found him, sleeves rolled up, forearms flecked with dust and straw as he replaced a hinge on one of the old doors. The horses watched him with ears flicked forward, as if they’d decided he was acceptable.

He didn’t hear you at first. He was humming under his breath, some tuneless thing, focused entirely on the stubborn screw he was coaxing into place.

You leaned on the stall door frame and just… watched.

He moved with the same easy confidence you’d seen a thousand times in passing, at auctions, in town, leaning against his truck at the feed store. But here, on your land, it felt different. Closer.

He didn’t groan or complain when the screw fought him. Didn’t mutter about how old everything was, how much work it needed. He just set his jaw, adjusted his grip and kept working until it did what he wanted.

Your chest loosened a fraction.

“You gonna stare all day or say hello?” he asked without looking up.

Heat shot up the back of your neck. “How’d you know I was there?”

“You breathe,” he said simply, giving the hinge one last experimental tug. “You also step heavy when you’re trying not to. Door’s good now.”

He straightened and finally turned toward you, wiping his hands on an already dirty rag. His hair was mussed from where he’d shoved his hat off and on again, a smear of something dark along his jaw.

You had to curl your fingers tighter around the wood to stop yourself from reaching out and wiping it away.

“Looks good,” you said, nodding at the door instead. “Thank you.”

He shrugged, like it was nothing. “Well you had it on the list and I did notice your mare nearly took the whole thing off its hinges last month when it swung wrong. Figured you didn’t need that on top of everything else.”

“You’ve been watching my horses?”

“Been watching you trying to wrangle them on your own when I’m around,” he corrected mildly. “Don’t like seeing you get knocked around.”

The simple sincerity of it made your throat go tight for a second.

You cleared it. “I, uh… made sandwiches. Brought a flask.” You lifted the old thermos hooked over your arm. “Figured you might want to refuel.”

He grinned, eyes creasing at the corners.

“Knew you kept me around for a reason,” he said. “C’mon then. If I sit down now, you better too.”

You shared lunch sitting on overturned buckets just outside the stalls, sun finally managing to burn through the clouds enough to take the very edge off the cold.

Hal ate like he worked; steady, thorough, appreciative. Every now and then, his arm brushed yours when he reached for the thermos, the incidental contact sending little sparks along your skin you tried very hard to ignore.

Except… you didn’t quite want to ignore them.

The knot in your chest, the one that had been coiled tight since the day your husband left, eased another fraction.

“You really don’t have to do all this,” you said quietly at one point, staring at the dirt between your boots.

“Already am,” he replied, taking a swig of coffee. “Might as well finish the job.”

You risked a glance sideways.

“Why?”

He met your eyes, nothing flippant in his expression now.

“Because this place matters,” he said. “Because you matter. And because I’m your neighbour, and that’s what we do. Simple as that.”

Your stomach did a slow, traitorous roll.

You looked away again, but not before he caught the faint, reluctant curve at the corner of your mouth.

“Atta girl,” he murmured, like coaxing a skittish colt. “There she is, hiding but that was a smile.”

~#~#~#~#~

By mid-afternoon, your muscles were starting to feel the day in a different way.

Not that bone-deep, lonely ache that came from knowing there was still a mountain of work and only your two hands to climb it. This was a simpler soreness, earned, shared. The kind that came with crossing items off a list and actually seeing the difference.

You left Hal working on the last of the winterising; checking seals on the pump house, fiddling with something on the generator while you headed inside to start dinner.

The house felt less oppressive when you walked in this time. The silence wasn’t as loud. You moved through the kitchen with a little more purpose, putting the oven on, pulling a chicken from the fridge, rummaging in the pantry for potatoes and carrots.

Making a proper meal felt… possible.

You’d almost forgotten what that was like.

You seasoned the bird the way your grandmother had taught you; salt, pepper, garlic, a bit of rosemary from the half-frozen bush by back door you’d moved inside. Hands moving on autopilot. The familiar motions soothed something inside you, the simple alchemy of turning ingredients into comfort.

Once everything was in the oven, you washed your hands and drifted to the window over the sink.

Outside, Hal was a dark shape against the pale afternoon, moving between the sheds with unhurried efficiency. He carried a bundle of kindling under one arm, a length of pipe in the other, shoulders set in that solid, reliable line you were starting to recognise as its own kind of comfort.

He didn’t stomp or slam or throw things when something fought him. He just worked around it. Through it. With it.

You found yourself tracking him without meaning to, the way he braced a boot against a loose board to hammer it back into place, the way his mouth pursed slightly when he measured a gap, the way he pushed his hair back with his wrist to avoid smearing grease through it.

Your heart did that slow roll again.

“Stop it,”  you told yourself.

This was Hal. You’d known him for years. He flirted with waitresses and smiled at old ladies and always had some smart remark ready when the local girls giggled around him. He was sunshine in denim and a battered hat.

And yet.

You’d never really let yourself look at him like this before. Not properly. Not with the vulnerable, hungry part of you that had been shut down and boarded up the day your husband said, It’s too hard, you’re too hard, I need something easier.

Out in the yard, Hal straightened from the pump house and rolled his shoulders, neck cracking as he tipped his head side to side. Even from this distance, you could see the stretch of muscle under his shirt.

Heat licked low in your belly, sudden and disorienting.

You tore your gaze away and busied yourself fussing with the table; finding placemats, wiping down the surface even though it was already clean, folding napkins like you had someone to impress.

It was ridiculous. It was just dinner.

Just a thank you.

Just… the first time in months…years…you’d cooked for someone who might actually appreciate it. Someone who wouldn’t sneer.

When the roast chicken was nearly done and the kitchen smelled like every holiday you’d ever had in this house, you filled a small bucket with hot water from the tap and added a splash of degreaser, the citrus scent cutting through the richness in the air.

You grabbed a clean rag and headed outside, the warmth spilling out behind you in a brief, comforting wave before the door swung shut.

“Hal!” you called, picking your way across the yard. “Hal, that’s enough for today. Food’s almost done.”

He emerged from behind the shed, wiping his hands on his jeans. There was a smear of something dark on his forearm, and that streak across one cheek had spread more. His hair stuck up at odd angles where his hat had flattened and released it.

You shouldn’t have found it attractive.

You did.

He glanced at the bucket in your hand and huffed a small laugh.

“Guess that’s my cue,” he said.

“Figured you might want to be somewhat presentable before you sit at my table,” you replied, setting the bucket down near steps. “Can’t have you getting grease all over the good plates.”

“You own good plates?” he asked, teasing.

“I own not chipped plates,” you shot back. “That’s about as fancy as it gets around here.”

He grinned and crouched by the bucket, plunging his hands into the steaming water with a quiet hiss.

“Hot,” he muttered.

“I’d been aiming for warm..” you said. “You’re welcome.”

He scrubbed his hands, the strong lines of his forearms flexing as he worked the degreaser into the creases of his skin. You watched a bit too closely, pulse ticking up as he rolled his sleeves higher, giving himself more room.

He glanced up, catching you looking.

Something slow and warm flickered in his eyes.

“Appreciate the thought,” he said softly. “You didn’t have to go to all this trouble, you know.”

“You patched half my life back together today,” you replied, voice a little rougher than you meant it to be. “Least I can do is make sure you don’t have to eat it with dirty hands.”

His smile gentled at that, the usual bright, joking edge smoothing into something quieter.

“Fair trade,” he said.

He finished washing up and stood, wiping his hands on the rag you held out. His fingers brushed yours as he took it, a brief, warm slide of skin against skin.

You felt it everywhere.

Neither of you mentioned it.

“Go on,” you said, a touch too brisk. “Bathroom’s down the hall if you want to wash your face. Dinner’ll be ready when you’re done.”

“Yes, ma- ”

“Uh-uh,” you cut in, pointing the rag at him. “You take that back. I’m younger than you. I’m not my mother.”

His mouth curved, eyes glinting. “Alright then. Yes, boss. Better?”

You snorted, sticking your tongue out at him as he tipped his head before he went in.

The back of your neck prickled, the ice around your ribs cracking just a little more.

Then you took a deep breath, squared your shoulders before following him in.

You hovered for a second with the oven door open, letting the heat wash over your face, thawing out the last chilled corners of you. Then you straightened, set the tray on the stovetop and told your heart to stop trying to climb into your throat.

It was just dinner.

You’d laid the table while the vegetables roasted, nothing fancy, just clean plates, mismatched but unchipped, proper cutlery instead of the forks you sometimes grabbed straight from the drawer to eat over the sink. You’d even found the old placemats your grandmother used to insist on, the ones with faded pictures of sheepdogs and Herefords.

The knock on the doorframe came right as you were carving the first few slices of chicken.

“Smells like you’re trying to bribe me,” Hal said from the doorway, voice warm with amusement.

You glanced over your shoulder.

He’d cleaned up as best he could with your bathroom sink, hair damp where he’d splashed water through it, face scrubbed free of grease streaks. He’d swapped his outer jacket for a flannel shirt you recognised from town, sleeves rolled to his forearms, jeans still worn and dusty but at least free of mud.

He looked… nice.

You swallowed and turned back to the carving board before you could stare.

“If this is what it takes to get free labour, I think I can live with that,” you said, trying for light.

Hal huffed a small laugh as he stepped fully into the kitchen.

“If it taste as good as it smells” he said, “I think I'm getting overpaid.”

He moved to the table without being asked, setting out the serving dishes you’d laid ready on out, as if he’d eaten here a hundred times instead of… never.

“Sit,” you told him, nodding toward the chair opposite yours. “You’ve done enough for one day. I’ll bring it over.”

“Yes, boss,” he said easily, dropping into the chair, the wood scratching on the floor.

You brought the food over in stages; the platter of sliced chicken, the bowl of roasted potatoes and carrots, the small dish of bean you’d thrown on at the last minute. Hal watched every movement with open, hungry appreciation, eyes following the way you moved around your own kitchen like you were putting pieces back where they belonged.

“Alright,” you said at last, sinking into your own seat with a small exhale. “Help yourself before it gets cold.”

He didn’t need to be told twice.

Hal served you first, two generous slices of chicken, a heap of vegetables and then loaded his own plate with the kind of enthusiasm that made something flutter, pleased and fragile, in your chest. A working man’s appetite.

He took the first bite in silence, eyes falling shut for a moment as he chewed.

You watched him, nerves winding tighter the longer he didn’t speak.

“Well?” you prompted, a little sharper than intended. “Edible?”

His eyes opened, soft and bright.

“Sweetheart,” he said, absolutely serious, “this is the best thing I’ve eaten in months. Maybe longer.”

Heat snapped up your spine, hot and humiliating and oddly welcome.

“It’s just chicken,” you muttered, looking down at your plate.

“It’s good chicken,” he countered. “Cooked in an actual oven, in an actual home, by someone who knows what they’re doing. That counts for a hell of a lot more than you think.”

You poked at a potato to hide the way your throat went tight.

“What, your place doesn’t have these cutting-edge inventions?” you asked, trying for teasing.

Hal snorted.

“Oh, we got an oven,” he said. “We even got plates that match. But when you got a whole mob of grown men sharing one house, it turns into more of a bunk room than anything else. Kitchen’s mostly for coffee and whatever they can burn in a pan at two in the morning. More beans, eggs and bacon..”

You smiled despite yourself.

“Let me guess,” you said. “Décor is posters of cowboys, cars, and motorbikes?”

He pointed his fork at you.

“Don’t forget the calendar with the tractors,” he said. “Real high art.”

You laughed, the sound bubbling out of you easier than it had in a long time.

“I knew it,” you said. “Meanwhile, I’ve got Grandma’s curtains and a table older than both of us combined.”

“Feels like a home in here,” he replied simply, glancing around the kitchen. “That’s a good change. Doesn’t smell like someone’s socks, either.”

The compliment landed somewhere low and aching. You blinked down at your plate, busying yourself with arranging peas so you didn’t have to look him in the eye.

“So,” you said after a few bites, needing to steer away from the sudden lump in your throat. “Tell me about this high-class bunkhouse. You ever get a moment’s peace in there?”

“Sure,” he said. “About five minutes a day, right before dawn, when everyone’s still asleep and I’m making coffee strong enough to wake the dead.”

“You?” you teased. “Sitting quiet?”

He smirked.

“Hard to believe, I know. But even I shut up sometimes. Usually when I’m out on the bike.”

You glanced up at that, curiosity snagging.

“Still got the Indian?” you asked, you couldn’t remember the last time you’d seen him out on it. But you hadn’t exactly been off property unless you needed to be.

Hal’s smile turned fond, the kind of relief-warmth people reserved for favourite dogs and first trucks.

“’Course I do,” he said. “You kidding? That thing’s the closest I got to religion. She’s in better shape than half the boys working for me.”

You snorted.

“I remember you turning up on that thing,” you said. “Every girl in town nearly broke her neck trying to stare without drooling.”

“Did you?” he asked mildly, taking another bite of chicken.

You almost choked on your potato.

“I had more sense back then,” you said dryly once you’d swallowed. “Didn’t have time to be impressed by noisy toys.”

“Mm,” he hummed. “Shame. You’d look good on the back of it.”

The image hit you hard and unannounced; your hands fisted in the back of his jacket, pressed up snug behind him, the wind in your face and his body solid in front of you. That heat flashed and flooded between your legs, your own core clenching.

You stabbed a carrot a little harder than necessary.

“Pretty sure I’ve got enough to juggle without adding ‘risk of flying off your stupid bike’ to the list,” you coughed trying to clear your throat reaching for your drink.

He chuckled, low and pleased, like he’d heard the part of you that hadn’t actually said no.

“You ever change your mind,” he said, “offer stands. It’s a different way of seeing the place. Hills look softer from a bike seat.”

You rolled your eyes, but the thought lodged itself somewhere you couldn’t quite shake.

“Speaking of hills,” he added, pushing his fork into some chicken, “you got enough wood put away for that fireplace of yours?”

You hesitated just a fraction too long.

“Enough to get by,” you said. Something that would’ve been on your husband’s list once, and now sat at the bottom of yours. 

His eyebrow tipped up.

“That a real answer or a ‘please don’t look too closely at how low the stack is’ answer?”

You scowled at your plate.

“I’ve been busy.” Your voice getting a little sharp again.

“I know,” he said, it was killing you how easy he said it not taking your tone to heart.

“I was going to get to it,” you insisted. “It’s just…” You gestured vaguely, encompassing the entire farm, your own tired bones, the endless list in your head.

“Just that there’s one of you and about twenty of everything else,” he finished for you. “Yeah. I noticed.”

You shifted in your chair, discomfort prickling under your skin.

“Hal, you’ve already done more than enough today,” you said. “I can’t keep asking- ”

“You didn’t ask,” he reminded you. “I offered. And I’m offering again. After we’re done here, you can show me what you’ve got stacked. If it’s not enough, I’ll add it to the list for tomorrow.”

“Hal- ”

He held up a hand, palm out.

“Don’t go pushing back help,” he said, that same firm gentleness creeping back into his tone. “We had this talk already.”

“Doesn’t mean I have to like it,” you muttered.

He grinned.

“Didn’t say you did. Just said you had to let it happen.” He tilted his head, eyes softening. “That’s what neighbours do, remember?”

You let out a slow breath, your shoulders sagging a fraction.

“I do appreciate today,” you said. “I really do. But you have your own place to run, other farms that need deliveries.”

“It’s no bother,” he said. “Like I said, what neighbours do. It’ll take what, another day, day and a half? And my guys have got my place managed without me.”

“Really?” you said, dubious.

He shrugged, mouth quirking. “It’s too cold for them to burn it down. Now, if it was summer, I might agree with ya scepticism.”

You laughed, the sound slipping out before you could stop it and his own smile brightened at your reaction.

Heat crawled up your neck as you ducked your head, breaking eye contact under the weight of it.

“We’ll check the woodpile after this,” you said, voice a little too brisk. “Before it gets too dark.”

He let you have the change of subject, a small, knowing smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he scooped up the last of his carrots and beans.

“Whatever you say, boss,” his smile tugging again.

The word rolled through you in a way that had nothing to do with titles and everything to do with the way he was looking at you, like the idea of following your lead didn’t scare him at all.

He paused halfway through mopping up gravy with the last of his potatoes and glanced at his plate.

"Any more potatoes?" he asked, holding it up a little.

"Yeah, there are some more," you said, already reaching for the serving bowl to tip a few extra onto his plate. The pleased look he gave you over the rim did something warm and foolish to your insides.

He took the bowl and you picked up your own fork again, not shovelling food in on your feet between chores, but sitting and eating at your own pace for once.

~#~#~#~#~#~

After the last of the gravy had been wiped up, the plates picked clean, you sat there for a moment longer, staring at the bones and smears on Hal’s plate like they might rearrange themselves into answers.

They didn’t.

“Alright,” you said at last, pushing your chair back with a soft scrape. “If I leave these any longer they’re going to fossilise.”

Hal huffed a low laugh, the sound warm in the cosy kitchen.

“Can’t have that,” he said. “Might have to start charging people to come see ‘em.”

“You’d charge people to see dirty dishes?”

“Sweetheart, folks round here will pay for anything they can slap a plaque on.”

You rolled your eyes, but your mouth tugged at the corner as you stood and gathered a couple of plates. The familiar weight of ceramic steadied you. This part you knew. Clear, rinse, wash, stack. Something to do with your hands so your head didn’t run too far ahead of you.

Hal stood too, automatically reaching for the serving bowls before you could stop him.

“You don’t have to- ”

“Relax,” he said. “I know how to carry dishes without breakin’ ‘em.” He paused playfully “Most days.”

You snorted under your breath and led the way to the sink.

The tap squealed as you turned it, pipes rattling in the wall before a stream of hot water gushed into the basin. It took  a bit before the steam curled up, fogging the lower half of the window and softening the view of the darkening yard outside. You poured in a splash of detergent, watching the bubbles bloom and spread.

Hal moved quietly around you, his presence taking up space without crowding you. He set the stack of plates to your right, bowls and cutlery within easy reach. Then, without being asked, he rolled up his sleeves and took his place at your side.

“I’ll dry, you wash?” he offered.

You blinked at him. “Since when do guests do dishes?”

“Since the guest is a gentleman.” he said mildly. “And I pull my weight.”

You made a face at that and turned back to the sink before he could see the way that made you shift. Hal was too old school sometimes.

“Fine,” you said. “But if you chip Grandma’s plates, her ghost will haunt you, not me.”

“Reckon I could take her,” he jokes raising his hands with the towel.

You nudged him with your hip for that, earning a low chuckle.

The rhythm came back quicker than you expected.

Wash, rinse, stack. The clink of crockery, the soft slosh of water, the occasional crackle from the fire in the next room. Outside, the last of the light leached from the sky, the kitchen settling into that familiar winter twilight, lamps on, world shrunk down to the pool of gold around the table and sink.

You rinsed a glass, passed it to him. His fingers brushed yours, warm and calloused, slipping over the back of your knuckles for a fraction of a second longer than strictly necessary.

You pretended not to notice. Your pulse didn’t get the memo.

“I’m sorry I can’t offer you anything stronger than coffee,” you said after a while, breaking the quiet. “After all that work today… most people’d expect a beer or something.”

Hal shrugged, setting a clean plate in the rack.

“Coffee was perfect,” he said. “Besides, if I start on beer now, I’ll get comfortable and you’ll never get me out of that chair.”

“Tragic,” you deadpanned. “Truly terrible.”

He shot you a sideways look, the corner of his mouth quirking. “Careful. I might start thinkin’ you like having me around.”

The joke landed somewhere too close to the truth. You turned your attention a little too fiercely to the next plate, scrubbing at a non-existent spot.

“I appreciate the help,” you said carefully. “That’s all.”

“That’s a start,” he murmured.

You didn’t answer. The suds blurred your view of your own hands.

A few more minutes passed like that, comfortably quiet on the surface, something taut and humming underneath.

Hal finished stacking the last plate in the rack and shook his hands off lightly over the sink, droplets scattering. You reached for the tap, but he got there first, turning off the water with a firm twist.

“That’s enough for now,” he said.

“I can finish- ”

“You have finished.” His voice wasn’t sharp, but it cut through your automatic protest all the same. “Whole lotta work here, and not all of it’s dishes. Let 'em soak.”

You frowned, wiping your damp fingers down the front of your jeans.

“Hal, I can manage the rest. You don’t have to hover.”

He leaned back against the counter, drying his hands on a dish towel, watching you with that steady, assessing gaze that saw far too much.

“You ever notice,” he said slowly, “how every time someone offers to take something off your plate, you act like they’re tryin’ to steal from you?”

Your spine stiffened. “That’s not- ”

He lifted a hand, palm out.

“Not a criticism. Just an observation.”

You pressed your lips together, resentment and embarrassment tangling in your chest.

“This is my place,” you said finally. “My responsibility. I don’t want people thinking I can’t handle it.”

“Too late, for that mistake” he said, infuriatingly gentle.

You stared at him.

He sighed, folding the dish towel with unnecessary care.

“Whole town knows you can handle it,” he clarified. “We’ve seen you doing exactly that. On your own. For months. Nobody’s questionin’ if you can.”

“Then what are they questioning?” you asked, hating how small your voice sounded.

“Why you think you gotta bleed yourself dry to prove it.”

Your laugh came out brittle. “Maybe because everyone knows my husband walked out and I don’t feel like givin’ them anything more to talk about.”

Hal’s face softened further, the lines around his eyes deepening in something like sadness.

“Sweetheart,” he said quietly, “they already talked. They got it outta their system weeks ago. Now they’re just… watchin’. Waiting to see if you’ll let anybody help you carry it.”

You looked away, jaw tight, throat hot.

“Everyone knows,” you echoed, more to the sink than to him.

“Course they do,” he said. “Box shipments. Story kept changin’ depending who asked. Man’s car gone more than it was here. This is the sticks, not the city. We notice when a pair turns into a one.”

Humiliation crawled up your neck, prickling hot under your skin. You gripped the edge of the counter, fingers whitening. Fuck

“I thought…” You swallowed. “I thought I was keeping it together. At least on the outside.”

“You are,” Hal said. “That’s the problem.”

You shot him a sharp look. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He held your gaze calmly, the towel stilling in his hands.

“Means you’re so busy holdin’ it together that you forgot you’re allowed to fall apart a bit,” he said. “Man leaves like that? After everything you put in? That’s not somethin’ you just… muscle through.”

Your chest cramped.

“You don’t know everything that happened,” you said, the words coming out more defensive than you meant.

“No,” he agreed. “I don’t. Don’t need to. I know enough.”

You scoffed. “Yeah? What’s ‘enough’ Hal?”

He set the towel down on the counter behind him and crossed his arms loosely, ankles crossing at the boot.

“Enough to know you stuck,” he said. “He didn’t. Enough to know he walked away from land like this, good land and a woman like you, sayin’ it was ‘too hard,’ like that was your fault somehow.”

The air left your lungs in a small, unsteady rush.

You hadn’t told him that exact phrase.

“Who- ” You broke off, swallowing down panic and a bitter, reflexive anger. “Who’s been talking?”

He tilted his head slightly.

“You really think a man like that leaves without givin’ himself a soft landing?” Hal asked quietly. “You think he didn’t tell anyone at the bar his little sob story? How he was standing in his father in laws shadow.. not seeing the gift he got handed here? No.. all he could say was how the missus was too much, the work was too much, how he wanted something easier?”

You flinched, closing your eyes for a beat.

There it was. The echo of words you’d tried not to let stick: you’re too hard, this is too hard, I want delicate. You used to be soft.

“That’s not…” You shook your head, blinking up at the ceiling to clear the sting. “He wasn’t all bad.”

“I didn’t say he was,” Hal said. “But he was a coward.”

The flat certainty in his tone made your breath hitch.

“Hal- ”

“He could’ve said, ‘I’m tired.’ He could’ve said, ‘I can’t hack this, I wanna try somethin’ else.’ He could’ve been honest without makin’ you the villain in his story.” Hal’s voice didn’t rise, but it deepened, roughened, like gravel under a tyre. “Instead he let you carry the blame for him not bein’ man enough to stand where he said he’d stand.”

Tears burned hot behind your eyes. You blinked them back, furious with yourself.

“He said I got cold, hard,” you heard yourself say. The words fell out in a hoarse rush before you could stop them. “That the work… and the money, and me takin’ on more, and not wanting to… to be small about it, made me hard. That he wanted something softer.”

The admission hung between you, raw and ugly.

Hal’s jaw flexed.

“He said you were hard,” he repeated slowly, like he was tasting the words just to spit them out. “Huh.”

You let out a shaky breath that was almost a laugh.

“Guess he wasn’t wrong,” you said, staring at your hands. “Feels like there’s nothing but edges left some days.”

Silence stretched.

Then Hal pushed off the counter.

He stepped closer, not crowding, but close enough that you had to tip your head back a little to keep your eyes on the same place on his chest. YOu couldn’t look at his face right now.

Hal’s hands hung loose at his sides, fingers flexing once, like he was resisting the urge to reach for you.

“You’re not hard,” he said softly. “You’re tired. There’s a difference.”

You swallowed.

“Feels the same from in here,” you said, pressing your palm briefly against your own ribs.

He shook his head.

“You got iron in you,” he said. “That’s what keeps this place standing. That’s what kept him standing longer than he deserved. Iron’s not hard in the way he meant. It’s strong. That’s somethin’ to be proud of.”

The words scraped along raw places you’d been ignoring, stinging and soothing all at once.

“He didn’t see it,” Hal went on, voice low. “He saw a woman who wouldn’t shrink herself to make his life easier and decided that meant there was somethin’ wrong with you.”

He huffed, a sound with no humour in it.

“Baby, that’s on him.”

The endearment slipped out so naturally you almost missed it.

Your head snapped up.

Hal’s eyes were on you, steady, unflinching. There was no apology there. No backtracking.

“Baby,” you repeated weakly, like you were testing the word in your own mouth.

His lips twitched.

“You got a better name you want me to use?” he asked.

You looked at him, really looked and saw the way his throat bobbed like he’d just realised exactly how deep he’d stepped.

“I…” You shook your head, tears blurring him at the edges. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with that.”

“Not askin’ you to do anything with it,” his tone softer “Just… letting you know I see you different than he did.”

He hesitated, then finally lifted one hand, slow enough that you could’ve stepped back if you’d wanted to.

You didn’t.

His palm cupped your cheek, rough skin warm against your chilled face. His thumb brushed once, feather-light, under your eye, catching a tear you hadn’t even felt fall.

He went very still.

“Baby, what did he do to you to take that light away?” he murmured. “You used to… you don’t even see it anymore, do you? Back when I first got here, you walked into a room and the whole place shifted. Man got a smile outta you, his week was made. I damn near forgot how to talk the first time you laughed at one of my dumb jokes.”

You stared at him, stunned.

“Hal- ”

“I get tongue-tied around you,” he went on, like a confession he’d been holding back for too long. “Me. The bloke who never shuts up. You look at me and I forget how to string a sentence together some days.”

A shaky, disbelieving sound escaped you. “That’s not-  you’re just saying that to make me feel better.”

His thumb stroked your cheekbone again, slow, sure.

“Why would I lie about that?” he asked softly. “Hell, half the girls in town could tell you I go quiet when you walk into the bar.. I say somethin’ stupid, you laugh, then I spend the rest of the night tryin’ not to stare.”

Your heart thudded unevenly against your ribs, heat and grief and something dangerously like hope tangling inside you.

“Baby, what did he do to ya to make you forget you were the sun?” he whispered. Those blue eye’s searching yours hoping to see something there. “You don’t know your own shine anymore. That’s what makes me mad. Not that he left. That he took that part of you with him when he walked out.”

Your breath hitched. The first sob tore up your throat, small and broken.

You jerked your head away, scrubbing at your face with the heel of your hand.

“Don’t,” you said thickly. “Don’t-  if you’re just bein’ kind-  I can’t- ”

“Hey.”

His other hand came up, gentle but insistent, guiding your chin back toward him. His touch never tightened, never pinned. Just… invited.

“Look at me,” Hal voice pleaded a little.

You did.

His eyes were bright, not with pity, but with something fiercer. Protective. Angry on your behalf.

“I am being kind,” he said. “But I’m also tellin’ you the truth. You got dealt a shit hand. Doesn’t mean you stop deservin’ good things.”

Tears spilled over again, hot tracks down your chilled cheeks.

“I don’t know how to be that person anymore,” you admitted in a whisper. “The one who walks into a room and… and shines. I feel like I’ve been… dimmed. Like there’s nothin’ left but work and… and getting through the day.”

Hal’s jaw worked.

“Then let me help,” The offer true “Not just with the fences and the woodpile. Let me remind you.”

You let out a shaky laugh. “And how exactly do you plan on doin’ that?”

He leaned in a fraction, his breath warm on your damp skin.

“One day at a time,” he uttered, like a promise “One chore at a time. One dinner at a time. One truth at a time.”

His thumb swept another tear away.

“Startin’ with this one: none of this was your fault.”

Something inside you cracked then.

Not in the sharp, shattering way you’d been afraid of, but in a slow, relieving way, like ice thawing under steady heat. Your shoulders sagged, tension bleeding out of muscles you hadn’t realised were locked.

You sucked in a breath that felt like the first real one in months.

“Hal,” your voice cracking  “I don’t… I don’t know what this is.”

He smiled then, small and a little sad.

“It’s me standin’ in your kitchen tellin’ you I see you,” he said. “Been seein’ you for a long time. You don’t have to do anything with that tonight. Or tomorrow. But I’m not gonna stand on the other side of the fence and watch you carry this alone anymore.”

Your vision blurred again, but this time it wasn’t just from tears. It was from the terrifying, tantalising possibility that you weren’t as alone as you’d convinced yourself you had to be.

“Why?” you asked, the word torn from somewhere deep. “Why do you care this much?”

His hand was still on your cheek, palm warm, thumb resting just under the corner of your mouth.

“Because I’m not an idiot,” he said simply. “And because I know what it’s like to be young and stupid and think the grass is greener somewhere easy. I did my runnin’ around. I chased the pretty girls and the shiny things. Thought settlin’ down meant givin’ up.”

He huffed a breath, almost a laugh at himself.

“Then I got here,” he said. “Saw this place. Saw you. And it hit me in the gut that there are some things you don’t walk away from. Not if you got any sense. Just he beat me too it..”

Your heart lurched.

“Hal…”

“Been tryin’ to give you space,” he went on. “Figured you needed time to… figure out how you wanted to tell the story. But I’m done pretendin’ I don’t care what happens to you. I do. A lot more than is polite, probably.”

Your lips parted on a soft exhale.

He hesitated then, the first real flicker of uncertainty you’d seen on his face all day.

“You tell me to stop, I stop,” he said quietly. “You tell me you don’t want this, I’ll go back to talkin’ about feed and fence posts and nothin’ else. But if there’s even a piece of you that wants to know what it’s like to be looked at like you’re the sun again…”

His thumb brushed the corner of your mouth.

“…you just have to say so.”

The kitchen was very quiet.

You could hear the tick of the old clock, the gentle hum of the fridge, the faint crackle of the fire in the next room. Outside, the wind scraped against the eaves, winter pressing close.

Somewhere under your ribs, a small, stubborn flame you thought had gone out flickered back to life.

Your voice shook, but you got the words out.

“I… don’t know how to do this,” you admitted. “But I… I don’t want you to stop.”

For a moment, everything in Hal’s face softened. Relief, fondness, something like wonder.

“Okay,” he murmured. “I do.”

His hand slid from your cheek to cradle the side of your neck, fingers warm against your pulse. He leaned in slowly, giving you every chance to pull away.

You didn’t.

When his mouth finally met yours, it was shockingly tender.

No rush. No urgency. Just a careful, gentle press of lips, like he’d been waiting a long time and had no intention of scaring you back into yourself.

You inhaled sharply against him, your hands flying up out of habit, fingers clutching at the front of his shirt. The flannel was soft under your palms, warm from his body heat. You felt the solid breadth of his chest, the steady thump of his heart beneath your fingers.

He made a low sound, half exhale, half groan and kissed you a little deeper, tilting his head to fit his mouth more snugly over yours.

The world narrowed to the heat of him.

The rough scrape of his stubble against your skin. The faint taste of coffee and roast chicken on his tongue. The way he kept it slow, letting you set the pace, his thumb stroking lazy circles at the nape of your neck.

Something inside you that had been locked down for so long uncoiled.

You kissed him back.

Tentative at first; a soft press, a small, testing slide of your lips against his. Then, when he responded with a soft, encouraging hum, you let yourself lean into it, fingers curling tighter in his shirt as you rose onto your toes without thinking.

He caught you around the waist with his free hand, not pulling you in, just anchoring you there, solid and unmovable and utterly safe.

When you finally broke apart, it wasn’t because the moment snapped. It was because your lungs remembered they needed air.

You drew back an inch, breath mingling with his, eyes wide.

Hal rested his forehead lightly against yours, his hand still cradling your neck.

“See?” he murmured, voice rough. “Still got plenty of light in you. Look at you glow.”

“You might be biased,” A laugh bubbled up, wet and shaky, slipping out before you could stop it.

“Absolutely,” he said. “And I plan on stayin’ that way.”

You let your eyes close, just for a second, letting yourself feel the warmth of him, the steady rise and fall of his chest, the way his thumb brushed once more at your pulse like he was memorising it.

You weren’t sure who moved first.

One moment you were standing in the kitchen with Hal’s forehead resting against yours, the taste of him still on your lips and your heart beating like it wanted to climb straight into his hands. The next, he was kissing you again. Only this time it was a little deeper, just a little longer, like you both couldn’t quite bear to let the moment go.

You made a soft sound against his mouth, something small and helpless. His fingers flexed at your neck in answer, thumb stroking slow and steady along the line of your pulse.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he murmured, breath ghosting over your lips.

“It’s not,” you got out as he let you both breathe again. “I don’t want you to stop.”

Something in his chest eased at that, the tension you hadn’t realised he’d been holding melting away. He brushed another kiss to the corner of your mouth, then your cheek, then the fragile space just in front of your ear.

“Alright then,” he said softly. “Let’s get you somewhere more comfortable than a kitchen floor, yeah?”

Heat curled low in your stomach at the casual certainty of it.

You nodded, throat too tight for words.

He didn’t drag you. Didn’t rush. Just laced his fingers through yours and let you choose the direction, matching his stride to yours as you led him down your hallway.

The house felt different with him at your shoulder.

The shadows weren’t so harsh. The creaks weren’t as loud. The bedroom door you’d been leaving half-shut for months, because closing it made the emptiness worse and leaving it open made it feel like you were waiting, suddenly looked less like a reminder and more like a possibility.

You pushed it open and stepped inside, heart pounding all the way up in your throat.

Hal paused just inside the room, gaze flicking over the unmade bed, the pile of clean clothes on the chair, the scuffed floorboards that had seen more pacing than sleeping lately. He didn’t look put off. If anything, his expression softened further, some quiet, private tenderness settling over his features.

“This alright?” he asked, voice low.

You nodded again, then forced yourself to speak.

“Yeah. Just… haven’t had company in here for a while.” You tried for wry and landed somewhere closer to raw.

Hal’s fingers squeezed yours.

“Then we’ll take it slow,” he said. “Want to let me take it from here, yeah?”

You huffed out a shaky little laugh. “Pretty sure you’re the one who knows what he’s doing.”

“Oh, I do,” he said, a hint of a grin tugging at his mouth. “So how about you let me look after you tonight, baby”

The endearment wrapped around you like a quilt.

You stepped closer, free hand coming up to rest tentatively against his chest again.

He dipped his head, catching your lips again.

This kiss was different. Not tentative, not testing.

It was sure.

He kissed you like he’d decided, somewhere between the sink and this doorway, that he was all in. His mouth was warm and sure on yours, his stubble rasping gently against your skin, grounding you in every place you touched.

You made a noise you didn’t recognise as your own, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. He answered with a low hum, stepping you back until your knees brushed the edge of the bed.

“Easy,” he murmured, breaking away just enough to see your face. “Sit for me.”

You sank down onto the mattress, breath coming a little fast, palms braced on either side of you. Hal followed, one knee on the bed between your thighs, his other foot still on the floor, looming without ever feeling threatening.

His hand came up to cup your cheek again, thumb rubbing a slow line along your lower lip.

“Still alright?”

You swallowed, nodding. “Yeah. Just… nervous.”

He smiled, small, just a little crooked.

“Good,” he said.

You blinked. “Good?”

“Means it matters,” he replied simply. “You think I’m not? I’ve wanted to do this for so long my hands are shakin’ worse than yours were out by that tractor.”

You glanced down automatically. His fingers seemed steady, sure, until he saw where you were looking. Then, just to prove his point, they trembled a fraction against your skin.

The ridiculous surge of affection that punched through you almost knocked you flat.

You leaned up and kissed him again, hard enough that your teeth knocked his lightly. He huffed a laugh into your mouth, then answered with a slow, deep slide of his tongue against yours that sent heat shooting straight down your spine.

His hands slid down, fingers skimming the sides of your throat, the slope of your shoulders, the curve of your waist. When his thumbs brushed the underside of your ribs, you shivered.

“Cold?” he asked against your mouth.

You shook your head minutely. “No.”

His lips curved. “Good.”

He eased back just enough to get his fingers under the hem of your shirt.

“Can I…?”

You lifted your arms in answer.

The fabric whispered up over your skin and then you were bare from the waist up except for your bra, the cool air of the room kissing the new-exposed skin. Hal’s breath caught.

“Jesus,” he murmured.

He sat back on his heels for a second, just looking.

You fought the instinct to fold in on yourself, to cover. Hal Carter looked like a man who’d been handed something precious he didn’t quite feel worthy of.

“You’re beautiful,” he said simply, like it was a fact. “Always thought so. Just didn’t think I’d get to say it out loud.”

Your throat went tight.

“Hal…”

He leaned in again, pressing a kiss to your bare shoulder this time, then along the line of your collarbone. His stubble scratched lightly, his mouth soft and warm and thorough, like he was making up for every touch you hadn’t had.

By the time he reached the hollow at the base of your throat, your fingers were tangled in his hair, your head tipping back on instinct to give him more.

“Lie back for me,” he murmured against your skin.

You went willingly, easing down onto the mattress. Hal followed, bracing one forearm by your head so he didn’t crush you with his weight, the other hand splayed warm over your ribs.

His fingers found the clasp of your bra, deftly undoing it before he eased the straps down your arms and slid the fabric away.

You sucked in a breath as his palm cupped your breast fully, the heat of his hand making your nipple tighten almost painfully.

“God,” you breathed.

“Yeah,” he said, voice gone rough. “That about covers it.”

He rolled your nipple gently between his thumb and forefinger, watching your face as he did. The sensation shot straight through you, sharp and electric, your back arching off the bed.

“That good?” he asked.

“Uh-huh,” you managed.

“Tell me,” Hal purred at you, voice getting rough “Want to hear it.”

“It’s… good,” you gasped. “Feels… really good.”

His smile flashed, feral and pleased.

“Atta girl.”

He dipped his head and closed his mouth over your other nipple, heat and damp and the scrape of his teeth making you gasp. Your hands flew to his shoulders, fingers digging into the solid muscle there as you writhed under him.

He took his time.

Alternating between each breast, he worshipped you with mouth and hands until you were panting, a low, constant throb starting to build between your legs. Every tug, every swirl of his tongue seemed designed to drag another soft sound out of you.

When he finally lifted his head, your skin felt too hot for the cool air.

“Too much?” he asked again, checking in.

“Not enough,” you blurted.

His laugh rumbled through both of you.

“Careful, sweetheart. You say things like that, I’m liable to forget we started out slow.”

He pushed himself up just enough to fumble at his own shirt, tugging it over his head in one smooth motion. Your breath caught.

He was solid.

Strong through the chest and shoulders, years of work carved into the lines of him. Not gym-perfect. Scars here and there from old misjudged fences or cantankerous stock, you suddenly wanted to touch.

You did.

Your fingers slid up over his ribs, along the warm expanse of his chest, feeling the muscle jump under your touch.

He bent to kiss you again, slower this time, like he had all the time in the world. While his tongue stroked against yours, his hand drifted down, skimming your stomach, the curve of your hip, until his fingers brushed the waistband of your jeans.

He broke the kiss just enough to speak.

“Still okay?”

You swallowed and nodded. “Please.”

That one word seemed to undo him.

“Lift your hips for me,” he murmured.

You did, and he made quick work of the button and zip, sliding the denim and your thermal layer down your legs in one firm, careful pull. The fabric dragged over your calves and caught briefly at your socks before he eased it past your ankles, leaving you bare to the room from the waist down. The cool air raised goosebumps over your thighs, but the way his gaze moved over you, slow, hungry, unbelieving, chased them away.

You were down to your panties now, the cotton already damp where you ached the most, clinging to you.

Hal swore under his breath. His fingers flexed, physically restraining himself from grabbing hold of you too fast.

“Look at you,” he murmured at last, voice thick. “Been workin’ yourself half to death and you’re still the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

You huffed a tearful little laugh, the sound wobbling. “Not a high bar.” You tried to joke, to shrug it off, but your voice came out small, betraying how unused you were to being looked at like this.

He shook his head once, firmly, like you’d said something offensive.

“Highest one I’ve got,” he said. “You think I don’t know what I’m lookin’ at?”

Heat crawled up your neck, spreading across your chest.

His hand slid slowly up the inside of your thigh, the rough-smooth contrast made your muscles jump, a shiver skating along your spine. Your hips twitched toward him without permission, a tiny, helpless reach for more that had his mouth curving in a low, satisfied smile.

He watched your face as he reached the edge of your panties, fingers teasing along the damp line.

“Gonna touch you,” His tone was firm, needing you to understand  “Need you to tell me if you want me to stop.”

“I will,” you said immediately. “But don’t stop.”

He smiled, low and pleased. He slid his hand under the cotton, fingers finding slick heat.

You gasped, hissing a little at even the light touch.

“Jesus, you’re wet,” he groaned. “Not just this place needs looking after is it?”

You might have argued if he hadn’t chosen that moment to drag his fingers slowly through your folds, circling your clit with the lightest, most maddening pressure.

Words scattered.

Your hips jerked, a broken sound spilling from your throat.

“Pretty noises, from the pretty girl.” he murmured.

He worked you with a patience you didn’t know what to do with.

Small, slow circles over your clit, just enough pressure to build the heat without tipping you too fast. Every time your breath hitched, he eased off a fraction, drawing the sensation out, letting it swell and swell until you felt like your skin couldn’t contain it.

He slipped two thick finger inside you and you almost sobbed at the stretch.

“Hal- ”

“I know,” he said, voice rough with restraint. “I know, baby. You’re so damn tight. Been left wanting too long.”

You dragged in a shaky breath, forcing your muscles to relax around him. He moved slowly, curling his fingers in a steady rhythm that brushed exactly where you needed it most. Your knees fell wider on instinct, heels digging into the mattress.

“That’s it,” he praised. “Doing good." You could feel yourself clenching around him, that slow, inexorable tide of pleasure rising with every drag and curl of his fingers, every precise circle of his thumb on your clit.

“That’s it,” he murmured. “Nothin’ else you gotta do right now. Just let me take care of you.”

For once, you did.

You let go.

Let yourself ride the wave he was building, the tension coiling tighter and tighter in your belly. It wasn’t sharp, not a sudden spike, it was a swell, a gathering force, like the moment before a storm breaks.

“Hal,” you gasped. “I- I’m- ”

“Just feel.” Soft encouragement “Let it happen.”

When it hit, it wasn’t the jagged crack you’d been bracing for all these months. It was a surge.

Pleasure rolled through you in heavy, unstoppable waves, pulling a loud, broken moan from somewhere deep in your chest. You twisted, skin hot, bending into his hand as the orgasm crashed over you, pleasure hitting  again, and again.

Hal kept his fingers moving, easing you through it, murmuring soft, steady praise that you couldn’t quite catch over the rush in your ears.

“Good girl… that’s it… that’s my girl…”

You shuddered, finally sagging back into the mattress, limbs boneless.

He eased his hand away carefully, pressing a soft kiss to your shoulder before straightening.

“You still with me?” he asked.

You nodded, the room hazy around the edges. “Yeah. Just… whew.”

He grinned, wide and delighted.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “Whew.”

The warmth he’d left in you pulsed slowly, sweet and heavy. Underneath it, an ache had started up again, sharper this time. You already missed the weight of his hand between your thighs, the sure way he’d touched you like there was nothing else in the world worth doing.

Before you could talk yourself out of it, you reached for him.

Pulling him back down into a kiss.

This one wasn’t careful at all.

You opened for him immediately, tongue chasing his. Your hips shifted on instinct, chasing contact, brushing against the hard line of him still trapped in his jeans.

He groaned into your mouth, the sound low and rough, one hand bracing by your head while the other landed at your waist, holding you steady.

“Careful,” he muttered, breaking the kiss just enough to rest his forehead against yours, breath coming rough. “Seein’ you like this, feelin’ you grabbin’ at me? Can’t forget myself, and I wanna take my time with you.”

Heat flared low in your belly at the way he said it, like taking his time with you was a promise, not a chore.

“I don’t mind if you forget a little,” you were only half joking, still breathing a little hard.

He huffed out a strained laugh, thumb stroking your hip.

“Yeah, I can tell,” he said. “But you deserve better than me rushin’ through this.”

He caught your wrist gently, bringing your hand up to his mouth to press a quick, reverent kiss to your knuckles before setting it back on the bed.

Then he eased away, pushing up off the mattress. The loss of his warmth made you shiver, but the sight of him, thumb already hooked in his belt, jaw set with determined focus, did something dizzying to your insides.

“Let me get a bit more comfortable,” he said.

He stripped his belt with a practised flick, then undid his jeans, working them down over his hips along with his briefs. You caught a glimpse of the heavy, straining line of him before you ducked your gaze, cheeks burning- and then, unable to help yourself, you looked again.

Hunger stirred, clean and bright. You wanted to feel all of him, wanted that deep, full stretch to match the rush still humming through your veins.

With his back half-turned, you took the chance to peel off your socks, toes curling against the cool sheet as you tugged the wool away. It made you feel absurdly bare, but also… right. Like you were meeting him in this, both of you shedding the last, practical layers of the day.

He toed his clothes aside, then glanced back at you, checking in even now before he got back onto the bed with you.

“Baby, when you look at a man like that,” he drawled lightly as he settled between your knees, “you make him feel awfully good about himself.”

You swallowed hard, because you were looking. At all of him, and what was ahead of you was.. something

He sobered a fraction, eyes tracking the flicker of nerves across your face.

“Hey,” he said softly. “It’s not a real snake, baby. It won’t bite, promise.”

You rolled your eyes at the ridiculousness of the line, a huff of breath escaping you, but it did exactly what he meant it to, it broke the tension just enough that you could breathe again.

Before you could come up with a retort, he took your hand, big fingers wrapping gently around yours and guiding it down between you.

“Just touch me,” he murmured. “That’s all.”

The weighted heat of him in your palm was almost unreal after months of nothing; thick and hot and alive, pulsing faintly against your skin. Hal’s own breathing hitched, a rough shudder running through him as your fingers curled, testing his weight.

“Yeah,” he groaned, eyes fluttering shut for a second. “Just like that.”

He leaned in to kiss you again, slower but no less hungry, coaxing your mouth open as he gently eased you back onto your backk. Your hand slipped free as you went, landing uselessly in the rumpled sheets while his body came over yours, bracing his weight on his forearms so you felt surrounded without being pinned.

His palm slid up the outside of your legs, urging them wider.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he said again, lining himself up. “I mean it. We can stop at any point.”

Your heart swelled.

“I know,” you said. “I trust you.”

His eyes flicked up to yours. Whatever he saw there made his throat bob.

“Alright then,” he murmured.

You felt the broad, hot head of him nudge against your entrance, the slick slide as he found the right angle. Even braced for it, the first push in was a shock, sharp enough to pull a strangled gasp from you, your fingers clenching in the sheets as your body tried to decide between retreat and welcome.

He stopped immediately, muscles trembling with the effort of holding still, every vein in his neck standing out.

“Breathe,” he said. “Just breathe. You’re doin’ so good.”

You dragged in a shaky breath, then another, forcing the tension out of your thighs, your belly, willing yourself to open around him. The sting eased with each exhale, the stretch melting into a deep, aching fullness that settled low in your core.

“Hal,” you whispered, voice wrecked as you tried to lift your hips towards him “Please, Hal… more.”

He groaned, low and raw, the sound vibrating through his chest and into yours.

“Course, baby” he said.

He eased in inch by inch, relentless but unhurried, letting you feel every thick, dragging centimetre of his cock as he sank deeper. Your inner muscles fluttered helplessly around him, slick heat clinging to his length. He cursed under his breath, jaw locked tight like he was hanging on by his fingernails. The pressure making your body buzz.

By the time his hips finally met yours, the blunt press of his hips snug against you, you felt stretched around him in a way that was almost overwhelming. Full to the point of dizzy, every pulse of your heartbeat echoing where your bodies joined. You weren’t just fuller than you’d ever been; everything inside you felt tender and over-wound, nerve-endings lit up after months of pretending you didn’t have needs at all.

“Okay?” he managed, voice strangled.

You nodded, but it came with a little shiver you couldn’t quite control, your thighs trembling where they framed his hips. “Yeah. You just… feel like a lot.”

He laughed breathlessly, but there was nothing mocking in it, just raw wonder.

“Been called worse,” he said softly.

He didn’t move right away. Instead, he shifted his weight to one forearm and brought his free hand up, brushing a damp strand of hair back from your forehead with surprising gentleness, your brow pitched together.

“Hey,” he murmured. “Look at me a sec.”

You dragged your gaze up to his. Whatever he saw there made his expression go even softer, your walls fluttered again..Hal swallowed his own noise.

“That’s just your body catchin’ up,” he nodded at you. “You’re doin’ fine. Little fawn shakes are normal. Just outta practise.” The fondness in his voice made your throat tighten.

He dipped his head to kiss you, slow and lingering, his mouth giving you something else to focus on while the initial sting and stretch settled into that heavy, aching fullness. His thumb stroked along your cheekbone in lazy passes, grounding you. After a beat, he caught one of your hands, guiding it up to his face.

“Here,” he murmured against your lips. “Hold on to me.”

Your fingers curled against the rough line of his jaw, feeling the flex of muscle there, the warmth of his skin. Little by little, the tremors in your thighs eased, your body loosening around him as you adjusted to the size of him, the reality of him everywhere at once.

"Easy now.."  He drew back carefully and pushed in again, slow, deliberate. The drag of him along your inner walls sent sparks shooting up your spine.

"Nuh-auh.." Your mouth fell open on a soft cry.

"That’s it,” he encouraged. “Let me hear you.”

He set a rhythm that matched the rest of him, steady, patient, no rush.

Each thrust rolled through you, his thick cock sliding deep into your soaked centre, his weight pressing you into the mattress in a way that felt steady, anchoring; a shelter instead of a cage. His hand bracketed your hips, big palms wrapping almost all the way around, thumbs stroking idle, reverent patterns into your skin as if he couldn’t quite believe he was allowed to touch you like this.

"Auh-god -ugh" the little sounds slipped out of you with every push, your own body moving with his.

“Mmm, yeah, just like that,” Hal murmured, swallowing them up with a low groan of his own, the heat of his breath fanning against your cheek. “Keep moaning for me, baby. Let it out.”

The pleasure built again, different this time. Deeper. Heavier. Less like a crashing wave and more like the pull of a strong current, tugging you down somewhere warm. His shaft moved along your inner walls with every slow withdrawal, the tip catching just inside before he pushed back in, filling you again.

“You feel so good,” he groaned. “Been dreamin’ about this, you know that? ‘Bout how you’d feel wrapped around me.”

Hal shifted his angle, hips tilting, your body answered before your mind could catch up. Your leg lifted, thighs tightening as you hooked your ankles behind his hips, dragging him closer, locking him against you. The new position let him grind deeper, his pubic bone rubbing your swollen bud with each thrust, sending sparks up your spine, your walls squeezing him. 

“Yeah,” he rasped, voice rough with approval. “Hold on to me, baby. Just like that. Pull me in- fuck, yes.”

The next stroke drove into a spot inside you that made your vision go white at the edges, a choked cry punching out of you as your nails bit into his shoulders.

“Hal- oh god!”

“Right there?” he asked, breath hot against your cheek, his hips circling slightly to hit it again.

“Yes,” you gasped. “God- Hal- right there..”

“Then that’s where I’ll stay,” he said, his tone promising everything as he adjusted, locking into that rhythm.

His thick cock driving deep into you with every measured thrust, the broad head grinding deliberately against that sensitive bundle of nerves inside you. Your inner walls clenched tight around him, milking each slow, controlled stroke, the wet sounds of your bodies meeting filling the room as he held you in that warm, unhurried build.

“Ahh, shit,” he rasped, voice thick with need.

The familiar ache in your chest was gone, replaced by something fierce and bright and alive, blooming hot under your skin as his free hand trailed up your side, fingers splaying wide and tender over your ribs, thumb brushing the underside of your breast in soothing circles.

A raw moan tore from your throat, your hips bucking up to meet him, nails scraping lightly down his back.

“Hal- ”

“That it Baby,” he murmured, leaning down to press a soft kiss to your collarbone, his breath hot and ragged against your skin. “You’re so good Baby-  Just little more –“ His own voice getting caught “You’re almost there - Wanna feel you come on my cock.”

The blunt words, wrapped in that deep, honest rumble, hit you like a spark to dry tinder. Your pussy fluttered wildly around him, the pressure coiling tighter, hotter, till you couldn’t do anything but burn.

You came hard, your body arching off the bed as waves of pleasure crashed through you, your walls pulsing and squeezing his cock in rhythmic spasms. Wet spilling around him, slicking along his shaft, a sharp cry escaping your lips the climax rolled deep and long, leaving you trembling beneath him.

Hal swore, hips stuttering.

“Fuck- there you go, that’s it, that’s my girl- ”

You felt him follow right after, burying himself to the hilt with a final, powerful drive, his cock throbbing inside you as hot spurts of his own release mix with yours... He groaned long and low against your throat, body going rigid, muscles tensing.

For a moment, everything was just heat and breath and the frantic beating of two hearts trying to sync up, his lips brushing feather-light kisses along your jaw as you both came down.

Hal braced his forearms on either side of your head, careful not to collapse his full weight on you. He pressed a soft, almost absent-minded kiss to your cheek, then your temple, like he couldn’t stop himself.

“You okay?” he asked at last, voice hoarse.

You nodded, still trying to catch your breath.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “More than okay.”

He smiled, eyes crinkling at the corners.

“Good,” he said softly. “That’s… yeah. Good.”

He shifted before he eased out of you gently, murmuring an apology when you winced at the oversensitive drag and dipped his head to kiss you through it, his mouth soft and coaxing until the sharp edge faded to a faint ache. Hal stretched out on his side and opened one arm in quiet invitation.

You went, tucking yourself in against his chest like it was the most natural thing in the world.

His hand smoothed up and down your spine in slow, soothing strokes, the steady rhythm lulling your muscles into bonelessness. Your leg hitched over his hip of its own accord, pressing you closer to his warmth.

“Look at us,” you mumbled against his skin. “First proper dinner I’ve cooked in months and we end up here.”

He huffed a soft laugh, his chest rumbling under your cheek. “Best payment I’ve ever had for a day’s work,”

You swatted weakly at his side. He caught your hand and brought it to his lips, pressing a kiss to your knuckles.

“Don’t,” you pouted “Don’t make a joke of it.”

His grip tightened, just a fraction.

“I’m not,” Hal apologised giving you a small squeezed. “But I meant what I said in the kitchen.”

You tipped your head back enough to see his face.

“We’ve got all winter,” he said. “You can take as long as you need to figure out what you want this to be. Only thing I’m sure of is I’m not goin’ anywhere unless you tell me to.”

Your chest ached again, but it was a different kind of ache now.

“You really think I’m the sun?” you asked, half-teasing, half-pleading.

He looked at you like he couldn’t believe you’d even doubt it.

“I know you are,” he said. “Just hope you’ll let me orbit a while.”

A laugh bubbled up, soft and a little disbelieving. You buried your face back in his chest to hide the way your eyes stung.

“Yeah,” you murmured. “I think I could live with that.”

His arm tightened around you, holding you close and that was enough.

[hhiggs]

So so so good

[metal-armed-muse]

all my firsts ⋆˙⟡

pairing. 40s!bucky x 40s!fem!reader

summary. most girls dream under the covers when the house goes quiet. you’re waiting for the soft scrape of boots on the fire escape, because the boy you’ve loved forever is climbing through your window, and this time he isn’t leaving before dawn.

word count. 6.5k

warnings. soft smut, 18+, MDNI, virginity loss (both reader and bucky), tit play, oral (f receiving), unprotected pnv, usage of nicknames (doll, sweetheart), no usage of y/n.

notes. kinda got stuck on the last part of babydoll, so please have this in the meanwhile. the images in moodboard do not depict the reader. there are no descriptions of the reader in this fic. both reader and bucky are above 18, but reader is portrayed as kind of innocent owing to the lack of sex education in that time period.

the window creaks just a little when bucky hauls himself through it. one boot catches on the sill so he has to hop awkwardly to keep himself from face-planting onto your rug.

moonlight stripes the room in silver and shadow, catching on the faded flower wallpaper your mama picked out when you were ten.

straightening up, he brushes dust off his jacket, and grins that crooked grin that always makes your stomach flip.

“thought your old man was gonna spot me climbin’,” he whispers, voice going low in a way it gets when he’s trying not to laugh. “nearly took a header into the rose bushes.”

you’re already tucked under the covers, heart going a mile a minute.

your parents left for bridge night an hour ago. they just said they’d be back late. and the house feels huge and quiet without them.

you pat the mattress beside you. “ma and pa left an hour ago. get in here before someone calls the cops on you.”

he shrugs out of his jacket, and slides in next to you like he’s done it a hundred times, even though this is only the third time he’s managed to sneak over.

the bed’s narrow. it's your childhood bed with the iron headboard that squeaks if you move too fast. and he has to curl around you so you both fit comfortably. well, comfort might be a bigger word.

he smells like the cold night air and the gel he uses to keep his hair slicked back, and something that’s just him.

his hair’s all messed up from the climb, cheeks pink from the cold.

“hi, doll,” he whispers, voice soft so the floorboards don’t give him away, and then he’s right there in front of you, hands finding your waist like they belong there.

you’re in your nightgown, the off-white one with the tiny roses your ma sewed on last summer, with the covers pulled up to your chin like some nervous kid. which you kind of are, tonight.

when you tip your face up, he meets you halfway.

you’ve kissed plenty. behind the bleachers after ball games, in the dark of the movie theater when the newsreels were on, pressed against the alley wall behind the diner when he walked you home from your shift the day before.

but tonight there’s no curfew ticking in the back of your head and no worry about headlights sweeping the street.

tonight the house is yours. and so is he. his mouth moves slowly, lazily almost, like he’s got all the time in the world to taste you.

you fall back onto the pillows together, the mattress springs groaning just enough to make you both freeze and listen for footsteps that definitely aren’t coming.

when it stays quiet, bucky huffs a laugh against your mouth. “think we’re safe now, sweetheart.”

“you always say that,” you whisper back, “and then mrs. gallagher’s dog starts barking.”

“mrs. gallagher’s dog can go jump in the east river.”

his mouth opens against yours again, tongue sliding in carefully like he’s asking permission even though you’ve done this countless number of times. you make that little sound you always make when he does it right, and his hands tighten on your waist.

sliding up your side, his thumb brushes the edge of your breast through the thin cotton, and you make a small surprised sound against his lips.

he pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes dark in the dim light. “that okay?” his voice is hushed.

you nod. “yeah. just… tickles a little.”

he smiles. a small one, a shy one. and kisses you again, much deeper this time.

his fingers keep exploring, tracing the neckline of your gown, slipping under the fabric to find skin. your breath catches when his palm cups your breast.

you can feel that he’s trembling a little and that makes you feel less alone in how your own hands are shaking.

“you’re so soft,” he murmurs against your mouth, like he’s surprised by it every time. his thumb brushes over your nipple and it stiffens instantly, sending a spark straight down between your legs. you arch without meaning to, and press closer to him.

you’ve never let him touch you like this before. you’ve thought about it— lord, have you thought about it. lying in this same bed you've had your hand pressed between your thighs, not knowing why you like it, but wondering what his hands would feel like.

but thinking and doing are entirely two different things, and now that it’s happening you feel heat crawling up your neck.

“jamie,” you whisper, not sure if it’s fast or too slow to your liking.

searching your face, he asks,“too much?”

you shake your head quickly. “no. just… feels funny… good funny.”

his grin comes back softer. “good funny’s the best kind.” he kisses the corner of your mouth, then your jaw, then the spot under your ear that makes your toes curl.

his hand keeps moving, gentle circles that make your nipple ache in a way you’ve never felt before. you didn’t know it could feel like this. like every touch is lighting little fires under your skin.

the buttons down the front of your gown are small and fiddly, and he fumbles with them, muttering “darn things” under his breath when the third one sticks.

a giggle slips past you as you reach down to help. together you get them open, and cool air hits your chest. he pushes the fabric aside slowly, like he’s unwrapping something precious, and when he sees you bare his breath stutters.

“you’re shaking,” you tease, even though your own hands aren’t much better.

“yeah, well, you’re beautiful,” he mutters, like that explains everything. his eyes are wide like he’s trying to memorize you. “jesus, doll.”

“don’t take the lord’s name in vain in my bedroom, james buchanan barnes,” you whisper, prim as sister mary margaret, and he snorts.

“sorry, sister.” but his hands are gentle when he pushes the gown off your shoulders, down your arms, until it’s bunched at your waist. you’re bare from the waist up now, and the shyness hits you.

“jeez. you’re… you’re so pretty.”

you want to hide, instinct making you cross your arms, but he catches your wrists and presses them to the pillow beside your head. “don’t. please. lemme look.”

there's a vulnerability in his voice even though you're the one who's undressed now. so you let him.

his gaze feels like a touch all its own. he lowers his head and kisses the slope of one breast, then the other. open-mouthed and soft kisses decorate your skin.

when his lips close around your nipple you gasp loud enough you’re glad the neighbors’ houses are far apart.

a tentative lick is what he starts with, then he gets bolder when you clutch at his hair. your nipple tightens under his touch, and he pulls back just enough to look.

“they do that,” he says, wonder in his voice, like he’s discovering something brand new. “in the magazines, the girls— well, they get 'em hard like this.”

“you and your dirty magazines,” you mumble, but you’re arching into his hand without meaning to.

“they’re educational,” he grins, but the grin fades when he lowers his head again and takes your nipple into his mouth again.

wet heat, gentle suction, and you make a sound you didn’t know you could make. his tongue flicks experimentally, and you feel it everywhere. your fingers thread through his hair, holding him there because stopping feels impossible.

he switches to the other breast, hand kneading the one his mouth just left, rolling the wet nipple between his fingers carefully like he’s afraid he’ll hurt you.

it doesn’t hurt. it feels like the fourth of july in your chest, sparks running down your spine. you’re squirming under him now, thighs pressing together, trying to ease the ache that’s building.

“jamie,” you breathe, not sure what you’re asking for.

he lifts his head, and his lips are shiny. “yeah? you okay?”

you nod fast. “more than okay. just—don’t stop.”

he groans like you’ve said something filthy and kisses down your stomach, pushing the nightgown lower as he goes. you lift your hips to help, and suddenly you’re naked except for your panties. those simple white cotton one with a little lace trim your ma bought you for your eighteenth birthday.

bucky sits back on his heels, just looking, taking you all in, and you want to die of embarrassment and also never want him to stop looking.

your hips shift restlessly against the mattress. there’s a throb starting low in your belly, an emptiness you don’t have words for. you’ve felt something like it before, alone in the dark with your own fingers. but never this sharp. and never this urgent.

bucky’s breathing hard now. his forehead ispressed to your sternum, “tell me if i do somethin’ wrong,” his voice stays muffled. “i only know what i read in those magazines.”

you should tell him to stop bringing up the magazines every single sentence because you cannot fathom him looking at other girls who aren't you, even in paper. but you're way too breathless for that.

“it's mostly just ladies in their undies. but sometimes there’s… diagrams.” his ears go pink. “fellas doin’ things with their mouths.”

your eyes widen. “their mouths?”

he nods, but there's a look on his face that tells you even he's a little unsure. “yeah. down… down there.” he gestures vaguely toward your lap and then looks like he wants the bed to swallow him. “i thought maybe… if you wanted… i could try.”

you stare at him. the idea is so shocking your brain stalls out for a second. “you wanna put your mouth on my… my…”

“privates,” he supplies helpfully, then winces. “geez, that sounds awful. your pussy, i mean.” he says the word like he’s testing it, and you can clearly see his cheeks flaming.

you’ve never heard him say that before. you’ve barely heard anyone say it. heat floods your face and other places. “jamie, that’s… that’s scandalous.”

“i know,” he says quickly. “we don’t have to. i just thought— the magazines say ladies like it a whole lot. and i wanna make you feel good. more than just kissin’ and touchin’ up here.” he cups your breast again gently. “but only if you want.”

you bite your lip. part of you— the part raised on sunday school —wants to say no, that’s too much. but the bigger part, the part that loves bucky barnes so fierce it hurts, wants to know what it feels like.

because you’re scandalized and curious in equal measure and nobody has ever told you about anything like this. your ma’s big talk was “keep your knees together till your wedding night” and that was that.

but this is jamie. your jamie, who’s been walking you home since fifth grade, who punched tommy hanagan for stealing your lunch in seventh, who held your hand the night your granddad died.

you trust him with everything else. why not this?

“okay,” you whisper finally. “but i’m… i’m nervous.”

“me too,” he admits, like he's relieved you said it first. “i never done this either. we’ll figure it out together, yeah?”

when you nod, he kisses you again. this one's sweeter, like he’s thanking you.

then he’s moving down the bed, pushing the covers aside. the white cotton stares back at him, but he looks at them like they’re silk.

his fingers hook in the waistband. “can i?”

you lift your hips in answer, and he slides them down your legs carefully, like he’s afraid you’ll change your mind any second. cool air kisses the curls between your thighs and you squeeze your eyes shut, mortified at him seeing a part of you, even you haven't properly seen before.

you kick your panties off when they get tangled at your ankles, and then you’re completely bare under him.

you squeeze your thighs together on instinct.

“hey,” his hands are on your knees. “open up for me, doll? just a little?”

“jamie—” your voice comes out squeaky.

“hey,” he says softly. “look at me.”

you open your eyes. he’s settled between your legs, propped on his elbows, gazing up at you with so much tenderness it makes your chest ache.

“you’re perfect,” he says. “every inch.”

then he lowers his head and presses a kiss to the inside of your thigh. another higher up. your legs want to close but he nudges them apart gently.

he’s staring again, closer now, and you feel yourself getting wetter under his gaze which is again — mortifying.

“it’s—pretty,” he says, awed. “all swollen and—god, look at you.” his thumbs part you, spreading you open, and you almost hide your face in the pillow.

“jamie!”

“sorry, sorry—just never seen one up close.” he sounds like a kid who just got a new bike for christmas. “this part here—” his thumb brushes something that makes your hips jerk—“that’s the part that feels best, right?”

“i don’t know!” you squeak. “nobody tells girls anything!”

“well i’m tellin’ you now,” he says. “gonna figure it out together.”

he leans in and you feel his breath first, warm against sensitive skin. then the flat of his tongue, one long slow lick from bottom to top, and your whole body lights up.

“oh my god.”

“tastes good,” he mumbles like he's embarrassed and proud all at once. “sweet.”

you’d laugh if you had breath. instead you just clutch the sheets, hips rocking without your permission.

pleased with himself, he does it again. and again. learning by the way you twitch, the sounds you make. when he circles that little bud at the top you nearly levitate off the bed.

“there,” you gasp. “right—right there, jamie—”

he focuses there, licking soft at first then firmer, figuring out the rhythm that makes your thighs shake. his hands slide under your hips, lifting you closer to his mouth like he can’t get enough.

he’s messy about it, truly inexperienced, getting your taste all over his chin, but the enthusiasm more than makes up for technique.

it feels… indescribable. like every nerve in your body just woke up and decided to sing at once. you’re wet. you can feel it. and he must too because he groans quietly, the vibration making you twitch.

you feel the pressure building, unfamiliar and scary-good. your legs try to close around his head and he holds them open gently but also somehow firm.

“james—something’s—i think i’m gonna—”

“yeah?” he pulls off just long enough to talk, voice muffled against you. “that’s it, doll. let it happen. wanna feel you cum on my mouth.”

you have no idea what that means exactly but your body does. long nights with your hands between your thighs never felt this good, never hit this high.

the wave crests suddenly, pleasure crashing over you so hard you cry out his name into the pillow to muffle it. your hips rock against his face, riding it out while he keeps licking soft through the aftershocks until you’re boneless and whimpering from overstimulation.

he crawls back up your body slowly, kissing your hip, your belly, between your breasts, until he’s hovering over you again. his mouth is shiny with you and his eyes are wild.

“was that okay?” he asks, doubt laced questions. “did i do it right?”

you pull him down into a kiss, tasting yourself on his tongue, and wrap your arms around his neck.

“you did more than okay,” you mumble. “i didn’t know it could feel like that.”

he wraps his arms around you, pressing kisses to your hair. “me neither. magazines didn’t say anything about how pretty you sound when you cum.”

you swat his chest weakly. “jamie!” but he pulls you closer, pressing soft kisses to your temple, then your jaw.

you’re still catching your breath, chest rising and falling quick over the rumpled sheets, when the curiosity hits you like a sudden itch.

you shift a little, legs still tangled with his, and poke him in the side like you used to when you were kids fighting over the last eclairs.

“hey,” you whisper, voice scratchy from all the noises you just made. “you said you saw pictures of girls doing… that. have you seen pictures of boys too? like, all of ‘em?”

bucky lifts his head and blinks slowly as if he's processing it, and then starts laughing. it's quiet at first, then louder until he has to bury his face in the pillow so he doesn’t wake the whole block.

you feel his ribs moving against yours and you start giggling too, because it’s such a dumb question but also not. definitely not tonight.

“doll, i got the equipment,” his voice is so fond. “i see it every day when i take a shower. ain’t exactly a mystery to me.”

you swat his chest, but you’re laughing harder now, the kind of laugh that hurts your stomach in the best way. “shut up, barnes. you know what i mean. like… close up. like you just did to me.”

he turns his head on the pillow, looking at you with that half-smile that’s been getting you in trouble since sophomore year. “yeah, i seen some. not as many. the fellas pass around the ones with dames mostly. but yeah, there’s pictures.”

you bite your lip, feeling bold and shy at the same time, the way you felt when you asked him to the sophomore dance even though everybody said girls weren’t supposed to ask boys.

“well,” you tryto sound casual and fail, “i ain’t seen any. and you just got an eyeful of me, so… fair’s fair, jamie.”

his eyebrows shoot up. he wasn’t expecting that. you can tell because his mouth opens and closes once like a fish, and his ears go pink. “you wanna see me?” he asks, like it's unbelievable what just came out your mouth.

“yeah,” you nod quickly before you lose your nerve. “i mean, i’ve only ever felt you through your slacks when you got hard like some kinda pervert when i kissed you. i wanna see what all the fuss is about.”

he laughs again. “pervert, huh? that’s rich coming from the girl who just came on my tongue.”

“james buchanan!” you hiss, but you’re grinning so wide your cheeks hurt.

he shrugs out of his shirt first, fingers fumbling the buttons because he’s watching your face instead of what he’s doing.

the shirt lands on the floor next to your nightgown, and you get your first real look at his chest without a undershirt in the way and between four walls.

there’s a faint line of hair running down the middle, and his shoulders are broader than you remember from swimming at the beach last summer.

you reach out without thinking to trace the scar on his ribs from when he fell off his bike delivering papers in eighth grade.

“still there,” you murmur, thumb brushing it gently.

“yep. you kissed it better back then, remember? told me i was gonna have a cool story.”

“you cried,” you remind him.

“i did not cry. i had something in my eye.”

“both eyes?”

he tackles you back onto the pillows, kissing you quietly, and you’re both laughing into each other’s mouths again.

when he pulls back his eyes are serious even though his mouth’s still smiling. “you sure?” he asks. “i ain’t exactly clark gable.”

“you’re better,” you say, and mean it. “you’re mine.”

you see in the way his throat moves, that it gets him.

standing up, his buckle clinks loud in the quiet room. and you sit up too, pulling the sheet to your chest even though he’s already seen everything.

he shoves his slacks down, steps out of them awkwardly when one foot gets caught, and then he’s just in his boxers. it's the white cotton gone a little gray at the waistband from too many washes.

there’s a bulge there that’s been pressing against your thigh all night, and now you can see the shape of him clearly. your mouth nearly goes dry.

“go on,” you say, voice barely above a whisper. “all of it.”

bucky hooks his thumbs in the waistband and hesitates. “you’re starin’ like i’m about to do a striptease at the club.”

“maybe i want a private show,” you tease, but your hands are twisting the sheets.

he pushes the boxers down slowly, and his cock springs free, curving up towards his stomach.

you’ve felt it before, grinding against you in the back of movie theaters, but seeing it is different.

it’s thicker than you pictured, flushed dark, with a bead of wet at the tip. the hair at the base is darker than on his head, and to be honest, a bit curly.

bucky kicks the boxers away and stands there, hands on his sides like he doesn’t know what to do with them. “well?” he tries for cocky and misses by a mile. “this what you were expectin’?”

you shake your head. it's not exactly no, but not an yes either. you're just overwhelmed. “it’s… bigger than i thought.”

he groans. “jesus, doll, you tryin’ to kill me?”

“no!” you say quickly. “it’s good bigger. i think. i don’t know, i’ve never—” you gesture helplessly. “can i touch it?”

he just nods. “yeah. please. i mean—if you want.”

you scoot to the edge of the bed, sheet still clutched to your chest with one hand, and reach out with the other. your fingers brush the length of him, and he jerks like you shocked him.

the skin’s hot, softer than you expected. when you wrap your hand around him, he makes a low sound.

“like this?” you ask, stroking him the way you’ve imagined when you’re alone in this same bed thinking about him.

“yeah—god, yeah—just like that.” his hands hover at his sides, then settle on your shoulders. “little tighter if you want. or not. whatever feels—ah—feels right.”

you experiment, thumb swiping over the head to spread the wetness there. “that part’s real sensitive,” he hisses. “like your—uh—the little button i found earlier.”

you keep stroking, watching his face, the way his eyes flutter half-closed. it’s power and love all mixed up, knowing you’re doing this to him. knowing he trusts you this much.

“does it always stick up like this?” you ask.

“only when i’m thinkin’ about you,” he says, and then winces. “that sounded cheesier out loud than in my head.”

you laugh and lean in to kiss his stomach just above where your hand’s working. “i liked it.”

he threads fingers through your hair. “you can—explore all you want, doll. i ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

you trace the vein along the underside, and feel the weight of his balls when you cup them. he jolts and mutters your name.

you lean closer, nose brushing the hair there to breath him in. he smells like soap and sweat and something sharper, and you want to memorize it.

“tastes salty,” you say after one brave lick at the tip.

bucky’s knees almost buckle. “christ, give a guy some warning.”

“sorry,” you say, not sorry at all, and do it again just to hear that exact sound he makes.

he pulls you upafter a minute, hands under your arms like you weigh nothing, and kisses you deeply, tasting himself on your tongue probably.

“your turn to lie down,” he says against your mouth. “i wanna look at you some more while you touch me. fair’s fair, remember?”

you let the sheet fall, nerves buzzing again because now you’re both completely naked in the lamplight. there's no more hiding.

pulling you close so your front’s pressed to his side, one of his legs slides between yours. his cock’s trapped between your bellies, hot and twitching every time you move.

bolder now, you reach down again, and he mirrors you, hand sliding between your thighs to pet you, still slick from earlier. you’re both shaking a little, breathing the same air.

“we’re really doin’ this,” you whisper, like saying it louder might jinx it.

“yeah,” he whispers back. “been waitin’ forever for you.”

“me too,” you kiss him while your hand keeps moving on him, learning every inch, every sound he makes when you do something he likes. his fingers circle that spot again, and you rock into his touch because it still feels like magic.

you realise he's not touching you to get you off, but just touching because he cannot seem to stop.

you shift your hips a little bit, feeling him against your thigh, and the question that’s been bouncing around your head since he climbed through the window finally tumbles out. “jamie,” your voice is small in the quiet, “is this… is this what people do on their wedding night? all the touching and the—the mouth stuff?”

hair falls in his eyes as he lifts his head, and gives you that look he’s had since you were kids. like you just asked if the sky’s really blue. “this is part of it,” his fingers still moving, touching you there. “but there’s more. the big part.”

you blink up at him, brain fuzzy from everything he’s already done. “more? like what?”

embarrassed and turned on all at once, his cheeks go red again. “you know. when the guy… puts it in.”

your eyes go wide. you knew that much. well, sort of. whispers from older girls at school, your ma’s tight-lipped warnings about “marital duties”

but nobody ever said how or what it felt like or anything useful. “oh,” you breathe. “that.”

“yeah, that.” he kisses your forehead, then your nose, like he’s trying to gentle the idea into you. “the magazines show it. and the fellas talk. but i ain’t never—obviously.”

“me neither,” you chime in quickly, like he might’ve forgotten. “so how do we even…?”

his shoulder bumps yours teasingly. “i guess we figure it out. like everything else tonight.” his hand leaves you to trail up your belly, and he rolls half on top of you again.

his cock nudges your thigh, leaving a wet streak, and you feel that ache start up again in your stomach. like your body already knows what it wants even if your head’s still catching up.

“you want to?” he is serious now. “we don’t have to. we could just keep doing what we been doin'. i liked that plenty.”

you think about it for a second because this feels big, bigger than sneaking out or stealing kisses behind the gym.

but again it's james, who told you he loved you first under the stars at coney island on the fourth of july.

“i want to,” you say, and it comes out steadier than you feel. “with you. tonight.”

his whole face softens when he kisses you, you understand it's just thank you without words. when he pulls back his eyes are shiny. “okay. but you tell me if it hurts or if you wanna stop, alright? i ain’t gonna be mad.”

“same goes for you,” you tease, poking his chest. “if i’m too much for you, james barnes, you just say the word.”

“doll, you’ve been too much for me since we were twelve. ain’t stoppin’ now.”

you both laugh and he reaches down between you, hand wrapping around himself to line up.

you feel the blunt head nudge against you, sliding through the wet heat, and you suck in a breath. it’s hotter than you expected, and bigger feeling than looking.

“little bit at a time,” he mutters, mostly to himself.

just the tip breaches you when he pushes forward slowly, and you both freeze at the stretch.

“oh,” you gasp, fingers digging into his shoulders.

it doesn’t hurt exactly. it just feels full.

“you okay?” his voice is tight, like he’s holding back hard.

“yeah. just… a lot.”

“tell me about it,” he mutters and his laugh is breathy. “you’re so—tight. jesus.”

when you wiggle a little to try and adjust to him, he groans out loud. “don’t do that yet, doll, or this’ll be over before it starts.”

“sorry,” you whisper, but you’re smiling because he looks wrecked already, with his eyes squeezed shut.

he rocks forward another inch and you feel yourself open around him, the burn starting now. your legs spread wider on instinct, knees hitching up to go right around around his hips.

“more?” his voice cracks.

“yeah. keep going.”

he slowly slides forward, pulling back a tiny bit each time to ease the way, until he’s halfway in and you’re both sweating. you can feel every throb of him inside you, the way he twitches when you clench without meaning to.

“god, you feel—” he starts, then stops, shaking his head like his words are failing him.

“you too,” you manage. “like—like you belong there.”

surging forward, he buries the rest of him in one smooth push, and you both moan at the same time. he’s all the way in now, hips flush to yours, and you feel so full you could cry.

he stills, while panting against your neck. “tell me when,” he whispers. “i ain’t movin’ till you say.”

you take a minute to just breath deep, letting your body get used to him. you can feel the burn fading, turning into something else. it's a sort of pressure that feels good when you shift your hips experimentally.

“okay,” you say finally. “move. please.”

he pulls out damn slowly, almost all the way, then slides back in to the hilt. the drag feels incredible in every way, making you arch up into him.

“like that?” he asks, like he's seeking reassurance.

“yeah—again.”

he finds a rhythm, shallow at first, rocking more than thrusting, watching your face like it’s the only thing in the world. your heels dig into his back, urging him deeper.

“harder?” he asks after a few minutes, when your moans get louder.

you nod fast and whisper. “yeah. i won’t break, jamie.”

kissing you deep like he never wants to leave, he snaps his hips sharper. the bed creaks under you both, headboard tapping the wall, and you hope the neighbors are heavy sleepers.

you’re climbing again, that same feeling from his mouth but deeper now, wound tight around where he’s moving inside you.

your hands roam his back, nails scratching whatever slope of muscle you can find, earning a shudder from him.

“i love you,” he mutters against your lips, over and over like he can’t stop. “love you so damn much.”

“i love you too,” you gasp into his mouth, letting him eat your words right off your tongue. “always—always have.”

shifting his angle a little, he grinds against that spot inside you that makes you see stars. your whole body tightens around him, clenching so tight you don't know where you end and he begins.

“there—right there—don’t stop—”

he hammers that spot relentlessly, one hand snaking between you to rub messy circles over your clit. the pleasure coils brutal, tighter and tighter until you’re sobbing his name into his mouth.

“bucky—i’m—”

“yeah,” he pants. “me too—god, you’re squeezin’ me—”

you come hard, clenching around him in waves, crying out into his shoulder to muffle it. he follows right after you, burying deep and spilling hot inside you with a broken groan of your name.

you think maybe this is what all the songs are about, the ones on the radio that make your ma sigh and your pa roll his eyes. this shaky, perfect thing between you and your jamie, built on years of shared candy and secrets and now this. your bodies learning each other in your childhood bedroom.

he collapses half on top of you, careful not to crush you even as he comes down from his high. both of you are breathing like you ran from brooklyn to queens.

and that's when you feel him pulse, still inside you where he belongs..

when he's finally caught his breath, he lifts his head with hair plastered to his forehead. a goofy grin greets you. “so that’s the more, huh?”

swatting his arm yet agaun, “yeah. think i like the more.”

it was nothing like the first time he kissed you, but also everything like that at the same time.

he kisses you again lazily, tasting salt and you, and stays inside, softening slow, neither of you willing to break the join just yet.

the steady thump of his heart against yours lulls you, but you fight the pull of sleep because you don’t want this night to end, not ever. and right then, with him still buried deep and your legs tangled tight, the world outside the window feels a million miles away.

“so,” you say after a bit, staring at the ceiling where the streetlight paints stripes through the blinds. “that was… the real thing. not just fooling around in steve’s car with the windows fogged up.”

“yeah,” he breathes, fingers drawing lazy circles on your hip. “the real thing.” he pauses wondering whether to say or not, then adds, “better than any magazine ever made it look.”

you feel your face heat up again, even after everything. “you’re comparing me to those girls?”

he props himself up on an elbow. his eyes are wide and serious, like he's deciding whether to defend himself or apologise. “no! god, no. those girls ain’t got nothing on you. they’re just— paper. they're posed and fake. this—” he gestures between you, hand waving vague at your naked bodies under the sheets—“this was us. it's us being messy, loud and perfect.”

you smile at that, reaching up to wipe the sweat off his forehead. “you weren’t so quiet yourself, jamie. thought for sure you were gonna wake the whole neighborhood when you—”

“shut up,” he groans, flopping back down and hiding his face against your neck. but he’s laughing too, you can tell by the way his shoulders are shaking. “i couldn’ help it. you were squeezin’ me like—christ, i don’t even know.”

“like a lemon?” you tease.

"sweetheart, there's so many things you coulda said and you went with lemon?" he snorts.

heat crawls up to your neck, the way he's teasing you back, reminding you of how much you love him and want him. "oh no, jamie! now i wan' the lemonade they sell in coney island."

blue eyes stare back at you in earnest, "i'll get it first thing tomorrow morning, what do ya say?"

"yes," you let the enthusiasm get to you as you pepper kisses over his jaw.

he mimics your antics, then finds your lips like that's what he was destined for and pulls you in for a slower, hungrier, deeper kiss.

you tilt your head up, nose brushing his jaw. “now now, what's that for, barnes?”

he huffs this soft laugh that shakes his chest. “tryin’ to figure out how i got this lucky,” he says. “and also wonderin’ if i hurt you more than you’re lettin’ on.”

"you didn’t,” you quickly say, pressing your palm over his heart to feel it thump steadily under your hand. “i mean, it stung at first, yeah, but then it was… i don’t even have words, james. it was you inside me. that’s all i could think. not pain. just you.”

his eyes go soft, that blue you’ve known since you were six and he shared his popsicle with you on the stoop even though it was cherry and he loved cherry.

he leans down and kisses presses a lingering kiss to your forehead. “kept thinkin’ i was gonna wake up,” he admits quiet. “like this was one of those dreams i have where we’re older and married and i wake up reachin’ for you and you ain’t there yet.”

your throat gets tight. you hate those dreams for him. hate that he’s had them since he was sixteen and his pa started talking about the war like it was coming whether they wanted it or not.

“i’m here now,” you whisper. “not goin’ anywhere.”

he nods against your hair, but you feel the worry still clinging to him. bucky’s always carried tomorrow on his back. you figure tonight just added a few more. what if you get pregnant? what if he ships out? what if this was the only time you get?

you push the thoughts awaybecause they’re yours too and you don’t want them ruining this.

instead you think about how safe you felt even when it hurt a little, how his arms shook but he held himself so carefully over you. you think about the way he looked at you when he came inside. like you gave him something huge and sacred and he knows it.

“you’re thinkin’ loud,” he murmurs, lips against your temple.

“am not.”

“are too. i can hear the gears turnin’.” he pulls back enough to see your face, thumb brushing your cheek. “tell me.”

you hesitate, then let it out in a rush. “i keep thinkin’ about how much i love you it hurts sometimes. like right now my chest feels too small for it. and i’m scared that’s gonna make me cry and then you’ll think you did somethin’ wrong.”

his face does this thing. it goes soft and fierce at once. “cry if you want,” his voice goes rough. “i love you so much it hurts me too. been hurtin’ since we were kids and i didn’t know what to do with it except walk you home every day and carry your books.”

you feel the tears prick and blink fast to wish them away, but one slips out anyway. he catches it with his thumb, kisses the wet trail.

“happy tears?” he asks, like he's uncertain.

“the happiest,” you mean it when you say.

he settles back down, tucking you closer, and you listen to his heartbeat.

your own thoughts drift softer now. how his shoulders felt under your hands, the little sounds he made when he was close, the way he kept checking your face like your pleasure mattered more than his. you think about how clumsy you both were and how perfect it still felt.

you think maybe love isn’t just the big moments like this. maybe it’s the quiet after, when he’s tracing your spine and you’re counting his freckles and neither of you needs to say anything because you already know.

“jamie?” you whisper after a while.

“hm?”

“when we get married someday… can our bed be bigger than this one? my hip’s kinda hangin’ off the edge.”

he laughs, this big rumbling sound that shakes you both, and rolls so you’re on top of him instead. his hands settle on your back.

“deal,” he says. “biggest bed in brooklyn. and no creaky springs.”

“and no mrs. gallagher’s dog barking,” he adds.

you smile into his neck, listening to him make plans like tomorrow’s promised, and for tonight you let yourself believe it is.

after all, you will always have the perfect night with the love of your life. and nothing's more perfect than all your firsts belonging to him.

my masterlist!

extras. i just googled ‘attractive actor of the 1940s’ and got clark gable’s name, so i have no idea who he is 😭 also, in my head, the war never comes and these two babies live forever. 40s bucky is such a sweetheart, i love writing him sm 🥹

taglist. @devililithh @buckyfmd @sheriff-bodecker @honeysucklewatr @demiebarnes @kqtholins @amoremarveloustime @colettebarnes @barnes-babydoll @miraclediviner @of-sanguine-eyes @solivagant-reverie @biaswreckedbybuckybarnes @manly-man-whore @indigo123789 @wasa-bby @biggestfangirl @ornateglass @herejustforbuckybarnes @buckysbunnny @highhopes1008 @castielscaplan @grumpysunnybarnes @luvyoupxmimi @slutdier @yes-ilovetowrite @cautiouscas17 @astridphantom @delusionalwomsn @cinnamon-girl-writes @wherewinterblooms @stifflyspeedyquirk @sassandscribbles @marvelouslyme96 @stesha02 @floatingvalhallasea @goobers-mcgee @t1redphoenix @vickynguyennn @bluellamacheesecake-blog @serenityrjd @pitabread79 @galaxygoddess30 @biggestfangirl @chenoadouble-o7 @phoenix-in-writing @ceoofdisappointment @wsoldiersgf + to get added to the taglist!

[hhiggs]

Beautiful 😍

[blowingbarnes]

Substance F52.8

A/N: this is a love letter to my dearest @houseofhyde, I hope whatever is wrong with me helps cheer you up, my love. I love u <3. The title was Hyde's idea too, the numbers I chose are the diagnosis code for generalized hyperarousal/hypersexualization.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader Word count: 8.5k Warnings: dub-ish con (sex pollen)?, SMUT!! (p in v, face fucking, mating press, oral (m receiving), overstimulation (m&f), tears of overstimulation, begging?, beefy bucky looking that feral is its own warning, BCB (big cock bucky), size kink? Summary: How many times has Steve told you not to touch weird shit in old labs?

Easy mission. In and out. Get intel, meet at the extraction point, get in the Quinjet and make it back to the compound in time to get pizza delivered from Donatello's, watch trashy TV while Sam talking shit about said trashy TV, and pass out on the couch.

At least, it would've been, until Joaquin decided to touch whatever definitely not innocuous shit he found in one of the labs and, in an attempt to get Bucky's old HYDRA expertise, made the small vial explode into a puff of pink smoke right in front of his face.

You were sweeping the lower lab levels when the comms crackled.“Oh wow, this stuff is so old.”

You groaned. “That sounded like the voice of a man about to do something stupid. Joaquin, do not—” And then you heard Bucky choke, cough, and groan like he was about to twist Joaquin's neck like an old farmer would do to a chicken before dinner.

You jogged around the corner, footsteps echoing in the old no-so-sterile halls, and met up with both of them bumping straight into Bucky's chest in the process, making him grunt at the impact.

"Oh, hi." You smiled at him like you always did: sweetly, kindly, like you weren't trying to hide the fact that you'd rearrange the tiles on every subway station in New York if he asked you to. "You guys okay?"

Joaquin shrugged and nodded, "Just got some old school glitter all over grandpa." 

Bucky gave you a breathy "yeah, all good." before all of you nodded your heads in agreement and moved along.

You got to another wing of the old base, and the three of you got stopped by a heavy reinforced door preventing you from moving further into the hallway. “You gotta be kidding me,” Joaquin sighed, smacking the reader with the heel of his palm.

You leaned in to inspect it, raising a brow. “Looks like the power line’s fried in this section. We’ll have to backtrack through—” You didn’t finish, because Bucky swayed out of the corner of your eye.

Not dramatically, not theatrically, just enough that your hand shot out, instinctively catching his elbow. “Woah, hey,” you blinked up at him. “You good?” He didn’t answer.

His jaw flexed, teeth grinding. His breath came sharp, deeper, as if the air had suddenly gotten heavier around him. His pupils were… wide. Obscenely, almost. Swallowing the blue.

Joaquin noticed too. “…Uh. Sarge?”

Bucky squeezed his eyes shut. Once. Twice. Like he was trying to blink something back into order.

“I said I’m fine,” he rasped, voice low and not fine at all. But his shoulders trembled, he felt the fabric of his shirt start to cling to him like he’d just stepped out of a sauna, the collar of the tac vest becoming chafy and uncomfortable.

You felt heat radiating off him—like his skin was cooking under the surface. Bucky inhaled sharply, not a normal breath, a slow, wrecking, deep inhale, eyes closing as he tumbled back, bracing himself on the wall.

“…Buck?” Your voice came out softer this time. You could see the beads of sweat forming on his forehead, and the way his eyes were having a hard time focusing. His head lolled from side to side against the cold steel wall until you steadied his face to look at you. "Hey, talk to me."

"I feel—" He couldn't get words to come out, the throughts were there but his tongue felt heavy, like it wanted to give away secrets his brain hadn't allowed it to."I think I'm sick." And God, the way that you took a glove off and put the back of your hand to his forehead just barely helped relieve the heat his body was producing. 

Heat that went up a degree or two when you touched your cheek to his forehead, and he inhaled the sweet scent of your skin. Nothing perfume-like, or lotion, just… you, right at the space where your neck met your shoulder, like the smell of you had hooked him by the throat and reeled him in.

"You're burning up." He felt a whine bubble in his throat when you pulled away to talk to Joaquin. "What exactly was in that lab?"

“…Okay. So remember that old glitter? Could’ve been, uh—bio-aerosol? Or something from that weird Cold War pheromone vault section?” It was almost cartoonish the way Joaquin's face formed into a wince. A very "we're so fucked and he's gonna kill me" wince. 

You stared. “You mean sex pollen.”

“…I did not want to be the guy to say that out loud.” Both of you turned your heads to the sound behind you, not quite a growl, or a moan, but something animal and hurt.

"Okay, how long do we have?" Your mind was going a mile a minute. "Is he gonna die before we get back?" You walked back to crouch in front of Bucky, looking for his eyes with yours. “Hey,” you murmured, guiding his gaze back to you, “look at me.”

His breathing stuttered. “You shouldn’t—” he croaked, voice shredded raw. “I don’t—this isn’t—”

“I know,” you whispered. "Can you hang on until we get to the jet? Bruce and Tony must have something that can help." All you got back was a nod.

After talking the long way out, you managed to get back to the team, Steve's face like a worried mother hen when he saw the three of you, Bucky insisting on walking on his own, telling Joaquin to stand between the two of you. 

Steve jogged down immediately. “What the hell happened?”

Bucky jerked back like Steve reaching for him was a knife being drawn. “Don’t,” he bit out—voice shredded, almost unrecognizable.

“Why do you look like you’re about to pounce on something?”

Steve pulled his hand back, palms up, tone softening instantly. “Okay. Okay. Not touching you. Just talk to me.” Joaquin stepped forward like he was testifying in court.

“So—fun story—turns out Cold War Russia kept, um… let’s call it biologically weaponized pheromone particulate in some of the older R&D labs and—”

Sam blinked, looked directly at Bucky, then you, then right back to Joaquin when he almost couldn't contain his laughter. “So he just inhaled airborne horny juice.”

Steve’s face did every emotion at once. Concern. Fear. Confusion. A level of Catholic repression so strong it could’ve powered a city. While Sam just exhaled through his nose like someone who was seconds away from clocking out of reality.

Your body went still.

"I just— I need to lie down, and—" You reached out to help him onto the jet, but his hand shot our making you jump back. "Don't—" He sighed, trying to level his voice. "Just stay away from me."

You'd be lying if you said that didn't hurt a little. Like having the guy you've been pining over for the past two years tell you to buzz off didn't sting like lemon and rock salt on an open wound. 

Okay, it hurt a lot. 

It was visible the way that you retreated back into yourself, like it would protect you somehow. "Copy that." 

Steve’s jaw ticked, Sam looked down like he suddenly found the floor very, very interesting, Joaquin winced like he’d just watched someone get smacked with a folding chair.

“Wait—” His voice cracked, caught in his throat. “I didn’t mean—”

“It’s fine,” you said quickly. Too quickly. The verbal equivalent of throwing a sheet over a shattered glass and calling it clean. “We need to get you stabilized. That’s all that matters.”

“No. Don’t—don’t do that.”

You swallowed. “Do what?”

“That.” His eyes held yours, unsteady, and almost pleading. “That look. Like I pushed you into traffic.”

Steve took one step forward, voice gentle. “Buck, she’s just giving you space—”

“I don’t want space,” Bucky snapped. "I want—" Another wave of whatever the compound was hit him, and he doubled over in pain. Steve helped brace him and held a hand out to stop you when you instinctively stepped forward to help. 

“Let’s get him on the cot,” Steve murmured to Sam and Joaquin, gentle, smooth, easing into triage leadership. 

Sam mumbled to Steve on the way there. “We gotta get him to the medbay before his bloodstream goes full Discovery Channel.”

The flight home was torture in slow motion.

Bucky sat hunched forward on the med-cot, elbows braced against his knees, hands fisting and unfisting like he was holding on to the last thread of himself. Every breath shook. Every exhale came rough, uneven, punched through clenched teeth. The fever didn’t just burn—it crawled. Beneath his skin, along his spine, curling up behind his ribs like it was trying to get out. And every time the jet hit the slightest patch of turbulence, every sway of the cabin, every shift in yourbreathing—he reacted. His head would lift like he was tracking you by sound alone, pupils blown wide, like you were the only oxygen in the room.

And you—God—you sat across the jet from him, arms wrapped around yourself like that could hold you steady, eyes tracing the floor, the ceiling, anywhere but him. Because looking at him meant seeing the raw need he was fighting to keep contained. It meant seeing him hurt.

After briefing Tony and Bruce, and getting a “That man inhaled weaponized lust dust?” said over a pair of glasses and raised brows, Tony locked Bucky in a super soldier-proof room with bulletproof glass windows and an amazing vitals monitoring system. But if you asked for Bucky's opinion, the quarantine quarters were sterile in an unsettling way. 

The lights were too bright, the sheets were chafy and uncomfortable against his skin, and everything was too white and clean. He managed to sweat through a shirt already, pacing around like a cautionary tale, and was on his way to doing so a second time. Not even the AC was able to help cool him off. 

His eyes kept flicking—to the glass. To you, every few seconds, like his body knew exactly where you were even when he forced himself to look away.

Bruce was scrolling through old SHIELD and Hydra files on a tablet, voice low, clinical, steady.

“The compound works by hijacking limbic and hypothalamic pathways,” he murmured. “Drives instinctual bonding and reproductive compulsion. Increases cortisol and dopamine at unsafe levels. If we don’t neutralize it, he could go into cardiac stress within the next 12 to 24 hours.”

Your stomach dropped.

Tony glanced over. “But hey, great news. He won’t die from horny. Probably. Unless he, you know—” he mimed an explosion near his chest. “Pops like an over-microwaved hot dog.”

Steve glared. “Tony.”

“What? Humor is how I cope with things trying to kill us. Or in this case, trying to rail someone into a medically concerning state.”

“He’s getting worse,” you whispered. “His breathing’s all over the place. The pacing isn’t helping anymore. We can’t just let him ride this out.”

Steve scrubbed a hand down his face. “Bruce is working as fast as he can—”

“Stop talking about me like I’m not here!” Bucky's voice snapped through the intercom, ragged and pained, and incredibly frustrated. 

The room froze for a second. Steve flinched just slightly—guilt flashing across his face, Bruce and Tony looked up, and Sam turned around from where he was, back facing the windows Bucky was now bracing his hand on. 

And Bucky—

Bucky had turned around, from his pacing back and forth, and settled in front of the glass walls. His chest rose and fell in heavy, uneven breaths. His jaw was set, eyes blown wide and dark, and sweat made his shirt cling to him like a second skin.

What stopped you dead in your tracks wasn't that, though. It wasn't his shirt starting to get soaked through, it wasn't his forehead shiny with sweat, it was the fact that the sweats he changed into did absolutely nothing to hide the state he was in. 

You hadn't meant to look, but like the moon pulls the tide, your gaze found the almost offensive tent he was pitching in his pants. Long, heavy, solid, straining against fabric that was doing absolutely zero work as a barrier—just pressed up the left side, the outline unmistakable.

Your pulse thundered behind your ribs like your heart wanted to sprint out of your chest and run to him. Steve—poor, earnest, helpful Steve—instantly jerked his head away like he’d just accidentally opened a stranger’s bathroom door.

“Oh my God,” Steve muttered, eyes locked firmly on the ceiling tiles. “Yep. Okay. Yep. We’ve reached that stage. Great.”

Sam spoke, turning back around, voice flat and so exhausted it could have been legally declared a sigh. “Yeah, I’m not making eye contact with any of that. I’m barely managing my own dignity today.”

Tony lifted his coffee mug like a toast to misery. “We’re all fighting for our lives right now, Wilson.”

Joaquin muttered something that sounded like holy mother of thirst traps, and immediately shut his mouth when Sam elbowed him.

He dragged a hand through his hair, frustrated and burning and so far past okay he had lapped the field. “This is ridiculous,” he snapped, voice hoarse. “There’s no reason for me to be locked up like some—some feral animal. I said I’m fine.”

“Bucky,” you murmured, tone unimpressed. “Your heart rate is at one-seventy and you are five minutes away from humping the corner of the room.”

“I’m fine.” He snarled the word like it personally insulted him.

He turned again—another pacing lap, another moving target distracting you from the actual problem. Or making you focus on it, depends who you ask. 

Swing. Swing.

Your eyes followed it like it had its own orbit. With every step he took, his breathing got worse, and his cock bobbed and swung with the movement. Did they even bother to get him a pair of boxers? For god's sake. 

You tried to look away and failed. Spectacularly. 

Bucky stopped mid-step when he noticed. Tilted his head once he followed your gaze, and then slowly focused his back on you, like he was studying you. The same way a jaguar tilts its head before crushing a prey's skull between its teeth. So slow, you felt it in your knees. 

He wiped his face with the hem of his shirt—lifting it—exposing the deep, carved lines of muscle, the stretch of his abdomen, the line of hair disappearing down—

You nearly whimpered.

“Yeah,” he rasped, voice shredded, “now imagine what it feels like." Oh, you did. "Inside my skin. Constant. Pressure. Heat. And I can’t fucking touch anything because the second I do—” The thing is, Bucky didn't know every word out of his mouth at any given moment would, in fact, find its way to burrow under your skin. 

Each word from his mouth meant another step towards the glass that was separating you both. 

And against your better judgement, you had imagined it. You've imagined your hands wrapped around it, you've imagined the weight of it on your tongue, you've imagined it so far in the back of your throat that—

"Stop breathing like that—I can hear it.”

Your breath caught, like a well trained animal obeying its master. "I'm not breathing in any different way."

"I can smell you too." And that made your brain short circuit. "It's sweet, and—" He groaned, letting his head fall forward. "Fuck, you smell—" Not even Stevie Wonder could've missed the drool that was pooling on his bottom lip and falling onto the floor. 

“Wanna taste it. Lick you open right here on the floor. Tongue-fuck your pussy until you can’t remember your own name.”

When he lifted his head again, it felt like the entire world narrowed to just you two. With thick super soldier proof glass in between. 

His breath fogged the glass at the same time his eyes narrowed at yours, looking for a sign that he was affecting you as much as you were affecting him. “You’ve thought about it.” Damn him, James Barnes and his ability to read you like a book written in a language only he could speak. “Oh, sweetheart.”

It's almost like he could hear your thighs clenching together. “You smell like you’re already wet—fuck.” Definitely not what you wanted him to announce over intercom to the entire team, but the blush creeping up your neck really didn't allow you to focus on anything other than the image in front of you. 

Bucky Barnes, in a heathered grey shirt that he was sweating through, with a sinfully thin pair of sweatpants that could be an HR violation if anyone didn't know the contect of why anyone in the room with eyes could tell that was a perfect outline of his hard cock swinging around like it owned the place. 

With previous icy blue eyes that were now blown black with lust, looking at you like you were the next meal of a very starving beast. A beast that was frothing at the mouth at the though of the taste of you. 

“You smell warm,” he murmured. “Like your skin would taste soft.” He continued, like taunting you was making anything better and not just riling both of you even more. “And you’re trying so fucking hard not to move,” he said, voice breaking into a whisper. “Not to come closer.”

"You're not exactly making it easy."

Another wave hit him and he winced. "I can't think with you here." He swallowed hard. "All I see when you're near is just your back hitting plaster and your legs around my hips.”

His breathing fractured—like something inside him had finally tipped past reason into pure, raw instinct. “I wish this glass wasn’t here,” he said, teeth gritted like the words hurt. “I’d have you on your knees already… drooling around my cock.”

The air left your lungs. The more he talked the more it felt like one of those moments in the late summer into fall, where the pool is too cold and you jump in anyway. The moment where your lungs feel too small and the atmosphere feels too much and all you can really do is hyperventilate and try to breathe the shock away. 

“You’d let me, wouldn’t you?” he said, like he was discovering something and confirming it all in the same breath. His tongue dragged over his bottom lip without him thinking—messy, desperate. “You’d open your pretty mouth and take me all the way down just to make me stop begging.”

“You’d look up at me while you did it,” he murmured, fever-slow, obscene in how sure he was. “Eyes wide, tears in the corners, letting me fuck your throat until you couldn’t speak.”

“Stop making me picture it.” It was barely above a whisper, really. You're not sure anyone heard it over the sound of both of you breathing as hard as you were. 

The drool slid from his lip again—slow, heavy—hanging for a moment before it fell to the floor. He didn’t notice, he couldn’t. His hips shifted—just a slight forward roll—and you bit your lower lip so hard you nearly bruised it.

Bucky's voice cracked down the middle. “Fuck—please—” His metal hand scraped against the glass, fingers curling. “I need— I need to— I need you—” He swallowed, jaw trembling, breath stuttering like holding himself together physically hurt. “Just let me wreck you,” he whispered.

He asked like your answer would ever be no. Like being that close to him without having him inside of you didn't physically hurt sometimes. Like you didn't have vivid dreams of his teeth on the bare skin of your ass and his hand wrapped around your neck like jewelry that belonged in the Louvre.

Steve stepped in between you two, ushering you away from Bucky. "That's enough." 

Bucky’s head snapped toward him, eyes blown wide and dark like storm clouds about to break “No,” he snarled, voice rough with panic instead of anger. “No—don’t—”

Bruce came forward, gentle hands on your shoulders. A doctor moving someone out of a blast radius. “Come on,” he murmured, soft. “Give him a second. His vitals are spiking—he needs distance to stabilize.”

“He doesn’t need distance,” Bucky barked, hands slamming against the glass—palms flat—every tendon in his arms standing out in painful, shaking relief. “He needs her.”

“Buck. You need to stop.” Steve kept his voice low, even. “Listen to yourself.”

Bucky’s chest was heaving—breaths quick and hot and uneven. "I'm sorry, fuck— I—" He didn’t look at Steve, didn’t look at Bruce. He didn’t look at anything except you as Bruce’s hand eased you back.

“Don’t take her away. Please. Please—” Bruce kept moving you carefully, slowly—gentle pressure between your shoulders.

You tried to go about your night. You really did.

You showered. You changed. You sat on the edge of your bed with your hair still damp, staring at the wall like it might offer you a door out of your own head. But every time you closed your eyes, you saw him—forehead pressed to the glass, voice cracking when he said please, the kind of sound someone makes when they’re falling and they already know the ground is going to hurt.

You lay back, staring blankly at the ceiling. You tried to count your breaths—steady, even, controlled. But your breathing only reminded you of his. That ragged, uneven, burning inhale that came when he was trying to keep himself from breaking.

You turned onto your side. Then your back again. Pulled the blanket up. Pushed it off. You tried to be rational. To be logical. To be the good, responsible, emotionally stable adult in this situation.

But there was something tugging at you, something far deeper and quieter than lust. Something warm and sore and impossible to ignore.

So you did what any sane (not) person would do, and snuck away from your quarters, through the corridors, and into the med bay to be alone and unsupervised with a super soldier under the influence of super soldier viagra mixed with preworkout to say the very least. 

The med bay was washed in low overnight lighting, the kind meant to soothe but doing absolutely nothing to calm the electricity tangled in the air. Bucky had been pacing for long enough that it was surprising the floor hadn't given in to the shape of his path. 

His hair clung to his temples, damp and curling where it stuck. His breath came in harsh, uneven bursts, chest rising too fast, like his lungs couldn’t catch air fast enough to match the fire under his skin.

Every few steps his metal hand flexed involuntarily, fingers clenching like he needed something—someone—to hold on to.

He didn’t see you.

He was somewhere inside the fever.

“Fuck—” he grit out, stopping long enough to brace both hands against the wall, muscles in his back rippling as he bowed his head, throat exposed to the floor like he was trying to bleed the heat out of himself.

He took another step—stumbled—caught himself on the exam table— and then something in him just broke. He dragged his hand up his chest like he was trying to tear the heat out of himself, jaw clenched so hard a vein pulsed at his temple.

Your voice came out softer. “Buck.” He froze completely. He had hallucinations of your voice earlier that day, sweet little mewls you'd let out if you were there with him to siphon them out of you, while he tried to take care of the issue on his own. 

Slowly, he turned his head toward the sound, and his eyes found you. And something in his entire body gave out. His breathing stuttered—hard—like his ribs were suddenly too tight to contain the relief.

He took a full, instinctive step toward you—body moving before thought—and then something in him seized. The sensible part of his brain stopped him from getting closer to the glass. 

"Get out of here."

Your brows furrowed in confusion. "Bucky, I—"

"Get the fuck out of here." He doubled over in pain again. "It hurts worse when you're so close and I can't—"

Your voice came out thin—fragile—almost unrecognizable to your own ears. “Bucky… I’m begging you. I can’t just stand out here and watch you suffer.”

"It wouldn't— I could—" If his brain started leaking out of his ears, you wouldn't be exactly surprised. "It's not safe for you." He flinched like the words actively hit him.

"You'd never hurt me."

"You could beg me to stop and I wouldn't be able to." 

He was still bent over, hand braced on the wall, every muscle in his back trembling from restraint. His breath dragged ragged through his chest, sweat rolling down his sternum in a slow line that made your own pulse stumble.

“I’m begging you,” you whispered. “Let me help.”

He shook his head once—sharp—like the motion hurt. “Don’t sound like that—”

“Like what?”

“Like you want me.” The words tore out raw, like he’d ripped them straight from the center of him.

The room went quiet for a moment, and you had yet another brilliant idea that wouldn't get you in trouble bigger than you could handle at all. Your feet moved you to stand by the control panel, and his head snapped up—eyes blown wide, panic flaring under the fever.

“Don’t do that. Don’t come in here. I’m telling you—I can’t—” You typed in your override code with steady hands, changed a single setting in the lock, and despite Bucky's protests, the door hissed open, and you bolted into the room before it latched closed again.

“I’m not leaving you alone in here.” Bucky grabbed you by the arm and attempted to open the door, not knowing you locked it from the outside. 

"Are you insane?!" He didn't sound angry, he sounded terrified. Terrified of not being able to hold back from everything he wanted to do to you. 

You moved toward him—not with impulse, but with a quiet, controlled resolve that came from somewhere deep in your chest. Bucky didn’t step back this time. He just watched you, breathing unevenly, shoulders tense like every muscle in his body was wound tight enough to snap.

You lifted your hand slowly, giving him time to stop you if he needed to. He didn’t. So you let your palm settle against his bare chest, right over his heartbeat. His skin was hot—fever-hot—but under your hand the fire shifted, softened, just enough to change from a burn to an ache. The air left him in a long, shaking exhale, like your touch let him breathe for the first time in hours.

His forehead dropped to your shoulder, not in collapse, but in relief. A small shudder went through him, his ribs expanding against your hand as he tried to steady himself. You could feel his pulse hammering, fast and uneven.

“It’s a little better,” he murmured, voice rough against your collarbone.

“Not enough,” you said quietly.

He shook his head, and you felt the motion against your skin. “No. Not nearly enough.”

Your thumb traced a slow, grounding arc just beneath his sternum, the simplest touch offered as reassurance. His metal hand hovered near your hip, not touching you, shaking with restraint. Every part of him was working to not grab, not pull, not give in to instinct.

“Bucky,” you murmured. Your hand slid up, fingers brushing the line of his collarbone before you cupped the side of his jaw. His skin was hot beneath your touch, flushed. “Let me help.”

His eyes squeezed shut, his brow furrowing like the words physically hurt.

“You don’t know what you’re asking.”

“Yes, I do.” Your voice stayed soft, steady. “I know you. I know you would never hurt me. And I’m standing right here choosing you.”

His breath caught, a shaking inhale that didn’t quite make it all the way in. You leaned in slowly, giving him time to stop you—even now—and pressed your lips to the sharp angle of his jaw.

He made a sound—low, involuntary—something between a groan and a gasp, his grip tightening on your hip without meaning to. The heat of him was overwhelming now that you were fully inside his space, and when you shifted closer, your thigh brushed the unmistakable, urgent press of him against the front of his sweats.

He jolted—like the contact shocked him—but he didn’t step back.

You whispered against his jaw, your lips barely moving. “Let me help, Buck.”

His breath stuttered, chest rising too fast against yours.

“Please,” you whispered, the word soft and warm and devastating. “Let me take care of you.”

His resolve buckled—not shattered, not broken—but gave.

You slid your hand down, slow and deliberate, until your palm hovered at the waistband of his sweats. He didn’t pull away. Didn’t breathe. Didn’t speak. His eyes locked on yours—wide, dark, waiting.

So you touched him.

Your palm cupped him through the fabric, the heat and weight of him filling your hand instantly. He let out a sound that came from somewhere deep in his chest—raw, ragged, helpless. His forehead fell forward until it nearly touched yours, his breath shaking against your cheek.

You kept your touch slow. Gentle. Controlled. No teasing, no sudden movements—just steady pressure, your hand molded to him through the soft cotton, up and down in a rhythm meant to soothe the fever thrumming under his skin.

His fingers dug into your hip—not hard, just anchoring.

“Sweetheart—” His voice was barely a voice, just breath and need. “If you—if you keep doing that—I’m not gonna—”

You kissed his jaw again, slower this time.

“That’s the point,” you whispered. His breath collapsed against your neck and you stroked him again—firmer this time.

The roughness in his breathing started to shift, not easing but changing, gathering into something more focused, less chaotic. But the fever was still burning too hot, crawling under his skin like an electric current with nowhere to go.

So you sank to your knees.

The floor was cold beneath you, a stark contrast to the heat bleeding off of him. Your fingers found the waistband of his sweats and tugged. He didn’t stop you. Couldn’t. His head hit the wall behind him with a dull thud, chest heaving as he tried—failed—not to look down at you.

You freed him from the confines of the fabric, and he sprang forward—thick, flushed, already leaking, and twitching with need. Your breath caught as you wrapped your hand around him properly for the first time.

He let out a strangled groan so loud it echoed off the sterile walls. One hand reached down blindly, threading through your hair like it was the only lifeline he had left. He whispered your name like a curse, like a prayer, like salvation.

Your tongue flattened against the underside of him first, tracing the thick, pulsing vein that ran along the length of his cock. You felt him twitch in your hand, heard the harsh stutter of his breath above you as his grip in your hair tightened just enough to sting. When your lips wrapped around the flushed, leaking tip, Bucky actually whimpered.

“Fuck—” he choked, hips jerking despite himself. “Jesus, baby, that mouth—”

You hollowed your cheeks and took more of him, inch by inch, until your lips kissed the base and your throat fluttered around him. The way he gasped—it was like he’d been drowning and finally broke the surface.

“God, you’re—fuck, I knew it, I knew you’d take me like this,” he hissed. “So good. So fucking good. Like you were meant for me.”

His knees almost buckled.

The sweat rolling down his chest gathered at the sharp lines of his abdomen, and he looked down, glassy-eyed and wrecked, watching his cock disappear past your lips over and over. You stroked what you couldn’t fit, twisting your wrist, drool slipping from the corner of your mouth to join the obscene, wet sounds echoing off the walls.

He didn’t last long.

He couldn’t—hadn’t been touched in hours, hadn’t let himself feel anything in months, maybe years, and now here you were, mouth full of him, eyes blown wide with submission and need, and he could feel the fever receding under your touch, like you were the cure he didn’t deserve.

His head slammed back against the wall again, both hands in your hair now as he held you there, not forcing—just anchoring—just begging. “Just a little more, baby. Just—fuck, I’m so close, please—”

“It’s still bad, isn’t it?” He didn’t answer. “You don’t have to hold back with me.” You rose up just enough to press your mouth to the inside of his thigh—soft, slow, intentional—then looked up again, voice thready but determined. “Take what you need from me, Bucky.”

You take him into your mouth again—no hesitation this time, no slow pacing. You hum around him; you don’t even realize you do it. His whole body jerks—hips twitching forward, instinct overriding restraint for a split second.

His hips roll forward—slow at first, testing, like he’s afraid of how much he needs this. But when your hands grip his thighs and you pull him closer, the last of his restraint just… slips.

“Sweetheart—” His voice drops, a gravel-soft moan. “Okay. Okay, I—shit—”

His rhythm finds you, and it pushes his cock inside of your mouth over and over again, bruising the back of your throat, making your eyes water. 

Bucky, on the other hand, was losing his mind. He feels like this could only really be a fever dream. The vision before him being one that he only saw seconds before waking up in a sticky mess of his own cum in his room some nights. 

“You have no idea—” A thrust, shallow but desperate. “I’ve wanted—” Another, deeper now, hips stuttering. “God—this—this—” He chokes on your name.

Your moan around him sent him right to the edge.

He came hard, with a broken cry that echoed with pain and relief and something that sounded suspiciously like your name. Hot, thick ropes spilled onto your tongue, down your throat, and you took every drop, swallowing around him while his body trembled, legs unsteady, heart thundering behind his ribs.

He looked down at you afterward, wrecked beyond recognition, jaw slack and pink lips parted like he couldn’t believe you were real.

“…holy fuck,” he rasped.

You didn’t even need to say anything—your eyes said it all. Your fingers curled tighter around the base of him, guiding him back to your lips, already red and slick with spit and the remnants of his release. You pressed a slow kiss to the tip, and Bucky swore under his breath, hips twitching.

“You’re still hard,” you murmured, voice low, almost disbelieving. “You need more.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at you—head cocked, eyes wild and glassy, like he was still fighting himself even while his cock throbbed in your grip, fully hard again. His breath hitched when you opened your mouth, letting your tongue flatten against the underside of him again, licking him like you missed it.

That was all it took.

A rough groan tore from his chest as his hips surged forward, pushing himself back into your mouth. You moaned around him, taking him deeper, your throat already used to the stretch. His grip tightened in your hair, holding you steady this time—not pushing, not yet, just anchoring as he began to roll his hips, slow at first, dragging himself against your tongue.

But he couldn't hold back. Not when you looked like that. Not when you made those sounds.

“Open wider,” he grit out, voice almost guttural. “Let me—fuck, let me use your mouth.”

You did. You relaxed your throat, looked up at him through heavy lashes, and let him have it.

He began to thrust—deep, slow at first, but building with every breath. Each time he bottomed out, your throat flexed, gagging just a little, tears slipping from the corners of your eyes. And he loved it. Ate it up like a man starved.

“Shit—shit, baby,” he groaned, hips stuttering. “Look at you—taking it so fucking well, like it’s what your mouth was made for.”

He was leaking again, throbbing inside you, grunting with every pass of his cock down your throat. You could feel him fighting the edge again already—his whole body shaking, hair falling into his eyes, thighs tense beneath your hands.

He came again. Harder this time. The first shot hit the back of your throat as he choked out your name like it was the only word he knew. His hips didn’t stop moving. Even as he emptied himself into your mouth, he was still hard, still needing.

When he finally stilled, breathing like he’d just run ten miles, he looked down at you—ruined, wrecked, flushed—and exhaled your name like a plea.

“I still need more.”

Your lips were swollen, spit-slick, eyes glossy and dazed as you slowly released him from your mouth with a wet pop. Bucky was panting above you, flushed all the way down his chest, body still trembling from his second orgasm—and still hard. Angry and flushed and leaking again, like his body didn’t understand that two should’ve been enough.

You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, but your gaze never left him. Not for a second. And he looked down at you like he was about to fall to his knees. Or break through the floor. Or both.

Then you stood.

Without a word, you reached for his wrist and guided him—slowly, steadily—toward the exam table. The padded med bed sat cold and untouched, the thin clinical comforter shuffled under your grip as you leaned against it and looked over your shoulder at him.

His hands were on your hips before you even breathed, gripping you like you were the only tether he had to this fucking world. He yanked your sleep shorts and underwear down in one swift, rough motion, groaning when he saw how wet you were—slick, glistening, thighs trembling.

“All this for me?” he muttered, almost in disbelief, dragging the tip of his cock through your folds. You gasped—more from the weight of it than the tease.

“I’ve been yours,” you panted, looking back at him over your shoulder. “You just haven’t fucked me like it.”

That did it.

He lined up and shoved in with one brutal, gorgeous thrust—splitting you open on his cock so deep you almost screamed. Your hands scrambled for purchase on the med bed, fingers clawing at the sheets as your body struggled to accommodate him. He was thick, long, heavy—and unrelenting. No time to adjust. No warning. Just full.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he hissed, bottoming out inside you. “You feel like heaven. Hot, tight—fuck, I can feel your pussy fluttering already—”

You were already trembling under him, already dripping down your thighs. He grabbed a fistful of your hair and tugged your head back gently, just enough to murmur in your ear as he rocked into you.

“You wanted this,” he growled. “Wanted to help? Mmm? Did you? Or did you just want an excuse to have my cock inside of you?”

You whimpered, unable to speak—your brain blank, body overstimulated, mouth falling open.

“Say it,” he snarled, thrusting harder. “Tell me you begged for this cock.”

“I—I begged for it,” you gasped. “Bucky—oh my God—you’re so—fuck—you’re so deep, I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he said, and then he was railing into you—brutal and beautiful and ruthless—his cock driving into you so hard your toes curled and your walls clamped down around him. Your stomach was pressed to the cold med bed now, knees buckling as he fucked you through it, chest bouncing with every thrust.

“Please,” you sobbed. “Please don’t stop—”

“Never,” he growled. “I’m not stopping until you’re filled up and leaking for me. Until you can’t walk straight. Until they smell me on you.”

His rhythm faltered.

You could feel it—how his thrusts turned erratic, his breath shortened into harsh, broken gasps against your skin, every nerve in his body set to burn. He was so deep inside you, so swollen and throbbing, and even though he’d already come twice, he was barely holding on now, just riding the edge with ragged desperation.

“Too—fuck—can’t—” he growled, hips snapping hard and fast as his chest collapsed against your back. “You’re gonna—ahhh—milk me dry, baby.”

You barely got a gasp out before he slammed into you one last time and bit down on the curve of your shoulder—hard.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t controlled. It was animal.

Teeth sinking into skin just below your neck, like claiming you was the only thing keeping him alive. The sting of it only made your orgasm crash harder, clenched around him like a vice just as he spilled inside you—thick and hot, cock pulsing violently through the aftershocks, moaning into your skin like it broke him.

But Bucky didn’t pull out.

Didn’t move away like someone who just had his third orgasm in less than an hour. No—he collapsed over your back for a moment, panting, shaking, and then lifted his head, wrapped his arms around your waist, and lifted.

You gasped as your spine straightened, as he manhandled you into the center of the bed with strength that made your head spin. 

“I need to see your face,” he muttered, voice wrecked and low. “Need to watch you come around me this time.”

He flipped you over, sweat-slick hands gripping the undersides of your thighs and pushing them up, folding you into a tight mating press before you could even think. Your knees were practically pinned to your chest, legs spread wide, cunt exposed—wet and puffy and already leaking with him.

Bucky looked down at you like a starving man finally given permission to devour. And even though his cock was still twitching from the last orgasm—sensitive, too sensitive—he lined himself back up, and pushed inside again with a groan that bordered on agony.

“Fuck, fuck—hurts so good,” he panted, hips rolling slow this time, deep. “Too much. Too fucking much, but I can’t stop.”

You moaned, head thrown back, fingernails digging into his arms.

“Look at me,” he growled. “Want you looking at me when I fuck you full again. Want you remembering who did this to you. Who made you this wet. This messy.”

His hands pressed your thighs deeper, nearly folding you in half, angle so intense you could feel him in your stomach.

“Feel that?” he whispered, voice rough and wrecked. “That’s me. Right fucking there.”

Your fingers reached for him, tangling in his sweat-damp hair, needing him closer. He dropped his forehead to yours, breath mingling, mouths nearly brushing as his cock dragged slow and deep inside you—wet and squelching from how much he’d already spilled.

“Tell me you want it,” he panted. “Tell me you want more.”

“I want it,” you breathed. “Want everything.”

His cock twitched at the sight. At the mess he’d already made of you.

But it still wasn’t enough.

“Fuck, look at this pussy,” he groaned, lining up again. “Stuffed and still begging for more. You’re leaking down the backs of your thighs and I haven’t even gotten serious yet.”

Then he slammed back into you.

You whined, mouth falling open, hands scrabbling at his arms, nails dragging down his sweat-slicked biceps. The sound of his cock driving into you, the wet slap of skin against skin, was obscene—echoing off the cold med bay walls. Each thrust was brutal, hungry, unrelenting.

“Yes,” you gasped, back arching, eyes wide and wild. “Fucking ruin me, Bucky.”

He snarled like you’d just handed him a license to break you.

“Gonna stretch this pussy until I mold you to the shape of my cock,” he growled, sweat dripping from his temples as he drove deeper, harder, each thrust punching a breath out of your lungs. “You were made for this. For me. Just like this.”

Your thighs trembled where he held them pinned. Your cunt clamped down on him like your body didn’t want to let go, and it made him growl—low, animal, primal.

“I can feel you squeezing me—fuck—milking my cock.”

“Because you’re fucking perfect inside me,” you moaned, wrecked. “So fucking deep, Bucky—I feel you in my throat.”

He didn’t let up. He wanted you boneless. Brainless. Gone. He needed you raw and crying and fucked full. His balls slapped against your ass, cock driving into the tight, wet clutch of you over and over, chasing the next high like a man possessed.

“Gonna breed you, baby,” he whispered in a wrecked, breathless voice. “Wanna fuck it in so deep you’ll be dripping with me for days. Wanna see your belly swollen from how much I put in you.”

You cried out—clenching around him like your body wanted that, like it needed it.

His thrusts turned downright feral, pounding into you so hard the med bed squealed beneath your bodies. You held onto him like you’d fly off the earth otherwise, like he was the only real thing in the universe.

“You’re mine,” he snarled into your ear. “This pussy? Mine. This fucking body? Mine.”

“All yours,” you sobbed, overwhelmed and blissed-out. “Please, Bucky—don’t stop.”

“I won’t.” He pressed your legs even tighter to your chest, bent down until his chest was against yours, and fucked you into the bed like the world was ending.

You didn’t know how long it had been.

How many times he’d come. How many times you had. You were shaking, soaked, stretched so wide around him that it felt like you were being fucked into another dimension. Your thighs burned from being pinned open in the tightest press imaginable, your body locked beneath his. Sweat pooled between your bodies, his skin slick and hot, his muscles trembling with effort.

You sobbed when he thrust again—slow, deep, dragging the head of his cock along every oversensitive inch of your cunt.

“Bucky—” you whimpered, voice broken. “I can’t—I can’t—”

“You can,” he groaned, still moving inside you. “You are.”

Your tears were hot as they spilled down your cheeks. Not from pain. Not from fear. From bliss. Pure, ruined, brain-melting pleasure that had nowhere else to go but out through your eyes.

And still—he didn’t stop.

He couldn’t stop. Not when your walls were fluttering around him again, your cunt choking his cock like your body was begging for one more release.

“Baby,” he rasped, voice wrecked beyond repair, “I can’t—fuck—I’m so close—again—”

You were babbling now, hands clawing at his back, words slurred through cries. “Please, please, come again—fill me up, Bucky, don’t stop, don’t stop—”

That shattered him.

His hand found your jaw, gripping it firm but careful, tilting your face to the side, tears still streaking your flushed cheeks. His mouth dropped to your jawline, teeth grazing your skin before he bit down—just enough to make you cry out. To mark you. To claim.

His lips dragged against your wet cheek, breath hot and ragged as he whispered filth directly into your skin.

“You’re gonna be ruined for anyone else,” he growled. “No one else’ll ever fuck you this deep. No one else’ll fill you like I do. You’ll think about this—every time you sit down and feel me leaking out of you.”

You gasped, your pussy clenching tight again, and that made him snarl.

“Oh, you like that,” he panted against your cheek. “You like knowing I’ve come in you three times and I’m still fucking going—filling you to the brim like this pussy belongs to me.”

“It does,” you sobbed. “It’s yours—it’s only yours.”

He bit down again—right beneath your cheekbone—and his hips bucked hard, cock twitching, and then he spilled inside you again.

Hot, thick, endless—your body taking it all, your womb aching with how much he was pumping into you, filling you again and again like some primal need had taken hold and wouldn’t let go.

You clung to him, nails dragging down his sweat-slick back, body convulsing with overstimulation, your own orgasm cresting again, tears slipping freely down your cheeks, wet between your legs and everywhere else.

And through it all—his voice stayed right in your ear.

Sunlight filtered through the high, frosted windows—gold and soft, painting long lines across the floor and sterile white counters. Machines hummed faintly. The scent of antiseptic still clung faintly to the air, but it was dulled now, overpowered by the unmistakable smells of sweat, sex, and fabric softener.

Tony pinched the bridge of his nose before they even turned the corner.

“I’m just saying,” he muttered, tablet in hand, “if he exploded in the middle of the night, it’s your fault, Rogers. You’re the one who insisted on the glass enclosure.”

“He didn’t explode,” Steve replied, voice calm but tight. “But we need to check his vitals. And see if the fever’s gone for good.”

“And you don’t think maybe knocking first would be—”

The door hissed open.

Tony stepped in first, looking up from his tablet. Steve followed—and froze halfway through the threshold.

There, on the exam bed, tangled in sheets and wrapped around each other like two vines too stubborn to separate, were you and Bucky.

Naked.

Dead asleep.

His arm was slung over your waist, metal hand curled possessively around your hip. Your leg was draped over his. His nose was buried in your neck. One of your hands was splayed on his chest, and both of your mouths were parted in very unflattering, very loud, synchronized snoring.

And the sheets?

The sheets were barely covering anything.

“Oh Jesus,” Steve hissed, immediately turning around so fast his shoulder knocked into a tray of sterile wipes. “Nope. No. That’s—nope.”

Tony took one look, blinked, and quietly said, “So the mating press was successful.”

Steve groaned. “Tony.”

“What?! They’re alive. They’re breathing. No heart attack. Just a—y’know—thorough night of… clinical bonding.”

“Stop talking.”

Tony didn’t stop talking. He just raised the tablet and started typing. “Gotta say, though, Barnes is kind of a legend.”

Steve made a strangled noise somewhere between a cough and a choked-off scream. “I am not listening to this.”

“You know,” Tony continued, ignoring him completely, “most guys tap out after two. Maybe three if they’ve got performance enhancers. But your boy over there looks like he went five, maybe six rounds. Give the man a medal.”

Steve was red in the face now. “Tony.”

And on the bed, completely oblivious, Bucky grumbled something about peaches and tight little throats in his sleep, nuzzled deeper into you, and pulled you even closer.

Tony paused.

“…okay, maybe a warning label instead of a medal.”

a/n: as always, if this is buns don’t perceive me!!!! I'll blame it on the fact that I had to write most of this while working a slow 12.

💌 permanent freaks taglist: @chateaubarnes @houseofhyde @heldbybarnes @opheliabbarnes @iamthatonefangirl @superbassbuck @its-in-the-woods @wildflowersandvibranium @unificsation @flockoff-featherface @sheriff-bodecker @54nboo @earthsmightiestbenders @winterdecember18 @juniebjonesin @barnesonly @bckyslover @buckyfmd

[chipotleburritobowl]

passionfruit , bucky barnes x reader

summary. the tenant over at apartment 406 makes too much noise. after a rare and successful noise-free day, the power goes out. and now suddenly you're making all the noise.

content. i had tfatws!bucky in my head with this one. fem!reader, mdni (18+). porn with plot, prone bone, pussy-eating, u guys fuck in candlelight so romantic i know, you have a dog named rafe because i love outerbanks. not proofread!

word count. 9k whoopsies

from lia. sorry about the seb pic he's a different man at night yk so i thought it would fit bucky in this fic cuz like...u get what i mean right.

thump!

another beat of furniture pummeling to the ground came from behind the wall beside you, the water cascading down from your watering can coming to a halt as you stared in both confusion and concern towards the balcony beside yours. 

it was only a little over half past six when you started nurturing your geraniums like you usually did every morning before making yourself breakfast. no matter how tired you were the night before, you’d always make an effort to provide nourishment to your green babies before paying attention to your loving red heeler, rafe. who always watched you with sleepy eyes and his chin on the floor every morning. it turned into an unspoken routine between the two of you—you’d wake up, walk to the balcony with him closely tailing behind, and he’d watch you with a tilted head and his tongue slightly poking out. 

“hey! no—not the glass-”

your head bolted back to the apartment beside you, a loud, gruff voice suddenly booming through instead of the usual falling and or breaking of glass. 

you’ve never properly met whoever lived in apartment 406 ever since he moved in two weeks ago—the most you’ve come to seeing the guy was when you say him taking the stairs on his way down on your way to the elevator, aside from his eye-catching metal arm—which was the first thing you noticed, all you could see of him was the back of his head and a jacket enveloping his torso. 

the cool water sent a shock throughout your body as it splashed and wrapped against your warm hands, ridding you of the dirt and dust you accumulated from the plants. you grabbed your phone sitting idly on the couch to look at the time: saturday, 6:47. 

usually, saturdays for you revolved around going back to sleep after watering the plants, a trip to the farmer’s market, watching tv until you can’t feel your butt, or you go out with your friends to go drinking so much you’re sure to get a hangover that’ll feel like death.

“i swear to god if you don’t come here—“

an irritated nag followed by the shattering of what sounds like glass once again filled your ears, but this time you could faintly make out a cat meowing. 

ah. and there’s your culprit. 

the guy next door probably had a cheeky cat that’s giving him the time of his life, something you could relate to the first time you brought rafe into your apartment. rafe was adamant on claiming every inch of your apartment as his territory, he peed on every single chair within his peripheral, shat on the floor (which you stepped on every single time) and on your bed on three separate occasions. he’s a good boy now, though. he thankfully grew out of it.

you leaned against your kitchen counter, your phone screen wallpaper staring back at you as you racked your brain for ideas in making today a productive day. 

bang!

a particularly loud clanging noise reverberated this time, followed by a pot making contact with the floor. your eyes caressed the wall sitting between your apartment and his, as if your gaze would cut through the drywall and your concern would reach him if you stared long enough. you pulled out a bowl from your cabinet, still occasionally worryingly glancing at the wall, not trusting the moment of silence. you poured in milk before adding your favorite cereal to the sea of white, the main thing on your mind—aside from the cluttering sounds that came from your neighbor—was filling your stomach. 

you physically sighed with a mouth full of grain—realizing whilst scrolling through your calendar that this weekend was probably gonna be as bland as a pan of oatmel since all of your friends were busy with whatever life’s got going on for them. but alas, the day’s gonna end up boring anyway, might as well just get on with it and binge watch modern family again.

bucky was sure you’d have reported him by now. 

great. he had barely stayed two weeks in his new apartment, and he’s already making such a commotion that he’s bound to get stacks of complaints. 

“you, miss,” he gave a pointed look at his cat, alpine, with a hand on his hip and his eyebrows furrowed. “are banned from leaving the apartment for two weeks. effectively immediately.”

alpine meowed in response—as if telling him you wish while she swayed her tail in his face. she watched bucky crash onto the couch—ass first, as if he carried the world on his shoulders. bucky, with fingers pinching the bridge of his nose, hoped that whoever was next door wouldn’t (though they probably did) mind all the noise he’s been making since the early morning hours. 

bucky’s patience was running thin—he was practically overqualified in the category of most breakdowns. after the stunt alpine pulled that morning, he was so close to calling it quits and just let her roam around free without a collar. but in all honesty, bucky loves and cared for the cat more than he’d like to admit, her being a pain in the ass just came with loving alpine. 

the bell that hung around alpine’s collar chimed with each step she took closer to bucky, strutting like she owned the place. his blue henley shirt came into contact with her fluffy body, a soft purring sound emitting from the feline’s throat. 

“did you really have to give me a hard time putting this collar on you?” he murmured, a soft smile creeping up on his lips. “did you? did you?” he murmured through gritted teeth while mushing alpine’s face together, the cuteness aggression that wrung through his body becoming too much to handle—he had to squish her face. 

alpine jumped out of her place on the couch with a displeased yowl, giving bucky a death stare that had disapproval written in bold all over it while walking away from him. 

“totally worth it.”

woof!

a loud muffled bark abruptly cut through the air from the wall in front of him—promptly followed by a giggle which obviously belonged to whoever was in the neighboring apartment. 

it was a stark contrast to his shrewd scolding and clattering of pots and pans, and bucky couldn’t help but feel guilty from all the ruckus he’s been subjecting you to. 

he sighed, remorseful and repentant, his head dead still while his metal hand scrambled by his side in search of the remote. maybe this generation’s tv would have something good on. 

for the fourth time this week alone, your kind and considerate neighbor has consistently woken you up not with the sounds of chirping and the fresh smell of bacon, no. it was with the beautiful sound of television channels blasting through your ears. were his eardrums clogged? is your neighbor a 90-year-old man? what if he just looks young from behind and the moment he turns to face you—BAM! he’s actually ancient. you dug your head into the soft embrace of your pillow, frustrated about getting awoken again and it was not on your terms, again. what makes things more irritating is every time you’ve blinked your eyes open, sleep seems to slip away faster than any rat at a subway—no matter how many times you tossed and turned, your brain wouldn’t turn off anymore and you're forced to start the day already.

your feet swam through the sea of blankets you loved to drown yourself the night prior and trudged outside your room—grumbling to yourself something about proper neighbor etiquette. your coffee machine hummed along with your thoughts, the barrier in front of you being the subject of your attention again. what further irked you was that god-awful sound of speakers crackling from being played on the highest setting, you swore you saw your cup of coffee move from within its mug with how strong the vibrations were.

while you were very much angry and furious, curiosity made its way through you, too. from where you stood, you knew nothing about whoever was on the other side—on apartment 406. it’s not like it should be any of your business knowing who they are, but what if a fire happened? what name are you supposed to call out when they’re the only one who could possibly save you? sire? fineshyt? you were completely in reason to be curious about who your fellow tenant could be. 

on the other side, bucky was pressing the buttons of the tiny device as if it would suddenly fix itself if he applied more pressure—he was on the verge of breaking it, really. he woke up earlier than he’d like, around half past 4 am, and he finished his early morning jogs quicker than he expected. he also didn’t feel like eating too much—which brought him to his current dilemma of this morning going by faster than he’d like. 

in an effort to keep his mind on something to avoid his brain from wracking up things of the past without his consent, he tried watching television again. he wasn’t a huge fan of phones, so he relied on the box mounted on his wall to be his source of entertainment—hopefully. there were televisions in the 1940s, but they weren’t as flat and wide as the were today.

however, embarrassingly enough, the tv’s volume—for some reason—was on max. it wouldn’t go down no matter how hard he tried begging and pleading for it to listen to the remote in his hand. he wanted to sink into the floor so badly, at least then he wouldn’t have to face the complaints the other occupants of the building would have against him. 

and maybe it was the events of a bad work day yesterday, or it was your pure disdain for being awakened earlier than you’d like—but the moment your coffee machine finished brewing, you couldn’t take anymore of the incessant garbled voices of what probably came from a sitcom with all the laugh tracks you could hear. it was hurting your ears too much. you immediately darted outside of your flat, irritation written on your features as your fist hovered on the wooden door to 406. 

you wanted to give him a piece of your mind—maybe not anything too mean—so you’d avoid getting the reputation of ‘the terrifying tenant at 407’, but strong enough to get the point across. you’re tired of waking up at 5 in the morning—it was waaaayyy too early of a time for you to water plants.

the hot-headed tension coursing through your body brought upon by you abruptly getting pulled out of slumber outweighed the excitement of meeting someone new. if it weren’t for the conditions you were in right now—you would’ve been buzzing with nervousness.

as the aftershock of knocking on wood echoed through the joints of your fingers the moment it made contact with the material—your foot tapped impatiently on the floor. can whoever’s behind the door move any faster?

after what felt like an annoyingly long minute or two, you heard shuffling from behind the door. after another brief pause—you could roughly make out a hushed ‘fuck’ from whoever was inside. you tucked your hands into your shoulders further as you held them against your chest, wanting the first thing for your neighbor to see the moment they open the door was the scowl you had on, so they’d see how disappointed and-or mad you were.

but oh my sweet mother of pearl.

nothing could have prepared you for the sight the universe has graciously brought you to. the door leaned open—and standing in front of you, was a man, in all his 6 foot something glory, a metal arm glinting from the light that came from the window behind him, with hair slightly disheveled, his henley slightly scuffed, and he was wearing a face you could stare at for days.

needless to say the scowl on your face was quickly replaced with a look of shock and blatant awestruck. in a feeble attempt to snap you back to your senses, and to resume your previous look of rage, you shook your head so fast it could’ve popped off from whiplash.

“you’re making so much noise. can you tone it down?” you huffed, though your voice was anything but furious anymore. you leaned your head to the side to look at the television—speakers still blasting. “your tv is really, really loud, if you didn’t notice. and it has been for like four days. this is the fourth time i’ve had to wake up earlier than i’d appreciate.” you complained, your words clearly having an edge to them—bucky was by no means dense.

“i know-i’m so sorry—i can’t get the damn thing to turn off.” he sheepishly replied with a hand on his hip, his eyes filled with nothing but remorse. “i’m really sorry for waking you up this early, ma’am.”

you raised an eyebrow, “you mind if i take a look?”

the television was playing an episode of ‘how i met your mother’ on full blast, it was a replay of season 2 episode 12: first time in new york. you recognized that specific scene from anywhere—it was a beloved episode of yours after all.

your fingers clicked on the buttons the exact same way bucky did beforehand, but before he could speak up about already trying that method, your hand flipped the remote to slide off a part of it on the lower area. what the fuck. he didn’t know it could do that. 

“the batteries are dead. you got any double a batteries?”

surprised by your sudden turn of attention towards him, he stumbled over his words. “um—yeah, yeah. wait a sec.” 

you watched him disappear into a room before emerging with the requested pair of batteries,

“thanks, you should probably change these every two months or so.”

“alright, every two months-”

“or so.”

“or so. got it. thank you—?” he trailed off.

you muttered your name, extending a hand out towards him with the politest smile you could muster at 5 in the morning. 

“nice to meet you, i’m bucky. bucky barnes. i really appreciate you helping me out with this—” he gestured behind him, “i’m not too good with any of that.”

“okay. i’ll be going if there isn’t anything else.” you grumbled, biting back a yawn from escaping you as bucky led you back outside of his apartment. he made sure he watched you enter yours before closing the door.

alpine’s head peaked out from the armrest of the couch out of nowhere, eyeing his owner like she usually did. 

“this is bad.” bucky sighed, “i think she’s really mad, alpine. so much for first impressions.”

okay. so now that you’ve finally gotten a hold of those sweet, sweet extra two hours of sleep, you just realized how mean you were towards bucky. he had a kind and apologetic smile the entire time, and you were mean to him. 

“oh my gosh rafe.” you groaned, burying your face in your hands. “do you think he hates me now? i don’t want to have to keep up the mean tenant appearance. i just wasn’t in a good mood!”

you shouldn’t really beat yourself up, but memories of bucky sounding genuinely apologetic and sorry flashed back into your mind. so you were quick to whip up something as an apology by doing one of the many things you loved—cooking. was it too much to cook your neighbor something as an apology? probably. but you were big on gifts and you enjoyed cooking anyway, so what's the harm in that?

you pulled out the tray from the cabinet your mother graciously gifted you last christmas all while pulling the ingredients to chicken pot pie out and placing them onto the kitchen counter, a small grin on your lips as the feeling of excitement mildly bubbled deep in your chest.

and you were—you are absolutely incredible. if bucky doesn’t fall in love with what you’ve created he’s either stupid, dumb, or has augesia. maybe all of the above. but what you’re sure of is this chicken pot pie could save lives. the crust is perfect, the filling is savory and sweet in all the right places, hell—you’re sure michael scott would’ve had a field day with it.

the pie sat in front of you—a proud smile on your face as you admired the masterpiece you created with your hands. the smoke coming from it beckoning you to just grab a knife and eat it yourself. but you’re no stranger to temptation. the scent of chicken and vegetables and creamy sauce wafted through the air, taking up space in every corner of your apartment. rafe barked at you from below, the smell enticing him as well. 

“no, rafe. this is for mr. 406 of next door. we need to make a great second impression!” you cheered, smile slightly faltering, “i hope this is a good enough apology…haha...” 

rafe barked, wearing a huge smile and his tail wagging. oblivious to your woes and hesitation.

with gentle force you pulled your drawer open, revealing its contents. your fingers moved with caution as you spun the cling wrap you’ve taken from the drawer, a giddy grin plastered on your face. you could hear rafe’s tail thump against the floor, your energy clearly rubbing off on him. 

you lifted your phone off the counter while balancing the pie on your other hand, just to quickly check on the time. 

1:13. perfect. it was peak giving-your-neighbor-pie-so-they’d-think-you’re-friendly time.

your feet bounced off the floor with excitement, the light of your phone’s lock screen disappearing into your pocket. a distinct click! sound came from your door when you twisted it open—as you stepped out, the wind of the empty hallway to your apartment building gently caressing your face while four small footsteps followed closely behind you.

you prayed and hoped to the heavens he didn’t think of you as rude. because how are you supposed to bag him now?

“um—hello! remember me? i mean i’m sure you do—but i’m the tenant from the apartment next door—room 407? i wanted to apologize for how i treated you last time. i’m a bit much in the mornings.”

your voice dripped like syrup into bucky’s ears, the conversation already slipping past his brain and straight into his heart. you sound really nice when you aren’t mad, but you still sound good if you were. wait, no! bucky can’t think that! he barely even knows you!

“so i wanted to drop by and give you something,” you lifted the tray up to his chest, “chicken pot pie! it’s one of the few dishes i’ve mastered the art of making. sort of.” you sheepishly remarked, “this is my very sincere and very apologetic apology. i swear i’m not mean.”

bucky shook his head with so much enthusiasm he hoped you didn’t notice how eager he looked, the pretty lady from next door, cooking something up for someone like him. never mind that he’s been pissing you off with all the noise he made in the past week. because this might just be heaven sent.

“no no, i totally get it.” bucky shook his head dismissively, his large hands hovering over your fingers to take hold of the pie. “thank you. i appreciate it a lot—i’m- i’m really sorry for all the trouble i’ve been causing lately, and that obviously includes yesterday, and for—letting you go through the trouble of having to make me something as an apology.” he offered the warmest smile he could muster up on that faithful afternoon, bucky was, after all, truly—truly sorry. “this is all pretty new to me, i don’t even know what half of the buttons here mean.”

did he have to smile at me so prettily? well, now that you’re apologizing like that i feel bad for even being mad in the first place. gosh dang it. 

“it’s nothing, i love cooking stuff like these.” you mirrored his warmth with a grin of your own, your left hand fingers fiddling with themselves. “again, i’m so sorry for being an asshole.”

“and again, it’s no worries sweetheart. you never came off to me that way at all.”

hearing the nickname, you could’ve choked on your saliva right then and there. and now was your cue to leave the discussion or else you’d combust. “well, if you need me to change your batteries again, or anything at all, i’ll—mostly—be next door! uh—enjoy the pie, bucky!” 

he watched as you stepped back into your apartment with a skip in each foot, making sure he heard your door close first before shutting his own. 

to bucky, the scene that unfolded was the fastest 5 minutes of bucky’s life, and he wished he had a time machine and relived it all over again in slow motion. the air inside his apartment bloomed with the pleasant aroma of your delectable chicken pot pie, completely ridding him of whatever stress that had a chokehold on him previously.

he stared at the steam coated plastic atop the pie that sat on top of his table, it had a cute little sticker of a rabbit on the side of the tray with sorry for screaming at you! i promise i’m cool! written in print. alpine stared curiously at whatever her owner was looking at, her tail wagging warily. 

his hands gently took out a saucer and a fork from his cupboard, eager to try the dish you made for him. you did make quite a lot for him, given the size of the tray—it could easily feed a family of four. this should last him two or three meals.

some of the peas and carrots fell from the pie the moment it landed onto the saucer, its once porcelain surface now caked with crumbs of the crust. the fork easily cut through the surface, its tender texture inviting him to take a bite. and boy, did he take a bite.

he stared at alpine while chewing the dish, the flavors of clashing against his taste buds—savory with a hint of tanginess and lime in between. “maybe you causing a ruckus isn’t too bad. because now we’ve got dinner.”

bucky had to stop himself from eating more than he should, lest he ruin his original plan of prolonging the longevity of the dish. but you couldn’t blame him—your cooking is amazing. you’d fit right in alongside james beard, he thinks. 

“charlie, you have got to believe me. he is hot hot. like smoking hot. flaming hot. painstakingly hot. like—super…hot…you know.” 

it’s been a few months since you gave bucky the chicken pot pie as an apology. from then on, you were bucky’s go-to whenever he needed help with anything technology involved. you’ve replaced more batteries for him than you should’ve, you’re starting to wonder if he eats them. outside of replacing things that you probably should start teaching him to do himself (a very small minuscule part of you doesn’t want to that, you like being needed by him), you’d wave at him whenever you’d pass by each other and you’ve noticed he sometimes takes the elevators now—since you’ve run into him waiting by the doors of the lift the same time you did. which is nice. very nice. 

in exchange for doing little errands—you’re free to enjoy his company whenever; there were even times you’d share your cooking (he's the first person to taste any new dish you recently tried making) and talk about your day over dinner—or you’d be huddled up (with a good enough distance between the two of you where it’d still be called platonic) with him watching funny-bad horror movies.

you’ve also come to discover that rafe really likes his cat named alpine, whose fur was as white as snow on mountains. you couldn’t say the same for her however, she’d always hiss and give rafe the death glare if she ever came too close—but you’ve caught them huddled together once, when you came back after an emergency trip to your parent’s place and you had to leave rafe at bucky’s. the moment you entered his apartment, the sight of the two furry animals cuddled up together as if it were winter welcomed you. 

and you weren’t exactly clean on your end. you’ve had your fair share of moments where it was you who was causing a disturbance.

during and after your morning runs, rafe’s gone out of his way to sit in front of bucky’s apartment door—unmoving and stubborn. he had become so attached to the neighboring pet that he has humiliated you to the point that you twist in the comforts of your bed whenever you recalled the memory unwillingly.

picture this—you, all sweaty and tired after your morning run. eager to get back into your apartment so you could finally rest your aching quads. out of nowhere, your cute-slash-pain in the ass of a dog sat his stubborn tush down in front of bucky’s door, a loud bark erupting from his throat which you’re sure would’ve caught bucky’s attention from inside.

“rafe cameron the II if you won’t get up i swear—“

it was both embarrassing and thrilling—though it was more on the embarrassing side—whenever bucky would open the door to find you wrestling with rafe to get back into your flat, an apologetic smile on your face as you tried to explain the situation to him in hurried words. bucky doesn’t want to admit it, but he finds it so amusing whenever rafe would pull a stunt like that, and honestly, seeing you first thing in the morning was such a great way to start his day.

while it was very nice you got to see bucky’s face, the moment the door would open and rafe would catch even a mere glimpse of the feline, an excited bark would echo throughout the hall. causing a huge noise to reverberate through the walls. 

you’d always scramble up an apology for the disturbance you’ve caused, and bucky would always say “it’s no problem.” without missing a beat. and every single time he’d say it with that god forsaken smile of his too that never fails to steal your breath away. or it could be your asthma, who knows.

“i don’t think i trust your definition of hot.” charlotte countered, it was her first time visiting in what felt like forever since taking a trip back to her home town in russia. and as soon as the plane landed—she took the fastest way she could find to come and visit you. “have you seen the guys you dated? despite your top tier convincing, none of them were actually hot.”

“no! i’m telling you. he’s “actually” hot this time, whatever that means.” you folded your arms, “he lets me into his apartment. like, so i could teach him how to change the setting on the microwave—i even taught him how to post a story with captions on instagram. i’m like his only follower on snap, too haha. we’re basically tight.”

“you’ve been into his apartment?”

“he’s a good guy! plus, rafe likes him. none of the guys i’ve dated liked rafe, which was already a red flag in of itself. he really likes his cat, too. don’t you boy?”

“i’ve been saying that for like, ever. but you suddenly go all selective hearing on me whenever you hear something you don’t like.“

you pulled a sulky face, “i don’t do that!”

“you totally do.” charlie plunged her hand into a bag of cheetos, picking up a handful before shoving it into her mouth. “if he’s really as hot—“ she chewed, “as you’re hyping him up to be,” munch, “you wouldn’t mind me meeting him, right?”

“i can try to ask him to—i don’t know…he’s not into social stuff that much, you know? i’m not too sure—“

knock knock knock! 

three consecutive knocks abruptly pulled you and charlie out of your conversation, her gaze locking onto the door before quickly drifting back to yours. 

“let me just get that real quick.”

you made a beeline for the door with your sock covered feet. curiously, you took a peek at the peephole.

bucky stood on the other side of the door with a broody look on his face—which you’ve come to realize was just his rbf (resting brood face). you whipped your head back at nat to mouth the words it’s bucky, earning you an excited grin from the girl, gesturing for you to open the door. and without hesitation, you gladly did.

“hey, i was just wondering if alpine’s here? she’s got a habit of getting into other people’s—yours in particular—apartments through the balconies. and i haven’t seen her since this morning.”

concern quickly spread through your face, “oh no, i haven’t seen her anywhere…i’ve been here at home all day and i haven’t heard any alpines trying to open my balcony.” you clutched the knob to your door as you leaned in, clearly worried about alpine. “i can help look for her if you want?”

“no—it’s fine. she might be around here somewhere—and i’m worrying my head off over nothing. you know how cats are.” he chuckled, but his laugh sounded far from sounding genuine.

“alright…let me know if you find her, okay?”

bucky politely nodded before his back came to face you, your own figure quietly retreating back into your respective apartment. 

charlie sank further down into your couch, a pillow wrapped around her arms. “what did your boyfriend say?”

“bucky was just looking for his cat. he says she’s been gone since this morning.” you replied, closing the distance between you and nat by sitting on the empty spot beside her—your feet propping up onto your coffee table. “and he is not my boyfriend.”

“sure, babe.”

rafe, out of nowhere, jumped into the tiny space left between you and nat, squeezing his large body as if he was the tiniest dog in the world. he decided he needed to be within very close proximity of you and charlie, or else he’d die of fomo. 

“do you know where alpine went, boy?” charlie cooed, rubbing the length of the dog’s body, “it’s not nice to keep secrets from us.” 

“as if rafe could keep a quiet mouth whenever alpine’s here.” you joined in on the petting, rubbing rafe on his now exposed stomach. “he always goes batshit crazy whenever she’s around. he really likes her for some reason.”

“well that’s because rafe is a good boy, aren’t you? who’s our good wittle puppy?”

the hours leading up to the evening stretched into one, with you and charlie just lazily talking about anything and everything; about a guy she met while on her trip in spain, how his dad almost fell off a boat from tripping over his own feet (she showed you a video for proof, too), and all the beautiful places she visited.

eventually, she bid her farewell at around 6 pm, which was just a few minutes short before a harsh thunderstorm clapped and the harsh falling of rain against your window crashed. thunderstorms were never really your thing—the sound of lightning striking amongst the angry clouds above made your stomach flip. and your paranoia of thunder actually striking you (you firmly believe, despite all odds, that you’d still get struck even indoors) didn’t help alleviate your fears. you bounced yourself off the couch you’ve glued your butt to for a solid 3 hours straight to clean up the mess you two left behind by empty crisp and candy wrappers lying around your carpeted floor and clearing out used glasses and utensils—hoping it’d be a good enough distraction to mute out the horrid sounds outside of your window.

just as you were drying off the last plate, the power to your apartment suddenly went out, the pitch black darkness enveloped you—much to your absolute horror and dismay. the last you remember, your phone is in your bedroom. which means you’re forced to navigate the place without any vision. you prayed your vision would adjust faster.

“rafe?” you called out, your dog’s location being the first thing on your mind. a subtle grumble erupted from somewhere along the couch, you assumed. maybe rafe never bothered to move away from the soft cushions of your ikea furniture and opted to stick right where he is—just like his owner.

“oh—fuck-!”

bucky’s voice boomed from the wall you’ve come to familiarize yourself with any noise that came out of it. you found yourself looking for the sounds of commotion occasionally—taking it as a sign that bucky was home. giving you the opportunity to disturb him and let yourself into his flat as you please. you accidentally stubbed your toe whilst laughing at bucky—cussing out of pain just like bucky did moments prior.

“fucking—“

with a hand rubbing your pinky toe, you scurried (hopped) around the darkness like a blind bat in search of your room, occasionally bumping and stubbing your toe again on some corners. the tables will pay for it as soon as light is restored. after almost hitting yourself about 4 times, you finally found your bedroom door. you carefully padded your feet around the area in search of your phone first, and locating the rest was now much easier with the flashlight on.

since the power was out, you had to immediately change into pajamas so you wouldn’t have to worry about it later—and all the washing you did has caused minimal drenching of the clothes you were wearing, it has always been your least favorite chore—so it was the perfect time to change. you lifted your dishwater-soaked shirt to change into your sleeping clothes, the wet fabric touching against your nose—causing you to recoil in disgust. you absentmindedly threw the shirt onto your bed, and to your surprise, a very displeased hiss came from your bed.

since when did your bed learn how to hiss?

you hurriedly aimed your phone at the bed like a scene straight out of outlast because that last time you checked—should be quiet, and the moment the room lit up—a white, judgemental ball of snow was on your bed. sitting on your comforts as if it was her own. alpine.

alpine, was on your bed, her arms and legs stretching wide with a yawn without a care in the world. while bucky—just one room over—was probably stressed out of his mind looking for her. 

you carefully retraced the events of this morning all the way up to now, you don’t even remember seeing her in your apartment the entire day. yet somehow, here she is, slowly drifting back into dreamland while you paced around in your bedroom trying to fathom how she even got inside in the first place. 

the sounds of nails clicking against the tiles of your bedroom emerged from the dark, only now did rafe decide he had enough of the softness the living room offered and it was now time for him to tail you. you set your phone against your bedside table—letting the light it produced shine throughout everywhere, turning it into a makeshift lantern of sorts. 

“did you know alpine was here, mister?” you squinted your eyes at rafe, who only tilted his head in reply. “have you two been plotting something?”

a soft meow came from the cat as your fingers threaded into her fur, a gentle purr following soon after. out of curiosity, rafe poked his head out from the door frame, tail wagging side to side as a familiar scent intruded his nose. upon seeing alpine atop your bed, rafe quickly jumped in excitement—but he knew better than to hop on the bed abruptly, he didn’t want to scare alpine away. 

instead, with his tail still wagging impossibly faster than before, he tentatively crept up closer to your bed, and just rested his chin on the edge of it. 

you smiled, you realized rafe was learning how to get along with alpine. and that made your entire heart swell in joy mixed with an unbearable amount of cuteness. your arms gently wrapped around alpine, testing the waters to see if she’d let you—which you like to think she happily did, and you scooped her like a newborn baby, her pupil’s dilating whilst in your arms.

“let’s get you back home to bucky, hm? bucky must be worried sick, especially with how hard it’s raining and the power’s out.” you murmured, “you’re in for it now, alpine.”

the hallway’s air was colder than usual, thanks to the rainstorm happening outside. the breeze kissed your face while you neared the door to apartment 406—phone lighting the way while your other arm cradled alpine. given that your hands were full, you just hoped that bucky would hear your voice calling it to him.

“bucky? you there?” you shouted just a little higher than your usual volume, your eyes tilting down to catch the cat in your arms you so very much babied looking up at you, watching your every movement through inquisitive eyes.

the sound of your muffled voice slipping through the cracks of his apartment door stopped bucky dead in his tracks, his metal hand now resting in his hair. he had just finished showering after a long day of running errands while looking for alpine within the area in between. he had nothing but a pair of grey sweatpants on, so he hurriedly dug through his closet to look for something to cover up his upper body. 

“i found alpine!” 

as if on instinct, his feet moved faster than he could think and before he knew it, his hand was already wrapped around the knob.

you were standing in the hallway, the culprit snug in your grasp. looking way too comfy for someone who almost gave him a brain aneurysm with how much stress she caused from disappearing into thin air. with a shirt hastily clinging to your shoulders for dear life, you presented to bucky the baby in your arms with a sheepish borderline apologetic smile on your face. 

“so….i know i said she wasn’t in my apartment—but as you can see—“

“she was in your apartment.” 

“yep. i found her cozying up in my bed, too.” 

bucky let out an exasperated gasp, smirking to himself with a hand on his hip. flabbergasted by the fact that alpine was easily able to slip under his nose for so long, he was worried sick she might’ve gone somewhere far and couldn’t find her way back—only to discover that the sly thing was on your bed. 

“so uh—here she is!” you leaned towards bucky to pass alpine in his arms, careful not to drop her in the process. his metal hand brushing against yours in the process, a touch you’ve found yourself yearning for whenever you close your eyes.

“there we go. why aren’t you as fussy when she’s holding you, huh?”

an airy chuckle left his lips, something that used to be foreign on his tongue for the longest time.

“bucky,” you hastily started, another clap of thunder resounding louder than ever into your ear. the thought of staying alone, in the abyss with just a little bit of light that was doing no good in comforting you sending a shiver down your spine. “do you mind if i stay over? the power’s out and i’m kinda freaked out…it’s totally fine if it’s not cool—“

“no- no! it’s totally cool, yeah. i can make you some tea,  as a thank you for letting alpine sleep on your bed the entire day. you do look pretty shaken up, sweetheart.” he lightly teased while scratching the top of alpine’s head in his arms, taking advantage of the moment of alpine not being difficult for once. “i can make you some tea if it helps.”

“you sure you don’t have any chicken pot pie instead?”

“oh i don’t—really-“

“i’m just messing with you, bucky. i’d love that.” you glanced at your apartment door, “you don’t mind if i bring rafe along too, right? i mean i have to since i’ll be here.”

“hah. alpine would love that.”

bucky’s apartment was warmer than yours could ever be. his method of keeping light into the space was through candles around each corner, giving the place a sort-of romantic (or creepy if you think about it) vibe in the air. he wasn’t using any ordinary candles, too. he was using scented candles that gave off the calming aroma of sandalwood and jasmine, causing your worries about loud noises outside slowly drifting away from your head.

you’ve been in his apartment a lot of times now, it was like your second home at this point. you heard rafe's paws click against the floor somewhere, you already knew he was probably cuddled up against alpine (if she lets him) and because of the situation, you were maybe too much of a pussy to go looking around.

you sat on his cushiony couch with familiarity as if you were always meant to end up here—together with him. 

"thanks for finding alpine." bucky started, he was already planning on drinking tea even before you came knocking on his door, so he began pouring the heated water into two mugs. "i was really starting to get worried."

"it was a good thing i didn't decide to jump on the bed, otherwise she would've hated me more than she already does."

you let your body slump further into his couch, getting comfortable like you always do. “do you always drink tea this late?”

bucky shrugged, “only when the thoughts get too loud, and i can’t stop thinking.”

a brief pause stretched between the two of you, the air thickening it’s grip on your throat as you cautiously worded the next few words in your head. “about what?” you whispered as lowly as you could, not wanting to come off as too pushy.

“depends who’s next door.”

it would’ve been easier to let the words slip by and pretend to be oblivious with what he meant, but the way he says it—the way he looks at you like he wants—needs you to know what really lies behind his jokes, and the bubbling feeling in your chest didn’t help either. unbeknownst to bucky, you were deep in your feelings just as much as he is. 

you could only chuckle in response, the words in your head not quite reaching your tongue. and you didn’t trust yourself enough to say the right things. instead, you inched closer, hoping the darkness around you would mask your attempt at getting closer to him.

a warm hand cupped your thigh, he gently rubbed circles on your skin with traces of tension sewn across the pads of his fingers. “you okay?”

you stirred your spoon before taking a sip of your tea, “yeah, i’m just—the dark creeps me out…you know. maybe not the darkness itself, but whatever thing that could possibly be hiding within it.”

bucky, whose face of concern now replaced with a look of amusement, smiled. “and you’re saying this while being an avid horror movie fan?”

“ok so first, i didn’t watch it alone, i had rafe with me. and second, the lights were on when i watched it!” you defended, rolling your eyes. “just because i always ask to watch horror movies doesn’t mean i’m fearless.”

“nothing’s gonna get you here, sweetheart. not on my watch.” his teased, but you knew it had a hint of seriousness in it. 

you giggled, “my knight in shining armor.”

a comfortable silence drifted in the air, though there was an undeniable flicker of tension within it. you could feel it, bucky could feel it. he eyed your fingers while they cupped the surface of his mug before you brought it up to your lips and settling it down on the coffee table. but that mug wasn't just any mug—oh no. it was his favorite mug out of all of his mugs. it had an eerily accurate face of gandalf on the center of it, staring back at him. it was a gift he bought for himself while he idly shopped at the small shop downtown, and he just had to buy it. consider yourself special, he doesn't even let sam use his special mug.

another striking bolt of thunder clipped through the thin walls of the apartment, causing you to involuntarily scoot yourself closer towards bucky. a protective arm snaked around your shoulders, his face—lighted up by the surrounding candles, was now etched with concern.

"i hate thunderstorms, god." you frowned, your fingers coming down onto the fabric of your shirt to twist them anxiously. "and it absolutely sucks that i can't do anything to get my mind of things."

bucky felt his heart leap out of his chest when your eyes got a hold of his, the sunset-hues brought upon by the candle giving your features a mellow tone—you looked surreal, like you were pulled straight out of his dreams. you leaned into his warmth further, close enough to smell the fresh scent of his shampoo glide off of him.

"will you help me, buck?"

and bucky was only human.

“is this okay?” he whispered against your thigh, his warm breath fanning against the cool flesh as he trailed featherlight kisses along your belly up to your neck. the pads of his metal fingers traced loving circles around your hips, silently grounding you as your chest heaved like you’ve just ran a marathon.

the minutes leading you to navigating through the jet-black ink of the darkness—which is honestly all a blur to know—you and bucky managed to find into his bedroom. the moment he pressed you onto his bed like a man deprived of cunt for so long, you were immediately bombarded with the intoxicating smell of him intrude your nose from all sides. making you absurdly more drunk off him than you already were.

“y-yeah," you rasped, face getting impossibly hotter. "it’s more than okay, buck. please don’t stop.”

his lips hovered over yours, head tilting slightly while he watched your lips part in anticipation—eyes already closing as if you were expecting him to kiss you any moment now. and he did—he kissed you with so much hunger and fervor it left your whole body on fire.

bucky pressed his hard-on against your cunt, pulling you impossibly closer against him in the process and swallowing each moan you let out with so much enthusiasm—he had to hear more from you. his fingers curled around the lace of your underwear, sliding it down as he sucked on that sweet spot on your neck, leaving purple and red marks in its wake.

he leaned back to admire the work of art in his hands—your cheeks were flushed such a pretty shade of red, and your eyes—glimmering from the light radiating off the candles by his nightstand. his flesh hand came to rest on the inner side of your thigh, pushing it to reveal more of your glistening pussy. you could practically feel him drooling on the spot.

"such a pretty pussy..." he whispered with astonishment as if he were talking to your cunt instead of you before licking a long, slow stroke upwards towards your clit. "tastes so good, just like your cooking baby."

a pathetic whine sung in the air, your hands reaching out towards to grab his hair in a desperate attempt to stop yourself from falling apart. your back arched as he teased his tongue into your heat, his hands gripped your waist to keep them down. "stay still, pretty girl." he groaned, sharp cerulean eyes boring into yours.

"please—plea-fuck—!" you didn't even manage to finish your sentence before he ravaged your cunt like a starved man, his chest pressed against his bed and he moaned like he was getting off on the mere act of eating your pussy like he ate the pie you made him. "oh god—fuck- bucky!"

the heat in your belly coiled and clawed under your skin, your orgasm threatening to snap the more he swapped spit with your cunt, his chin drenched in your arousal. he could feel you getting close, your thighs now on either side of his head as you tried to close them, your hips jerking upwards to bring his face nearer than he already is.

"ahh- bucky- bucky! 'm gonna—"

bucky couldn't even get himself to separate himself from your pussy to tell you to cum for him, too focused on drowning himself in your slick and making you feel good. his blue irises occasionally shifting from your cunt to watch your pretty illuminated face contort in pleasure.

it wasn't long before your first orgasm of the night crashed into you, your drooling walls clamping against his tongue as he eagerly cleaned up the mess he made—his tongue coming to kiss your clit.

his tongue darted out of his mouth to lick his lips, his chest rumbling from the grunt of satisfaction he let out. "gonna take care of you so good—" your name was the only thing you registered, everything else blurring into one orange memory before he flipped you onto your stomach, a soft pillow sliding between you and the mattress—giving bucky the perfect leverage to slide his cock in.

his beefy body caged yours in from above, his flesh hand coming down to intertwine his fingers with yours. his lips pressed wet, open-mouth kisses onto the back of your neck and shoulders as he lined himself against your entrance, drawing out a sweet moan from you.

he kissed the side of your forehead, "breathe for me baby." he drawled into your ear before pushing the tip in, a moan getting stuck in your throat as you gripped the sheets and his fingers tighter.

"i know, i know— you're doing so good, baby. so good f'me." he gently coaxed, pushing further and further, deeper and deeper, until his pelvis was flush against the plush of your ass. you could still feel traces of the stimulation brought upon by his lips just seconds earlier, making you weep his name in pleasure.

your head lulled into the squishy material of the pillow, saliva dribbling onto the fabric as you blubbered nonsense when he started picking up speed. the sloppy sounds of your cunt squelching filling the quiet, slightly lit up room. "mmh—ohfuck- bucky—" his hips shifted slightly and purposefully to let the tip of his cock deliciously made out with your cervix, ripping a particularly loud cry from you.

"yeah? this the spot?" he lamented, not caring about the noise you two were making.

"yes—yesyes! ohgod-fuck- please don't stop!" you sobbed, your eyelids getting heavier the more he roughly thrusted into you.

he flattened his toned chest against your back, "been thinking about this for ages, baby." he accentuated the nickname with a particular hard drill of his cock into you, "thought i'd take you out on a date first, treat you to somewhere nice and fancy, but i can't help myself."

you couldn't even bring yourself to give bucky the proper response, your head blanking out the more fucked you into the bed. "you don't mind right?"

all you could muster up were jumbled up words that were a mix of 'nos' and whines and whimpers. bucky could already feel you squeezing and clenching around his veiny girth like your life depended on it. you were wrapped around him so gratifyingly, your warm walls hugging him in further—he couldn't stop the obscene sounds that left his throat.

"c'mon, cum for me baby." bucky egged on, pushing you closer off the edge you were teetering on. your eyes screw shut as a slew of pleas spilled out of you, his hand coming to firmly grip your hair to pull your head back—lips crashing into yours while he swallowed your moans, another orgasm crashing into you, hips thrashing in bucky's grasp trying to escape the inevitable pleasure already washing over you.

"oh-shit—bucky—that was so-really good—"

"you did so well f'me, sweet thing." he kissed the crown of your head so lovingly it made you forget all about what you were doing before he gently flipped you onto your back and removing the pillow. he was already starting another rhythm, his hips rutting into yours once more. "now it's time to make me feel good, 'kay?"

the sun kissed your cheeks haphazardly—the blinds in bucky’s room did little in keeping the light outside from reaching you. his comforters were warmer now, the events of last night still evident on your skin, marked and bruised by the hands that handled you with so much care after pulling you apart at the seams. 

you couldn’t be bothered to stand up right now, i mean—who would want to when you’ve got this much of a good-looking guy sleeping beside you with a weighted and protective arm slung across your waist? you could vaguely remember clutching a pillow before sleep washed over you, and now suddenly you’re in his clutches once again. it seems like even in the depths of slumber, your body still yearned and ached for bucky’s presence. even your subconscious knows who you belong to.

and you didn’t mind staying in a little longer, your plants could wait for another hour. besides, even if you tried, you’re sure your legs would wobble like jelly before you could even stand upright.

the ceiling warped the longer you stared at it, last night’s memories ricocheting and occupying your brain. a small smile danced across your lips, finding the events leading up to now—how you went from neighbors who kept each other around as company—to him fucking you before your first date. 

“thought you didn’t like waking up so early.”

a gruff voice came from your right, drenched and soaked in slumber like they just emerged from sleep—pulling you out of your daydreaming.

“i wanted to get a glass of water but i can’t feel my legs.” you shrugged, the light peeking through the window catching your attention. “we’re probably getting a noise complaint.”

bucky chuckled, his arm reaching for the blanket draped around him to hold it by the edges before scooping you into his embrace.

“not my fault.” he mumbled, burying his face into the crook of your neck. "the landlord should've installed thicker walls, 'cause this won't be the last they hear of us."

bro ate ur pussy like chicken pot pie gadayum u got some serious game girl

@ chipotleburritobowl – 2025 , do not plagarize or i will cry fat hot tears , you are responsible for your own media consumption twin. read responsibly and thanks for stopping by!

[starling-in-the-sky]

Breakfast, Lunch, and Dinner

A/N: The return of the smut! You’re welcome, goons. Probably the last one shot for a minute (unless I become particularly inspired), because I am about to drop a 10 chapter fic over the next couple weeks! Get hype, and please enjoy this delicious little slice of horndog content in the meantime :)

Congressman Boyfriend!Bucky x Reader

Summary: Bucky comes home for the weekend after a couple months apart, and he looks absolutely mouthwatering.

Word Count: 3k

Warnings: SMUT (18+ MDNI) - oral sex (male receiving), implied oral sex (female receiving), swallowing, porn with barely any plot, no beta, reader has a sister (sorry I needed a plot device), brief mention of weight and body dysmorphia

For the first three months of the congressional session, both of you were making long distance your bitch, to the surprise of absolutely no one. You crafted good morning and goodnight texts with endless creativity and zeal. You gave Bucky a lesson in Snapchat, so that he could send you selfies from the Capitol building, and you could send him pictures of you and the cat to cheer him when his mood was low. He learned the other, much more interesting function of Snapchat when you sent him a photo of you wearing one of his henleys, and apparently nothing else. Both of your screentime stats went up considerably that week.

You had the calendar planned within an inch of its life. Bucky commuted home on Friday mornings and left for DC on Sunday evenings. You developed a routine. Takeout on Friday evening and some well-earned cuddling on the couch (perhaps with some canoodling as well). Saturdays were for Brooklyn, because he was its servant and it waited for no man. Bucky did some district outreach business, occasionally had meetings or lunches to attend. At the end of the day, you found yourselves talking and laughing in a booth at your favorite greasy spoon diner. And then Sunday mornings were for breakfast in bed, absorbing as much time with Bucky as you could before he began the drive back and you faced four days without him.

But things fell a little off kilter, as they tended to do. Bucky's schedule as a freshman rep got a little crowded, demanding a weekend or two. And then your sister got into a car accident - she was fine, thank God, but she needed a lot of help getting around. This resulted in you and Bucky not managing to see each other for more than a passing kiss or a quick lunch in nearly two months. So when your sister’s doctor lifted her weightbearing restrictions and relieved you of your familial duty, you cleared your calendar for the weekend and waited with bated breath. 

When Friday evening rolled around and the chime of a text message heralded his arrival, you raced down the hall and summoned the elevator. As was your way, you practically pounced on him when he entered the lobby, wrapping yourself around him like a koala. The doorman gave Bucky a wave and a thumbs up from the front desk - he was used to this by now. Bucky gave him an amused nod before kissing your temple and setting you down on the floor.

“Hi,” he greeted you with a smile.

“Hi,” you echoed, grabbing his hand and pulling him in the direction of the elevator. Bucky couldn’t help but laugh at your enthusiasm as you pressed the elevator button around fifteen times until the doors opened.

“You know that doesn’t make it go faster, right?”

“Says you,” you replied petulantly as you pulled him into the elevator with you.

Before the doors even finished closing, you drew him in for a tight embrace, sliding your arms underneath his jacket and burying your face in his chest. With a contented hum, Bucky dropped his overnight bag to the floor and wrapped his arms around you in kind. “God, I missed you.”

You mumbled into his shirt, “Next time my sister breaks her leg, she’s on her own.”

“You don’t really mean that,” he said softly.

You just grumbled a wordless reply and held him tighter.

“Baby, we gotta press the button if we want the elevator to move.”

“In a minute,” you protested, breathing in the scent of him and sighing.

Bucky chuckled and scooped you up around the waist, the action squeezing a giggle out of you. Now that he was free to move, he stepped forward, reached out with one arm and pressed the button for your floor.

“Wow, so strong,” you teased, grasping his biceps as he set you down. “How was your drive?”

“Long. Boring. Uneventful. So no different from the average Congressional meeting.”

“Are you missing the days of flying around with a cape on, or whatever it is you used to do?” you asked as you wrapped your arms around his neck.

Bucky smirked. “Maybe a little. But mostly just missing you.”

The elevator dinged, announcing your arrival on your floor, and you raced down the hall to your door with Bucky in tow.

Once you managed to get inside the door, you tolerated a few minutes of waiting as Bucky settled in. He greeted Alpine, crossed to deposit his bag in the bedroom, hung his jacket by the door. As soon as the jacket started coming off, your patience started to go out the window. Maybe it had just been a while, but you felt like the cartoon wolf with his eyes bugging out of his head and his tongue lolling out of his mouth. It only got worse when he walked by you to collapse onto the couch - had his ass always looked that good?

“Hold on.” You rounded the corner of the couch, slid into Bucky's waiting arms and settled into his lap. “Have you always been this sexy, or is something different?”

He tried not to smile as you looked him over like a fairy tale villain planning to steal his virtue. “You’ve got your long-distance goggles on.”

“Hmm. I don't think so,” you insisted, running your hands appreciatively over his torso. “There’s definitely something about you right now. This hair,” you remarked, carding your fingers through his tresses that had grown long and shaggy since the session started. “And these arms, and that ass - ”

“You're crazy. I've probably put on like ten pounds since session started. Too many fast-food breakfast sandwiches and not enough time at the gym,” he explained, his tone humorous, but his eyes betraying a hint of insecurity.

You leaned in to pepper his neck with kisses. “What are you talking about? You look like breakfast, lunch, and dinner right now,” you murmured, playfully biting at his jawbone for emphasis.

Bucky attempted a roll of his eyes, trying to divert attention from the flush he could feel creeping from under his collar. “Well, I think actual dinner is in order. Some of us drove six hours today. I'm thinking Italian?” But you were not to be dissuaded. You kept your attention (and mouth) on his neck, drawing a stuttering breath from him.

“That’s not what I'm hungry for,” you whispered mischievously in his ear.

With that, Bucky was putty in your hands. He loved when you got like this, how you were so sweet and demure in public, but got so needy in private it bordered on feral. “You keep doing that, I'm gonna start getting ideas,” he muttered, shifting you in his lap to straddle him.

“I like ideas. Ideas are good,” you mumbled against his neck. 

Fingers creeping beneath the hem of his t-shirt, you slowly pulled it up. Bucky lifted his arms to accommodate its removal, and you hummed your approval as you gave him a good old-fashioned feel-up. You had missed the warmth of him, the ripple of his muscles under your hands. Most of all, you missed the sounds he made when he was coming undone, and so you started to trail your lips and tongue lower, over his clavicle, the planes of his chest, the seam where the metal socket on his shoulder met flesh. Bucky wove a hand into your hair, and you could hear his breath getting more ragged the lower your mouth travelled.

Easing off of his lap and onto the floor, you nudged his knees apart so you could kneel between them. You pressed a kiss below his ribs, then ran your tongue over his navel, inciting a shudder and a twitch of his hips.

Bucky’s eyes grew wide as he looked down and realized what you were doing, what destination you had in mind. He wasn’t quite sure if he would be able to last if you put your mouth on him - he’d been thinking of you, dreaming of having you again for weeks, and he was practically starving for you. But your lips looked so inviting, flushed and parted for him, and your hands were reaching for his belt, and Bucky simply did not have the willpower to resist. It was all he could do to stare as you unzipped his fly and freed his cock from his jeans. He swallowed with difficulty as you wrapped your hand around the base of him.

You looked him over admiringly - he was already incredibly hard and leaking generously, and you had barely touched him. Listening to him trying to control his breath, you gave him a slow, experimental stroke, swept your thumb over the head to gather his arousal there and spread it along the length of him. You heard Bucky release a quiet groan from above you, and you stroked him again slowly so you could hear it again.

You decided to take your sweet time before the main event, alternately teasing him with torturously slow strokes and kisses and nuzzles just at the base of him. Poor Bucky’s thighs were twitching intermittently in an effort to keep still. “Fuck, you’re evil,” he breathed when your tongue flicked out and traced lightly against his slit. 

Once you felt he had been sufficiently tortured, you put your mouth to work where you knew he wanted you. You ran the flat of your tongue along the underside of the shaft, and heard Bucky mutter another curse under his breath. Taking this as encouragement, you placed a few open-mouthed kisses along the length of him, then wrapped your lips over the tip, slowly swirling your tongue around him.

Bucky was dying. He groaned your name helplessly and gripped the arm of the couch with his left hand, trying not to splinter the frame. When you finally, slowly sank your mouth down onto him, his hips jerked slightly of their own accord. He was fully panting now, not just from desire, but from the effort of holding himself back from thrusting up into your mouth. 

You were a little out of practice, and Bucky was on the larger side regardless. You weren’t quite able to reach the base of him, so you compensated with your hand wrapped around him. Slowly pulling back and hollowing your cheeks, you tried not to smile as you heard him suck in another tremulous breath before sinking your head down again.

When you glanced up at him, you were momentarily surprised to see that he wasn’t looking back down at you. He was looking at the ceiling instead, his breath coming fast, his lips moving almost imperceptibly, apparently whispering something under his breath. Probably times tables or baseball statistics to keep him from finishing too quickly. But you would have none of that. You ran your tongue along what you knew was a particularly sensitive vein on the uptake, then pulled off of him completely. You rested the tip of him against your slicked lower lip and took advantage of the moment to catch your breath.

His eyes snapped back to yours, giving you his attention again. He looked completely wrecked already, his mouth hanging slack, skin flushed up to his hairline, chest heaving. You began to take him into your mouth again, pressing your tongue firmly against his frenulum, and his hand tightened slightly in your hair - not pulling on you, just grounding himself there with you.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he choked out.

You sank your mouth down the length of him a few more times. The sounds coming from Bucky's lips were getting needier and breathier, and you could feel your own arousal mounting. When you moaned around him, he let out a slightly strangled noise, and the hand that was in your hair gently nudged your head away.

“Baby, stop, stop,” he gasped.

You took your hands off him completely. You thought this had been going well, but perhaps you had missed something. “Okay. Did I do something wrong?”

Bucky shook his head emphatically. “No, of course not. I just - you were about to seal the deal, and I wanna make you feel good, too.” He looked a little embarrassed, even with his eyes still full of desire.

You fought off a smile. “We do have all weekend for that, you know,” you purred as you crept back up to level your face with his. “I just wanna show you how much I love you.”

Bucky's eyes tracked your mouth as you leaned in to kiss him, and he was back in the danger zone instantly when he tasted the slight saltiness of his arousal on your tongue. You pulled away just far enough to ask, “Were you enjoying yourself?”

“A little too much,” he confessed breathlessly.

You fixed him with your wide-eyed gaze and asked him point-blank, “Do you want to come in my mouth right now?”

Bucky's jaw practically dropped to the floor and his cock jumped in response to the question. If he was being honest, when he looked at you with your flushed lips and your mussed hair and your big, round eyes that had just been looking up at him from the floor while you had his dick in your mouth, the answer was a resounding yes.

You watched as he swallowed again, considering, staring at your mouth like the answer to all his problems lay between your lips. “Jesus Christ. Yeah," he practically whimpered.

You smiled and swept your hair up into a ponytail with the scrunchie on your wrist. “Then don’t interrupt me while I'm at work,” you instructed him as you wrapped a hand around him again.

When you licked a long stripe up the length of him, Bucky's head dropped back against the top of the couch with a thunk. “Oh my god.”

You resumed your ministrations, gradually building back up again to avoid overwhelming him. You started with slow licks and kisses before finally wrapping your mouth around him again. Bucky was a panting and whimpering mess beneath you, but he made no move to stop you again. 

As you took most of the length of him down your throat, Bucky gasped, “Feels too good - baby, I’m - ” You hollowed your cheeks again on the uptake, then took him down your throat a second time. His thighs were trembling uncontrollably. “Fuck, I’m gonna come - ”

When you sank down onto him a third time, all of the muscles in his lower body tensed as he tried to hold back from thrusting, and he spilled into your mouth. As you swallowed him down, you heard a string of curses coming from Bucky, and not all of them were in English. You pulled off of him when he was finished and licked your lips.

With pupils blown wide and a blissed out expression on his face, Bucky carefully tucked himself back into his jeans and pulled you into his lap again. “Good God, woman. That mouth is gonna be the death of me one day.”

“If you’re lucky,” you replied sweetly, nuzzling into his neck like you hadn’t just sucked the soul out of him.

“I love you so fuckin’ much,” he murmured, kissing the top of your head. “What’s your ring size?”

You laughed. “You already asked me that last time I went down on you.”

Bucky hummed thoughtfully as he ran his hand along the outside of your thigh. “That's right. Seven point five. I was supposed to ask your diamond cut preference.”

“You’re ridiculous.” You threaded your hand into his hair, twirling the locks around your fingers. "I would like anything if it came from you.”

“Give me a real answer, not a Bucky-pleasing one,” he insisted.

You looked down shyly. “I might be partial to an old European cut.”

“That's my girl,” he praised you, kissing your cheek affectionately. “Can’t wait to find out what that means.”

“If you keep saying stuff like that, I might start thinking you’re serious.”

Bucky looked at you, his face honest and open and fond. “Who says I'm not?”

You shook your head in disbelief. “Bucky - “

“Doll, I'm not just thinkin’ about it in bed. I'm thinkin’ about it at least once a day. And when the time is right, I'm gonna ask you for real,” he said firmly. “That is, if you haven’t tossed me out on my ass by then.”

Feeling a little moisture gathering in the corners of your eyes, you leaned in and kissed him gently. “Not likely, congressman. You’re stuck with me.” Bucky pulled you back to kiss you in earnest, and you giggled against his lips. “We actually should start thinking about dinner soon.”

The world tilted a bit as Bucky quickly moved you, so that he was on his back beneath you and you were straddling his chest. He was such a show-off, but it always thrilled you when he threw you around just a little. And then you stopped thinking as he pushed up the hem of your skirt and began pulling at the backs of your thighs, nudging your knees up towards his ears. 

“That’s not what I'm hungry for,” he murmured wickedly.

[crowsofdarkness]

Best Friend's Dad!Bucky needs you to be quiet while he keeps bent over the bathroom sink.

"Look at you, all fucked out on my cock," Bucky's voice is laced with sin as his cock presses deep inside of you.

You let out a moan which only made him thread his fingers through your hair to yank your head up from the cool marble of the bathroom sink and forced you to look in the mirror. You gasped, seeing how wrecked you looked. Hair a mess due to Bucky pulling on it and make up running down your face due to the tears.

But they weren't tears cause Bucky was hurting you. Quite the opposite. He was making you feel so good, his cock fitting inside of you like a key into a chest.

"You need to be quiet, honey. Can't have anyone hear how pretty you sound," Bucky's breath was warm on your ear as he pressed his chest against your back.

"So good," you murmured, clenching your cunt around his cock which made him let out a low growl.

"If you keep that up, I'm going to fill your pussy and I've already told you I can't do that."

Cool fingers slid over your hip, lifting your dress up even higher, and then pressed against your clit. Bucky's vibranium hand knowing exactly what to do to make you sing for him. You moaned and began moving in sync with him, your hips slamming against the cabinets of the bathroom sink.

"Gonna cum," you breathed, body tensing as your head fell from his grasp in your hair.

"No," he demanded, wrapping his flesh fingers around your throat and pressed his thumb underneath your chin so you had no choice but to look in the mirror again. "Look at yourself when you come apart on my cock. It's me that makes you like this. No one else. Just me."

Since you couldn't nod due to his grasp around you, you met his eyes in the reflection an blinked once, letting him know you understood. Yet before the warmth could wash over you, off in the distance on the other side of the bathroom door you heard your name being called.

It was your best friend, Bucky's daughter.

"Shit," you whined. "I'm so close."

Bucky's cock was starting to pull out of you and he let out a low whistle. "My cock is soaked, honey."

"Don't stop," you begged, pressing yourself against him again so he had no choice but to fill you up again. "Please, Bucky. I need you."

His hand was now gone from around your throat and clasped over your mouth, bringing your body flush against his, off of the bathroom counter.

"And I need you to be quiet when you cum, understand? No one can know I'm fucking you. It's so wrong but I can't get enough of you."

Both of you knew how wrong this one, not only given the age difference, but also the fact that he was your best friends dad. If she found out you two were fucking for fun any chance you two go, it would be the end of your friendship.

With the new angle, Bucky's cock was hitting you straight up into the spot which always made your vision go hazy and body ignite with heat. It felt so good, it nearly hurt. His fingers worked fast circles on your clit while he spewed filthy things in your ear, and all at once you writhed against his grip as you screamed out your release into his hand. In the same moment rapid knocking sounded on the other side of the door.

"Y/N? Are you done in there? We're going to be late to the movie! The guys are waiting!"

You blinked away the aftershocks of your orgasm as Bucky was still deep inside of you, not moving now. Quietly, he removed his hand from your mouth so you could talk.

"Y-yeah," you cleared your throat when your throat came out hoarse. "I just need two more minutes to freshen up. I'll meet you in the car!"

When her footsteps faded and Bucky was sure no one was listening, he pressed your upper half onto the counter while pulling out of you. Glancing over your shoulder, you watched with parted lips as Bucky reached down to pull your panties up from around your ankles to mid thigh. Then with a tight grip around his cock, he pumped himself for a few moments and when his eyes met yours, he gave you one final order.

"You're going to watch that movie with your boyfriend with my cum in your panties. Understood?"

You nodded, the idea so wrong but so fucking hot. "Yes, sir."

With a strangled groan, Bucky spilled himself all over the thin material of your black panties and partly on the back of our thigh. His hair was a mess, falling into his eyes, but he made no effort to fix it as he pulled up your panties the rest of the way and fixed your dress.

"Don't stay out too late, honey. Otherwise, I'd have to punish you again," Bucky said before slipping out of the bathroom, leaving you a mess like he always had.

©crowsofdarkness I do not give permission for my works to be stolen, plagiarized, or fed into ANY AI.

[navybrat817]

Let Me Do the Work

Pairing: Beefy!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Summary: You're exhausted after a long day, but you're awake enough for Bucky.

Word Count: Over 1.1k

Warnings: Established relationship, oral sex (f. receiving), unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it), pet name (sweetheart), mild dirty talk, slight feels, mention of being a housewife, breeding kink if you squint, Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?).

A/N: Just a rambling thot I wanted to share. We'll call this a Sex(y) Saturday rambling. ❤️ Not beta read and written on my phone, so any and all mistakes are my own. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

You’re exhausted after multiple exhausting weeks in a row.

Bucky’s footsteps are gentle as he goes to the bedroom since you aren’t in the living room to greet him. He groans when he sees you facedown on the bed in nothing but your underwear, but there’s an edge of concern because you know he sees the weariness in your body. “Ready for me, sweetheart, or just a long day?”

You try to lift your head. “Both?” Your original intention was to seduce him because who wouldn’t want to seduce Bucky Barnes? But you ended up collapsing on the bed once most of your clothes were off. “And as much as I want you to fuck me, I’m too exhausted to move,” you mumble into the blanket.

“Poor thing. You work so hard. One day I’ll convince you to quit.” You hear the familiar rustling of clothes coming off. He wanted you to quit your job weeks ago. “You just relax,” he urges, the mattress dipping under his weight. “Let me do the work.”

A tired giggle slips out. “Okay, Bucky. You do the work.” He could offer to give you a massage, but you both know it would lead to him fucking you. It always does. 

The loving partner that he is, he rolls you onto your back so he can kiss your lips, his stubble tickling your skin. It isn’t just a kiss. It’s hunger laced with desperation, tenderness wrapped in devotion. As tired as you are, it awakens the need inside you and itches to break through your skin.

Before you can make a sound, he flips you back on your stomach and tears your underwear away. He manhandles you easily with his strength, lifting your hips and sliding his fingers through your folds. “So wet already and all I did was kiss you,” he murmurs, your cheeks burning because you know he’s staring at your pussy like he discovered the world’s greatest treasure. “What did I do to deserve you?” And then he attacks.

Your heart is hammering against your chest as his mouth and fingers work you over, his tongue swirling in a maddening way that has you moaning his name. He’s relentless, pressing deep and teasing your clit until your thighs tremble. You shriek when he smacks your ass, gripping the flesh and groaning as he continues to enjoy his meal. You need him to make you come, fuck you, whatever he’ll give you.

He’s your devil and your god. 

“That’s it. Just let me do the work,” he encourages you, his fingers curling and earning a muffled cry from you. “Exhausted and still need my cock.”

“No!” you sob when he takes his fingers out, but he takes mercy on and presses the head of his cock to your soaked entrance. “Yes,” he growls, driving into you in one deep thrust. You can only scream into the mattress and fist the blanket when he moves. He stretches your walls in ways that make you ache and need more. “Fuck, you look so perfect when you take it.”

He’s a man of his word, making sure you don’t have to do any of the work. He pulls your hips back, making you take every delicious inch of him. His thrusts are so hard and deep that it takes the very air from your lungs. But what brings the tears to your eyes is his back draping over yours, his hand covering yours in a way that makes you feel loved and owned.

“Love you, sweetheart. Love that you’re mine,” he rasps in your ear and you can only whine, his words and thrusts creating endless sensations that keep crashing over you. “Say it.”

How are you supposed to speak when you can barely form a coherent thought? “Love you, Bucky… I’m yours,” you manage because you do and you are.

He moans with delight, somehow driving even deeper into you, spurred on by your declaration. “Taking my cock so well. And you’ll take every drop after I make you come,” he praises, nuzzling your neck when he finds your clit and rubs it fast. Pleasure coils tight, making you start to spiral. “Just let go.”

You shatter with a broken cry, your back arching as much as it can with him pinning you down. He doesn’t let up as you gush around him, your eyes fluttering as he makes you ride it out. It’s dizzying, leaving you breathless. He bites down on your neck when he fills you up after a few more thrusts, marking you inside and out. You’re panting, even though all you did was take it, and he’s careful not to crush you with his weight.

“I don’t like you being exhausted, but that was hot,” he teases, only taking himself when he has to and you whine instantly from the loss. You don’t want him to leave your body, don’t want to waste a single drop of your mixed release. “You okay?” he adds, moving you on your back again, your body boneless as his hands roam all over you.

“I’m okay,” you whisper, smiling tiredly up at him. You aren’t sure how you’re still awake, but he looks refreshed, his steel eyes sparkling. It could be the serum that makes him bounce back so quickly, but you like to think it’s thanks to his love and need for you.

“That’s my girl,” he whispers fondly, leaning into your touch when you reach up to touch his cheek. There’s a smirk on his face when he kisses your palm, and your eyes widen when his cock is suddenly back inside you. Super soldier rebound rate is insane, and each of your holes have been thoroughly wrecked because of it, but you can take it. “Shh. Just relax. Let me keep doing the work,” he urges again, his lips brushing yours. “And let me convince you to quit your job.”

“What?” you ask. At least, you think you ask. You’re pretty sure it came out like a pleasurable sound instead of a word. And why is he bringing that up again?

“You’ll be too busy feeling me for days to do anything else by the time I’m done with you,” he promises, rolling his hips, your hands barely gripping his arms. His hair falls in his eyes and he smiles when you moan. “You just stay home, keep my cock warm, and have my babies.”

You gasp. You could keep his cock warm day and night. The two of you would have beautiful babies.

“Your company doesn’t deserve you.”

No, they don’t.

“I’ll convince you,” he groans, leaning down to kiss your breasts. “Right before I fuck you to sleep.”

And he does.

I mean, I'd quit. Love and thanks for reading! ❤️

Masterlist ⚓ Bucky Barnes Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi

[eccentricallygothic]

Hey sweetheart 😘 I really hope requests are opened and you don't mind me sending in a request 🤗

I thought of something where you and Bucky are close friends with huge feelings for each other but you're both too stubborn to admit. So one time you're having movie night at the compound and you take your spot besides Bucky, enjoying the closeness. As some intimate scene appears, you feel Bucky all tense up and excusing him, so you later find him in his room wondering what's wrong, and finally he admits that he got nasty thoughts about you doing all that to him so he had to leave. You think about his words and before he can back out, you push him on the bed, straddling him, riding him, giving you both the pleasure you held back for too long. Afterwards he's a huge cuddle bear and asks you to be his girl ? 🤗 Hope that's okay with you 🫶🏼

Hello! And yes, requests are open and you certainly can send them in! Yours is definitely okay with me and maybe a bit too okay because it made me stray from my usual hc form 😵‍💫 I really, really hope you like it. Thank you for requesting! Happy reading 🩷

| Clueless |

Pairing: Avenger!Bucky Barnes | Avenger!Reader. 

Warning(s): Kissing, unprotected p-in-v sex, cowgirl, nipple play, thumb sucking, Bucky's vibranium arm because I am a mental slut, Bucky mildly being the old man that he is, size kink, dirty talk, creampie, fluff. Minors do not interact.

"Bucky?" You call after softly knocking on his door before opening it. Your eyebrows furrow when you don't get a response and so you peek inside to scan the room. 

You're about to turn on your heels and go look someplace else when you notice him on the balcony, back turned to you as he leans on the railing, a bottle in hand. 

"Hey," he doesn't turn his head to look at you when you approach him. The super soldier probably already heard you when you were down the hall. "What happened? You didn't come back." You lean one arm against the balcony confine on the spot besides him, leaning your head to the side and watching him as he takes another swig.

Bucky takes his time swallowing, his heavy Adam's apple bobbing as he keeps his eyes trained on the grounds of the compound. His broad shoulders shrug only when he has gathered his thoughts a bit, legs shifting before he answers. "Just because." Your features scrunch in confusion. 

What?

"Just because… what?" You voice your confusion and he sighs at your cluelessness. When he just shakes his head to himself you roll your eyes with a huff. "What, talk to me! What even happened?" The way he turns to his other side and his vibranium arm barricades you away from him pisses you off as you stomp to the other side. 

Bucky has confusing moments like this sometimes that he eventually gets over but never provides you any explanation for them. 

"Bucky, I can only know if you tell me…" You try though you know it'll be in vain, as usual. "What the hell happened? We were watching a movie and then you said you'd be a second and then half an hour later I realize you're not back and then I find you sipping beer in your room all by yourself like we weren't having movie night!" 

The male sighs and shakes his head again before lowering it and turning once more. "Just so clueless…" When you go to speak again, he spins a 180° and walks back into his room. "But what else can I expect from this generation?" That makes you scoff as you tail him like a vulture, hot on his heels.

"What the hell does that even mean–"

"Language!"

"Oh, my God!" You throw your hands up in frustration. "What has gotten into you lately?! You're becoming more and more like Steve by the passing day!" The mention of the male shifts something in his expression and he half turns his head to look at you with an unreadable expression on his face. "And that means annoying!" The addition seems to ease the tension in his huge shoulders.

Just a bit.  

Something has been going on with him and he refuses to share it with you even though you are the closest with each other out of the entire team.

"You seriously don't know what was wrong? Are you really so clueless?" You rake your memories to recall what he is on about since the movie was quite innocent in that sense except… 

Oh. 

You roll your eyes as you cross your arms over your chest. "Well, I am sorry not all of us are conservatives from the '40s, gramps" now it is Bucky's turn to scoff.

"Oh, really?" When you hum and nod with just as much agitation his frustration gets the best of him. "You know what a conservative from the '40s would really do?" 

"Yeah, no. Do enlighten me please!" You know he doesn't appreciate it when you get too sassy with him but what is he going to do about it? 

You are a girl with a mind of your own and no one is going to tell you or give you any shit.

"He would ask the potential lady love out on a nice dinner instead of hanging out with her right in the beginning!" Your eyebrows furrow as he sarcastically emphasizes the words. "I mean, what even is that supposed to be?! It doesn't make any sense!" Bucky clicks his tongue in disdain as one of his hands move in the air to help express his frustration. "There is an order, a code, a way to do these things! Fancy is not supposed to be treated so casually! You kids have ruined the sanctity of the whole idea!" 

"What even are you on about, Bucky?!" You go on cluelessly. "This is absurd! So what, friends can't watch movies together now?! I am sorry that things are less complicated now?!"

"They're not less complicated!" He is beyond annoyed and you can tell. "Not by a long shot! If anything, it's worse! Because now I have to deal with watching a provocative scene while the girl I like is cuddling into me but I can't do anything because we are just friends having a casual hangout and I can't do anything about my hard cock that wants nothing more than to show her that the scene that has her gripping my arm so tight is nothing in comparison to what I can do to her if she just stops being so fucking clueless!"

Bucky's teal blue eyes are wide and he is nearly breathless by the time he finishes his little speech. Your own state is not much different as you blink up at him in shock. It is only when he has recovered a little that he realizes what he has said… or rather, confessed. 

"I-" the super soldier goes to shake his head but then stops before half tilting it to the side, visibly at a loss of words as his ears turn beet red. "Y/n–" 

Your fingers are curling around the neckline of his shirt before you know it, the pull of your hand tugging you towards him instead of doing what you had intended, his heavy body unbudging. 

Bucky's arms hang limply at his sides as he stands against you utterly dumbfounded, barely kissing you back if at all as he tries to decide whether this is another one of his dreams or you, the only girl that has managed to reach into his heart after so long that it honestly feels kind of like the first time, really is kissing him.

What he doesn't know is that you are having difficulty with determining the same thing. 

You pull back when your lungs are on fire and you are heaving for air desperately, fingers still tightly holding onto his shirt in bunches with the fear that he might vanish into the air if you let go. 

Bucky blinks as he sputters out some incoherent nonsense, eyes wide as he watches your face to try and grasp what just happened. "I–" 

You shake your head with a roll of your eyes and a tut. He's insufferable with all that chivalry. You do find it endearing at times but it's moments like these when he's so clueless and formal about it that it gets annoying. 

"Just shut up and kiss me, old man" you whisper as your eyes flicker down to his pink lips and you're on him again. 

This time though, your words seem to have snapped him out of it and his hands shoot up to your sides as he holds you back just as tightly, fingers reaching down for your ass cheeks before he squeezes them hard. You are forced to break the kiss, your face still remaining against his lips as you audibly shudder at the feeling, shivers shooting down your hips and straight to your intimate parts from the delicious ache that it causes. 

Within the next few minutes, you have managed to back Bucky into the bed as he's distracted with touching, feeling and groping as much of you as he possibly can. He lands on the bed with a heavy thud but before any words can be exchanged, you are straddling his thick and muscular thighs. 

Your hands hurriedly snatch his shirt off before you push him down, raising your own arms above your head to let him do the same as you grind into his hard on that feels so thick that some tiny part of your brain cannot help but fear for your pussy. 

"Mmm, solnyshko, you're so fucking pretty" Bucky rasps out the nickname he gave you when you both realized you had reached that stage in your friendship. But now, with his very recent confession fresh in your mind, you see the meaning of the word, 'little sun', that he had told you with an air of awkwardness in a very different light. 

"Look at all this pretty fucking body, solnyshko. I could cum just by looking at it alone." Emotion overcomes your senses and you suddenly feel a bit sensitive. A whimper escapes you as a result and you can't help but clench against his bulge, hands reaching to squeeze his hands that are feeling up your boobs now that he has fished them out of the bra cups. 

"B- Bucky…" He seems to have sensed it already, and so one of his hands trail down to your side to caress it encouragingly. 

"Go ahead, baby" the endearment is just as foreign for you as it is for him. "You're doing so good, keep going for me" you feel a twitch below you and you can't help but parrot the curse that slithers from his lips. 

Though you are on top, Bucky still seems to have the upper hand as he always does. But you have never really minded that with him because he isn't nasty about it and you know he only means well. You have learnt that through various outcomes many times. Besides, not that you'd ever admit it but you do need the extra care and guidance sometimes. 

It is tough to play the all-knowing hero all the time. 

Bucky is your sanctuary to deconstruct and just be yourself after a long day.

You hope you are the same for him as well. 

With newfound confidence that you have his praise to thank for, you whine as your hips start to circle and twist against his stuff bulge, your clothed pussy already pleased because of how needy and desperate it really is. 

Your back arches as you moan out loud when his fingers go to circle around one of your nipples, twisting it between them before his fingernails dig in them while his vibranium hand finds your mouth. "Bucky!" Your face is flushed and cheeks hot as you feel his thumb graze the shape of your lips before pushing inside them. "Mmmm~" your brows furrow when you feel yourself leak some more before clenching around the air again.

Okay.

Grinding isn't gonna cut it. 

You need him inside you. 

You have waited for way too long to rub it out. 

He just has to be all over you… and that includes all the openings to your insides. 

Your lips tightly wrap around his thumb as you suck so hard that the sound of it resonates in the air, pulling a sharp string of whispered curses from Bucky. Letting go of his arms you now claws at his belt until it gives way to your ferocity and you nearly tug the fly off the fabric.

You whine louder than you would ever like to admit when he goes to tug your shorts off and you have to shift away from where you are grinding against him, the rude protective growl you end up letting out causing him to chuckle as he pulls the shorts off your legs with a soft spank to your ass; a signal for you to improve your crazed behavior.  

Bucky has a way of keeping you in your place. 

"Tsk, solnyshko, patience!" His playful words fall on deaf ears as you literally jump back up on his cock, planting two stubborn hands against his shoulders before pushing him down flat against the mattress from his half risen position. 

Your single-mindedness once you zero in on something is a joke amongst the team. And though you deny it with every fiber of your existence, your actions and manic possessiveness over his cock right now is not helping your case. 

"Mine" you whisper as you move back to now rub against him skin to skin, your fingertips tracing over the bumps of his body as your usually bright eyes watch him with a dark hue over them. A hiss leaves Bucky when your warm and soaking pussy drags against his member, causing for his hands to bolt to your ass as he squeezes with all his might to withstand the sensory overload. It is to avoid flipping you over to fuck you into oblivion. 

Because that can come later. Right now is your first time with him and he prefers for you to take things at your pace; ease into whatever this will become. 

"Just like that, solnyshko, good girl" the words cause you to whimper as you raise yourself by propping your body up against your heels, wrapping one hand around his intimidating girth before you slowly pump and spread both your precums along its destructive length. 

Your bottom lip juts out a little at his scary size and you can't help but look up at him with a whimper. It is so easy because he is your safe place and understands every single one of your quirks with no words exchanged. 

Everything makes sense with Bucky.

"It's okay, baby. You can take it, I know you can" he reassures you as he caresses your thighs comfortingly. "Go ahead, I'll take care of you if I have to" you nod gratefully, your usually smart mouth mum. Though when you look down at his rather monstrous cock again, you have to gulp to yourself as you arch your back before moving the thick tip against your entrance, the sensation causing you to hiss almost instantly.

"Hnnng, Bucky!" You feel yourself stretch and widen around his smooth skin, but then you slide down further and the shape of his thick bulging veins grazes against your trembling walls and your thighs quiver, causing your knees to shake. "Oh!" The most vile moan you have ever let out rings in the air as you reach for his shoulders sensitively, wincing and lowering your head against his to let him kiss you everywhere he can reach while your hips lower against his. 

"Fuck, solnyshko, you're so fucking tight for me" his hands fondle your ass and breasts rather bluntly as he peppers kisses all over your face, moving his own hips in sync to yours to help you out because you are clearly struggling with accommodating and handling him. "Good girl" his lips capture yours in a clingy kiss, your mouths nearly sticking to each other's. You break away for enough time for Bucky to let out, "such a good fucking girl for me, baby" before you sink down on his cock again and bite his bottom lip as a result, loudly whining into his mouth. 

The super soldier curses as he twitches inside you, his tip easily reaching the sensitive bundle of nerves that ks hot and eager to be touched. "Fuck, you're so biiiig!" You mewl as your eyes roll to the back of your head, fingers clasping around his shoulders as you find a rhythm and start bouncing, the aid of his hips causing a loud smacking sound to fill the otherwise quiet air. 

You feel your loins tense each time his stiff veins graze your weeping pussy that desperately tries to return to its original state whenever he lifts you almost all the way up and off his cock only to have you sheath it back again from the tip. 

You are trying your best to keep the control to yourself but the truth is, were it not for Bucky's guiding hold on your hips, you would have collapsed from the sensitivity of your core and the size of his impaler long ago. 

"Look at you, solnyshko" the male cooes while panting but doesn't break off the sync of your bodies, one hand now dipping between your legs to let his vibranium thumb rub your clit. The action causes your limbs to spasm as you moan loudly, your back arching while your pussy clenches again. "Lookin' so pretty bouncing on my cock. Almost as if that's all you were made to do" his words make you grunt as you dig your nails into his skin.

Fuck, he is too good. 

Not so chivalrous after all, was he?

"Oh, Bucky!" You have never moaned like this before. "I am gonna–" in control yet so powerless. "I- I am gonna cum!" No one has ever made you feel so good, so dirty, so used and yet so taken care of all at once. "Oh, please!" You have no idea why you are even asking his permission to do so. Before him you had always been the boss of your life. 

But with Bucky, it just feels right. 

Like that is the order of things.

That is just the kind of man that he is. 

"Go ahead, my sweet solnyshko" his other hand slaps your ass and stars appear in your vision. Fuck. You had not expected him to be this dominant. "Fuck yourself dumb on my dick like the cock starved slut that you are" his referral to your crazed greed from some minutes ago makes you blush furiously but before you can protest, his thumb swipes faster and faster against your nub and renders you speechless. 

Your toe curling orgasm os one that leaves you momentarily numb and deaf, the only thing your mind being able to register the overstimulation of your walls as Bucky chases his own orgasm now, basically using you as a cock sleeve as you motionlessly slam up and down his length, the upper half of your body hunched forwards as your cheek rests against his. Your mouth can only let out incoherent murmurs in his ear as you snake your arms around his neck and nibble on the skin of his shoulders until his hot seed explodes through you, filling your cavern up until it overflows and the white liquid trickles down your legs. 

You are eventually moved down and off his cock to which you whine, your hole blinking around air at the loss of contact. That causes Bucky to chuckle as he wraps you up against him in his thick arms and moves your bodies further up the bed until you are resting against the pillows. 

"Don't go~" you softly murmur with a pout when he turns to reach for his bedside drawers. 

The arm that he has around you further tighten in reassurance as he fishes something out. "Aw, baby, don't worry. I am not going anywhere" your pout deepens when he turns towards you and the object comes into view. "Just–"

"Noooo~" you whine as you tighten your arms around his chest and nuzzle your face in the crook of his neck. "L- Leave it on~" one of his eyebrows raise before a little smirk appears on his face. 

"Oh, solnyshko, you sweet girl" Bucky puts the tissue box away as he moves your hair out of your face before pressing a warm kiss to your forehead. "Aren't you precious, hm?" As he untucks your flushed face from his neck to look at and caress one of your cheeks lovingly, you blush harder and busy yourself with examining his dog tags to avoid his eyes. "Who would have thought that the baddest avenger would be such a cutie deep down?" You roll your eyes when he playfully quotes what you like to refer to yourself as. "Not wanting to be cleaned so she can remain covered in my cum–"

"Alright, alright. You can stop now" your voice is hoarse due to your vocal exercise from a couple minutes ago. 

"Stop?" Your eyes flutter when his nails comfortingly scratch your scalp before one of his fingers snake through the strands of your disheveled hair. "But I haven't even started with you yet, baby" a snort leaves him when he feels you clench with a whimper at his words.

Your limbs are tangled as you lay relaxing in each other's scents, one of Bucky's thick thighs buried between your legs. 

"Not even started with me yet?!" Your shock makes him snicker. "After all that?!' 

It is safe to say that he has fucked the living daylights out of you.

… And he was not even on top when he did so. 

Bucky shrugs. "Only one way to find out…" His eyes search for yours with hope. 

You finally look up at him with a small smile, your heart thumping as your fingers curl around the chain of his dog tags. "I would love to, Bucky." Before you could shy away, your now boyfriend has captured your lips in his. 

"Oh, and honey?"

"Yes… b- babe?"

"We really have to do something about those sassy little eye rolls of yours."  

I know I made him dominant but it's literally Bucky, how could I not?! 

[larajadeschmidt13]

Any Bucky Barnes/ Sebastian Stan fan girls that like to read, please send me a message! I have a book for you!!!!! Smut and all.

[hhiggs]

[figtreesandmoonlight]

“I’m Glad You Called”

Bucky X Reader One Shot. 

TW: sexual harrassment, swearing, drink spiking

Synopsis: Things quickly go south during a blind date that Wanda had set you up on. After listening to Jake talk about himself for three hours, you leave the bar together, and it becomes clear that Jake has certain expectations for where the evening will go next. The world becomes blurry around you as you make it clear you won’t be sleeping with Jake, but when the ground shifts beneath your feet and Jake gets aggressive, you make a phonecall. Cue one angry super soldier coming to the rescue, confessions of feelings, and lots of fluff. 

You checked your appearance in the mirror one last time, appraising your appearance and shifting the tight black dress that clung to your body ever so slightly. It wasn’t that you were excited for your blind date, per se. During a girls night with one too many glasses of wine consumed you’d finally confessed to Wanda and Natasha that you were ready to give dating another shot after a catastrophic end to your former relationship (he’d cheated on you, and after finding out, you never heard from him again. You couldn’t say for sure, but it was pretty clear your friends had had something to do with it.) The next thing you knew, Wanda had sent a message into your groupchat telling you to ‘put on that sexy black dress and be ready at 8’ for a blind date with someone she knew. So, not so much excited, as a mix of nerves, trepedation and skepticism. But you’d said you wanted to get back out there, and that meant going on a date eventually. You tousled your hair, checked your lipstick one final time, before grabbing your leather jacket, slinging it over your shoulders as you grabbed and walking through the door to your bedroom in the compound. 

You walked along the corridors, heading to the kitchen for a drink to settle your nerves as you had half an hour before the mystery man was supposed to be meeting you, and you’d do anything to alleviate the nagging feeling in your gut telling you this was a bad idea. You walked in, trailing your hands across the marble counter and pausing in front of the fridge, taking a breath as cool air burst out at you, stilling some of the thoughts in your mind. It wasn’t that you didn’t want to be going on a date. It was that whoever the guy picking you up was, it wasn’t the man you wanted it to be. But you shook your head, allowing the cold feel of the bottle of wine on your palm to draw you out of your head and back to reality. There was no point in thinking about that now. With a few glugs, you’d poured yourself a glass of wine, standing at the island counter of the compound's kitchen, lights dimmed, soft music playing as you continued to hype yourself up for the evening ahead. Or at least you tried to, until a voice pulled you out of your thoughts:

‘Wow Doll’, a low voice rumbled out. The wine glass that was making its way to your lips paused mid air as you turned to look at the source of the sound, already knowing exactly who would be there. As you suspected, there was James Buchanan Barnes, leaning against the doorway to the kitchen, smug smile on his lips and head cocked to the side, staring straight at you. You felt like his steel blue eyes were burning a hole right into you, and ducked your head to hide the slight blush that rose to your cheeks. Running your free hand through your hair as you regained some composure, you smiled at your friend, some of the nerves settling in your stomach just from being in the same space as him. ‘Hey Buck,’ you replied, turning to face him and holding your hands out to your sides slightly to give him a better view, ‘what’d you think?’ He didn’t need to know that his response could very well decide for you if you were still going out or not. 

Bucky’s eyes slowly trailed down and back up your form, taking you in with a small smile, as he replied ’I think the guy you’re going out with doesn’t know how lucky he is’. You let out a small laugh at his words, picking up your wine glass to be able to have something between you, to distract you from him, to offer you something to hide behind. ‘Ever the charmer Barnes’, you reply. ‘You know me Doll’ he laughed back, walking past you in the direction of one of the stools on the other side of the counter to you, ‘a true 40’s gentleman could never walk past a dame looking as beautiful as you and not tell you’. And there it was, that slight defferal that always came with Bucky’s compliments. It was always the case with Bucky that compliments wouldn’t come from him, more the charming 40’s ladies man act that he liked to put on. He was one of your closest friends, and it wasn’t like he didn’t compliment you, didn’t look out for you. Hell, when your sleep was disturbed with graphic reminders of your past in the form of some less-than-pleasant nightmares, Bucky was always the first one at your door. You’d given him access after your first nightmare, and it wasn’t uncommon now that you’d be woken up from the horrors of your mind with surprisingly soft touches, concerned blue eyes and gentle reminders that ‘you’re okay, you’re safe, I’m here, they’re not going to take you again, I’ve got you’. He’d slip into bed next to you, hold you until you drifted back into sleep, or if it was one of those nights you knew you wouldn’t be able to go back to sleep, he’d walk with you to the TV room, and you’d watch reruns of Doctor Who until sunrise. But when he said anything that could be read as even remotely romantic, it was said through that ladies-man facade. So, Bucky was one of the people you were closest to in the compound, and that was exactly why you couldn’t tell him that your feelings for him had developed into romantic ones. 

Instead, you bantered back and forth a bit, Bucky sat opposite you, joking about spraypainting redwing pink to annoy Sam, and how he just ‘didn’t get’ the idea of a blind date, saying ‘back in my day, you just told someone you liked them and went out for a dance’. His comment felt like a million pins stabbing into your heart all at once, reminding you once again that the man in front of you, who had slowly helped heal and won over your broken heart, only saw you as a friend.  Still, Bucky had called you ‘beautiful’. That was enough of a boost that when FRIDAY announced that your date was here, you left the remainder of your wine in the glass on the counter, grabbed your purse, and called over your shoulder to Bucky that he needed to ‘remember to eat something’ as you left. What you didn’t see was how his eyes followed you all the way down the corridor until you were out of sight. You didn’t know that inside, he was kicking himself once again for not telling you how he felt about you. And most of all, you didn’t know how it tore him up inside to see you going out on a date with someone else. No, instead, you walked to the front door of the compound, to be met by your blind date.

The date itself had started off badly and only gotten worse as the night went on. You’d got into his car, which was piled high with rubbish from various fast food joints and discarded pieces of clothing. You could have sworn that you’d spotted another girl’s dress buried underneath another jumper. Still, you didn’t know what he had going on in his life, and a messy car was far from a deal breaker. No, that would come later. He pulled up to a run-down, beat-up bar, outside of which two older men, clearly drunk and still sipping on their beer bottles, were hanging around. The second you stepped out of Jake’s car, one wolf whistled at you, as the other called out, ‘Hey gorgeous, why don’t you ditch the kid and let us show you a good time?’. You’d expected Jake to say something. Not necessarily to jump into a fight to defend your honour, but a simple fuck of, a shake of his head, or a reassuring hand on your back as he led you inside. But no, instead, he simply barked out a laugh with the two men, and grimly claimed, ‘this one’s all mine’. 

You should have left then. You know you should have. But Wanda and Natasha had set you up with the guy, so surely he couldn’t be that bad? And you’d never hear the end of it if they found out you hadn’t even made it inside the bar on your first date. So, you gritted your teeth, forcing your lips into a pursed smile, and walked into the bar. It’d only got worse from there. In the hour and a half you sat opposite him, all Jake had showed you was that he was only capable of talking about himself. About his job. About how much money he made. About his ex-girlfriend. About how excellent he was in bed. You’d sat there, becoming more and more bored, and then more and more uncomfortable as the night went on, questioning if you could get away with going to the ‘bathroom’ and sneaking out a back door. Sadly, the bar he’d brought you to didn’t exactly look like it would have a back door you wanted to go through. You’d wondered if you could play sick, or text Wanda and Nat SOS to come and save you, but decided that, while he was clearly an egotistical dickhead, he wasn’t ‘dangerous’. It was just a bad date, and, mercifully, it’d be over soon. He’d picked up the check, and after two hours of hearing all about Jake, you were grateful to be heading back to his car to be dropped off home, and never to see him again. After your second glass of wine, you’d started to feel a little off, too, so getting back into bed and forgetting the whole night couldn’t come quickly enough. 

You and Jake walked back through the door of the bar when his arm snaked itself uncomfortably tightly around your waist, hand pressing into your left hip with enough pressure that you thought it would leave a bruise. You tried to laugh it off, placing your hand over his and very clearly trying to lift his grasp on you. His arm didn’t move. If anything, it got tighter as he yanked you into his side, before twisting his body in front of you and pinning you against the brick wall at the side of the restaurant. Your head spun as it collided with the bricks now behind it, making you feel far dizzier than it should have, as you realised something was seriously wrong. His arms met the wall on either side of you, pinning you in, unable to escape, his breath stinking of rum as he said, ‘Come on now, baby. Don’t try and fight. You know you want me.’ Your legs felt weak beneath you, and the world continued to spin as you tried to force the words ‘get off of me’ out of your mouth, but it was so dry, and your tongue felt like lead. All that came out was a jumble of sounds. Somewhere in the back of your mind, your brain was screaming at you that you’d been spiked, but everything was too loud, spinning too much, and Jake’s body was pressed too tightly against you as his hands trailed up your sides for you to even acknowledge it. 

Jake’s hands made their way up your body, resting on your breasts and kneading them with too much force as he began forcing kisses onto your neck, your shoulders, your lips. Tears were streaming down your face and you kept pleading out ‘no, no, no’, as Jake continued his assult on your body. It was when his hands trailed down between your thighs that something in you snapped. You didn’t even register your body moving as your knee connected with his groin as he cried out. What you did register, though, was the burning heat across your face that sent you spilling to the ground as his fist connected with your cheek, splitting the skin and leaving a nasty cut behind. Somewhere your brain registered Jake, spitting down at you and calling you a ’fucking slut’, as he aimed a brutal kick into your stomach, knocking all of the air out of your lungs and making you see stars while you wheezed out ‘help’ to anyone that might hear you. More kicks followed, as your mind went blank, but the next thing you registered was the sound of footsteps walking away from you and a figure receding in the distance. 

Your mind was bleeding in and out of consciousness as the pain from Jake’s assault left your body reeling. It took all the focus your drugged brain could cling onto to reach your grazed arm out to where your bag had fallen during the assault and pull it close to you. Your hands, feeling heavy and uncoordinated, dug helplessly into the bag before connecting with the metal of your phone. Pulling it out as you heaved in breaths muddled with tears, blood and shame, you opened your contacts, fingers shaking as you pressed on the name of the one person you needed right now. Your head was still spinning, feeling conceringly warm and wet against the cold, damp concrete below it, and your vision kept blurring as you tried to focus your eyes on the screen, pain rippling through your chest with each breath. You didn’t hear the sound of the phone ringing, but the second you heard Bucky’s voice, something in you broke. 

“Doll?” His voice came, light but tinged with what could have been concern or confusion as he answered, “Aren’t you meant to be out with your mystery man?”  A noise ripped its way out of your throat somewhere between a cry of pain and a plea for help, sounding animal, and wounded and helpless. Bucky’s voice immediately softened on the other side of the line, urgency lacing his tone. “Doll, are you okay? Can you hear me?’. Had you been more with it, you would have heard the fear cutting into Bucky’s voice, the sound of him running around grabbing a jacket and his keys. As it was, it took all of the effort you had left in your weakening body to whisper out a broken ‘Buck, he-help.’

‘Ok, ok Doll, I’m comin’. I’m tracking your phone, but you gotta stay awake for me sweetheart, come on now, stay with me!’ 

But you were in too much pain. Various moans of pain were mixing with the words you were trying to say to Bucky. Your head, which once had been spinning, was now pounding as you vaguely felt blood trickling into your hair from where you’d been forced against the brick wall, and each breath shot daggers into your lungs. Bucky’s desperate pleas continued to pour out of your phone, but at this point, it’d fallen out of your hand, and you’re too weak to pick it up again. As the darkness from the sky above began to bleed into the edges of your vision and unconsciousness tried to claim you, a sense of calm began to wash over you, knowing that Bucky was coming to save you. 

‘Oh god, doll, what did he do to you’

Gentle hands were on you, lifting your head up off of the cold ground and cradling it in a lap. You struggled against the touch, remembering enough of what had happened for fear to strike through you, thinking Jake had come back to finish what he started. You tried to get your eyes to open, you limbs to move, but the gentle hands that held your head moved to your arms as a voice, desperate and low spoke above you: ‘you’re okay, you’re okay Doll, it’s me, it’s Bucky, I’ve got you’. He didn’t need to say who it was, you would’ve recognised the warmth in his raspy voice anywhere. But he sounded sad, and you never wanted Bucky to be sad. So you forced your eyes to open, blinking up at him as you tried to get them to focus. You’d never seen such an intense combination of sadness, worry and rage painting his face as it came into focus. ‘Hey, hey sweetheart, there’re those pretty eyes’, Bucky murmured above you, some relief washing his features at seeing you awake. ‘Do you think you can sit up?’ He asked, brushing some blood-tainted hair out of your face. You nod slowly back at Bucky, not trusting yourself to speak yet. ‘Ok doll, ok that’s good. I’m gonna put one of my hands on your back and help you sit up okay? On three. One, two, three.’ 

Your world turned white as hot pain shot through your ribs, and your head spun violently. You let out a string of curses and an excruciating cry of pain, doubling over yourself and placing a hand on Bucky’s shoulder, gripping hard, trying to ground yourself against the pain attacking you. ‘OK, you’re okay, just breathe, breathe through it with me’. Bucky started exaggerating his breathing through his shoulders, the same as he would do when you’d had a nightmare to help you match your breathing pace to his. When the wave of pain finally passed, you settled on your knees and looked up to the steel blue eyes looking down on you with so much worry. Before you even realise it, a train of words come out of your lips, ‘Bucky, he, Jake, he - something in my drink… he tried to, to - I fought back I swear I did, I tried, and then he, he’

‘Woah woah Doll, it’s okay, you don’t gotta explain everything right now’, Bucky said, pulling off his jacket, noticing you shiver, although whether it was from the rain, the drug that was working its way through your system, or the pain, he didn’t know. In his mind, he was raging. His heart had all but broken in two when he heard you cry out for him over the phone, and now his mind was railing against the asshole who hurt you. Bucky would end him. But that wasn’t his focus right now. Now, Bucky was channelling all of his focus on helping you. After quickly understanding some of the trauma of the night, Bucky checked ‘Doll, can I touch you?’ Before he moved again. You nod back, your heart racing in your chest, desperate for someone to just hold you and tell you it was all going to be okay. Quickly, Bucky’s jacket was slung across your shoulders, enveloping you in his warmth, smelling of burnt wood and vanilla, and Bucky had moved himself to be crouched in front of you. 

“I’m gonna pick you up, okay, Doll? Gonna get you back to the car and home to the compound, okay?” All you can do is nod, as tears slip down your face. Bucky’s thumb is there to collect the tears that fell, whispering to you ‘it’s okay, Doll, it’s not your fault, none of this is. You did so good calling me, so good.’ He pulls you into his arms as if you weigh nothing, but you can’t help but grimace at the movement, your head still dizzy and your ribs burning. ‘I know, I’m sorry, Doll. We just gotta get you back to the car, then I can take care of you.’ You whisper back, ‘K’ Buck’, feeling the safest you had been for weeks, held in his arms, your head resting on his chest as he moved gently across the car park. You didn’t catch the way Bucky’s pain twisted in anger as he looked down at the small puddle of red rainwater left behind where you had been lying. He had thought his heart was going to stop when he saw you lying there. It took him a second to be able to move, before sprinting to your side, trying to assess the damage and calling in every favour with every god on the earth for you to just be okay. He needed you to be okay. Then he could end whoever had done this to you.

Now, he nestled you in the passenger seat of his car, placing you down like you were made of porcelain, as he pulled off his hoodie, bundling up his jacket to use as a pillow, as he pulled the warmer, more comforting material of his hoodie as gently as he could over you. Something about the safety of being with Bucky turned off the adrenaline that had been running through your system, and as he moved round to the driver's side of the car, you shifted your head to look at him. Your voice, quiet and broken whispered out to him ‘I’m sorry Bucky’. Bucky simply shook his head, placing a hand gently on your cheek and saying back, ‘you have absolutely nothing to be sorry for Doll. Try to get some sleep, I’ll wake you up when we’re back at the compound’. And once again, you let unconsciousness claim you. 

‘Hey Doll, can you open those pretty eyes for me?’ A soft touch on your shoulder brought you back to reality, feeling more coherent now as you opened your eyes, than before. Whatever that asshole had put into your drink was starting to wear off. That didn’t help the constant pain hammering at the base of your skull as you opened your eyes, this time having to use less effort to bring the world into focus. 

‘Buck?’ 

‘Yeh sweetheart, I’m here. We’re back at the compound. Gonna get you indoors so we can have a proper look at you’. You hummed in agreement, lifting your head as Bucky reached to collect his jacket. You shuffled to the edge of the seat and, with no warning, pushed yourself to your feet. Or at least you tried to. Almost immediately, your knees buckled as you let out a sharp hiss of pain, hand immediately going to cover your ribs as you folded in on yourself. But you never felt your body hit the floor. Instead, gentle arms hooked under your knees and across your back as once more you’re scooped into Bucky’s arms. 

“Yeh Doll, don’t think with that nasty head injury I’m gonna be letting you walk anywhere anytime soon.’ Bucky huffed out, smiling softly down at you, looking at you like you were his whole world. 

‘I -‘

‘Don’t even try doll, we both know you’re too stubborn for your own good. Just let someone else take care of you for once.’ You look down at your hands, softly nodding your head. ‘We gotta get you cleaned up doll, are you okay if I bring you into my room? My kit’s in the bathroom’  You could only nod again, your brain struggling to keep up with what was happening, Bucky’s softness and questioning voice such a sharp contrast to the man who earlier that evening had tried to take whatever he wanted without consent. 

‘Okay doll, I’m just gonna sit you down on the bed here.’ You’d been into Bucky’s room plenty of times before, whether that be to watch a film, to comfort him after a nightmare or just to chat, but a sense of shyness crept over you as he placed you down on the bed. Without a word, Bucky started gathering his medical supplies from around the room and knelt down in front of you, worry still clouding his features as he looked up at you. ‘This isn’t gonna feel the nicest doll, but I’ll try and be gentle.’ Slowly, Bucky started to clean up the worst of your injuries. You’d had plenty before, of course, but there was such a difference between an injury you got in battle and ones you’d got when you were supposed to be out on a romantic evening. Bucky couldn’t stop himself from letting out whispers of apologies each time you grimaced as the disinfectant stung against your cuts. He gently made his way behind you, hands lingering on your shoulders, letting you know exactly where he was and what he was doing the whole time, making sure you felt safe as he was checking the back of your head. ‘Ok Doll, you’re gonna have a concussion, but I don’t think you’re gonna need stitches. Is there anywhere else I need to look at?’ You whispered out ‘my ribs’, and as you pulled down the top of your dress, you heard a sharp inhale from Bucky.

 ‘I’m going to kill him’. You looked down, something between shame and embarrassment clouding your features. Bucky’s fingers quickly found your tilted chin, forcing you to look at him. ‘This is not your fault doll. I am so sorry. We should have been there. I should have been there. But this is not on you. None of this is on you.’ Bucky’s eyes locked onto yours with intense pain, searching for permission before he touched you again, letting you feel completely in control of the situation. You nodded your head slightly, as a cool vibranium hand came to hold your back up while his flesh one pressed gently against your ribs, already a mix of purples and blues and dark bruising encased your side. 

‘I think you’ve got some fractured ribs,’ Bucky says, running a hand through his hair. ‘I’m gonna get you some of my sweats to change into so we can wrap your ribs. Is that okay?’  Once again, all you could do was nod. The next ten minutes pass in relative silence as Bucky helps you into one of his Henleys and a pair of his joggers, before wrapping your ribs with as much care as he possibly could. Once he was happy that your physical injuries had been addressed, he sat himself down on the ground next to the bed, looking up at you. Not pushing, but there, as a presence, as a reassurance. Promising you he was there. Promising you were safe now. That’s when you drew in a shaky deep breath, lowering yourself with Bucky’s help to sit next to him on the floor, resting your head on his shoulder, seeking any kind of physical comfort you could get. You told him what had happened.

‘I um, god I didn’t even want to go on this date in the first place. It became clear he was a prick pretty quickly. There were these guys outside the bar who made some comments on our way in, and he just laughed with them. Said I was ‘his’ like he owned me or something’. The shoulder your head was resting against tensed briefly, before relaxing again, and you heard Bucky take in a deep, shaky breath, barely containing his rage. ‘I went to the bathroom and when I came back, he’d bought me a new drink. I didn’t question it. I was a fucking idiot. He must have slipped something in it. I hadn’t even clocked it until we left the bar. He was on me in seconds. I couldn’t -‘ You broke off, looking up at Bucky with red eyes, who only smiled at you through the tears that were starting to form in his eyes, ‘take your time doll, there’s no rush.’ 

You took a deep breath before continuing. ‘I couldn’t get him off of me. He slammed my head against the wall and started pushing himself against me. Kept kissing me, groping me and not letting go.’ You could hear the mechanics of his metal arms whirring softly as he clenched his fist tight enough to leave a dent behind. Behind his eyes, a storm was raging, but you’d started now, and you needed to get it all out. ‘It was when his hand reached down between my legs that something in me snapped. I, uh, I kneed him in the balls to try and get him away, but uh. I guess he didn’t like that. The next thing I knew, I was on the ground, my cheek split, being kicked in the chest. I don’t know how long it went on for I, um, I passed out, I guess. All I knew was that I needed help, that I needed you. I, I’m sorry I called you, but I knew you’d come for me, Bucky. I knew you’d save me.’ Tears were streaming down your face now, freely and with no remorse. Slowly, you felt the figure you were leaning on shift so that Bucky was kneeling in front of you. ‘I will always come for you, Doll. Always. The end of the world wouldn’t keep me away’. Slowly, he leant forwards, placing the gentlest kiss imaginable to your forehead. 

As he leant back, he let out a deep breath. ‘Now might not be the best time, I know Doll. But you gotta know there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you. I like you, sweetheart. Like, a lot. So much I think my chest is gonna burst when you walk into the room. You don’t gotta say anything, you don’t gotta like me back, I’m not asking you for that. But I promise you now, I will always be here for you. I will turn this world upside down for you. God, I am so, so glad you called me. I will always come for you Doll. Always.’ 

You couldn’t help the tear that slipped down your cheek. But you paid it no mind. Instead, you leaned into Bucky, softly pressing your lips to his. Bucky didn’t move for a second, didn’t kiss you back, didn’t pull away, as if he couldn’t believe what was happening. But slowly, he started to kiss you back, a kiss full of love and promise and softens. Slowly, you sat back against the bed, looking up to Bucky, before whispering out ‘Buck, I have liked you since the first day I met you. I didn’t think you felt the same way, it’s the whole reason I stayed away.’

‘God's doll, I’ve been an idiot. But I’m gonna make it up to you I promise. If you’ll let me?’ The tear tracks on your face that had been caused earlier that evening by so much sadness were suddenly replaced with tears of happiness, as you nodded back at Bucky. ‘I’d like that, a lot.’ Bucky simply leant in to kiss you again, gently, another promise of love and comfort as his hands cradled your face, thumbs wiping away your tears, before pulling away to pick you up and gently place you in his bed, careful the whole time of your ribs and head. You felt the bed dip next to you. Bucky shifted towards you, gently resting his arm over your waist as if in a question of ‘is this okay’. It was when your hand rested over the top of his, pulling his closer to you that he was enveloping you in warmth and love as he held you. ‘No more blind dates, doll. Once you’re all healed up, I’m taking you on a proper date, one you deserve, and I’m gonna show you how you mean the world to me’ Bucky whispered into your hair, placing a kiss over the butterfly stitches on your cheek as you drifted off to sleep next to Bucky. You’d shared a bed so many times before, after nightmares, or the other simply falling asleep. But this time, your heart was full and warm, and you drifted off to sleep safe, protected and next to the man you loved. 

Authors Note: Hi Friends, welcome to my first oneshot on Tumblr! It's been over three years since I've last written any fan fiction, but after reading a bunch of @marvelstoriesepic 's work, I've been inspired to get writing again, so welcome to the chaos 🤍

[aquaticmercy]

Black Sheep

Summary : The Winter Soldier fell in love with his doctor. Bucky Barnes remembers.

Pairing : Bucky Barnes x doctor!reader (she/her) 

Warnings/tags : Protective!Bucky, slow-burn, trauma bonding, whump, bit of fluff and a lot of angst, violence, mentions of death, medical trauma, human experimentation, psychological manipulation, emotional and physical abuse, attempted and threatened sexual assault, isolation. Protective!Bucky, slow-burn emotional bonding, and angst. Reader discretion is strongly advised, especially for survivors of sexual violence or abuse. (Please let me know if I miss anything!!!)

Word count : 9.2k 

Requested by : Anon! Based on this request

Note : If you’d like to be on the taglist, message me! It gets lost in the comments sometimes. Enjoy!

When you took the job, you didn’t ask too many questions

The recruiter approached you late—long after you’d sent out resumes, long after your student loan grace period had dried up and your dreams of a hospital residency were smothered under interest rates and rejection emails. They found you exactly when they knew you’d be desperate. 

The offer came in a nondescript envelope. No return address and company name. Just a number to call, and a time limit.

It sounded too good to be true. It offered full medical license activation and triple the usual pay. Off-books, but government-sanctioned, they claimed. You’d be working with elite personnel in a high-clearance, undisclosed location. It was a matter of national security, they said. 

When you made contact, they brought you to a warehouse and made you read non-disclosure agreements—dozens of them. They didn’t let you take them home to review. You signed everything in a windowless room with a clock that ticked too fast, and signed up to the project.

Your official title was “Classified field medic for enhanced personnel. Clearance Level 6 required.” It sounded impressive, official. You told your parents it was part of a DOD black ops program and that you weren’t allowed to say more.

You were happy you could finally help— 

 they had far too much medical debt to ever dig their way out.

And… They were proud.

If only they knew.

You were told you’d be assigned to “classified subjects.”

When they finally gave you the details of the work, you noticed the facility wasn’t listed on any public records. The address they gave you wasn’t on any GPS. The car that picked you up had no license plates. You were blindfolded before arriving.

You should have run then. But you didn’t, because they paid in advance.

You paid off your loans in one go and gave the rest to your family, promising you’d be earning more over the next couple of years. 

The facility you were assigned to didn’t have windows. The lights never changed. Days bled into each other until even your internal clock began to fail you. The air was too clean, the silence too dense—like the walls were swallowing sound. They injected you with yellow liquid when you arrived, and you weren't allowed to ask for details. Cameras were in the corners, always watching. 

You weren’t allowed to ask names. You weren’t given files.

You weren’t allowed your phone. No clocks. No outside contact unless you had prior clearance.

They never called it a hospital, because it wasn’t.

It was a slab of steel buried deep underground in Siberia, and you worked under it like a cog in the coldest machine you’d ever known. The men you reported to didn’t wear name tags or rank insignias. They all looked the same— pale-faced, dressed in black. You didn’t know their names, and you have never heard them use yours, either.

At first, you told yourself it was temporary. Just for a year. Just until you paid off your loans. Just until you figured out where you really belonged.

But then you saw the red flags. You folded them neatly and tucked them away with your conscience.

See, they knew the kind of people to look for— desperate ones. They recruit smart people who were overworked, drowning in debt or grief or fear. The ones who couldn’t afford to ask where the money came from. 

And by the time you realised who you were really working for, it was too late. Because no one leaves that facility unless it was in a body bag. 

Hydra was predatory like that.

—

You had been patching up STRIKE team operatives for almost a year. You were good—efficient, clean, and silent. You didn’t pry, and what made you valuable.

You never asked where the injuries came from. Bullet wounds, knife gashes, torn ligaments, crushed bones—you treated them all. You developed antiseptics that worked faster than standard-issue cream and learned how to seal a shrapnel wound in under ten minutes. You fixed what needed fixing, and you didn’t get in the way of the mission.

One morning, you were pulled from your bed at 0400 hours without an explanation. Two men in black shook you awake by the arm and took you to an elevator that descended farther than you knew the facility even went. There was a change in the air the deeper you went—thicker, colder. Like the walls were full of ghosts.

They didn’t tell you what your new assignment was, not until you stepped into the white-lit room and saw him.

He was on a reinforced chair, with blood crusted over his ribs and soaked through his cargo pants. The metal arm was twitching with little sparks, the seams dripping oil and blood in equal parts. His right eye was swollen shut and his lip was split.

And still— he didn’t look away.

You’d heard whispers about him before— the Asset.

They called him It.

Not a name. Not a person. A living weapon— built, not born.

You expected more people guarding the cell, but the only other man in the room was his handler— Colonel Vasily Karpov. You’d met men like him before, but none who looked so openly afraid of the thing they commanded.

"The previous doctor had been terminated due to noncompliance,” Karpov said, which was Hydra-speak for the Asset snapped his spine in two like a breadstick.

Your mouth went dry. "And I’m next in line?"

“You’re competent,” he said. “And replaceable.”

He walked out before you could respond.

The door shut behind him with a final hiss, like a coffin sealing.

And then there was just you— and him.

You took a step closer. He tracked your movement with his blue, calculating eyes. You could tell he didn’t know what you were—but knew how to kill you if you got close.

You didn’t speak at first. You just moved slowly, methodically. 

Eventually, you became brave enough to clean the blood. You assessed the damage. His injuries were extensive— fractured ribs, dislocated shoulder, deep lacerations across his abdomen. Most people would’ve gone into shock hours ago.

But he sat there, still breathing like a machine.

He didn’t flinch when you treated him.

Not even when you pulled a broken tooth from the inside of his right bicep.

He winced, though, when you put a hand on his shoulder to soothe him. And later, when your gloved hand rested gently on his chest, while rubbing small circles to calm him down, his eyes flicked to your face.

It was the first time he looked at you. 

Afterward, you logged the treatment. You followed the protocol. You filed the injury report.

In the official files, they referred to him as an it. But in your private notes, you called him he.

—

Over the next year or so, you were his doctor. 

And apparently, you were the only doctor who survived more than eight months.

You’d fix up his ribs when they were fractured. You cleaned bullet wounds from his side, his shoulder, the meat of his thigh. You iced swollen knuckles and stitched torn flesh, always so amazed how quickly his body healed. 

But still, they used him until he broke. They froze him from time to time, but after he was out, they dragged him back and told him to put the pieces together.

You worked in silence. He sat in silence.

Most days, his eyes were washed-out and programmed.

But sometimes, during the worst of the injuries—when your hands pressed into open wounds, when you whispered sorry— his eyebrows softened.

At this point, you had memorised his injuries, and the places his enemies targeted again and again. You started pre-packing supplies before he even arrived. 

The handlers noticed.

You began modifying your ointments—adding subtle numbing agents, to match his supersoldier metabolism. 

You weren’t supposed to. They wanted him in pain. 

But you did it anyway.

Once, they brought him in half-conscious, his metal arm sparking at the joint, blood soaked through the tactical gear. There was a knife wound under his ribs— and it was too deep. 

He grunted when you pressed gauze to it.

It was not a reaction to pain. It was a warning. His eyes met yours, and they were clearer than usual— as if he was fighting something.

And then, for the first time, you realised: He knew what was happening to him.

Maybe not always. Maybe not fully.

But there was a man inside the machine, and today was awake just long enough to hate it.

That night, they froze him and drilled the trigger words into his brain again. 

—

Tonight, he came back worse than usual.

Bruised. Bloodied. Shot in seven different places. His face was partially swollen, split lip crusted with dried blood, a jagged tear across his side soaking his uniform black-red. His metal arm twitched violently, fingers clenching and unclenching with a mechanical rhythm— as if the programming inside him was short-circuiting.

He was strapped into the chair again, the restraints digging into his wrists deep enough to turn the skin purple. Four guards had hauled him in like he was an animal— one of them nursing a broken arm. 

They left you alone with him and chuckled, “good luck.” 

The Asset’s head was bowed low, hair falling like a curtain over his eyes. The tension in his shoulders was wrong. Too rigid, too coiled, like a wire stretched too tight and ready to snap.

You stepped closer, and he jerked suddenly against the restraints—and his metal hand nearly caught your arm.

You froze.

In your peripheral vision, the guards laughed behind the glass.

He didn’t look at you.

He was breathing hard and shaking violently, as if was trying to stay in his body.

You looked at the camera in the corner, swallowing back a panic and anger.

“I can’t treat him like this,” you said. If he didn’t calm down enough for you to stitch him up soon, he was going to bleed out.

Your voice was sharper than you meant it to be. It was… unprofessional. 

A few seconds passed before the speaker crackled.

“That’s too bad,” said Karpov’s cold, detached voice. “It is your job.”

You stared at the glass behind which they watched— always watched.

Then you turned back to him.

You tried, as always, to be gentle. To be careful. You knelt to clean the gash under his ribs. You threaded your needle, soaked the wound with antiseptic.

But his body thrashed again.

You dropped the needle.

His metal arm lunged forward, nearly catching your throat before the restraints snapped him back into place.

He didn’t mean to, you reminded yourself.

But the part of him that killed without asking questions was surfacing, and you were too close.

Your hands shook.

He turned his head away from you as if ashamed. Or furious. 

Fuck.

You were losing him.

So you did the only irrational, human thing that came to mind.

You… sang.

“Baa, baa, black sheep, have you any wool…”

Your voice cracked on the first line. It had been years— you hadn’t sung it since you were small— curled up on your mother’s lap while she ran her fingers through your hair and kept the nightmares away.

You saw his breathing slow down, just slightly. 

“Yes sir, yes sir, three bags full…”

He…  didn’t flinch again.

You kept singing while you threaded the needle and stitched the worst of the gash along his side. His trembling eased.

You spoke without really meaning to, your voice almost a whisper.

“My mother used to sing it to me,” you lulled. “I only realised later what it meant,” you continued. “‘One for the master, one for the dame…’”

You wiped sweat from your forehead, working on a deeper wound now.

“Servitude, right? ‘One for the little boy who lived down the lane.’ Maybe lullabies sung to entertain children. Maybe they’re for making people… obedient,”

You paused, still stitching, thankful he calmed down. 

“Because I think…,” you said, tilting your head as you managed to fish a bullet out of his side. “Obedience it taught. Not born.”

And then, like the thought slipped out of your mouth without permission, “Were you taught well?”

You didn’t expect a response. 

But this time, his head turned and he looked at you.

His voice came out rough, underused, gravel dragged across rusted metal. But these sounds were not growled nor screamed.

“It was the only thing I remember learning,” he whispered. 

You froze.

It was the first time you had ever heard him speak.

The needle slipped from your hand, fell into the tray with a clink. You were stunned. 

Through all that, he watched you. 

You knelt beside him, picked up the needle again with shaking hands.

His eyes followed you as you resumed treating him. He was silent the rest of the session. 

But something had changed.

—

The first time he leaned into your touch was a couple of months later. 

You were bandaging a wound just beneath his collarbone in tight, methodical loops when your fingers brushed the skin of his neck. He let out a deep breath and tilted his head just slightly toward your hand.

He… made a conscious choice. 

You didn’t say anything, and neither did he. But your hands lingered a little longer than usual.

Sometimes, when he was lucid, he’d look at your hands while you worked— following their motion like they were the only real thing in the room. You weren’t sure what he was seeing. 

Then… you started narrating aloud. It was partly for him, partly for you. “This’ll sting a little,” you’d say, cleaning a wound.

“Pressure here—sorry, hold on…”

He never answered at first. 

Then one day, he did.

You were stitching a deep tear in his thigh when your thread caught. “Sorry,” you said under your breath.

“You always say that.”

You looked up, needle halfway through the thread. “Say what?”

“‘Sorry,’” he managed, “it’s not your fault.”

“Sorry,” you mentioned sheepishly. “I’ll stop saying it.”

Then, you resumed your work.

The next time he came in, he was limping badly, and for once, the restraints weren’t used. Maybe they knew he couldn’t stand. Maybe they didn’t care if he bled out.

And he didn’t even make it to the chair. He sat on the floor instead.

When you knelt beside him, your knees touching his, he didn’t pull away. He let you cut the fabric from yet another ruined suit— fifth one this month— or year? You have long lost track of time in this Siberian bunker. 

Still, he let you clean the blood from his temple.

“Don’t they ever give you a break?” you asked, not expecting an answer.

“No,” he said simply. 

You frowned. 

Still, your hands were steady.

You started humming when he came in—low, quiet melodies under your breath. Sometimes lullabies. Sometimes nothing at all—just sounds, like a lifeline tossed into water. He never asked you to stop.

One night, after they’d brought him in burned—his arm singed, the edge of his jaw blistered—you held an ice pack against his skin and whispered, “You shouldn’t be alive after half of this.”

He didn’t speak for a long time. Then, after careful consideration, he said, “Sometimes I think I’m not.”

Eventually, he started helping you—lifting an arm for treatment, shifting his weight when he knew it would help you work faster. He never said much. Never more than a sentence or two. But the words, when they came, were clear. 

“Thank you.”

“Be careful.”

One night, he asked for your name.

You told him. But when you asked him what his was, he only said, “I don’t know.”

But for the first time in a very long time, The Asset smiled. 

Because it was the first time anyone ever cared to ask.

—

When he wasn’t in cryofreeze, they kept him in a reinforced room that wasn’t technically a cell, but wasn’t anything else either. It had a cot, a chair, and a toilet.

You called it the holding room.

They called it the kennel.

You’d come in for treatment checks once or twice a week between missions— tended his joints, monitored the fluid viscosity in his metal arm, checked for infection. 

But the guards watched him too. Always. From the control room, behind the glass, hands on the mic.

They joked about him.

At first, it was petty things— how much blood he could lose before he passed out, how many bones had healed crooked.

But it got worse.

Much worse.

They joked about his body when he was in heat. How he “rutted in his sleep sometimes.” How they’d seen the security feed catch him grinding against the mattress, the cot, the restraints, whatever he could in his animal state after missions.

“He’s always desperate after a kill,” one of them said once, laughing. “Bet he doesn’t even know what he’s doing. Fucking the pillow like a mutt.”

You had frozen when you heard it. But today—today, it went further.

“Bets?” one of them said. “Ten rubles on the mattress tonight. Twenty on the wall.”

All three of the guards stationed to watch that night laughed. 

“Stop,” you said, through gritted teeth. “What you’re doing is disgusting. Watching him like that—mocking him— when his agency’s being taken from him? He’s a fucking person and you need to grow up.”

What followed was the longest ten seconds of silence in your life. 

And then one of them leaned forward in his chair and sneered. “If you think he’s a person, why don’t you go in there?”

You blinked. “What?"

“Go on,” The other guard grinned and got up from his seat. “If you think he’s man and not machine, let’s test it.”

You stepped back, realising what their plan was. “Don’t touch me.”

“Too late.”

Their hands grabbed your arms.

You fought—kicked, screamed, bit one of them hard enough to draw blood—but there were three of them, and you were half their size. One of them slammed your head into the wall hard enough to daze you. 

You didn’t know where the pain began — your scalp where they’d yanked your hair? The side of your jaw where a fist had struck you clean across the face? 

Still, you fought. You slammed your elbow into one guard’s windpipe hard enough to make him choke. You thrashed and tried everything, but they were stronger. 

And they enjoyed it.

You’d never seen teeth like that — bared in joy at suffering. One of them— Maksimov had blood on his knuckles and another— Yuri had both hands up your shirt before you bit him hard enough to draw blood.

You screamed, “He—we— a person!” not knowing whether you meant yourself or the Winter Soldier.

But they didn’t care.

One of them tore at the buttons of your shirt while another held your arms behind you. The fabric split as your bra snapped and air hit your chest and you curled inward, shaking, humiliated, trying to hide your body with trembling hands.

“He’ll definitely go for her pussy,” one of them muttered like it was a bet at a bar.

“I’d go for the ass first,” another chuckled. “Tighter.”

Then came the worst line.

“I bet the dumb beast doesn’t know the difference and finish in her mouth in under three minutes.”

The laughter didn’t stop.

Your legs gave out once they dragged you through the hallway to the lower levels. You stumbled, bleeding from your lip, your breasts half-exposed, nails broken from the fight. They hauled you back up and slammed your back into the steel door before keying it open.

You saw the inside of the room for only a second before they shoved you in and locked the door behind you with a clang.

“Have fun, soldat!” A guard, Anton, said.

You fell, and started trembling.

Everything hurt.

And then you looked up.

He was there.

The Asset — him. The Winter Soldier.

He was standing in the center of the room. He wasn’t strapped down this time, his long hair damp and clinging to his cheeks. His chest was bare, streaked with drying blood and oil. His eyes locked onto you the moment you hit the floor.

You froze.

Your arms flew across your body, trying to cover yourself as you backed yourself into the wall.  You curled in on yourself, heart hammering so loud it drowned out the rush of blood in your ears.

He’ll fuck you, they had said. He’ll take the choice away from you. He’ll use you as a way to satisfy himself.

You believed it for a second.

You’d seen what he could do — seen the machine they’d made him into. You’d see the bloodlust in his eyes when he came back from missions. 

You were terrified.

You curled tighter.

He took one step forward.

And… stopped.

You took a chance and looked at your face.

He wasn’t looking at your chest. He wasn’t leering. His pupils weren’t blown wide with mindless hunger. He wasn’t hard, or panting, or unchained from reality.

He was staring at your injuries.

At the torn fabric, at the swelling in your cheek. The handprint rising red on your arm. And the grip marks on your breaks. The blood at your lip. His brow furrowed.

And his whole body… melted.

The heat was gone, almost instantly. 

Slowly, he lowered himself to one knee.

“Who…” he rasped, “did this to you?”

His voice was hoarse, barely there. But there was no mistaking the rage that had formed underneath it — nothing like the lust the guards had imagined.

He handed you his only blanket, and you clutched it. He let you wrap yourself in it, and when you couldn’t stand, he helped you sit up, not touching your skin unless he had to.

“Maksimov, Yuri, and Anton,” you whispered, lip trembling.

His teeth clenched.

He reached out slowly — slow enough that you could move away, slow enough that you knew it wasn’t force — and brushed the blanket more tightly around your shoulders, like he was covering you from the world, from the camera, from the three guards he knew were watching.  

You were still crying. You didn’t realise it until his human thumb brushed away a tear from your cheek.

He didn’t say anything for a while.

He just sat there, at your level, holding the blanket closed with one hand, eyes locked on yours. Not on your body. Not on your skin. 

You folded into his chest, not because he demanded it, but because it was safe. 

He wrapped his arms around you like he’d never learned how to hold a person without breaking them. And still — he didn’t break you.

He just held you, shivering, until your breathing slowed.

And in the silence, you heard the quietest thing of all. “I won’t hurt you.”

Once again, The Asset had made a choice. 

A human one.

—

Hours passed.

The two of you stayed curled together on the concrete. You had stopped crying eventually, but your body still trembled now and then— from shock, from adrenaline.

You still felt his arm around your shoulders—gentle, not possessive.

The guards who had been watching were probably bored. You thought maybe—maybe—you’d be left alone. Maybe they’d gotten the message. Maybe they wouldn’t push again.

You were proven wrong when the heavy steel door hissed open.

You barely had time to pull the blanket tighter.

The same three guards entered and they were prepared. They carried sleek, matte black rifles. Loaded, to deal with The Asset should he go rogue. 

And then you heard the voice.

“Что с тобой, солдат?” — What the fuck is wrong with you, Soldat?

Yuri stepped forward, gun dangling casually in his hands, eyes not even on The Asset— but on you.

“Мы дали тебе дырку, и ты даже не воспользовался ею?” — We gave you a hole and you didn’t even use it?

You flinched so hard your head hit the metal wall behind you.

The Asset stood up and stepped directly in front of you, body between yours and theirs, fists clenched. He was…shielding you.

The guards exchanged glances, laughing now. One of them cocked his gun and slung it over his shoulder like a prop in a theatre.

“Ладно. Тогда мы сами её трахнем,” —Fine. Then we’ll use her ourselves. Maksimov said, smiling.

And then Yuri moved fast. He reached out and grabbed your ankle, hard, yanking you out of the blanket.

You screamed.

And The Asset snapped.

No hesitation, No programming.

Just rage.

The Asset’s metal fist punched Yuri square in the chest and launched him into the far wall. The impact was loud enough that you heard a crack—maybe the wall, but most likely Yuri’s spine.

Before anyone else could react, he twisted and ripped the rifle from Anton’s hands. Without really aiming, he pulled the trigger and shot Maksimov in the throat.

Blood sprayed the walls, and Maksimov gurgled once before slumping to the ground.

Anton raised his hands to surrender.

Too late.

Bucky pivoted, metal arm slamming the barrel of the rifle into Anton’s face with brutal force, then fired— one shot, clean through the eye.

He dropped the gun.

It clattered to the floor, ringing louder than the gunshots had.

He turned back toward you, his shoulders rising and falling with every breath.

He knelt. “I’m sorry you had to see that.”

You blinked, still clutching the blanket, hands shaking.

—

Within minutes of the bodies hitting the ground, you heard the sound of heavy boots walking in.

Karpov entered the cell like he owned the air in it.

He didn’t look at you.

He didn’t look at the corpses.

He only looked at The Asset who was still crouched in front of you, body curled like a shield.

Karpov simply pressed a switch on a small black device he held in his gloved hand.

There was a crack of electricity, and The Asset screamed.

You jolted, reaching for him—but it was no use.

His body seized up as the taser pulse ran through his spine, his metal arm locking tight against the floor, 

He didn’t resist. He didn’t even try.

When he collapsed unconscious beside the cot, Karpov turned to you without missing a beat.

“Come.”

You shook your head. “He—he was protecting me—he saved me—”

“You’ll have time for your little report later,” he snapped, throwing you some clothes to put on. “For now, come.”

—

The interrogation room was cold. 

Karpov stood across the table from you, arms folded.

“You will explain,” he said coldly.

Your eyebrows furrowed, still half in shock. “Explain what?”

He tilted his head. “You calmed him down.”

Your mouth opened, then shut.

"You do understand," he said in his frigid Russian-laced English, “that he should have either killed you, or fucked you.”

You froze.

He watched your reaction like a scalpel watches skin.

“That’s what the programming was designed to do,” he continued. “You are aware of his conditioning, yes?”

You nodded slowly, not trusting your voice.

“Then you know what heat was for.”

You have heard of why it was drilled in his brain— but you didn’t answer.

Karpov did not wait for permission to continue.

“It was an instinct trigger. Embedded in his biological and neural mapping through synthetic hormonal injections and psychosexual conditioning. During these ‘heat’ cycles, he was supposed to be motivated—” He paused, eyes narrow, “—it was supposed to encourage mating.”

Your throat closed. Did he really not care about the dead guards? Was the project really his main concern?

“The Soldier’s DNA is nearly perfect.” he said, as if it was. “Hydra wanted progeny. Super soldiers born, not built.”

He leaned in then, elbows on the table, steepling his fingers in front of his mouth.

“But every woman they introduced… didn’t survive long enough to be useful. He tore through them out of instinct. So the project was abandoned years ago. The heat was too unstable, and he had no control.” He sat down across from you. “Until you.”

Your stomach lurched.

“You,” Karpov said slowly, “calmed him down.”

“I—I didn’t do anything,” you whispered. 

“You must have!” he snapped. 

You flinched. 

“I’ve studied his tapes for years! I've watched him crush skulls with his bare hands, tear out throats. Rip people in half when the words are spoken. But you—” Karpov stood, circling the table again. “—you knelt half-naked in front of him while he was in heat—and instead of fucking you to death, he held you.”

“I don’t know,” you said hoarsely. 

Karpov stared at you for a long moment, then sighed. He picked up the file from the table and turned to leave.

At the door, without turning back, he said, “You’re being reassigned.”

—

When you went back to your quarters. Your bunk was gone.

Your locker was cleared and stuffed neatly into a duffel bag. 

On the floor was a folded piece of paper.

REASSIGNED TO: THE KENNEL Effective Immediately. Observation: Subject Winter Soldier Objective: Behavioral stabilization Note: Subject's physiological response indicates reduced volatility in your presence. Further utility assessment pending.

You sank onto the cot.

Now, to Hydra, you weren’t just a doctor. You were a leash.

—

The cot wasn’t meant for two.

It was military-issue— narrow, hard-edged, bolted to the floor like everything else in the kennel. At first, you didn’t even sit on it when he was there. You’d sleep on the floor with your back to the cold steel wall, too awkward to mention what happened that day. The blanket was wrapped tight, pretending it wasn’t humiliating, pretending you weren’t always cold.

At first, he’d just watch, afraid of crossing a line— especially after what had happened to you. 

Then, after a week, he motioned for you to sit beside him on the cot when you changed bandages or administered injections.

Then, a month in, after a mission where he came back with his knuckles broken and a gunshot wound near his ribs, you were too exhausted to curl back up on the floor. You’d been crying silently that night, your hands trembling as you stitched him, your eyes stinging, wondering where everything had gone wrong. 

When you’d finished, he looked at you. “…You don’t have to sleep on the floor.”

Your eyes flicked up.

“What?”

He shifted to make room. One side of the cot opened up to you.

You hesitated. Then nodded.

That night, you lay stiff as a board beside him, back to back, flinching to touch. You barely slept, afraid to breathe too loud.

But the next night, when you came back from the showers and the lights dimmed for sleep, he scooted over before you even asked.

By the second month, your backs were pressed together at night. 

By the third, you’d curl inward, and he’d curl, too. One of your legs would brush his. Your forehead might graze his chest. His arm, the flesh one, sometimes draped around your side in the middle of sleep and didn’t pull away when you shifted closer.

—

When his heat cycles came—and they always came—you prepared.

You stayed calm and gave him space. 

You… would sing to him. Lullabies, mostly— songs meant for children too small to understand how cruel the world could be.

He never moved toward you during those nights. He never touched you without invitation. He’d sit on the cot, the muscles in his neck pulled tight.

Sometimes he’d whisper things to himself, half-delirious.

"No. Not her. Not her."

—

When he was frozen, you stayed in the kennel alone.

You didn’t think you’d miss him, but you did.

You’d find yourself sitting on the floor beside his cot, staring at the sealed cryo-chamber, singing to yourself just to fill the space.

And when they unfroze and reset him, you were still his doctor.

You still iced his knuckles. You still placed his dislocated shoulder back. You still pulled bullets from his flesh and closed the wounds with care no one else gave him.

But after the first few months, he started looking at you differently.

Like he knew you. Even after resets. Even after ice.

—

One day, after a mission that had stretched on far longer than any of the others—he came back. He was quiet when he entered. He did not say a word. 

But after two hours of working on his wound, he whispered, “Bucky.”

You tilted your head, confused. You weren’t sure you’d heard right. 

Then he said it again, firmer this time. “My name is Bucky.”

What?

Your mouth opened slowly, your breath finally catching up. 

He… remembered?

“…Okay, Bucky,” you said, voice quieter than you meant it to be— because anything louder might shatter whatever this was—perhaps a glimpse of the man buried beneath all the programming and pain. “Can you please lift your arm for me?”

He did.

And for the first time, he looked… not just present. Not just there.

He looked real.

—

You were still asleep when the cold hands tore the blanket from your body.

Two Hydra agents stormed into the kennel, and before you could even sit up, they had you by the hair, dragging you off the cot like a rag doll.

Bucky shifted awake next to you, but the third guard tased him before he could fully even register what was happening.

“What—what are you doing—?!”

They didn’t answer. They just manhandled you down the corridor, your bare feet scraping along concrete, your heart still stuck between dreams and dread.

In the interrogation room, one of them shoved you into the metal chair so hard the back of your skull smacked against steel. A hand grabbed your chin, wrenching your face toward him. The other paced behind, a cattle prod crackling ominously in his grip.

You recognised the person in front of you as Karpov. “What did he tell you?”

You blinked. Your ears rang. You were still half-asleep, disoriented. 

Then you realised: 

Oh. 

Someone saw the footage.

Someone saw what happened last night. Someone heard Bucky say his name.

Your mouth opened, before shutting again. You weren’t even sure what to say. He didn’t tell you anything else, but if you said so, would they even believe you?

But Karpov demanded more.

“Did he say his designation?”

“Did he say anything else? Was there a code?”

“What did he tell you, girl?”

The prod surged forward with a snap of electricity, kissing your side. You screamed—more from shock than pain—but the heat seared like fire across your ribs. You convulsed in the chair, gasping, trying to curl away, but the restraints held you firm.

And then—through your haze—you saw a flicker in the hall.

You heard a grunt. A thud.

And suddenly—he was there.

The Winter Soldier. No—Bucky.

His body still shook from the effects of the tasers, but his eyes were burning. 

One of the agents turned in time to catch a brutal kick to the gut that sent him sprawling. The other barely got a hand to his weapon before Bucky lunged, using the full weight of his body to knock him back. You saw blood and heard bone crack.

In seconds, it was over. Even Karpov was hauled away to safety. 

Bucky was at your side, kneeling, his trembling fingers working clumsily at the restraints. 

“Bucky—” your voice cracked. “You’re hurt—your face—”

He didn’t answer right away. His eyes didn’t meet yours.

The cuffs snapped off.

You sagged forward, into his arms before you even realised you were doing it. You felt the thrum of his chest, the rise and fall of ragged breathing. 

He cupped your face with his human hand, and for a second you thought he might kiss you — but no. He pulled back.

Because he knew if he did, he wouldn’t have the strength to lose you.

“You need to go.”

You froze. “What?”

“There’s a tunnel—service corridor—they don’t watch it after hours. It connects to the south barracks. You can get outside the perimeter.”

“Bucky—no,” you said through gritted teeth, “I’m not leaving you.”

He clenched his teeth. 

“You have to,” he said. “I can’t protect you here.”

“I don’t care—”

“I do.”

That stopped you cold.

His voice cracked on those words. He looked away, just for a second, as if ashamed of how much he meant them. “I— I’m starting to know things I shouldn’t,” he said softly. “I need you to go. If I don’t… if I’m not… If they wiped me…”

You shook your head. “Don’t.”

“I need you to promise me,” he said, almost begging now. “Don’t come back for me.”

“I—please—”

His lips brushed your forehead, right before he shoved you gently but firmly toward the hall.

“Go.”

So you did.

—

Thirty Years Later.

The world had changed. 

Until yesterday, James Buchanan Barnes was a congressman. He didn’t go looking for redemption anymore. And he certainly didn’t go looking for you.

What would be the point?

You were probably… what? In your sixties? Seventies? If you’d survived at all— and Hydra said you hadn’t, that they’d caught you in one of the tunnels and killed you— he could only hope you’d built a life—married someone kind, had children, found a place where the past couldn’t follow you. If you had managed to find peace, he wasn’t going to rip it open like an old scar just to ask, Do you remember me?

So he never tried.

But he never loved again either.

Because even if he never said it out loud, Bucky Barnes had once loved you in a place where love wasn't supposed to exist. 

He still did.

That kind of love didn’t fade. It just lay quiet beneath the skin, like a healed-over wound that never quite stopped aching.

It wasn’t something he talked about. Not to Sam. Not to Steve, before he left. 

Until...

—

New York. Post-Void.

The sky was still clearing after the void had swallowed New York City whole

The Thunderbolts were scattered across the debris-littered street, dragging survivors from the wreckage after Valentina smirked smugly from successfully introducing them to the world as the New Avengers.

Bucky was scanning for movement in the fallen concrete.

That’s when he heard it.

It was faint, like madness like a lullaby from another life.

“Baa baa, black sheep… have you any wool…”

His whole body went still. 

He whipped around, scanning the dust and rubble, and—

There.

You were kneeling beside a crying girl on a broken stoop, blood smeared down her shin, and she had a sprained ankle— maybe. Nothing fatal—but you held her like she was made of glass, one hand gently pressing a bandage against her knee, the other stroking her curls as you sang.

And you… you hadn’t changed.

There was not a wrinkle on your skin, not a gray hair on your head. You didn’t look a day older than the last time he saw you, thirty years ago.

He was so stunned, he forgot how to breathe. 

“You know her?” Yelena asked, stepping beside him, flicking blood from her forehead.

“Yes sir, yes sir, three bags full.”

You calmed the little girl down when she started sobbing, making sure you were gentle with her injuries. 

Bucky didn’t answer.

Couldn’t.

His lips parted like he might say yes, but no sound came out. 

“One for the master, one for the dame,” you sang as the girl sniffled, “and one for the little boy who lives down the lane.”

It was like his lungs had forgotten air. His heart beat painfully inside his ribs—too much, too fast, too sudden.

And then—

You looked up.

Saw him.

And smiled.

—

You walked over to him like you were in a dream—like every step was an act of defiance to everything that had broken you, bent you, tried to erase you. 

He was now sitting on the ground, legs sprawled like they couldn’t quite hold him up anymore. Blood streaked across his jaw, already drying in cracked lines. His chest rose and fell like he’d just come back from drowning.

Your boots crunched over broken glass and gravel as you closed in. You didn’t speak at first. You didn’t know if he could handle words yet—not until your presence fully registered. 

You crouched down, and he flinched when you touched his face—not because it hurt, but because he didn’t trust that any of this was real.

“You’re hurt,” you finally said. “Let me help.”

You pulled out the antiseptic, your hands shaking slightly. You dabbed the cotton gently along the edges of a deep cut above his brow. The moment the liquid touched skin, he shuddered.

And then he started shaking.

The tremble that began in his hands and spread to his shoulders, his chest, his teeth. His mouth parted like he wanted to speak, to ask something, but the words got lost 

Tears welled in his eyes before he could stop them. His breath hitched before the first choked sob, clawing its way up his throat.

And maybe it had been.

Because it wasn’t just about seeing you. It was about seeing you alive.

Alive.

Not a hallucination. Not a memory. Not like he saw you, in the void. 

Alive. With breath in your lungs and heat in your veins and the same look in your eyes that once held him when he was in pain. 

His lips moved—silent at first. Then the words came out shaky. “Do you… remember me?”

You froze for half a second, eyes softening in a way that shattered him all over again.

“Of course I do,” you whispered, brushing a stray hair away from his forehead. “I could never forget the love of my life.”

Was that what he was to you?

After all this time, he still meant the same thing that you did to him? 

He turned his face away like it might somehow spare him some tears, but it didn’t. The sob that followed ripped from the deepest part of his heart, almost primitive. Not the kind you cry when you’re sad, but the kind you cry when you realise your heart’s still beating after being convinced it was gone.

He collapsed into himself, shoulders hitching, breath stuttering out in ragged gasps. His metal hand clawed blindly at the ground like he needed something solid to hold onto before he slipped under.

You didn’t say anything else. You just moved closer, wrapping an arm gently around his shoulders, resting your forehead to his temple as he wept.

Yelena had wandered off a while ago—probably in search of someone else to pester— most likely her father. 

She hadn’t even looked back. She probably knew that this moment didn’t belong to her.

It belonged to him. And you.

He tried to say something else—an apology, maybe, or a confession—but all that came out was, “I—I…” he swallowed, “I— I…”

“Bucky…” You hushed him gently, thumb brushing the tears from his cheek. “We’ll talk somewhere private, yeah?”

He barely nodded. 

Because right now, language was too small a thing. All he could do was hold onto you. And all his mind could think was the way your hand fit in his like it always had.

—

You walked ahead of him, leading him down the cracked sidewalk with a hand hovering just near his arm in case he stumbled again.

He hadn’t stopped shaking.

Every so often, Bucky would glance sideways at you—like if he looked away for too long, you might vanish. His eyes were still red, his fists clenched like it hurt to hold himself together. Still, he followed.

It wasn’t far—just a few blocks. Somewhere between tourist traps and bodegas. 

The sign above the trauma clinic was clean and professional. Your name etched in utilitarian serif, easily overlooked.

You didn’t take him through the front. Instead, you circled to the alley behind the building and paused before a rusted steel door that looked like it hadn’t been used in years. But then—you looked directly at a small, seamless panel embedded beside the frame.

A red light swept across your retina, and when it recognised you— the lock hissed open with a pneumatic sigh.

“Come on,” you murmured as the door swung inward.

You descended a narrow staircase, the lights flickering on ahead of you one by one—clean, white fluorescence bathing the walls. At the bottom, it opened into a wide, reinforced corridor. 

And then you turned the final corner.

Oh.

That was all his mind could manage.

This was not a secret lab. Not some grim Hydra hellhole or impersonal bunker. 

No. This place was…

It was your life. A shrine. A sanctum buried beneath the city.

It was a sterile medical bay with sleek counters, an exam table and chair, sealed cabinets filled with trauma kits and gauze and every instrument a trauma doctor could need—but the walls told a different story.

To his right: a newspaper framed in glass. “Harlem Disaster Narrowly Avoided: Doctor Treats Over Fifty Civilians After Abomination Rampage.” Your name was in the byline. There was even a photo—blurry, taken on someone’s flip phone, of you, sleeves rolled up, arms smeared with blood as you performed a field tourniquet on a screaming man.

Then, “Unsung Hero of New York: Trauma Doctor Saves Dozens in Battle of Midtown.”

He kept turning. The memorabilia… evolved.

A cracked Daredevil helmet, dark red and scuffed.

A display case holding a single 9mm bullet, etched with the faint white skull of the Punisher— etched on it. 

A shattered web cartridge, unmistakably Spidey’s, with a bit of dried synthetic fluid still crusted at the nozzle.

Even a shelf with a glittery Ms. Marvel Funko Pop, clearly out of place, sitting cheerfully among medical books and gauze rolls.

Bucky’s voice, when it came, was nothing more than a breath. “What is this?”

You stepped beside him, your fingers trailing the little bobblehead. “Gifts from… friends.”

He turned to you. “Friends?”

You gave him a tired smile and joked, “Is it so unbelievable for me to have friends, Bucky?”

He blinked, startled by the levity. You gently nudged him to sit on the exam table, and he obeyed without protest as you cleaned his wounds. 

“I just…” he said, voice thin. “I don’t know how you’re still alive. Or how you still look so…” His eyes lingered. “…young.”

You didn't meet his gaze. “Thank Hydra.”

Bucky swallowed, but you continued. 

“When I got recruited, they injected me with something— they said it was just a stimulant— to keep me going longer, help me work longer hours.”

He went still.

“Later, I learned that it was something called the Infinity Formula. Not exactly a Super Soldier Serum, but it… slowed my aging significantly. I guess they didn't want to have to train more people.”

You kept working on the cuts on his face. 

“When you got me out… I didn’t know how to be in the world anymore. So I built this practice. I wanted to be… useful”

Your fingers paused briefly, then continued.

“But then, vigilantes started showing up. People who couldn’t go to hospitals— people who were bleeding, hunted, scared. It was a small community, so word spread.”

Bucky winced as you moved on to the next cut.

“I patched them up.” You nodded toward the artifacts on the walls. “No questions. Just… tried to keep them breathing long enough to get back out there. It became my life.”

Every artifact had a story, and you were the invisible thread stitching it together.

“A couple months ago, Fisk outlawed masked vigilantes and made everything worse. Not a lot come round anymore, but I still help. How could I not?” You looked up at him.“They show up half-dead, still trying to save people. They just need someone to believe they’re worth saving too.”

Bucky's hands curled into trembling fists at his sides.

You pulled the final stitch and wrapped the wound. “There,” you whispered. “You’re good.”

But Bucky didn’t move. He was staring again. Not at the artifacts, not at the walls. But… at you.

“You…” His voice cracked. “You never stopped.”

There was no more Hydra. No more handlers. No more needles.

And yet you continued doing what you do best. 

Back then, he'd thought he'd imagined it. That flicker of you— the only good thing in that place built to destroy anything good.

But now…

Now, here you were. Standing in front of him. Still real. Still breathing. Still looking at him like he was a man, not a weapon.

His voice, when it came, was hoarse and hesitant, like it hurt to say.

“Can I…?”

He didn’t finish the sentence. He looked at you, struggling to find his voice. “Can I touch you?”

You didn’t move for a heartbeat. But then you nodded.

And that was all he needed.

He pulled you ever closer, barely daring to breathe. He lifted his metal arm so gently, like you might vanish if he pressed too hard— he cupped your cheek.

His thumb brushed along your skin, just once.

It was real. 

His other hand followed, cradling your face between his palms. His calloused fingers trembled against you, his lips parting. A man who had faced death a thousand times over… and was now utterly undone by the fact that you were standing in front of him, alive.

Bucky pressed his forehead against yours, and the first sob slipped out of him like a wound opening in real time. His whole body curled inward, as if trying to shield you and collapse into you at the same time.

Your hands came up slowly, mirroring his motion like magnets finding their way to each other after centuries apart, holding him just as gently. “I missed you, Bucky.”

His eyes, that haunted blue, searched your face. “Why didn’t you come for me?” he asked, pain buried deep in his voice. You must’ve seen him in the news— during the Sokovia Accords, the ordeal with the Flag Smashers, or when he became a congressman. You simply have had to have seen him.

You swallowed hard, blinking away the sudden sting in your eyes. “I didn’t think…,” you admitted, “I didn’t think you’d remember me.”

His brows furrowed. “Of course I remembered you,” he said, a little broken, a little desperate. His thumb moved again, tracing circles against your skin. “But Hydra told me you were dead— I never believed them. But after everything, I thought maybe you’d moved on. That you were gone for good, one way or another.”

Tears welled in your eyes now, hot and brimming over, and you let them fall. “After what we’ve been through?” you asked, your voice trembling as a sad smile curled your lips. “How could I ever move on from you?”

He let out a sharp breath, like your words were a punch to the chest. Gently, as if giving you the chance to pull away,  he pulled you closer — chest to chest, heart to heart — until he helped you up and you were straddling his lap, your hands finding a perch on his shoulders, his arms caging you in like you were the most precious thing he’d ever held.

His forehead rested against yours again, breaths mingling, warm and shallow. 

“God, Bucky…After all this time,” you whispered in amazement, “what are we?”

He didn’t answer right away. 

Then, finally, with certainty, he said, “A choice.”

Your breath hitched.

“A choice,” he repeated, eyes locked with yours, his grip tightening slightly on your hips. “The first real choice I made after having my mind taken from me. The first person I cared for that were not orders, not missions.”

Oh.

You let your fingers trail up into his hair, letting yourself touch him like you’d dreamed about for so long. He leaned into it, eyes fluttering shut for a heartbeat.

You swallowed again, sighed when he leaned into your touch. 

“I…” you started, but  pulled back just slightly so you could see his face, your eyes meeting his. “Can I kiss you?”

He looked at you like you were the only person in the world that made any sense.

He could only nod. 

And you kissed him.

It was cautious at first, tentative, like a secret being unravelled — but the second he hummed, the world disappeared. His hand slid to the back of your neck, the other anchoring you to him as he kissed you like he’d been holding his breath for years. You melted into him, your mouths moving together like you’d done this a thousand times in your dreams.

When you finally pulled back, your forehead pressed to his again, both of you smiling like teenagers.

You let out a small laugh, “I’ve always wondered what your lips tasted like.”

He chuckled too, that low, boyish sound you hadn’t heard… ever. “Yeah?” he asked, fingers still tracing lazy lines along your spine. “Was it everything you imagined?”

You grinned, eyes still closed. “Better.”

He kissed your cheek, your jaw, the corner of your mouth and whispered, “I missed you, too.”

—

You and Bucky had taken it slow.

After those first intense days together, you both decided to learn about each other outside of Hydra. Just to see who you were now. 

You went on actual dates— coffee that turned into late dinners, morning hikes, lazy afternoons in museums, cooking together and arguing over whether pineapple belonged on pizza. 

Turns out, outside the cold walls of bunkers and laboratories and hidden bases, you and Bucky were more compatible than you'd even dared hope. He liked vinyl records and peaceful mornings. You liked stargazing and stealing his sweaters. You both loved old noir films, loved sushi, and had developed a strangely passionate shared hobby for urban beekeeping.

You laughed more. He smiled more. It was like discovering each other for the first time all over again.

You’d kept your medical practice open, still offering your services to non-traditional patients. But when the Watchtower was done and the New Avengers moved in, they asked you to help the team.

Your official title was Medical Liaison and Trauma Consultant, but mostly you patched up a rotating cast of stubborn supersoldiers and spies who swore they “healed fast” and then passed out on your med bay floor.

But today, the med bay was calm — just a light checkup for Alexei, a bruised rib for Yelena, and a lot of banter.

Everyone knew you and Bucky were dating, but no one had the guts (or stupidity) to ask questions. 

Until now.

You were cleaning up your tray of instruments when Bob leaned back in his chair and asked casually, “So… how did you guys meet again?”

You paused.

Bucky, seated on the edge of the exam table with his shirt half-buttoned, glanced at you.

“Oh, you know,” you blinked, “Mutual enemies.”

There was a beat of silence.

“What does that even mean?” Walker asked, clearly disappointed. 

You smiled sweetly. “It means you don’t want to know.”

Yelena squinted at you from the other bed. “It means the real story is either classified or deeply traumatic.”

“Or both,” Alexei said.

You laughed — a little too brightly for the topic — and handed Yelena her discharge form. “Exactly. Now who’s next for bloodwork?”

Bucky slid off the table, kissing your cheek quickly as he passed. Ava rolled her eyes so hard you could practically hear it.

Mutual enemies? Yeah, right. 

The more accurate term would be: the best thing Hydra never meant to happen. 

– end.

General Bucky taglist:

@hotlinepanda @snflwr-vol6 @ruexj283 @2honeybees @read-just-cant

 @shanksstrawhat @mystictf @globetrotter28 @thebuckybarnesvault @average-vibe

@winchestert101 @mystictf @globetrotter28 @boy--wonder--187 @scariusaquarius

@reckless007 @hextech-bros @daydreamgoddess14 @96jnie @pono-pura-vida

@buckyslove1917 @notsostrangerthing @flow33didontsmoke @qvynrand @blackbirdwitch22

@torntaltos @seventeen-x @ren-ni @iilsenewman @slayerofthevampire

@hiphip-horray @jbbucketlist @melotyy @ethereal-witch24 @samfunko

@lilteef @hi172826 @pklol @average-vibe @shanksstrawhat

@shower-me-with-roses @athenabarnes @scarwidow @thriving-n-jiving @dilfsaresohot

@helloxgoodbi @undf-stuff @sapphirebarnes @hzdhrtss @softhornymess

@samfunko @wh1sp @anonymousreader4d7 @mathcat345 @escapefromrealitylol

@imjusthere1161 @sleepysongbirdsings @fuckybarnes @yn-stories-are-my-life @rIphunter

@cjand10 @nerdreader @am-3-thyst @wingstoyourdreams @lori19

@goldengubs @maryevm @helen-2003 @maryssong23 @fan4astic

@yesshewrites1 @thewiselionessss @sangsterizada @jaderabbitt @softpia 

@hopeofwinter @nevereclipse @tellybearryyyy @buckybarneswife125 @buckybarneswife125

@imaginecrushes @phoenixes-and-wizards @rowanthomasknapp @daystarpoet @thefandomplace

@biaswreckedbybuckybarnes @herejustforbuckybarnes @kitasownworld @shortandb1tchy @roxyym

@badl4nder

[buckysleftbicep]

what's left behind 𐙚 b.b

pairing: new avenger!bucky barnes x you

warnings: nsfw, 18+, minors dni, soft smut, unprotected sex, lots of vulnerability, angst, arguments

summary: after finding out bucky’s leaving on another mission without telling you, everything falls apart. the argument is brutal, but that night, he comes back to hold you. just once more. maybe for the last time.

word count: 3.6k

author's note: hi loves, i hope you enjoy this fic, thank you for stopping by! i love ya and stay safe out there!

requests are open!

The training room pulsed with familiar noise, the heavy thud of gloves against bags, low music crackling from the corner speaker, the distant echo of Alexei's grunts as Yelena dodged and countered with practiced ease. You were seated near the mats, crouched low to tighten your bootlaces, half-listening as Ava adjusted the wraps on her wrists beside you.

Then came John. He wandered over with a towel slung around his neck and a water bottle in hand.

“Man,” he said with a half-laugh, “Barnes really got the short end of the stick this time, huh?”

You didn’t look up. “What are you talking about?”

He shrugged, grinning like it was just another joke. “Val’s sending him to Prague for that off-the-books recon shit. Solo op, no backup. Tonight, I think. Hope he’s got his will written.”

The blood drained from your face.

“What did you say?”

John blinked, caught off guard. “What? I figured you—”

Yelena’s head snapped toward him mid-spar. “John,” she barked, sharp as a blade. Her gloves dropped to the mat with a thud as she stalked over, face thunderous. “sometimes you should shut up"

But the damage was done. You were already rising, the laces on your boots forgotten, breath stuck somewhere between your ribs and throat.

“What mission?” you asked, voice brittle.

Yelena slowed as she approached, expression softening the second she really looked at you. “Shit,” she muttered, shoulders slumping. “He didn’t tell you.”

Your stomach turned. Ice spread through your limbs like a warning.

“No,” you whispered.

The room began to distort—muffled punches, shifting feet, the faint ring of metal-on-metal—all of it warped around the sudden roar in your head. You looked at Yelena, waiting for her to laugh it off, say she got the timing wrong, that it wasn’t a big deal.

She didn’t.

“It’s just recon,” she offered weakly. “Val briefed him this morning. Probably nothing.”

“And all of you knew?” you asked softly.

No one said it out loud, but the looks on their faces answered for them. Yelena's hesitation, Ava's downcast eyes, John's wince—it was written in the silence, heavy and unspoken.

“Then why didn’t he tell me?” The words were low, almost strangled. No one answered.

John had the decency to look like he wanted the floor to swallow him whole. His eyes flicked up to meet yours, guilt crawling over his features. "Maybe he just... didn’t want you to worry," he offered quietly, voice far too late and far too unsure.

You had heard that sentence one too many times. The last few instances Val had pulled him for something like this, he came back a mess, bloodied and bruised.

Once, he was rushed straight to the med wing in the middle of the night, unconscious, soaked in blood that wasn’t all his. And even then, he hadn’t been alone. John had been there, Ava too as his backup

But this time? This time he was going alone.

Alexei, still leaning against the ropes, huffed and shook his head. "Barnes is idiot," he muttered.

Ava moved like she might say something, lips parting slightly, then thought better of it. Yelena didn’t look away, she just watched you with something that looked too much like sympathy.

You stood there in the stunned quiet, heart crawling its way up your throat.

You inhaled sharply, blinked hard, and turned for the door.

“Where are you going?” Yelena asked, her voice soft now.

“I need to find him.”

You didn’t wait for a reply.

The doors slid shut behind you as you stepped into the corridor, every footfall too fast, too loud. The air outside the training room was cold, sterile, and it did nothing to cool the heat rising in your chest, that bitter, crawling ache you only ever felt when he shut you out.

He didn't even bother telling you.

Not even a word. Not at breakfast. Not when he kissed your forehead half-asleep last night. Not when he curled around you, hand resting warm on your hip like he always did when he didn’t want to talk about what was coming.

He was going to leave. Again. No note. No warning. You’d have woken up alone, found his side of the bed cold and empty, and the duffel gone.

Without telling you.

He came back around six that evening.

The door creaked open with that soft, careful click, the one he always used when he thought you might be sleeping. Like if he was quiet enough, you wouldn’t notice the weight he was carrying. Like he could still pretend this wasn’t about to break you.

You were already sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows braced against your thighs, hands clenched so tight your knuckles were bone-white. You heard the soft rustle of fabric as he stepped inside.

The quiet thud of his boots. He smelled like sweat and cold air and hotel soap, still damp from the showers downstairs, hair curling faintly at the ends. The black tactical shirt clung to his frame, soaked down the spine. He moved like nothing was wrong.

He set his gloves on the dresser. Dropped his bag near the closet. Reached for the strap of his holster.

“When were you going to tell me?”

His hands stopped moving. He turned slowly, eyes cautious, like he already knew.

“It’s just recon,” he said, voice steady in that way he used when he knew you were about to snap. “In and out.”

You rose to your feet. “Don’t do that,” you said, voice shaking. “Don’t stand there and lie to my face like it’s not another off-the-books op with no support. Don’t act like Val doesn’t send you to bleed for her."

He exhaled through his nose, jaw clenched. “I wasn’t lying.”

“You weren’t telling the truth either,” you said. “You weren’t going to tell me anything. You were going to disappear. Again.”

He stepped back, defensive. “I was going to tell you—”

“When?” you cut in, voice cracking. “When I woke up to an empty bed and your fucking dog tags gone?”

His mouth opened. Closed. He ran a hand through his hair like he could smooth out the mess he made with silence. “I didn’t want you to panic.”

“Bullshit,” you hissed. “You didn’t want to see me panic. You didn’t want to watch me fall apart because you would rather carry everything alone and pretend it doesn’t hurt.”

His tone sharpened. “You think this doesn’t kill me too? You think I want to leave you? That I don’t lie awake every time I get called and wonder if it’s the last time I’ll see you?”

“Then why do you keep letting them take you?” you cried. “Why do you keep letting her use you like you’re expendable?”

Bucky’s jaw flexed, teeth grinding. “Because she doesn’t ask. She corners me. Hands me a file and reminds me what happens if I say no.”

“That’s not an excuse,” you snapped, eyes glassy as tears threatened to spill.

“No,” he bit out, “it’s not. But it’s the truth. You think I get to walk away? Say, ‘Sorry, Val, not this time’? She doesn’t care. She reminds me what I was built for. What I’m good at.”

“You’re good at surviving,” you shot back, breath catching. “And all you’ve done lately is survive. Bleed for people who don’t care if you make it home and you let it happen.”

He turned away, pacing like the walls were shrinking around him. “If I don’t go, someone else does. Someone who won’t make it back.”

“So that’s it?” you said, voice rising. “You martyr yourself over and over again and I’m just supposed to sit here and watch?”

“I’m not a fucking martyr!” he exploded, voice cracking. “I don’t sleep. I don’t breathe when I’m not out there. I come back in pieces and pretend I’m fine because I don’t want to see that look in your eyes.”

“You don’t want to see me scared?” you asked, furious tears spilling freely now. “Then stop giving me reasons to be fucking terrified.”

He stopped. Breathing hard. Looking at you like it hurt just to meet your eyes.

“You think I don’t want to stay?” he whispered. “You think this is easy for me?”

“I think you’re punishing yourself,” you said, voice trembling. “Because somewhere deep down, you still think you deserve it.”

He didn’t deny it.

You took a step back, chest heaving. “You let Val own you,” you whispered. “You let her decide how much of you I get to keep. And every time you go, I get a little less.”

His voice was thin. “I never wanted you to see me like this.”

“I see you Bucky,” you said. “And I love you anyway. But you don’t let me hold any of it. You don’t trust me with the parts of you that hurt.”

His mouth opened, but nothing came out.

So you kept going. “I’m not asking you to quit. I’m asking you to stop walking out that door like you’re already halfway gone.”

And that’s when he said it.

“Maybe you should stop waiting for me like I’m gonna die.”

Your lips parted. Your breath stopped. A sob caught somewhere in your chest and refused to move.

He froze.

You didn’t scream. You didn’t throw anything. You just stood there, broken open in the center of the room, tears pouring freely down your face.

Your voice trembled when it came. “I wait for you because I love you. Not because I want to lose you.”

He didn’t say anything.

Didn’t reach for you. Didn’t even move.

You wiped at your face with a shaking hand and stepped back.

“I hope the mission’s worth it.”

And then you turned and walked out, footsteps too loud in the hallway, tears burning every step of the way—while behind you, the man you loved just stood there.

And let you go.

You sat curled in the corner of your bedroom, back pressed to the wall like it might hold you together, knees drawn tight to your chest.

The shirt on your skin was his—the one he had left draped over the chair last night. It smelled like him. Damp in places, creased from your grip, warm where your body clung to it. You hadn’t changed. Couldn’t. Peeling it off felt like severing the last piece of him you had left.

The silence wasn’t quiet. It was hollow. Heavy. The kind that followed after something had cracked wide open and left nothing in its place.

You didn’t know how long you’d been sitting there—long enough for the ache to settle into your spine, for your breathing to level out into something quiet but not calm.

The clock ticked on, cruel in its indifference. You imagined him already gone, the duffel slung over his shoulder, the bed behind him cold, the door clicking shut like none of it ever mattered and you waiting for him, heart thundering in your chest as you awaited for an update from someone, anyone.

Then came the knock.

Three soft taps. Hesitant. Uneven. Like he didn’t know if he was still allowed to be on the other side of your door.

You didn’t move. Not yet. The second knock came after a pause. Then nothing.

Eventually, you stood up, not because you were ready, but because you couldn’t not know. You opened the door.

He was still in the same gear, shirt clinging to his chest, sleeves, pants creased and dust-streaked. The holster was gone, but his boots were still on. His hair was damp from a rushed shower, curling faintly at the ends. Those cerulean eyes were red-rimmed, glassy, he looked wrecked.

You didn’t speak. Neither did he, not at first.

Then his voice broke the quiet. “I shouldn’t have said that.” Your voice came out flat. “No. You shouldn’t have.”

He nodded once, jaw flexing hard. His hands twitched uselessly at his sides. “I’ve been out here for twenty minutes,” he said, hoarse. “Trying to figure out what the hell I could say that’d make you open the door. That might make this less fucking ugly.”

You didn’t respond. Your heart ached, but your mouth wouldn’t move.

“I-I don’t know how to leave you,” he said quietly, “and still get on that plane.”

You looked at him then—really looked. He wasn’t wearing armour anymore. Not the kind that mattered. Not the kind that could keep this out. He was unraveling, standing there like he didn’t know where to put the hurt.

“I know I don’t deserve it,” he said, voice shaking now, almost breathless. “But please, baby, Just tonight. Let me stay. Let me hold you. Before I go."

And you stood there, heart cracked open, staring at the man who had broken it and realising, in the hollow quiet between you, that he was bleeding too.

He didn’t press. Just stood there for a breath longer, eyes on yours, like he was waiting for you to slam the door or let it fall open wider. And when you didn’t move, when you didn’t speak or breathe or push him away, he stepped inside, quiet and slow, like he was afraid any sound might shatter what was left.

He looked around the room like it hurt to be in it, like every corner still held a trace of his voice, his laughter, the way his hands used to hold you without hesitation.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t make excuses. He just came to you. And when he reached you, he didn’t plead. He simply gathered you into his arms.

You didn’t resist, no, you couldn’t. Not when his warmth surrounded you like that—desperate, unsteady. Like he was terrified this might be the last time.

His hands trembled where they touched your back. His breath hitched when your face pressed into his shoulder. And for a long moment, neither of you said a word. You just stood there, wrapped up in each other like it was the only way to stay upright.

Then his voice cracked the silence, low and barely there. “Please. Just one more night. Let me love you one more time before I go.”

Your fingers curled into his shirt. He pulled back only enough to look at you, eyes red, jaw tight with restraint, like this whole thing was holding together by a thread.

And when you didn’t answer, when your eyes only shined up at him, raw and full, he kissed you. It wasn’t desperate or rushed. It was like he was trying to remember every part of you by heart, like he was memorising the taste of you.

His hands moved slowly, down your back, over your ribs, under your shirt. The cotton lifted over your head with careful fingers. He undressed you the way someone handles something precious they’re afraid to lose—gently, every motion saying I’m sorry.

His lips trailed along your collarbone, your jaw, the corners of your eyes. When he laid you back against the mattress, his mouth moved lower, kissing your chest, your stomach, the inside of your thighs.

And when he pressed his lips to your skin, you whispered his name like it was a prayer, like it was the only word left in you.

He took his time. He touched you like he wanted to worship every inch. And when he finally moved above you, when he pushed into you slow and deep, it wasn’t to claim, it was to remember.

He buried his face in your neck, his hand tangled with yours beside your head. The stretch of him made your breath stutter, but you didn’t care. You wanted to feel it. All of it. Wanted the ache, the weight, the heat. So you could remember exactly how it felt to be his. His pace was slow, measured, meant to carve into you like a promise.

“I don’t deserve you,” he murmured, forehead pressed to yours, breath shaking with the effort not to fall apart.

“I’m scared,” you whispered, your voice breaking on the words.

“Me too,” he said—and the quiet agony in it wrecked you.

You clung to him tighter, wrapped your arms around his shoulders, your legs around his waist. And still it wasn’t close enough.

You cried before you came, not from pain, not even from pleasure, but from the weight of it all. From the terrifying, beautiful knowledge that this might be the last time. That you were loving each other like you were running out of time because maybe, this time, this mission, you were.

And when you shattered around him, he was right there, whispering your name, holding your face like it was something holy. He followed soon after, breaking apart with a ragged groan into your mouth, like he couldn’t bear to let go of you even for that.

And when it was over, when the world quieted again, he didn’t move. He just stayed wrapped around you, one hand cradling your cheek, the other resting low on your back, his heartbeat thudding hard against your chest.

You didn’t say anything. You didn’t have to. Because in that moment, your bodies said everything your hearts couldn’t. And maybe that was enough.

You lay sprawled across his chest, skin still slick with sweat and salt, your cheek rising and falling with every unsteady breath he took. His arms were wrapped around you like a lifeline, like he couldn’t bear the thought of not holding you if this was it.

His voice broke the silence, quiet, so quiet you almost didn’t hear it.

“I told Val this is the last one for a while."

Your fingers twitched against his ribs, but you didn’t speak.

“I want peace," he whispered. “And I want… you.”

That was what did it. Not the words, but the way he said them. Like a man who finally realised what he could lose.

“Will she let you?” you asked, barely above a breath.

He exhaled, a rough sound that cracked in the middle. “Doesn’t matter. Even if she doesn’t, I’m done, at least for now. I won’t let her take this from me too.”

You didn’t reply. You didn’t trust yourself to. You just let him press a kiss to your wrist, to the fragile skin where your pulse raced like it knew time was running out.

“I’ll come home (y/n), I swear to you."

But even as he said it, you both knew the truth—promises made before war rarely survived it.

Sleep came slow and fitful. When you finally drifted off, you curled yourself around him like you could anchor him there, like your body could keep him from slipping through the cracks.

But the morning came anyway.

And with it came the emptiness.

You woke to a bed that was too quiet, too cold. The warmth of him was fading fast, almost like he had left just minutes before. The pillow beside you was indented where his head had been. Your fingers reached for it before you could stop yourself.

No sound. No footsteps. No gear being packed in the hallway. He was gone.

For a second, your throat closed. Then you saw it. Right there on the nightstand.

A folded note with your name written on it in his sharp, slanted scrawl.

And beside it were his dog tags.

Not around his neck. Not taken for luck.

Left behind. Your heart seized.

You picked them up with shaking hands. They were still warm—and somehow, that broke you even more. Like he hadn’t wanted to take that piece of himself with him. Like he knew he might not come back, and couldn’t bear to let you be without it.

You opened the note.

I love you. I need you to believe that. If something happens, it was never because I didn’t try to get back to you. You’re the only thing I’ve ever been sure of. Wait for me. — James

You didn’t cry right away. You just sat there, staring at the words. Holding the tags to your chest like a lifeline. Like maybe if you clutched them hard enough, he’d come back through the door.

But the door stayed closed.

Now, all you had was a note, a promise, and the weight of him still lingering in the sheets.

So when he returned two weeks later, quiet and bruised, with a half-healed cut beneath his eye and his duffel slung over one shoulder, you didn’t breathe at first.

His eyes found you immediately, and for a long moment, the hallway went still.

You didn’t run to him. Not at first.

Because you didn’t trust it. Didn’t trust your own legs. Didn’t trust that this was real and not just another dream you had to wake from, sweating and empty, with his dog tags clutched in your hand and his note folded beneath your pillow.

But he stopped walking. Dropped the duffel.

Held out his arms. And that’s when you moved.

You collided with him all at once, fists against his chest, then fingers in his jacket, then your face pressed to his neck. His arms came around you instantly, crushing you to him like he needed proof you were still here.

Still his. Still waiting.

“I told you I’d come home,” he whispered, voice raw, rough with exhaustion.

You didn’t answer right away. Just stood there, trembling, forehead pressed to his jaw, tears threatening again.

“I know Bucky" you said. "I believe you."

He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes. And when he kissed you, it wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t frantic.

It was everything he hadn’t said.

Everything he’d nearly lost. And everything he came back for.

a/n: i think i have a penchant for writing angst, i enjoy it and i hope you enjoy my work!

requests are open!

[wildflowersandvibranium]

Now , Forever

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Fem Reader (set during CABNW)

Summary: Bucky ended things out of fear , thinking his dark past made him unworthy of love , but when he found her drowning her heartbreak in a bar, he couldn’t stay away.

Word Count: 2.5k+

Warnings: anstyyyy then ends happy , established relationship , exes to lovers , lots of drinking , smoking mentioned , depression mentions , alcoholism mentions , buckys past mentioned , blood mentioned , throw up/vomitting , hangover symptoms , medicine mentions , kisses i think thats all....

If I missed any let me know! 💖

A/N: im writing this half asleep and in one contiuos go , so sorry for any mistakes till i can proof read it! this little idea just popped in my head when rewatch CABNW and i just had to quickly whip something up. Hope you enjoy bbys :P

read my new series here! MY MASTERLIST

REQUESTS AND INBOX ALWAYS OPEN COME SAY HI OR DROP AN IDEA OR TWO! <3

The night Bucky ended things , you could feel it in your gut before he had even said the words. 

He was tense , shoulders tight as cable , his jaw working like he was chewing on something bitter and sticky. 

The apartment was a little too quiet , the air too still. 

You sat on the edge of the bed , fingers twisting in your lap waiting for the ball to drop.

“Bucky , what is it?” you asked softly.

He didn’t look at you at first. 

He stared at the plush carpeted floor, eyes shadowed and distant in deep thought. 

His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides , the faint creak of the metal plates as his vibranium fingers flexed.

“I can’t do this ,” he finally replied , voice low and hoarse.

Your heart seized up. “What? What do you mean?”

He dragged a hand through his hair , his fingers trembling. 

“I’m not who you think I am. I’ve tried to be… someone better. But it doesn’t change what I’ve done. What I’ve been.”

“Bucky,” you whispered , your voice shaking and broken. 

You stood , crossing the space between you , reaching out to touch his flesh arm. “I know about your past. I know it’s hard for you. But I love you. I don’t care—”

“It’s not that simple!” he snapped , his voice breaking on the last word. 

He flinched like he’d struck you , his expression twisting and turning. “I can’t let you see it. If you did… if you really saw what I’ve done , the blood on my hands , the ghosts that haunt my mind , you’d never look at me the same again and I can't live like that.”

You swallowed hard , tears blurring your vision pouring out. “I already see you , Bucky. I see the man in front of me. I see the way you try every day. That’s who I love.”

He shook his head , shoulders slumping now. “You deserve more than this , more than me. I can’t keep pretending I’m not… tainted and bruised. I thought I could protect you from it , but I can’t.”

You stepped closer, your hands on his chest , feeling the frantic beat of his heart beneath your palms. “Don’t do this,” you whispered. “Please don’t , you dont mean it right?”

But his hands came up wrapping around your wrists , gently but firmly removing yours from his chest. His eyes were wet now , his lips trembling. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I have to.”

And with that , he turned and walked out the door , leaving you standing there with your heart in your hands and the taste of his goodbye lingering on your lips.

You didn’t go home that night. 

Couldn’t. The apartment felt like an empty tomb without him , every shadow whispering his name. So you ran.

The bar down the street was loud and bright , neon signs flickering in the dark and glitter scattered around like promises you knew better than to believe. 

You pushed your way in , the music hitting you with a physical force , the beat so loud it rattled inside your bones.

You didn’t bother with grabbing a seat. 

You went straight to the bar , your voice barely a thread as you ordered a shot of vodka. 

The bartender gave you a once-over , something like concern flickering in his eyes, but he poured it anyway, sliding it over.

You tossed it back, the burn slipping down your throat a welcome distraction from the ache in your heart. 

You ordered another. 

And another. 

The edge of the bar was sticky under your fingertips , the smell of sweat and smoke heavily thick in the air.

The world started to blur around the edges. 

Faces became smears of color and simple shapes , laughter and conversation melting into the thud of the bass blaring. 

You ordered another shot , your hand shaking so badly the shot glass clinked against the counter.

Someone bumped into you , muttered an apology you didn’t hear. 

You didn’t care. 

Nothing mattered except the heat of the alcohol and the numbness creeping through your veins.

Just what you were wanting.

Your phone buzzed and lit up in your jeans pocket , a tiny lifeline in the noise and haze. 

You fumbled for it , your fingers clumsy and tingling , almost dropping it twice before you managed to answer.

“Hello?” you mumbled,  your voice thick and slurred , not even looking at the contact.

“Hey,” Sam Wilson's voice came through , calm but urgent. “Where are you?”

You tried to focus , tried to remember. “I’m… I’m at the bar. The one by the river. He… he left me , Sam.” Your voice cracked , a sob breaking free before you could stop it. “Bucky left me.”

Sam took a breath on the other end , calming himself. “Okay. Listen to me. I need you to stay right there. I’m coming to get you , okay? Don't leave.”

You clutched the phone so hard it could crack under the pressure. “Don’t… don’t tell him where I am . Please. I don’t want him to see me like this.”

“I won’t,” Sam promised. “I’m just going to get you home safe.”

You didn’t remember hanging up. 

You didn’t remember much of anything after that , just the constant too loud music pounding in your buzzing head , the alcohol burning a hole in your gut and chest , and the feeling that you were already halfway to nowhere.

You slumped forward , your head resting on the bar top , the shot glass still clutched in your hand like medicine. 

You didn’t even fight it when the world went black around you.

When you woke back up , it was to the smell of stale coffee and paper. 

Sam’s office. 

The overhead light was dim , the soft hum of the city outside the only sound you could make out right now.

You tried to sit up , but your head felt like it was full of broken glass and bricks. A groan slipped past your lips , and you pressed a hand to your forehead , trying to piece together how you got here.

Your eyes caught a picture frame on Sam’s desk , Sam and Bucky, arms slung around each other, grinning wide and bright. 

It felt like a punch to the gut. 

In your fuzzy , still havely drunken mind , you couldn’t separate the photo from the real people.

You stumbled to the desk , your hands trembling as you reached for the frame. “Bucky,” you whispered , your voice small and raw. “Why’d you leave me? Why didn’t you let me fight for you , for us?”

Tears welled up , slipping hot and fast down your cheeks. You pressed the frame to your chest , your body shaking with sobs. “I love you,” you cried , your voice ragged. “I love you so much , please, don’t leave me.”

The picture didn’t answer. 

It just stared back at you , frozen in time. You sank to your knees , the frame still clutched in your hands , your tears dripping onto the glass.

And then , from the doorway , you heard a voice , soft , rough , but unmistakably real and him.

“I’m here.”

You looked up , your breath catching in your throat. 

Bucky stood there , his expression a mix of anguish and love , his hands curled into fists at his sides.

“Bucky,” you gasped , the frame slipping from your fingers. “You’re… you’re here.”

He crossed the room in three long strides , dropping to his knees in front of you. His hands came up to cradle your face , thumb pads brushing away your warm tears. “I’m here,” he said again, his voice shaking. “I’m so sorry.”

You threw your arms around his neck , burying your face in his shoulder. 

The scent of him , leather and pine soap and something uniquely his , wrapped around you , grounding you to the world.

“I thought you didn’t want me,” you sobbed. “I thought I lost you.”

“Never,” he murmured , his breath warm against your hair. “I was trying to protect you. But I was wrong. I can’t protect you by pushing you away.”

Your fingers curled in the fabric of his jacket , holding him like you’d drown if you let go. 

Bucky didn’t say another word as he stood and scooped you into his arms. You let out a soft gasp , surprised by the effortless strength of his hold , but you didn’t fight it. 

You didn’t want to.

Your head lolled against his chest as he carried you out of Sam’s office. 

The cold night air bit at your skin , but it didn’t matter. 

All you could feel was the steady , sure beat of his heart under your cheek.

Sam and Joaquin hovered in the doorway, their expressions worried but relieved.

“Thank you guys,” Bucky murmured , his voice a promise as he shifted you in his arms. “I’ve got her.”

Sam gave him a small nod. “You know where I am if you need anything.”

Bucky just nodded , but his focus was entirely on you.

The ride back to your apartment was quiet and short.. 

You curled against him in the passenger seat of his car, the streetlights blurring past in streaks of white and golden light.. 

You felt the rough but also soft pad of his thumb brushing soothing circles on the back of your hand and knuckles , the last bit of tether to reality , in the here and now.

When you reached your building , he carried you inside like you weighed nothing at all. 

He kicked the door shut behind him , the soft click of the lock sealing you in with him , no more noise , no more neon lights , just you and him and the quiet of the night.

He set you down gently on the edge of your bed , his hands lingering on your shoulders as he knelt in front of you. 

Your eyelids fluttered , heavy with exhaustion and the last dregs of alcohol sinking in  , but you forced them to still be open.

“Let’s get you cleaned up baby ,” he murmured , his voice a low rasp that sent shivers down your spine.

You nodded , your breath hitching as his fingers brushed a lock of hair behind your ear. 

He reached for a washcloth in the nearby dresser , running it under warm water before wringing it out. 

He cupped your cheek with his flesh hand , tilting your head slightly as he began to wipe away the smudged mascara and left over makeup ruined by your tears.

The gentle drag of the cloth was comforting , his touch so tender it made your stomach do a flutter.

“I missed you,” you whispered, your voice barely audible, eyes still closed. “So much.”

“I missed you too,” he said softly, his eyes full of intent on cleaning your face. “Every second.”

He set the now dirty washcloth aside , his hand lingering on your cheek for a moment longer before he moved to brush your hair. 

He found your black hairbrush on the nightstand , the bristles worn and familiar.

He worked slowly , carefully , untangling each knot with a patience that made you want to cry again but you were drained of all tears. 

Your eyes fell closed again , breathing in the familiarity of having him here with you , letting yourself relax under his touch.

“There you go,” he murmured , his voice a soothing rumble. “Almost done.”

When he was finished , he gathered your hair in a messy ponytail , his fingers deft as he laid it over your back. He tied it off with a small black band , his knuckles brushing against your collarbone in a way that made your skin tingle.

“Better?” he asked, his lips curling into a small smile.

You nodded , blinking up at him with glassy eyes. “Yeah. Thank you.”

He pressed a barely there and oh so quick kiss to your forehead. “Let’s get you into bed , okay?”

He helped you out of your rumpled and dirty day clothes reeking of cheap vodka and that smokey club smell , swapping them for one of his old t-shirts that you loved so much. 

It hung loose on your frame , the fabric soft and word against your skin. When he was done , he tucked you in , smoothing the blankets and duvet around you with a care that stole your breath.

He paused for a moment , just watching you. 

His eyes traced every line of your face , every dotted freckle , and the soft curve of your lips , even the faint flush on your cheeks.

“I love you,” he said finally, his voice rough. “I hope you know that.”

“I love you too,” you murmured , your voice thick and raw with sleep. “Don’t leave again. Please.”

He brushed your fly aways back from your face , his thumb tracing the curve of your cheek bone . “I’m not going anywhere,” he said. “Not this time, not ever again.”

You drifted off to sleep with his hand in yours , the world fading around you like the last echoes of a bad dream.

You woke to the sharp , twisting pain of a hangover in your gut and piercing dull pain in your head , your mouth overly dry. 

You stumbled to the bathroom barely making it , half-blind with the bright morning light streaming through the window.

Before you could even get your mind together , Bucky was there. 

He knelt beside you as you vomited into the toilet , his hand steady and warm on your back , his other hand gathering your hair away from your face to keep it clean and out of the way.

“It’s okay , I'm right here ,” he murmured, his voice low and soothing. “Just let it out.”

When you were done and spent , he wiped your mouth with a damp corner of a  towel and helped you rinse your mouth and brush your teeth. 

You leaned against the cool tile wall ,  breathing ragged, but he didn’t move away. 

He stayed right there the entire time , his thumb brushing over your temple.

“Here,” he said , holding out a glass of cool water. “Small sips not too much.”

You took it with shaking hands , the cold liquid a relief against your parched and raw throat. 

You managed a weak smile of thanks , your eyes bleary as you looked at him.

“You didn’t have to do all this,” you said , your voice barely audible.

“I wanted to ,” he said simply. “I love you.”

Tears welled up again , but this time they were soft , gentle. “I love you too,” you said , your voice breaking. “I don’t want you to run anymore.”

He cupped your face in his hands , his thumb brushing away the single tear that slipped down your cheek. “Then I don’t,” he said. “We face it together.”

He pulled you into a hug , his arms wrapping around you like a shield against the world. 

You clung to him , your face buried in his shoulder , breathing him in.

“You’re it for me,” he said softly, his breath warm against your ear. “You’re my forever.”

You looked up at him, your eyes shining. “You’re my forever too.”

He pressed his forehead to yours , the soft morning light catching on the tears in your lashes. “Then let’s start that forever right here , right now,” he murmured.

In the quiet morning , with the world slowly waking around you , you knew that no matter what came next , no matter how dark the nights , how heavy the memories , you’d now face it together. And that was all you both needed.

-end 🌷

Comments , Reblogs , Likes and Requests are always loved!

(although if you liked this fic please consider reblogging so it can reach a wider audience)

They let me know that you are enjoying what I'm publishing and gives me motivation to write more and more! :33

[nyletac]

Toxic Heat

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Agent! Reader

Summary: While waiting for the extraction team after a successful mission, Bucky leaves you and runs into a greenhouse room in the mission building with strange plants. Accidentally breathing in the gas from the plants he returns to you, but something is off.

Warnings/Tags: 18+, Smut, Cursing, Fingering, Rough Sex, Edging, Enemies to lovers, Hormone inducing plant, Vaginal sex, Multiple orgasms, Aftercare, Super Intense (my god this is so dirty.)

Word Count: 6.4k

The mission had been straightforward at first: infiltrate the abandoned research outpost, gather intel, and get out before anyone noticed.

But when the team’s extraction was delayed, you and Bucky found yourselves trapped inside the building’s dusty corridors, waiting for backup.

After the constant, usual bickering and insults, he left and you heard his footsteps retreat down the hall as he scouted ahead, his metal arm clanking softly with each step. You stayed close to the cracked wall, nervously fingering the strap of your gear. Wishing there were windows to bring in any source of light throughout the creepy dim building.

Suddenly, Bucky’s footsteps stopped. Silence swallowed the hallway. Slight worry grew over you, as you take a look down the hallway, however, no sight or sound of him to be found.

When you finally heard footsteps again, you quickly peaked your head past the doorway down the hallway. Seeing Bucky approach, his movements were slower, heavier. His dark eyes held something unreadable — a flicker of distraction mixed with a strange heat.

You noticed the sweat beading at his temple, the way his breath came a little too fast, a little too shallow.

“Bucky?” Your voice curious, concern knitting your brows.

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he leaned against the doorway, jaw clenched tight, hand pressing over his mouth as if trying to catch his breath.

Your heart pounded. You couldn’t just stand there.

Carefully, you took a few steps closer, eyes scanning his face for any sign of injury or distress. “Are you hurt? You don’t look well.”

Your fingers hovered uncertainly near his arm before gently laying it on the flushed skin.

The contact made him flinch, a sharp intake of breath escaping his lips, and his whole body tensed under your touch.

He looked at you, confusion clouding his dark eyes before darting his eyes away. “I… I don’t know what’s happening,” he admitted quietly, voice strained. “I can’t… focus.”

You bit your lip, cheeks burning with a mix of worry and something else you couldn’t name.

Despite your hesitation, your fingers lingered, tracing the line of his jaw slowly.

His heavy breathing filled the tight space between you.

He wasn’t the bold, direct, and frankly asshole of a man you’d expected to come back— he was confused, vulnerable in a way that made your heart ache.

And yet, beneath that confusion simmered something primal, waiting to break free.

You swallowed hard, fighting the urge to pull back as Bucky’s gaze locked with yours—dark, confused, and somehow raw in a way you’d never seen before. His chest rose and fell rapidly, breath hitching like he was struggling to steady it.

“Do you need to sit down?” you offered softly, voice barely above a whisper. You hated how your own hands trembled, but you couldn’t just leave him like this.

Bucky shook his head slowly, jaw still tight. “No,” he said, voice rough, “I just… need a moment.”

You edged closer, feeling the warmth radiating off his body, the subtle tremor running through his muscles. Your fingers brushed again against his skin—this time along the softer flesh of the inside of his wrist, inspecting his seemingly pulsing veins.

He flinched again, that sharp intake of breath turning deeper, ragged. His eyes fluttered closed for a second, turning his face away from you as if trying to contain something he didn’t understand.

“Bucky…” Your voice softened, uncertainty threading through every word. “What’s going on?”

He opened his eyes, dark pools swirling with confusion and frustration. “I don’t know,” he said roughly, voice breaking just slightly. “I feel… wrong. Hot. Like I’m… burning up from the inside.”

You bit your lip, heart clenching. The man who is feared, who’s a deadly super soldier, was now trembling under your touch, vulnerable and raw.

Without thinking, your hand moved to rest flat against his chest, feeling the rapid thud of his heartbeat beneath your palm.

His breathing hitched, eyes darkening as if the simple contact overwhelmed him. “Don’t…” he growled out, voice hoarse.

The room seemed to shrink around you both, heavy with unspoken tension. You wanted to pull away, to respect his boundaries, but your body betrayed you—drawn to him like a moth to flame.

“Bucky,” you whispered, “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

Your palm pressed against his chest, trying to calm the wild thumping of his heart. Bucky’s breath was ragged, uneven, like he was barely holding himself together. His dark eyes flicked toward you, filled with confusion—and something raw, unfiltered.

He growled softly, a frustrated sound. “I ran into some kind of room in the west wing with a bunch of plants. They were releasing some kind of gas. I don’t know what it’s doing to me, but—” He cut himself off, jaw tightening. “—it’s making me feel things. Things I don’t like.”

You raised an eyebrow, and try to lighten the mood. “Oh great. Just what I needed: Barnes, the grumpy tin man, suddenly turned into a hot mess.” You say softly, rolling your eyes with a slight smile

He scowled but didn’t deny it. “Keep it up, and I might just knock that smug smile off your face.”

“Yeah, yeah. Not like this you won’t” you teased, voice light despite the tension.

Bucky took a deep, shuddering breath. “Don’t tempt me. Besides, this isn’t a joke. I don’t know how to control it, and I don’t want you getting involved.”

You stepped closer, still wary but unable to look away. “Since when did you care what I think?”

His eyes darkened, and he took a half-step towards the other side of the room, like you might be contagious. “Since this gas has me all messed up and I’m not sure I’m still me.” He growls out

You bit your lip, trying not to let your cheeks betray how much the sight of him like this was affecting you.

“Look,” he said, voice low and rough, “I understand that we’re partnered up for this mission, but—” His voice cracked slightly, “right now… I need you to just stay out of it. Or maybe just don’t make it worse.”

You raised your hands in mock surrender. “Fine. But only because I’m curious what’ll happen next.” Not sliding in the tid-bit that you’re still extremely worried for him no matter how aggravating he may be or how many times he’s insulted you back at the avengers tower.

Bucky’s glare was sharp, but something softer flickered beneath it before he turned away, trying to hide the vulnerability that scared him.

Bucky’s back was stiff as a board as he leaned against an abandoned table in the room, jaw clenched tight, but the rapid rise and fall of his chest gave him away. The gas wasn’t just messing with his head—it was twisting something deeper, something primal he clearly didn’t want to admit.

Without a word, he suddenly stepped closer, the heat radiating off him intense and raw. His dark eyes locked onto yours with a sharpness that made your breath catch.

Then, almost abruptly, his hand reached out and grabbed your wrist—his grip firm but not cruel.

His voice came low and rough, like gravel scraping over steel. “You don’t get it. This gas… it’s messing with me. Making me feel things I shouldn’t.”

You blinked, caught off guard, heart pounding.

He swallowed hard, eyes darkening as if fighting to hold himself back. “I don’t want you involved. Hell, I don’t want anyone involved. Especially not you.”

You stepped back slightly, wary but steady. “Just cut deeper why don’t you.” You say dripping with sarcasm.

Bucky’s jaw tightened even more. Standing in silence very clearly thinking something through despite the haze he’s under. “I feel like I’m starting to lose control—and you’re the one thing that’s driving me crazy.”

His breath hitched. “I don’t want this. I don’t want to want you.”

Your cheeks flushed but you didn’t pull away.

He hesitated for a moment, then leaned in just enough for you to feel his breath on your skin.

“Don’t make me lose it,” he warned, voice rough and low.

The closeness of his face, feeling the hotness of his breath fanning over your skin, the tone of his voice. You can’t help but to begin breathing heavily. Despite you and Bucky’s mockery, insults, and arguing, you can’t help but be affected by how he’s acting towards you right now. Your eyes scan over him as you fail to resist the squeezing of your thighs and the feeling of molten heat pool in your stomach.

You notice his nostrils flare and his eyes close, inhaling deeply as he lets out a low groan. His eyes open and burned into yours, fierce and unyielding, but underneath there was a raw vulnerability that made your chest tighten. He walks closer towards you, making you back up until your back hits the cold concrete wall. The tension between you wasn’t just the usual snark or competition anymore—it was something sharper, hotter, dangerous.

Bucky closed the last few inches and pressed his palm flat against the wall beside your head, trapping you gently but firmly. His metal fingers brushed lightly against your temple, and a flicker of something desperate crossed his face.

“You don’t know what this is doing to me,” he muttered, voice thick with frustration and something darker. “I’m not… me right now. And I don’t want to hurt you.”

You swallowed hard, nerves sparking but your gaze steady. “You won’t.”

He swallowed again, chest rising and falling faster now, like every breath was a fight.

Then, almost reluctantly, his hand found yours—fingers curling around yours, cool against your skin but firm, possessive.

“I’m warning you,” he breathed, his voice dropping lower, “if you let me, I might not going to be able stop.”

His gaze flicked down to your lips, then back up, heavy with unspoken promises and desperate need.

You felt your heart hammer in your chest, caught between fear and the undeniable pull drawing you closer to him.

Bucky’s grip tightened around your fingers, a low growl rumbling deep in his throat. His dark eyes searched your face like he was looking for permission—and maybe begging for it too, though his pride wouldn’t let him say so.

“I don’t want this,” he snarled softly, voice rough and raw, “but I’m losing the fight.”

His breath hitched, hot and ragged against your skin. The heat radiating off him was suffocating—an almost tangible force pulling you closer, burning away the space between.

You wanted to pull back, wanted to remind him that you weren’t sure what this was either, that this was the opposite of professional, opposite of what you two were—but something in his expression held you fast, unsteady and trembling.

His metal hand slid from your fingers to your wrist, then higher, tracing the delicate skin of your forearm. Every inch was electric under his touch, like you were both alive on a knife’s edge.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispered hoarsely, voice thick with frustration, “and I will. But if you don’t…”

He closed the distance suddenly, lips brushing a harsh, breathless kiss against yours—rough and demanding, like he was trying to ground himself through the contact.

Your breath caught, shyness warred with a fierce, blooming heat deep inside you.

Bucky’s hands framed your face, thumbs brushing over your cheekbones as if trying to memorize every line, every trembling breath.

“I’m scared,” he admitted, voice low and vulnerable beneath the roughness. “Scared I won’t be able to pull back.” You feel him physically trying to restrain himself from pulling himself closer to you.

You swallowed, heart pounding louder than your thoughts.

“No,” you whispered, voice soft but sure. “Don’t pull back.”

His lips instantly found yours, crashing into your lips, with a wild insatiable hunger. There was no gentleness in it, just raw need and the taste of restraint shattering. He gripped your waist, his hands big and calloused, roughly pulling you flush against his body like he needed you to stay anchored to the ground.

You gasped into him, the sound catching in your throat as you felt the heat of him—every line of muscle, every tremble in his body that betrayed how hard he was fighting to stay in control.

“I shouldn’t want this,” he growled, voice rough against your lips, “not with you… not like this.”

But his hands didn’t stop. One slid up under your shirt, skimming over your ribs, fingertips dragging goosebumps in their wake. His touch was desperate, reverent, like he needed to memorize your body just to keep from coming undone.

“I didn’t even like you,” he muttered hoarsely, forehead resting against yours, breath ragged. “You always ran your mouth, always got under my skin…”

Your hands clutched at the front of his tactical shirt, heart pounding against your ribs. “You didn’t like me?” you managed, breathless.

“I hated how much I noticed you,” he growled. “How I couldn’t stop watching the way you moved… how you looked at me like you saw past the metal and my history.”

You whimpered as his fingers slipped beneath your waistband, teasing the skin just above your underwear. His touch wasn’t tentative—it was firm, claiming. Possessive. But there was a tremble in it, like he wasn’t sure if he was about to worship you or ruin you.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispered again, voice cracking with restraint. “Please.”

But you couldn’t. All you could do was look up at him, seeing him, pieces of hair falling in his face, his dark eyes staring into yours and let out a soft needy whine.

That was all he needed.

His mouth moved to your neck, kissing and biting, the sting softened by the heat of his tongue. His hand slid into your pants, cupping you firmly. The gasp that tore from your throat only made him press closer, lips brushing your ear.

“Fuck, you’re warm,” he groaned. “So soft…”

His fingers dipped lower, teasing over your folds, dragging a moan from you that made his grip falter—like your voice alone was a match to dry gasoline.

“You’re gonna ruin me,” he muttered, pressing his forehead to your shoulder as his fingers slipped inside you, slow but thick and deep. “Don’t even know if this is the gas anymore… or just you.”

You could barely breathe, body melting into his as he thrust his fingers slow and deep, watching your every reaction like he was starving for it. He was so careful despite the desperation coiled in his muscles—his touches growing rougher, but still holding back that last thread of restraint.

His fingers, curling just enough to make your knees shake. You gasped, a tremor running through your thighs as you clutched at the front of his suit, but Bucky didn’t rush—not yet.

He growled under his breath, forehead still pressed to your shoulder, lips ghosting against your skin as his fingers dragged slick and steady inside you.

“Goddamn…” he breathed, voice broken with awe and frustration. “You’re driving me out of my fucking mind.”

You whimpered, your breath shallow. “Bucky…”

His name made him shudder.

He pulled his hand away too soon, and you let out a small sound of protest. Bucky met your eyes then—completely unguarded. His pupils were blown wide, his lips slightly parted, sweat shining along his jaw.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he muttered. “I’m hanging on by a thread.”

You weren’t sure if that was a plead, command or a threat.

Then, you could feel the thick bulge of him straining against his pants, grinding against your soaked core through the fabric of your clothes.

“Feel that?” he rasped into your ear, rutting against you. “That’s what you’re doing to me. And I haven’t even gotten inside you yet.”

Your breath caught. His words lit a fire in your belly, made your thighs clench, made you ache.

His hand slipped down again, running two fingers over your clit.

“Fuck. You’re soaking.”

The curse slipped through his teeth like a prayer as your eyes roll back at the heavenly friction of his hand.

You whine once more as he brought his fingers up and stared at them—coated in your wetness—then met your eyes again as he sucked them slowly into his mouth.

Your legs nearly gave out. “Bucky…” you mutter.

“I’m not gonna fuck you yet,” he said, voice rough and tight like it hurt to say it. “Not until you’re begging for it.”

You whined, hips rolling instinctively toward him, chasing friction.

“Oh, you like that?” he murmured darkly, hand sliding between you again, rubbing slow, heavy circles over your clit. “The mouthy little agent who never shuts up… can’t even form a sentence now.”

You were panting, your body hypersensitive to every stroke, every drag of his rough voice.

“I want to ruin that attitude,” he growled. “Make you forget how to talk. Make you cry.”

His fingers dipped inside you again, thrusting slow and deep, each stroke deliberate and angled just right. You clenched around him, a soft cry leaving your lips, and he chuckled low and sharp in your ear.

“There it is,” he whispered. “That’s what I wanted. So fucking tight around my fingers already.”

His metal hand slid up your shirt, palming your breast through your bra, thumb flicking across your nipple with just enough pressure to make your back arch. “You gonna fall apart just from this?” he taunted, voice husky. “We haven’t even started yet.”

“Bucky—” you gasped.

“No,” he cut in, hot breath against your neck. “Not yet. You don’t get to come until I say.”

Your head hit the wall behind you with a soft thud, pleasure cresting inside you—too much, too slow, not enough.

Bucky’s mouth moved to your jaw, your throat, licking and biting as his fingers fucked you slow, precise, dragging you closer to the edge and pulling you back again and again.

“You think I don’t see the way you look at me?” he whispered. “Like you hate me. But underneath it? You wanted this. You wanted me.”

Your moan betrayed you.

He grinned against your throat, then sank his teeth into the delicate skin there—not enough to hurt, just enough to make you gasp. His hand never stopped moving, never gave you what you needed all the way. He was relentless, teasing, every inch of him vibrating with tension and barely held control.

“I could keep you like this for hours,” he muttered. “Desperate. Soaking wet. Shaking.”

He dragged his fingers out of you and pressed them between your lips.

“Taste how sweet you are,” he said roughly. “And tell me you don’t want me.”

Your mouth opened before you could stop yourself, and the taste of your own need sent heat rushing straight to your core.

Bucky growled. “Fuck, that’s it. That’s what I wanted.”

He pushed his hips into yours again, the thick, throbbing heat of him pressing right against your clit through the fabric.

“You ready?” he asked darkly. “Because once I’m inside you, I’m not stopping.”

You were trembling beneath him, body pinned to the wall, soaked and aching. Every nerve ending buzzed under the weight of his mouth, his hands, his voice—dragging you to the edge, over and over, without mercy.

And still… he hadn’t taken you.

Until now.

Bucky’s jaw flexed like he was still trying to fight it—but the look in his eyes told you he was past the point of no return.

“I told myself I wouldn’t,” he growled, lips ghosting over yours. “Told myself I could ride it out. Wait for backup. Do the right thing.”

He leaned in, pressing his forehead to yours, his hips grinding against you in a slow, punishing circle. You felt him—thick, hard, straining inside the confines of his pants—and your breath hitched.

“But I can’t fucking think straight,” he whispered, almost like it hurt. “Not when you’re this wet. This soft. Looking at me like you’d let me break you open.”

You didn’t say a word. You couldn’t. The air was thick with your shared breath, hot and humid, and your voice had long since abandoned you.

He slid your pants down, low enough for you to shimmy and step out of them. He reached down, undid his belt with shaking hands, and freed himself—thick and heavy and flushed, the head already leaking. The sight of it made your thighs clench instinctively.

Bucky groaned at the sight of you. “Fuck, look at you. So shy all the time, but now…” he leaned towards you, grabbed your thigh and wrapped it around his waist. He pushed your soaked underwear to the side, lined himself up and paused, metal hand gripping your thigh, holding you open, holding you still.

“Last chance,” he rasped. “You want me?”

You look up at him with pleading eyes and a whine, “please, Bucky….”

That was all it took.

He thrust forward in one deep, brutal stroke,

burying himself inside you to the hilt. You cried out, nails digging into his arms as your body stretched to take him.

“Shit,” he gritted through clenched teeth, eyes screwed shut. “So fucking tight. You feel—God—you feel unreal.”

He held still for a beat, shaking from the effort not to lose it too fast. But you clenched around him, and he groaned low in his throat, head falling to your shoulder.

Then he started to move.

Each thrust was deep, rough, and controlled—but just barely. He was shaking with it, like he couldn’t believe how good it felt, like every time he slammed into you it pulled a piece of him loose.

“You like it rough, sweetheart?” he growled against your ear.

But you were already gone—moaning, head back against the wall, gasping as your body met his rhythm instinctively. You give a messy nod.

“Yeah,” Bucky snarled, gripping your ass and lifting you a little higher so he could drive in deeper, your leg not wrapped around his waist barely touching the ground. “You take me so fucking good.”

The sound of skin slapping echoed off the walls, the wet slick of your arousal making each brutal thrust louder, messier.

“You think I don’t see you?” he grunted, voice ragged. “Always biting your lip around me, looking away. Playing innocent. But you’re not.”

His pace picked up, hips slamming into yours harder now, deeper. “You want this. You’ve always wanted this.”

“Bucky—” you whimpered, voice cracking.

“Say it,” he growled. “Say you want me.”

“I want you,” you gasped, clinging to him.

He cursed viciously, his control unraveling at the sound of your voice.

“Fuck—I’m not gonna last—” he bit out, slamming in deeper with each thrust. “You feel too good—too tight—I’ve never—”

He cut himself off with a broken groan, his lips crashing against yours in a searing kiss, swallowing your moans as he fucked you harder, rougher. Your body was shaking, teetering right at the edge, and he could feel it.

“Come for me,” he commanded, voice thick and guttural. “Now.”

And with one last, brutal thrust—he hit the spot that sent you spiraling.

You shattered around him, crying out, trembling as your climax tore through you, soaking him. Bucky followed instantly with a strangled groan, burying himself deep as he came hard, hips jerking, forehead pressed to yours as he gasped your name like a lifeline.

His hips slowed, but only slightly—just enough to ride out his own release as you trembled around him, body slack and twitching in his hold. But he didn’t pull out. He didn’t ease away. He stayed inside you, panting against your neck, every muscle still coiled tight like a predator that hadn’t fed nearly enough.

You whimpered softly as his cock throbbed still-hard inside you, impossibly thick, sensitive—but not softening. Not even a little.

“…You’re still hard,” you breathed, dazed.

Bucky’s shoulders shook with a low, humorless laugh. He dragged his mouth up your throat, tongue catching on the sweat at your collarbone before he murmured, “I know.”

His voice was darker now—gravel scraping over flame—and when he pulled his head back to look at you, his pupils were still blown wide, black swallowing the blue.

“That plant,” he said, panting, “it did something. I don’t feel normal, I—” He gritted his teeth and rolled his hips forward again, slow and grinding.

You moaned, sharp and overstimulated, but it only made him groan. “Still not enough.”

He pulled out just a few inches, dragging his cock against your soaked, sensitive walls—then slammed back in with a low, wrecked sound.

Your body jolted, pleasure colliding with sensitivity, making you gasp. “Bucky—”

“Can’t stop,” he growled. “Can’t. You feel too good. I need more.”

He hooked your other leg up around his waist, spreading you open and lifting you slightly off the ground. The shift in angle drove him deeper, the stretch unbearable, the pressure mounting again despite how recently you'd come. You were already growing slick around him again, your body betraying your mind as it begged for more.

“I should hate you for this,” he whispered against your lips. “You make me insane.”

“Then hate me,” you whispered back, breathless.

He snarled—and then snapped.

His mouth crashed to yours, biting and claiming, tongue dragging over your lips before plunging deep. At the same time, he started to fuck you again—harder than before, frantic and relentless, each thrust punching a moan out of you.

You had no defense anymore. No sharp quips, no witty retorts—just Bucky, inside you, growling your name like a curse and a prayer all at once.

“Gonna keep you like this,” he panted, lips brushing your ear. “Stuffed full of me. Until you can’t walk straight. Until everyone on comms knows what I did to you.”

His words hit you like lightning, heat pooling fast and hard in your gut again.

“You want that?” he murmured, nipping your earlobe. “Want me to ruin you until all you can say is my name?”

You couldn’t speak. You could only cry out, moaning shamelessly as he started slamming into you again—rough, wild, deep. His grip bruised your thighs, his mouth never left your skin, and every thrust sent stars behind your eyes.

“You’re mine right now,” he gritted, pounding into you. “Just mine.”

Your second orgasm hit harder—sharper—your body seizing around him with a cry that echoed through the empty hall. You were pulsing around him, milking him, but this time, Bucky didn’t come.

He just groaned and kept going.

His breath was ragged now, like he was in pain from holding back.

“I’m not done,” he choked out, pressing your back tighter to the wall. “Not until I’ve wrung every fucking sound out of you.”

Then he pulled out, slowly, deliberately—and spun you around.

Your hands hit the wall just in time to catch yourself as he dragged your underwear the rest of the way off. You whimper at the cold concrete pushing against your soft chest. His hands gripped your hips, pulling your ass back toward him—and without pause, he shoved himself back in from behind with a deep, wrecked growl.

You gasped, moaning at the new angle, at how deep he felt this way.

His hand came around to your front again, fingers finding your swollen clit, rubbing in messy circles.

“You’re taking me so fucking well,” he snarled. “Like you were made for me.”

The words made you clench, and he hissed through his teeth, hips stuttering.

“Say it,” he barked. “Tell me you want more.”

“More—” you choked, hands scrambling for purchase against the wall. “Bucky—God—more—”

He slammed into you even harder, punishing now, wrecked with need.

“Good girl,” he growled, voice low.

Your hands braced against the wall, fingers splayed, trying to ground yourself—but Bucky gave you no reprieve.

His thrusts were brutal now, paced with a rhythm that shook through your entire body. Each snap of his hips pushed a cry from your lips, every inch of him stretching you open all over again, slick from your last two orgasms and still somehow burning for more.

You were soaked. Raw. Quivering.

And he was insatiable.

Behind you, Bucky was panting like a man possessed. His forehead dropped to your shoulder for a second, teeth grazing your sweat-slicked skin as his grip on your hips tightened, fingers digging in deep enough to bruise.

“Fucking hell,” he growled, voice wrecked. “I can feel you squeezing me—like you’re trying to pull me deeper.”

You moaned, unable to answer. You weren’t sure there were words anymore—just sensation.

Heat. Pressure. Him.

He slammed into you harder, and your knees buckled, but he caught you—one arm locking around your waist, dragging you up against his chest. Moaning, feeling your body pressed flushed against his. His other hand was still between your legs, fingers working your clit with ruthless precision, flicking and circling until your legs were trembling, your cries coming faster.

“Gonna come again,” he rasped in your ear. “I can feel it. You’re so close, baby. Give it to me.”

His metal hand gripped your throat—slightly tight, just enough to tilt your head, to control you—and he sank his teeth into the curve of your neck as he fucked you harder, faster.

You cried out, your body tipping toward the edge again with dizzying speed, your back arching at the intense pleasure.

“Say it,” he ordered through gritted teeth. “Say you want to come on my cock.”

“Please—Bucky—want it—fuck—I want it, I want it—”

“That’s it,” he hissed. “God, that’s it—gonna make you come so fucking hard—”

You clenched around him, your whole body going taut—and then snapped.

Your climax tore through you like fire, a scream ripping from your throat as your pussy spasmed around him, pulsing, slick, drenching him.

Bucky groaned like it broke him, thrusting deep one last time before he came with a roar—slamming into you to the hilt, cock twitching as he spilled inside, hot and thick, filling you to overflowing.

He held you tight, shuddering, mouth pressed to your shoulder as he rode it out—still pulsing, still deep inside you.

For a moment, everything was quiet—just your panting, the wet sounds of your bodies, and his heart hammering against your back.

Then he finally spoke—voice low, hoarse, almost reverent.

“…Still hate me, sweetheart?”

You let out a breathless, broken laugh against the wall.

“Only when you’re not fucking me like that.”

Bucky chuckled darkly, nuzzling your neck, still buried inside you. “Then I guess I’ll have to keep doing it.”

Bucky’s breathing was still ragged behind you, his broad chest rising and falling against your back. His arms stayed wrapped around your waist, firm but gentle now, as if afraid you’d slip away if he let go.

You both stayed like that for a long moment—pressed together, skin flushed and slick with sweat, the heavy sound of your breathing the only thing filling the silence.

Then, slowly, he eased out of you, hissing softly at the overstimulation. You whimpered, sensitive and sore and still trembling, and he caught you as your knees buckled, guiding you gently to the floor.

The moment your back hit the cold wall, you shivered.

“Shit,” Bucky muttered, voice thick and gravelly. “You okay?”

You looked up at him, lips parted, dazed. “I think so…”

He crouched in front of you, one knee bent, eyes scanning your face—not with lust now, but something softer. Something real. His pupils weren’t as blown out anymore. The sharp edge of heat in them was starting to fade.

And for the first time since all this started, you realized… the gas was wearing off.

You could see it in his body—the subtle way his muscles unclenched, the way his breathing evened, like his senses were slowly coming back under control.

“…Bucky,” you murmured, still catching your breath, “what was that stuff?”

He exhaled hard, dragging a hand back through his damp hair.

“Like I said earlier, there was a room. Down the hall. Some kind of overgrown greenhouse or lab, I don’t know.” His voice was quieter now, more grounded. “I barely stepped inside before I started sweating. My head got light, and then everything started to burn. My skin, my blood… my cock.”

You flushed, throat bobbing as your eyes flicked down between you.

He noticed. His jaw tightened.

“I didn’t know what was happening,” he added, guilt creeping into his tone. “Didn’t understand why I was reacting like that until I saw you again and I just—”

He broke off, shaking his head like he was angry at himself.

“I’m sorry,” he said, finally. “I shouldn’t’ve touched you. Not like that. Not when I wasn’t thinking straight.”

But you reached out and curled your fingers around his vibranium wrist, grounding him.

“You didn’t force me,” you said softly. “I wanted it. All of it.”

His eyes met yours—sharp, guarded, like he was still waiting for the punchline.

“You sure?” he asked. Not a tease. Just a whisper of vulnerability cracking through the armor.

You gave a breathless laugh, nodding. “Yeah. Pretty sure the three orgasms confirm that.”

That pulled a small, crooked smirk from him—but it didn’t last. His gaze drifted back to where your bare thighs were still spread, slick and flushed, your pants still tangled around one ankle. You were raw, used, full of him.

And still… somehow… the tension wasn’t gone.

“You didn’t hate it,” he murmured, like he was testing the waters.

“No,” you admitted. “And… maybe I don’t hate you as much as I pretend to.”

That surprised him.

He tilted his head, lips parting like he had something to say—but instead, he leaned forward, slowly, giving you the chance to stop him.

You didn’t.

His lips brushed yours, soft this time. Nothing like the devouring heat from earlier. Just a quiet, aching thing. A kiss that said we’re not done—but maybe not just in a physical way.

You kissed him back, fingers curling into his jacket. And when he finally pulled away, his forehead leaned against yours, breath warm across your face.

“I’ll get you cleaned up,” he murmured, voice husky again, but this time with gentleness rather than hunger.

You nodded, legs still shaky. “Yeah. I… don’t think I can stand yet.”

That made him chuckle, low and rough.

“You won’t be walking straight for a while.”

You smacked his chest weakly, and he grinned. It was the first time you’d ever really seen him smile—not that tight, sarcastic twist, but something real.

And just like that… something had shifted.

The lines that used to keep you on opposite sides of every room were gone—burned away by sweat, heat, and the way his hands had held you like he was afraid of losing something he didn’t know he wanted.

As he helped you pull your clothes back on, slow and careful, your fingers brushed. You didn’t pull away.

Neither did he.

⊹ ︶⏝⭒ ⊹ ⭒⏝︶ ⊹

By the time the extraction team touched down, the gas was well out of Bucky’s system—but the aftermath lingered on both of you like a second skin.

He still walked close to you. His arm still brushed yours whenever the hallway narrowed. His jacket, slung loosely around your shoulders, smelled like him—warm leather and sweat and something darker, primal, something you’d felt grinding deep inside you less than an hour ago.

Neither of you had said much since.

Not because there wasn’t anything to say—but because the weight of everything that had happened still hummed like a live wire between you.

And when the door to the building finally slammed open and Sam’s voice came over the comms—dry, impatient, and absolutely oblivious—you nearly jumped.

“There you two are,” he said, stepping into view in full gear, eyes flicking from you to Bucky. “Took your sweet time, huh? We were about to call it and let you rot in there.”

Bucky didn’t flinch. He just grunted. “We managed.”

Sam looked at the both of you suspiciously.

Your hair was a mess. Your pants were definitely on inside out, despite your frantic fumbling earlier. Bucky’s shirt clung to him with dried sweat, and his belt was still hanging open under his tactical vest.

And when Sam’s eyes narrowed and slid down to the distinct bite mark blooming just beneath your collarbone, visible even beneath the edge of Bucky’s jacket—

He froze.

Blinked.

And looked back at Bucky. Slowly.

“…Did you fight each other?”

You opened your mouth, panic rising in your throat.

But Bucky—smug bastard—beat you to it.

“Doesn’t matter,” he said coolly, leading the way past Sam without missing a beat. “I won.”

Sam gawked after him. “You won what? An STD?!”

You groaned and followed quickly, cheeks flaming. “Shut up, Wilson.”

“You shut up!” Sam called after you. “I’m gonna have to Lysol the entire jet, aren’t I?!”

Bucky didn’t even blink as he climbed aboard.

You shot him a glare as you slid into the seat across from him, keeping your arms crossed even though his jacket still hung around your shoulders like some ridiculous trophy.

The second Sam stepped in behind you, eyeing the both of you like a disgruntled parent, you tried to school your expression into something neutral.

You failed.

Bucky smirked.

“So,” Sam said, dropping into the pilot’s chair with a sigh. “Either of you wanna tell me why your vitals were going crazy on the monitors for thirty minutes straight?”

“Must’ve been a glitch,” Bucky replied smoothly.

Sam turned, staring at him.

You were biting your lip. Hard.

“A glitch,” Sam repeated flatly.

Bucky shrugged, unbothered. “Must’ve been the plant gas. Messed with my sensors.”

“Oh, I bet it did,” Sam muttered, spinning back to the controls. “God, I’m too old for this.”

The Quinjet engines flared to life.

You glanced at Bucky. He was watching you from under his lashes, jaw tight, one corner of his mouth twitching upward like he was this close to smiling.

You leaned closer, voice just low enough that Sam wouldn’t hear.

“You’re really proud of yourself, aren’t you?”

Bucky’s smile turned wicked.

“You’re the one still wearing my jacket, sweetheart.”

You flushed—and hated how much it thrilled you.

As the jet lifted into the sky, the tension didn’t fade.

It simply shifted.

No longer the tension of enemies circling each other like knives waiting to clash—but the quieter, heavier kind. The kind that simmers under the surface, waiting to boil over again the second you're alone.

And something told you…

This wasn’t over.

Not even close.

[hhiggs]

[aquaticmercy]

Better Man

Summary : Trapped in an abusive relationship, you cross paths with Bucky Barnes. Maybe, you deserve a second chance at love.

Pairing : Bucky Barnes x reader (she/her) 

Warnings/tags : Mentions of domestic, emotional, and sexual abuse (not by Bucky), toxic relationship (not Bucky), trauma, threats, healing, hurt/comfort, protective Bucky Barnes, angst, fluff, angst with a happy ending, self-worth struggles, cheating, substance abuse (not by you or Bucky). Your boyfriend is called Damien (apologies in advance if you are named or know someone who shares the name), implied sex, You are mentioned to be a librarian.

Word count : 8k

Note : This story comes from a very vulnerable place, so please be kind. Maybe this is how I process it lmao. The title is inspired by Better Man by Pearl Jam, a song that hits close to home. Please seek help if you are experiencing any kind of abuse.

You met Damien three years ago. He was charming back then, a man with an easy smile. The kind of man who could light up a room just by walking into it. You had been drawn to his confidence, mistaking it for warmth.

It started with flowers on a first date. Then late-night texts that made your heart race. He called you beautiful before he even knew your last name. He made you feel special.

And for a while, it was good.

But the thing about fire is that it burns.

At first, the signs were subtle. You brushed it off as bad days, stress, or just the way love was. The first time he raised his voice at you, you had been late for a date. It was nothing, really. A misunderstanding. You had apologised again and again, and he had forgiven you after five days of not speaking to you. That’s what love was, right?

Then, when you moved in with him, you started to realise how much he drank. 

You thought he’d only have beer or two after work, maybe a glass of rum before bed. You convinced yourself it was normal. But normal turned into necessary, and necessary turned into destructive.

The first time he hit you, you had laughed too loud at another man’s joke.

His fury came in the form of a slap. Quick and sharp, so sudden it barely registered in your brain. You had touched your cheek in shock. The first time it happened, he had apologised— fuck knows, had he apologised. He cried crocodile tears, swore it would never happen again. He told you he loved you, and you had believed him.

Because love was supposed to hurt sometimes. Right?

But it didn’t stop. It never stopped.

And one day, he stopped apologising. He stopped even pretending to care

The worst part of it all was that you loved him. Or at least, you thought you did. Love makes people stay. Love makes people forgive. And you were good at forgiving him, even when his knuckles left bruises on your ribs, even when his drunken words tore you open in a way his fists never could.

He always had an excuse: sometimes it was stress at work. Sometimes it was the liquor talking. One day, it was because you pushed him too far. After that, it was all your fault, really.

And you had believed that, too.

Because leaving wasn’t an option.

Every time you tried, he reminded you what he could do, how easy it would be to make sure you never left him. He knew where you worked. He knew your friends. You didn’t have family close by, no one to run to.

So you stayed.

You learned how to walk on eggshells. How to keep your voice silent, to make yourself small. How to cover bruises with sweaters and long skirts.

And when you couldn’t take it anymore, you just went to work. 

And you worked in the library. 

You liked the quiet. Here, no one yelled. No one slammed doors or threw bottles against walls. No one grabbed your wrist too hard or left bruises in the shape of their fingers.

It was your only escape— a place where silence was expected and peace was mandatory.

And that’s where you met him.

“Mind if I sit here?” He asked. The library was full today, all the regular study tables taken by students and scholars alike. So he had looked for the only available seat— the one directly across from the librarian’s desk.

You looked up to see Bucky Barnes, in the flesh.

You had seen him on the news, had heard people talking about him when his name was printed on the paper. The Winter Soldier turned hero. He wasn’t in uniform, just a simple t-shirt stretched over his broad shoulders, a jacket slung over the back of a chair he hadn’t even fully claimed yet. But even dressed down, he still carried himself like a soldier.

You hesitated. You weren’t used to people—men—asking for permission. 

But Bucky… he was waiting for your answer.

You nodded. “Yeah, sure.”

“Thanks,” he said. He smiled— one you had seen in newspapers, on screens. It was different up close. 

He sat, stretching his metal arm along the back of his chair, completely at ease. You, on the other hand, had no idea how to act. It wasn’t every day a literal super soldier sat across from you.

“What are you reading?” He asked, curious. It wasn’t out of place for you to enjoy personal reading during your shift downtimes, mostly because you couldn’t do it at home. 

You hesitated before flipping the book so he could see the cover. Wuthering Heights.

Bucky let out a low whistle. “That’s the one with the guy who’s obsessed with his dead girlfriend, right?”

You blinked. Then, before you could stop yourself, you chuckled. “That’s… one way to put it,” you admitted.

Bucky grinned. “I remember reading that back in the day. Or, well, trying to. Never made it past the first few chapters. Too much drama.”

“That’s the whole point,” you said, surprising yourself. You were talking to him. Joking with him. When was the last time you had let yourself just… talk?

Bucky tilted his head. “You like all that tragic, doomed romance stuff?”

You hesitated, the smile faltering just slightly. It hit too close to home.

“I guess I used to,” you murmured, lowering your eyes.

Bucky didn’t pry. He just nodded like he understood. And then, instead of pushing, he said, “I know you work in a library, but if you ever need a break from that stuff, I can give you some better book recommendations. I’ve got a collection of banned books at home.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Oh? And what do you recommend?”

“Anything that doesn’t involve a guy wandering around moaning about his dead girlfriend for two hundred pages.”

You laughed again. Twice. In one conversation.

Bucky pressed his lips together. He looked pleased, maybe… fond.

And then he started flirting.

At first, it caught you off guard.

You weren’t used to compliments unless they came with conditions. You weren’t used to smiles without an edge hiding behind them.

But Bucky was different. He wasn’t forceful. He didn’t expect anything. He just let the conversation take its natural course, his attention fully on you.

“Y’know, for someone who likes doomed romances, you sure have a nice laugh,” he mentioned, tapping his fingers against the table.

You should have shut it down. You should have reminded yourself that you had a boyfriend, however unkind he may be. You should’ve told yourself that this was wrong. 

But Bucky wasn’t touching you. He wasn’t cornering you. He was just talking to you.

And fuck did you like the attention.

So you flirted back, hesitant but eager, testing the waters.

And then, he asked, “Let me take you out sometime. Dinner. Or coffee, if that’s more your style.”

The smile on your face slipped.

You had a boyfriend.

You had a boyfriend.

A cruel, violent man who would kill you if he ever found out, but a boyfriend nonetheless.

But then you looked at Bucky. 

However misguided, you realised a man like Bucky could protect you.

And for the first time in years, you wanted to be protected.

So you took a breath, pushed down the guilt clawing at your ribs, and said “Yeah. Coffee sounds nice,” you said. “Meet me here during my lunch break tomorrow?”

—

The apartment was dark when you got home, but the moment you stepped inside, you knew.

The stench of alcohol was suffocating. It mixed with sweat, stale smoke, and the acrid bite of spilled liquor seeping into the carpet.

Damien was drinking again.

You shut the door softly, careful not to let it creak, your fingers trembling as you turned the lock as silently as possible. Your body moved on autopilot, muscle memory guiding you through the steps you had learned to survive. You took your shoes off, your bag down. Maybe—maybe—you could slip into bed unnoticed.

But then you heard a low chuckle.

“Well, well,” Damien said, his voice reeking of vodka. “Look who finally decided to come home.”

You turned slowly, forcing your shoulders to stay relaxed, your hands to stay at your sides. You looked at the clock. You were only fifteen minutes later than usual.

Damien lay sprawled on the couch, a half-empty bottle dangling from his finger, shirt wrinkled like he hadn’t moved in hours. His eyes were bloodshot, but they still managed to pin you in down like a predator sizing up prey.

You swallowed hard. “It’s late. I just want to go to bed.”

Damien scoffed, shifting to sit up. “Oh, you want to go to bed? That’s funny, babe, ‘cause I’ve been sitting here, alone, all night, wondering where the fuck you’ve been.”

You forced your expression to stay neutral. “I was at work.”

“Work,” he repeated, shaking his head with a bitter laugh. “Always work with you. You love that goddamn library more than you love me.”

You said nothing. There was no right answer. 

Damien took a slow sip from the bottle, then licked his lips, “You dressed nice today.”

Your breath hitched.

A compliment should have been harmless, but not from him. Not when he was dangerously possessive. Not when you knew what was coming next.

“You trying to impress someone?” he slurred. “Someone at work?”

Stay calm. “I just—”

“Don’t lie to me,” he said gently. But you knew better than anyone that the softness in his voice was a trap. You had fallen for it before.

“I’m not,” you whispered.

Damien set the bottle down, breathing out sharply through his nose. “You think I’m stupid?”

“No—”

“Then why the fuck do you keep lying to me?”

You flinched as he pushed himself off the couch, staggering slightly before regaining his balance. You took a step back.

Damien noticed. “Where were you really, huh?” he pressed, taking a taunting step forward. “Who were you with?”

“No one,” you said quickly. “I swear.”

His fingers twitched. 

You tried to brace for it, but stumbled when he shoved you anyway.

Your hip hit the floor first, hands catching yourself on the carpet.

Damien crouched beside you, grabbing your chin in a bruising grip, forcing you to look at him. His breath reeked of alcohol as he muttered, “I don’t like feeling disrespected, baby.”

You didn’t answer. You knew better.

He let go, shoving your face away like you disgusted him. “Go to bed,” he commanded, already reaching for his bottle again.

You moved carefully, with no sudden movements. You got to your feet, keeping your head down as you made your way toward the bedroom.

The moment the door shut behind you, you collapsed onto the mattress, curling in on yourself.

Your hip throbbed where it had hit the floor. 

You lay there, staring at the ceiling, listening to the distant clink of glass and the murmur of the TV Damien had turned on.

Tomorrow, you had a date with Bucky Barnes.

And for the first time in years, you let yourself look forward to something.

—

It felt wrong to be this excited.

Your shift at the library had been slow—only a few regulars meandering through the aisles. Then you saw him. 

Bucky stood near the front desk, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket, leaning against a shelf. He was so casual, for a second you could pretend he wasn’t a super soldier waiting for you to take your lunch break.

“Ready, doll?” He asked. Your heart flipped at the nickname.

You put aside the nerves bubbling in your chest and nodded, stepping out from behind the desk. 

It had been so long since you’d gone on a proper date— since you’d felt safe enough doing something out of work. Damien never liked you going out alone. 

You stepped outside together, “So,” you started, glancing up at him. “Where are we going?”

“There’s this little diner down the block,” he said with a small smile. “Figured we could grab a sandwich or something.”

A casual lunch. You liked that.

The walk was short, but you noticed how Bucky always positioned himself between you and the street. You doubted he even realised he was doing it. It probably was just instinct.

Inside the diner, a waitress greeted you both, eyes widening slightly when she recognised who Bucky was, but she said nothing beyond a polite, “Right this way.”

You slid into a booth, and Bucky sat across from you. 

“So,” he said, metal hand resting on the table. “Tell me something about you that’s not librarian-related.”

You blinked. “Uh. Like what?”

He grinned. “I don’t know. What do you do when you’re not working?”

You hesitated. Because what did you do? Your life had been so wrapped around making sure Damian didn’t get angry that you hadn’t had time for hobbies.

Bucky noticed your pause, picking up that you needed a better prompt. “Alright. Let me make it easier—favourite book?”

That was easier. “Don’t have one,” you shrugged, “But I just finished Persuasion last week and I thought it was pretty good.”

His brows lifted. “Jane Austen?”

You nodded, sipping your water. “It’s about second chances.”

“Sounds like my kind of book,” he said.

The conversation just… came freely after that. He told you about the 40s, about how he used to sneak out of school with Steve to get hot dogs from Coney Island. He told you about how Sam kept trying to get him into modern music, but he still thought the best stuff came from his time.

And you laughed. It felt good.

By the time you finished your sandwiches, you had  to go back to work.

Bucky walked you back, hands stuffed into his pockets again, looking reluctant to leave.

“You can stay, you know,” you said before you could think better of it.

His head tilted. “Yeah?”

You shrugged. “It’s a slow day. I wouldn’t mind the company.”

He smiled sheepishly. “Well,” he said. “Can’t say no to a pretty librarian asking me to stick around.”

You could feel your cheeks burning.

Bucky stayed and sat in the library, flipping through books he probably didn’t care about just to be near you.

—

When you came home, Damien barely spared you a glance. 

The coffee table was a mess— littered with empty bottles of rum, crumpled dollar bills, and a small mirror dusted with white powder.

He was on the couch, slouched back, Some guy—one of his friends you didn’t recognise—was laughing beside him, rubbing his nose. 

“Ah, there she is,” Damian slurred, stretching his arms over the back of the couch.

His friend snickered. “This is your girl, man?”

You froze.

Damian ran a hand through his messy hair. “Yeah. Can you believe it?” He gestured toward you, like you were some kind of joke. “Look at her—always in those oversized sweaters, like she’s hiding something.”

You clicked your jaw.

His friend hummed in agreement, looking you up and down. “Eh. She’s alright, I guess.”

Damian laughed.

“Right? I keep telling her she could actually be hot if she tried. But nah—she just walks around putting no fucking effort.” He leaned forward, tapping his nose twice before inhaling another line of coke. “No other guy’s gonna wanna fuck that, so I don’t even try,” he joked.

You gripped the strap of your bag so tightly your fingers hurt.

It wasn’t the first time he’d said things like this. But now, after spending time with Bucky— after being wanted —Damian’s words finally felt wrong. 

You turned, heading toward the bedroom, because if you stayed out here any longer, you weren’t sure you’d be able to keep yourself together.

“Hey,” Damian called after you, mocking. “Don’t be mad, babe. I’m just saying what everyone else is thinking.”

The laughter followed you down the hall.

And you hated that you let it get to you.

—

You told Damien you had to pick up an extra shift as an excuse to go on another date with Bucky after work.  

Now, you found yourself sitting across from the super soldier in a café near your job, fingers curling around a warm cup of coffee.  

“You got a little something right there.” He gestured vaguely toward your mouth.  

You frowned, swiping at your lips with a napkin. “Did I get it?”  

Bucky chuckled, shaking his head. “Nah. C’mere.”  

He leaned in, human hand swiping the stain on your lips.

God, he was close. So close. Too close.

“Can I kiss you?” He whispered.

Damien never asked. He just took.  

But Bucky was different.  

You nodded, and the moment his lips met yours, it was soft, sweet, nothing more than a chaste kiss, but it stole the breath from your lungs.  

Your heart stumbled in your chest, and when he pulled back, you blinked at him, dazed.  

Bucky smiled sweetly. “Yeah. Got it.”  

You should have felt guilty. You should have pulled away. But instead, you smiled.

—

You told Damien you had to work late again.

Instead, you were in Bucky’s apartment, his lips tracing down your neck.

It started like the others dates— with coffee and a conversation. This time, when he offered to take you back to his place, you said yes.

You weren’t sure why. Maybe you just needed to know what it felt like to be touched gently again. To be adored.

Bucky laid you down on his bed, hands roaming over your thighs, his lips peppering kisses over your collarbone.

And then he paused.

He saw it.

His fingers brushed over the bruise on your hip, the one Damian had left the last time he shoved you to the ground. 

His brow furrowed. “What happened, doll?”

You swallowed. “Uh—smacked a table.”

He didn’t believe you, but he didn’t push. Instead, he leaned down, his lips ghosting over the bruise, pressing the softest kiss against it— so gentle you thought you were going to cry. 

His mouth trailed lower—  teasing, tasting. And when he finally sank into you, his forehead pressing against yours, there was no fear. No pain. No doubt.

Just pleasure. 

You weren’t used to this— the tenderness. The way he whispered beautiful against your skin, like he couldn’t even believe you were real.

At one point, he brushed a strand of hair from your face and said, “You know, I thought you were way out of my league.”

You stared at him.

“Bucky,” you deadpanned. “Look at yourself.”

He smiled, hands splayed on your waist. “Look at you.”

You didn’t stop him when he kissed you again.

Didn’t stop him when he held you close after.

Didn’t stop him when he got up, disappeared into the kitchen, and returned with an ice pack.

“This’ll help,” he said, pressing it gently against your hip.

You hesitated but took it from him anyway, letting the cold seep into your bruised skin.

For a moment, you wondered, would it really be so bad if I told him the truth?

But then you thought of Damien— of what he’d do if he found out. 

And then you thought of Bucky.

What would he do if he knew? If he pieced it all together? You wanted to believe he’d never hurt you, that he was different. But if he reacted like Damien… it would be so much worse. He was a super soldier, after all.

So you said nothing.

And Bucky—sweet, patient Bucky—let you keep your secrets, for now.

When you rolled over, you saw the clock on his nightstand.

Shit.

It was late. Way later than you told Damian you’d be “working.”

You sat up quickly, clutching the sheets to your chest. “I—I should go.”

Bucky propped himself up on an elbow, blinking in confusion. “Already?” 

You nodded, forcing a tight-lipped smile. “Yeah. Early shift tomorrow,” you lied.  

It was a weak excuse, but he didn’t push.

Instead, he sat up, running a hand through his messy hair. “Alright. Lemme drive you.”

“No!” The word came out too fast.

Bucky froze.

“I—I mean, it’s fine,” you insisted, “I’ll just grab a cab.”

He stared at you like he was putting together pieces of a puzzle, but he let it go anyway. “Okay.”

You dressed quickly, avoiding his stare as you gathered your things. When you turned to leave, Bucky caught your wrist, tugging you back just enough to press one last kiss to your lips.

“See you soon?” he asked hopefully.

Your throat tightened.

You nodded. “Yeah. See you soon.”

Then you walked out the door with dread in your stomach.

Because you weren’t going home to safety.

You were going home to him.

—

The apartment was dark when you stepped inside. Damien was passed out on the couch with one arm hanging off the side.

You stepped in quietly, not wanting to wake him.

Your phone buzzed in your pocket.

Bucky.

Let me know when you get home.

You felt warmth spread through your chest, but guilt quickly smothered it. You shouldn’t have let him care this much. Shouldn’t have let him worry about you.

But fuck did you wanted him to.

You slipped into the bathroom, locking the door behind you before pressing call.

He answered on the second ring.

“Hey, doll.” He greeted, eager.

You sat on the edge of the tub, “Hey. I just wanted to let you know that I’m home.”

There was a beat of silence before he asked, “You okay?”

You hesitated.

Your eyes looked in the mirror. You dropped your pants slightly to see that the bruise on your hip was still there, but fainter. Bucky’s ice pack had helped.

It shouldn’t have made you tear up, but it did.

“Yeah,” you lied. “Just stress.”

Bucky hummed, unconvinced. “Alright,” he said, “Get some rest, sweetheart.”

You nodded, even though he couldn’t see you. “You too.”

You hung up before the lump in your throat could grow.

Then, you turned off the bathroom light, took a deep breath, and stepped back into your own personal hell.

—

Tuesdays and Wednesdays became highlights of your week. Those were the days that Bucky would meet you during your lunch break, always having a small bite in the corner booth of some diner, fingers wrapped around a warm cup of coffee instead of white-knuckling the strap of your bag in fear.

Fridays were even better.

You told Damien your Friday hours have been extended, telling a lie about reorganising shelves and cataloguing books, a lie he barely acknowledged between lines of ket and dismissive laughter. 

Little did he know, every Friday, Bucky took you somewhere new after work. A different café, a hole-in-the-wall restaurant, once even a trinket shop with creaky wooden floors. Sometimes, he bought you flowers— slipping it into your bag with a casual “Thought you’d like this,” like it wasn’t the kindest thing anyone had done for you in years. Of course, you’d have to throw them away before you got home. It broke your heart to do so every time. 

And every Friday, he asked, “Come back to mine?” He was always hopeful, never demanding.

Sometimes, when you knew Damien would come looking, you said no, and he never pried.

But when you said yes, Bucky brought you home and touched you like you were sacred. His hands never bruised, never hurt. He kissed you like he wanted to give you time, let you set the pace. When he laid you down on his bed, he didn’t take. He gave.

He made love to you like it was an art form, like the curve of your spine and the sound of your gasps were brushstrokes on the masterpiece he was creating. He mapped every inch of you, murmuring things you weren’t sure you deserved to hear— things like beautiful and perfect and mine, if you want to be.

But no matter how good it felt, you never stayed the night.

You’d always force yourself to get up. You kissed him one last time, letting him tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear.

Bucky never asked why.

He figured you would tell him when you were ready. 

—

This Friday night was different.

Bucky had taken you somewhere nice— a proper restaurant with white tablecloths and candlelight on the table.

It felt too much. Too intimate. Too real.

You didn’t deserve this.

You smoothed your hands down your dress, a simple black number you changed into after work. It was something Damien wouldn’t notice if he caught the scent of someone else’s cologne clinging to the fabric later. You swallowed hard, pushing the thought away.

"You okay, doll?" Bucky asked, always so damn perceptive. It scared you sometimes, how easily he could read you.

You forced a smile. "Yeah. Just...not used to this."

Bucky reached across the table. "I just wanted to do something nice for you," he said. "You deserve it."

You didn’t.

You didn’t deserve him.

Not when you were still crawling into bed with Damien, violent as he may be. 

Your throat tightened. "I...thank you."

Bucky squeezed your hand before pulling back. "I mean, we can go back to coffee and greasy burgers next time."

You laughed, even though it felt like a lie. The waiter came by and you ordered tea. Bucky ordered a beer.

The moment the words left his mouth, something inside you froze.

It was stupid. So stupid. It was just a drink. A normal, casual, everyday thing that normal, casual, everyday people ordered.

But when the waiter returned and set the bottle in front of Bucky, you couldn’t breathe.

You couldn’t even think.

The world blurred at the edges, shrinking down to that bottle, to the way Bucky’s fingers wrapped around it, to the way the liquid moved inside.

He lifted it to his lips.

And suddenly, you weren’t here anymore.

You were at the apartment, with Damien.

Slumped on the couch, a half-empty bottle dangling from his fingers, his head lolling to the side.

Damien.

Hurling the beer bottle across the room, the sound of shattering glass echoing through the apartment.

Damien.

Laughing as he swung it at you like a weapon, the glass catching your shoulder— hurting you.

"Look what you made me do,” he would say.

Your breath hitched. The room felt like he closed in on you.

You had to get out.

Now.

Your chair scraped against the floor as you shoved it back. Bucky blinked. "What—?"

"I have to go." The words came out strangled. Your hands were already shaking.

His brows furrowed in confusion. "What? Why?"

"I—I forgot I needed to pick up laundry."

It was a terrible excuse, but you didn’t care. You were already moving, grabbing your bag, fumbling with the strap as you stumbled toward the door.

"Wait—!"

You didn’t.

You pushed past the tables, past the jazz band that played on.

The air outside was cold, and you didn’t make it far.

Bucky was running after you, calling your name. "Hey—hey, stop."

He placed a hand on your wrist and tugged gently. Always so gentle. "Talk to me."

You shook your head, staring at the sidewalk, at the cracks in the pavement, at anything but him. "It’s nothing. I just—I just need to go."

"Nothing?" His voice was careful now. "Your hands are shaking."

You curled them into fists. "I’m fine."

"You froze the second I took a drink." His voice was soft, like he was afraid of scaring you off. "Are you sure you’re fine?”

You couldn’t.

"Please," you whispered. "Just let it go."

Bucky’s voice cracked when he spoke. "You can’t keep doing this."

Your stomach dropped. "Doing what?"

"Running." His throat bobbed, "From me. From whatever this is."

Your heart raced out of your ribs. "Bucky, I can’t—"

"Not when I’m falling in love with you."

Fuck.

He took a step closer.  "I love you." He said, "And I just want to know if this works."

Your breath hitched.

"Y-you love me?"

"I do." There was no hesitation. No doubt.

It was too much.

Too much, too much, too much.

So you did the only thing you knew how to do.

You ran home.

—

When you got home, Damien was not alone.

A girl—half-naked, barely covered by his shirt—was curled up on the couch, her lipstick smudged.

And Damien was sitting beside her, legs sprawled, a cigarette dangling from his lips. His pupils were wide, red-rimmed, unfocused. He barely even looked surprised to see you.

"Ha!" His laugh was almost giddy. "Thought you’d be gone longer." He exhaled a cloud of smoke, stretching his arms behind his head. "Oh well."

Oh, fuck. 

You should have known.

You should have expected it.

And yet, it still hurt.

It shouldn’t have. It shouldn’t have.

You were supposed to be the cheater. You were the liar. You had no right to be angry.

And yet your anger burned hot and ugly all the same. 

"You—" It got caught in your throat. "Are you fucking kidding me?"

Damien groaned, rolling his eyes, "Oh, don’t start with that shit." He gestured lazily to the girl beside him, barely even looking at her. "She was already here. Not my fault you weren’t."

You were fuming.

Not because you loved him anymore.

Not because you wanted him anymore.

But because he had always done this. Had always taken and taken and taken, had always acted like your pain was just an inconvenience, like your suffering was annoying.

"You don’t even give a fuck, do you?" Your voice trembled. "You don’t even care that I just walked in and found you like this?"

Damien only laughed.

"Why the fuck would I care?" He flicked the cigarette onto the floor, grinding the ember into the carpet with his boot. "You always come back."

Something inside you snapped.

"You are such a piece of shit." The words came out in a snarl.

Once his eyes darkened, it happened fast.

Faster than you could brace for it.

One second, he was laughing, the next—

Crack.

Your head snapped to the side as his palm met your skin with a brutal slap.

The room blurred.

The sting sank deep into your nerves. You could taste copper blooming on your tongue where your teeth had cut into the inside of your cheek.

The girl on the couch barely even flinched.

Damien leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees.

"You’ll still come back," Damien murmured, his voice almost affectionate as he traced a lazy finger down neck, reeking of alcohol or coke or ket or whatever he had today. 

Your hands curled into fists. "Go to hell."

He chuckled. "You won’t leave me."

He said it like it was a fact.

"But if you do…" His fingers closed around your wrist, squeezing just enough to make your bones ache. You grunted in pain.

"I’ll find you," he whispered. "And I’ll make sure no one else wants you either."

He let you go. Just like that.

You turned on your heel and walked out, pressing a hand to your burning cheek. You were almost to the stairwell when his voice called after you, sing-song and fake-sweet, "See you soon, babe."

—

It was late. 

You shouldn’t be here.

But you had nowhere else to go.

The door swung open, and there he was.

Bucky was wearing an old hoodie and sweatpants, blinking at you with those ocean-deep blue eyes

And before he could say a word, before you could think, or hesitate, or talk yourself out of it—

You kissed him.

Your fingers fisted in his hoodie, your mouth crashing against his. You were desperate. You were hungry.

You felt him freeze, hands hovering near your waist, like he wasn’t sure if he should touch you, wasn’t sure if this was real.

So you whispered it against his lips, "I love you too." It was the truth.

You heard a gasp from him. 

Then his hands found you, gripping your waist and pulling you into him with a sound that was half a sigh, half a groan. He kissed you back like he couldn’t believe you were finally his.

You barely made it to the living room before you were tangled together. He pressed you down onto the couch, and oh, fuck.

Was this what it’s like to not be taken for granted? Not feeling owned, but treasured?

You could have stayed there forever, but Bucky pulled back just to make sure you were okay.

He froze.

The lights in his apartment were brighter than the hallway, bright enough for him to see.

His thumb brushed against the skin of your cheek, his brows furrowing. "What happened?"

Your stomach churned. "It doesn’t matter."

Bucky’s fingers twitched, his voice lower. "What. Happened.”

You swallowed hard, keeping your eyes trained on his chest. "I fell on the floor."

What an obvious lie.

Then his metal fingers reached up, gently tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

And you saw it in his face the moment he undeniably noticed the shape of it.

It was a handprint.

His teeth clenched so hard you could hear it.

"Please don’t lie to me." He pleaded.

And just like that, you broke.

"I have a boyfriend," you choked out.

His face changed, but not into anger— no, not yet. He was waiting for a justification.

"You have a boyfriend," he repeated, his voice flat.

You swallowed hard, "Bucky, I—"

"Are you—" His voice was strained, almost heartbroken, "Are you telling me I’m the other man? That all this time, I was—"

He couldn’t finish his words. 

"It’s not like that," you whispered, frantically. "I swear, it’s not—"

"You kissed me." His tone was hoarse. "You told me you loved me."

"I do!" Your grip on his hoodie tightened. "I do, Bucky. Please, just—"

"What the hell have we been doing?" His voice cracked.

You should have told him.

Should have told him sooner.

But you had been too much of a coward.

And now, Bucky—your Bucky—was looking at you like he didn’t even know you as he burned in your eyes.

"He… he hurts me." The words came out in a whisper.

And Bucky froze, body entirely still.

His hands clenched into fists. His throat bobbed as he swallowed.

You forced yourself to keep going, even though you struggled. "He—he hits me. He cheats. He drinks and bumps ket and coke. And I don’t love him anymore. I haven’t for a while, but he threatens me and I—" you let out a deep. "I was scared to leave. I am scared to leave."

Bucky took a deep breath. "Oh," he murmured, realisation in his eyes as he put all the puzzle pieces together— your bruises, why you never stayed over.

"Oh, sweetheart,” he reached for you, and this time, you didn’t flinch.

He pulled you into his chest, arms wrapping around you. His lips pressed against the top of your head, breathing against your hair.

And then, after a long quiet moment, he asked, "What’s his name?"

It took you a long time to answer, but Bucky waited. He didn’t rush you as he rubbed slow circles against your back.

"Damien."

You barely whispered it, like saying it out loud would summon him.

His shoulders went rigid. You heard the faintest whine of his metal arm as his fingers curled into a fist.

"Damien." He repeated it, like he needed to taste the name of the man who had hurt you, like he needed to put a name to his anger.

Your throat was tight. "I’m sorry."

Bucky pulled back just enough to look at you, his hands still firm on your waist. "What the hell are you sorry for?" His voice was rough, but not with anger— he was hurt on your behalf. Grieving on your behalf.

"I should’ve told you," you whispered. "I should’ve—I should’ve left. I just—"

"You were scared." He brushed a strand of hair behind your ear. "Sweetheart, you don’t owe anyone an apology."

His fingers ghosted over your arms, barely touching, like he was afraid you’d flinch.

"You’re safe now," he promised, "I’ve got you."

Your throat closed. Is this what love is supposed to feel like?

Bucky shifted on his feet, glancing toward his kitchen. "Let me take care of you, yeah?" He frowned as his eyes studied your cheek. "You need something for the swelling."

He walked to the cabinet and pulled down a bottle of anti-inflammatory pills, shaking two into his palm before turning back to you.

"Here," he offered, grabbing a water bottle from the counter and unscrewing the cap. "Take these. They’ll help with the pain."

Your chest tightened, lungs locking up.

The little pills sat in his palm, harmless, waiting for you to swallow them. 

But they didn’t feel harmless. 

See, you had done this before.

You had taken something from a man you trusted, swallowed it without question, only to wake up confused, sore, violated.

You had trusted Damien, once, and he had used you.

Bucky noticed your hesitation immediately.

Your hands curled into fists in your lap.

His brow furrowed. "Doll?"

You couldn’t look at him, couldn’t look at the pills.

His breath hitched. "Oh."

When he realised, he felt a shattering kind of grief.

You flinched when he moved, but all he did was slowly place the pills on the table before backing away. 

You hated that you had flinched.

Because it was Bucky. Bucky. The man who had never done anything but love you, who had never given you a reason to fear him, and yet your body had reacted before your mind could catch up. 

“You don’t have to take anything,” he reassured.

He swallowed hard. His hands twitched at his sides, like he wanted to reach for you but didn’t.

"I would never," he said, his voice breaking. "I could never do that to you."

You knew that. Of course you did.

But hearing him say it like the very idea of hurting you made him sick had broken you.

You nodded. "I know."

"Just rest, okay?" he said, quieter now. "I’ll protect you."

Before you could stop yourself, you reached for him.

Bucky barely had time to react before you curled into his chest, pressing yourself against him, burying your face in his hoodie, inhaling the scent of safety.

Carefully, his arms came around you, not too tight. Not too much. Just enough.

You didn’t realize you were crying until his lips brushed the top of your head.

You didn’t know how much time passed before Bucky finally spoke again.

"C’mon, sweetheart," he cooed. "You’re exhausted."

You were. God, you were so tired.

Your body was running on fumes. The adrenaline had burned away, leaving nothing but exhaustion, leaving your limbs heavy, your eyes barely able to stay open.

You let him pull you to your feet, let him guide you to the bedroom, let him peel back the covers and tuck you in.

His hands were gentle as he pulled the blanket up to your chin. He brushed his fingers over your hair, his thumb tracing soft circles against your temple.

Your eyes fluttered shut.

—

At some point in the night, your phone buzzed.

Damien.

Then again.

Then again.

Each vibration rattled the nightstand, You didn’t wake, body curled into the warmth of the blankets he’d wrapped you in. It hurt to even think about when the last time you slept undisturbed was.

His fingers hovered over the phone. He should wake you up. He should let you handle this yourself.

Then it vibrated again. This time, it was a text.

Where the fuck are you?

Another.

I swear to god, if you don’t pick up.

Then another.

I will drag you home myself.

Bucky could feel the rage settling deep in his gut.

Then, the last message came through.

You think you can run? I’ll fucking kill you before I let you leave me.

No.

He wasn’t going to just sit here and ignore it.

He was going to handle this.

He picked up the phone, tapped the screen, and traced the call in seconds. He had done this a thousand times before— for missions, for threats, for people who needed help. 

The results came back quickly. Damien was at your shared apartment.

Then he stood, grabbed the biggest duffel bag, and left after pressing a soft kiss to your temple. 

—

Damien heard the knock on his door.

He groaned from the couch, rubbing at his temples. His head was still swimming from the high. He had barely moved since you had walked out, too fucked up to care. The girl he slept with was long gone. He didn’t even remember her name.

The knocking persisted, harder this time.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, stumbling to his feet, the room tilting slightly. He yanked the door open with a scowl. “What—”

Holy. Fucking. Shit.

The Winter Soldier was standing at his door.

Bucky Barnes. The Hero. The assassin. The fucking legend.

Damien gawked, blinking hard. “Whoa.” 

Bucky didn’t wait for him to process. “Move.” He shoved past him and into his apartment.

Damien stumbled back, mouth opening and closing. “Wait—what the fuck—” he barked, rubbing his chest. “Dude, what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Bucky didn’t answer. He didn’t even spare him a single glance as his metal hand ripped open your closet, yanking out handfuls of clothes and shoving them into the duffel bag. He moved like a soldier in the field— quick and efficient.

He took your laptop. Important Documents. Trinkets. The little necklace you always fiddled with when you were nervous. Everything that mattered. Everything that was yours, everything that you’ve ever talked about. It hurt to see that there wasn't much, that your life fit into the duffel bag. That and he already made up his mind— whatever clothes couldn’t fit in the bag he would buy you tomorrow. 

Because you were never setting foot in this apartment again.

Damien was still watching, bleary-eyed. “Okay, as cool as it is having an Avenger in my place, you can’t just take shit—”

Bucky didn’t even look at him.

“I’m not taking your shit,” he said coldly, zipping the bag shut. “I’m taking hers.”

Damien squinted, then blinked. “Hers? Wait—how do you even know her?”

He should have walked away. He should have just left.

But Damien was still talking.

“Oh my God,” his eyes wide as dinner plates. “Are you fucking her?”

Bucky didn’t say a word. 

Damien fucking grinned. “Oh, I was right, wasn’t I? That bitch was cheating on me.”

Bucky saw red.

Before Damien could react, Bucky’s metal hand shot out and grabbed him by the throat, lifting him clean off the ground.

Damien choked, his hands scrambling against the vibranium fingers squeezing his neck. His legs were kicking air uselessly. 

Bucky pulled him in, their faces inches apart.

“You listen to me,” Bucky said, voice lethal. “You are never going to call her again. You are never going to text her again. You are never going to look for her.” His grip tightened. “You so much as breathe in her direction, and I will find you.”

Damien’s face turned red, veins popping at his temples. He clawed at Bucky’s wrist, making pathetic strangled noises.

Bucky leaned in closer.

“You think you own her?” His voice was a deadly  whisper now. “You think you can hurt her?”

Damien’s mouth opened, gasping. 

“You don’t own shit,” Bucky snarled. “And you will never touch her again.”

Just as Damien’s vision started to go dark, Bucky let go.

He fell to the floor as a heaving mess, clutching his throat.

Bucky adjusted the strap of the bag. Then he stepped over Damien like a rug.

Right before he walked out the door, he glanced back.

“If I ever see you again,” he said. “You won’t be walking away.”

And then he left.

—

By the time Bucky made it back to his apartment, you were still asleep.

He set the bag down quietly. He placed your laptop on the table and folded your clothes neatly before slipping back beside you. 

You curled up to him. 

—

The morning light greeted you when you woke. You blinked the sleep away from your eyes, stretching slightly, and then you smelled it. Warm vanilla. A hint of espresso. It was the unmistakable scent of your favorite iced latte.

A small smile tugged at your lips before you even turned your head. And Bucky was standing beside the bed, phone in one hand, the other carefully setting down a bowl of cereal and the coffee on the nightstand.

It was so normal, so sweet and ordinary, that for a moment, you almost let yourself pretend that life had always been like this. 

But when you saw your laptop, your documents, your clothes—folded neatly on the side, when you saw every little piece of you that had been left behind, you frowned, confused.

You barely heard Bucky’s voice as he finished his call.

“Yeah. Yeah, I appreciate it. I’ll let you know… No, she’s okay. She’s good.” He paused. “Alright. Thanks, Matt.”

The call ended and he slipped his phone into his pocket.

Your throat was dry. “Bucky…?”

He turned to you.

You licked your lips, forcing the words outs. “What happened?”

He shrugged casually.

Like he hadn’t walked into your old apartment in the middle of the night. Like he hadn’t packed up every last thing that belonged to you. Like he hadn’t lifted Damien off the ground with one hand.

“He’s not gonna bother you anymore,” was all he said.

You swallowed, eyes searching his face. “Bucky… what did you do?”

He didn’t answer right away. He sighed, rolling his shoulders. 

“Nothing you have to worry about.”

And the phone call…

“Who were you talking to?” You asked. 

Bucky hesitated. Just for a second. “Murdock & McDuffie.”

That was a law firm.

Your fingers curled around the blankets. “Why?”

“To put together a case,” he said. 

Your lips parted, but no sound came out.

He shifted, voice softer now. “A domestic abuse case.” He continued, “If you decide to press charges.”

“Bucky—”

“You don’t have to,” he said quickly, like he didn’t want to push. “I just—I wanted you to have the option.”

The option.

For so long, you had none.

For so long, Damien had decided everything. What you wore. Where you went. How loud you could speak. How much you could breathe.

You had a choice.

Slowly, you reached for the coffee he had brought you and took a sip. It was perfect, just the way you liked it.

Bucky sat beside you on the bed, gently tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

His eyes looked to your cheek— to the fading imprint that had made a home there. “Does it still hurt?”

You swallowed, lifting your hand to touch the spot, but before you could, Bucky was already there, brushing his thumb lightly over your skin.

“A little,” you admitted. “But… I’m better than I’ve been in a long time.”

A small smile formed on his lips. “Good.”

And then, before you could say anything else, he leaned in.

He kissed your tears, lips pressing softly against the salt-streaked trail on your cheek. And then another kiss—this time against your lips. Slow, steady, like he had all the time in the world.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.

“I love you,” he whispered.

You cupped his face, fingers tracing the stubble on his jaw. “I love you, too.”

His eyes closed for a moment, like he was letting the words settle before pressing a kiss to your forehead.

“You’re safe,” he promised. “You can do what you want, go where you want. Stay if you want. I don’t ever want you to feel like I’m trapping you.”

A tear slipped down your cheek, and this time, it wasn’t from sadness.

“I know,” you whispered.

Because Bucky was nothing like him.

You had spent so long being controlled, manipulated, made to feel small. But now— now you had a choice.

And you chose him.

You had found love in the arms of a better man.

-end.

Extra notes : I'm posting because this month is my three-year anniversary of being sober, so this one is deeply personal. In some ways, this is a reflection of my past relationships before I met my wonderful partner. I don't really talk about this often, but couple of my exes were like this, and some even played a big part in my history of substance abuse. It is my partner who helped me get sober, and I am forever grateful, and I fucking love him so much. For some reason, I just can't bring myself to write the reader as a recovering addict, but I was able to write about experiencing abuse in a relationship. If you need to vent, my chat is always open. I may not reply quickly but I will talk if you're like me to. Please also refer to this very useful list of resources. If you can, please share more resources in the comments! You are worth so much and loved. <3

General Bucky taglist:

@hotlinepanda @snflwr-vol6 @ruexj283 @2honeybees @read-just-cant

 @shanksstrawhat @mystictf @globetrotter28 @thebuckybarnesvault@average-vibe

@winchestert101 @mystictf @globetrotter28 @shanksstrawhat @scariusaquarius

@reckless007 @hextech-bros @daydreamgoddess14 @96jnie @pono-pura-vida

@buckyslove1917 @notsostrangerthing @flow33didontsmoke @qvynrand @blackbirdwitch22

@torntaltos @seventeen-x @ren-ni @iilsenewman @slayerofthevampire

@hiphip-horray @jbbucketlist @melotyy @ethereal-witch24 @samfunko

@lilteef @hi172826 @pklol @average-vibe @shanksstrawhat

@shower-me-with-roses @athenabarnes @scarwidow @thriving-n-jiving @dilfsaresohot

@helloxgoodbi @undf-stuff

[fawniswriting]

Mr. Congressman

The above image does not indicate the reader's physical appearance.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Synopsis: After Congressman James Buchanan Barnes buys you a drink at the bar, your night takes a turn for a more passionate one.

Word Count: 7.3k

Warning(s): no use of Y/N. use of the nickname angel and sweetheart. alcohol consumption. lots of flirting. smut (18+ mdni)—dirty talk, so much praising, handjob, vaginal fingering, oral sex (f!receiving), multiple orgasms (reader), unprotected sex (p in v), creampie. lmk if I missed anything!!

Author's Note: I decided to drop this while I'm rewriting the next chapter of Faithfully Yours. I've wanted to write Congressman Bucky for awhile but didn't know what kind of story to make until this idea came upon me. For the record, smut is my kryptonite, and it took a lot of miracle for me to even finish this up. I genuinely have developed a new kind of appreciation for all of you smut writers out there. Anyways, the concept of this story sounded a lot better in my head, but hopefully this isn't that bad for a first attempt and I hope you'll still like it xx don't forget to comment/like/reblog to support :)

Bucky Barnes Masterlist

“Your drink, Ma'am.”

The bartender slides a tall flute across the counter, settling it beside the empty glass of spritzer you downed earlier. It doesn't take long for you to recognize the fruity aroma wafting through the air, the rusty red liquid rising in tiny bubbles as you scrutinize the drink with furrowed brows.

The Minimalist Bar and Lounge is nestled on the ground floor of Rosewood Hotel in Georgetown, Washington, D.C. The bar's interior exudes subtle sophistication, its dim lighting casting amber reflections across the polished mahogany counter. Soft piano jazz hums through the speakers overhead, cruising into the low murmurs of the sparse Thursday night crowd. 

You look up towards the bartender, a middle-aged man with laugh lines creasing his tan skin, and push the glass slightly towards him. “I didn't order this.”

“A gentleman sent it over,” he apprises, tapping his fingers against the counter with a knowing smile. “Says to tell you that you've got an admirer.”

Before you can say more, the bartender gives you a cheeky wink, striding away to whip up an order from another customer.

You drag the slender glass closer, spinning the drink around until the golden liquid at the top simmers into the red. As soon as you take an intrepid sip, the sweet tang of blackcurrant explodes in your mouth, compelling you to hum favorably at the familiar flavor coating your tongue.

You have barely set your glass back down when a deep voice suddenly erupts by your side.

“May I join you?”

The low, rough timbre of the voice sends a shiver down your back, chased away immediately by the warm presence that has settled next to you. Shifting in your seat, you tilt your head and lock eyes with another pair in cerulean, breath hitching in your throat when you take in the scent of fine spices mixing sedulously with bergamot.

Congressman James Buchanan Barnes is a sight to behold within the quiet establishment. With his tall stature and lean muscles stretching taut under the fancy suit, he is bound to attract every thread of attention in the room. The faint gray dusting his stubbled cheeks only adds to the man's overall charm, and as he peers down at you from his full, subjugating height, you can't help but ponder about how none of his pictures ever did his attractiveness justice.

Gathering your composure, you manage a small smile before nodding towards the empty seat beside you. ”Of course.”

The congressman doesn't waste time sliding into the stool, reciting his order towards the bartender with a practiced speech and a methodical gesture of his hand. His whole focus is back on you in a matter of seconds, bright ocean blue eyes taking in your features like curators would a priceless piece of Monet. You burn under his blatant appreciation, trying to mask the crack in your poise by taking another sip of your cocktail. 

“How's the drink?” he asks, the curve of his lips discreet but genuine under the warm lighting.

“It's good.” You set the glass down, tilting your body to the side until your knees nearly touch his. “I gather you're the one who sent it?”

Congressman Barnes doesn't say anything in return. He only continues staring at you—as if nothing else exists in the world at that moment except for the woman sitting in front of him—but the glint of mirth in his pupils tells you everything you need to know.

Your knees bump into his. “Very smooth, Congressman.”

The corner of his lips tilt higher. “Call me Bucky.”

Your eyebrows rise.

Before you can give a response, the bartender returns carrying the congressman's order of a classic Old Fashioned. Congressman Barnes accepts the drink with an easy nod, his fingers curling around the short tumbler as he turns towards you again. 

“It's what my friends call me,” he adds, smirking behind the rim of his glass.

“Is that what we are now?” you muse, eyes flicking twice between his hypnotizing eyes and kissable lips. “Friends?”

The man chuckles. He puts down his glass with a deliberate slowness, each stretch of movements calculated and needlessly arousing. Then, he leans in, just enough to steal the air between the two of you, just enough to make the world beyond to begin blurring around the edges.

“Angel—” his voice dips, the raspy edge floating along your skin, “—we can be whatever you want us to be.”

A shudder runs through your spine. You try convincing yourself that it is due to the chill in the air and the sheer material of your dress, but the simultaneous quickening of your heartbeat, along with the rush of goosebumps across your skin completely banishes that attempt. It was all your body's reaction to Congressman Barnes, and he knows this. He can read you like a goddamn open book—pinpoint the slightest change in your posture, detect the tiniest rise in your pulse, and spot the way your pupils dilate with each second your gaze stays locked on him.

He leans even closer, the ghost of his metal fingertips venturing the skin of your knee until he catches the silent gasp in your throat.

It excites him.

Biting your lip, you shuffle slightly to your side to escape his electrifying touch, putting on a pristine smile while pretending as though your composure weren't currently lying in tiny broken shards on the floor.

“Well, Bucky—” your voice is soft, baiting as you reach for your flute on the counter, “—thank you for the drink. How'd you know Kir Royale's my favorite?”

The smirk on Congressman Barnes’—Bucky's—face widens. 

“Simple, sweetheart.” His velvet voice drips with amusement. “I just picked something that suits you the best.”

Bucky's fingers drift along the edge of the bar, brushing against your own hand and pulse point, lingering there as if committing the rhythm of your heart into memory. By the dark flicker in his gaze, you know that he must have caught the stutter in your heartbeat, the indisputable evidence of his infuriating effect on your being.

Without breaking eye contact, Bucky plucks the glass from your grasp, his fingers warm where yours have been.

“Something sweet,” Bucky murmurs, swirling the red liquid before lifting the drink to his lips. He takes a long, unhurried sip, letting the moment stretch, cerulean blue smoldering into your eyes over the rim. “Seductive.” 

He sets the glass back down with a soft clink. Never once taking his attention off you. Tracing his heated gaze over your entire body in a way that sends fire searing through your skin.  

“And dangerous,” he finishes with a husky whisper, heavy with tension and unspoken revelations.

“Dangerous?” Your eyes twinkle. “How am I dangerous?”

Bucky huffs a quiet laugh, flashing you his striking pearly whites. “You kidding me? A woman like you, looking like that.” 

His eyes roam the length of your legs, landing on the skin of your thigh peeking through the slit of your dress, delicate and tempting. Bucky's tongue darts out, wetting his lips as he takes a moment to admire you.

“And that dress—” his eyes dip lower to your chest, drinking in the sight of your exposed collarbones and the shape of your curves, lingering too long as if it were the first time he ever laid eyes upon a woman, “—is the very definition of sin, sweetheart.”

A surge of delight curls your lips as you sway slightly in your seat, letting the dress grip tighter around your frame like a second skin, feeling the material shift just enough to taint Bucky's eyes with something prurient. Your fingers slither down the side of your body, half-conscious of Bucky's heated gaze that seems to map the path of your provocative touch.

“Do you like it? It's new,” you goad coyly, caressing your body through the silk. “I bought it today for a special occasion.”

Bucky's eyes crinkle at the corner, his pupils glistering with intrigue. “Yeah? Like a first date, Angel?” He takes a casual sip of the amber liquid in his glass, his nose scrunching up in thought as he plays along. “Bought it for a boyfriend? A husband, perhaps?” 

You fight off the thrill traveling through your veins and answer, shrugging nonchalantly, “Something like that.”

The tip of Bucky's mouth lifts. “What a lucky bastard,” he says earnestly, eyes drilling into yours as if he wants to bury himself there.

You evade his intense stare, feigning interest at your cocktail instead. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“Well,” you pause purposefully, studying all of the sharp edges that forge the man sitting in front of you, picturing all of the tenderness that he has concealed beneath the crisp white shirt and that impeccable tux of his. “Are you here on business? Or something else?”

Bucky's eyes wander towards the rows of bottles and liquors lining the wall of the bar, tweaking his bow tie as though just now remembering that it was there in the first place.

“Business,” he replies, straightforward, the pad of his index finger circling the lip of his glass on the counter. But then his eyes fly upward, sealing you in place. “Maybe a bit of pleasure as well.”

You hum, leaning closer until you feel the neckline of your dress flitter recklessly from your skin, divulging parts of you that manage to reclaim Bucky's sole interest. “Is that so?”

His throats bob.

There is no mistaking the whirr of his vibranium arm as the fingers clench, metal plates shifting in tandem with the torrent of desire rushing through Bucky’s mind. He imagines dropping his head to your chest, trailing wet, open-mouthed kisses on the expanse of skin, coaxing gasps and sounds of pleasure from those perfect, alluring lips. He imagines sinking to his knees, running his mouth up the length of your leg until he reaches the one place that would make you quiver and crumble in his mercy. Worshipping at your altar like a madman finally finding the true meaning of religion.

Public decency be damned. 

But before he can open his mouth, before he gets the chance to act on the budding ache tightening his slacks, the ringing coming out of his suit pocket stops him dead in tracks.

Bucky curses.

You study him curiously, taking in the augmenting scowl on his face as he glimpses at the screen of his phone. Nursing your drink, you let your voice soften while asking, “Something urgent?”

“No.” Bucky is quick to answer, shoving the phone back into his pocket like he is eager to be rid of the gadget. “Not at all. Nothing more important than you, Angel.”

The next round of ringing downright betrays his words.

It takes Bucky a copious amount of willpower to not launch the despicable device across the room. He grits his teeth, blue eyes hurling invisible daggers towards the number on the screen, a number belonging to one of the jerk-ass faces with whom he has no intention of doing business at this moment in time. Bucky wishes he could just block the sleazy bastard's number and be done with it.

But he can't.

Because as hard as Bucky tries to shed the new title when he steps out of the confined spaces of his office, at the end of the day, he is not merely Bucky Barnes anymore.

He is Congressman James Buchanan Barnes.

And playing nice with people he would rather punch in the face is, unfortunately, part of the unofficial job description.

Bucky heaves a sigh, running an exasperated palm across his face before his repentant gaze finds yours. 

“I have to—” he pauses, voice thick with guilt and frustration.

Bucky expects you to scowl, to see the same kind of disappointment that is gnawing at him etching on your beautiful face. Instead, all he finds is your effortless smile, the kind that has the power to wage a war or two. It makes something inside him lurch.

“You should take the call, Mr. Congressman.”

You glide out of the comfort of your seat with ease, finishing your drink and collecting your stone-studded clutch in hand. Bucky moves to protest, nearly leaping out of his own seat to prevent you from leaving, but the soothing press of your palm against his chest renders him back in place.

“Finish the call,” you tell him, adamant. Above the counter, your hand skims forward, furtively sliding something under Bucky's own palm before your fingers squeeze his in fervent. “And when you're done, come find me.”

Upon your departure, Bucky turns his hand over, smiling to himself when he sees the key card with a room number scribbled on the paper holder. He examines your retreating figure once his head lifts, consuming the languid sway of your hips, the way your silk dress is clinging to every hard and soft edges that sculpt your captivating figure. 

His body tenses with the urge to follow, to sneak his palm onto the small of your back and guide you towards where he knows this night is leading. But the shrill ringtone of his phone is relentless against his eardrums, ousting the compulsion away, forcing him to tear his gaze off as he answers the call with a clenched jaw.

As he brings the phone to his ear, Bucky's flesh hand flexes around the key card, letting the corner dig into the center of his palm, a silent reminder that the night is far from being over yet.

The clean smell of cotton bedsheets and the tang of lavender air freshener greet you the moment you step into your hotel room. Inside, though, your lungs constrict, yearning instead for the scent of cloves and bergamot that you left behind at the bar alongside the handsome gentleman who possesses it.

Your heels are discarded somewhere in the foyer before you tread indolently towards the bathroom, going to the sink to splash some water on your face, mindful not to mess the makeup you have expertly painted on earlier in the evening. The cold water does little to eliminate the heat on your cheeks, the same one that now travels through your entire body as your skin tingles with the phantom touch of a certain super soldier turned congressman.

It should be illegal—the facile power he holds over you.

The carpet is plush underneath your steps as you exit the bathroom, sauntering towards the balcony and delighting in the breath of late May’s fresh air that hails you when you walk through the sliding doors. Washington, D.C. sprawls out beneath you in a tapestry of scintillating lights and colossal silhouettes. From your vantage point, The Potomac snakes through the city like a ribbon of obsidian, its surface catching the occasional reflection of passing headlights, glinting in contrast against the ink-dark sky. The Capitol's dome gleams in the distance, a beacon of order and principle, while the Washington Monument stands unyielding like a silent sentinel. 

The city buzzes with life even at this hour, cars speeding through the streets and far off laughter resonating from the avenues below. And yet, even with all of its grandeur, the city's view still pales in comparison with the images of him in your mind—the way his blue eyes darkened when he took you in, the way he ignited your body just from a single touch. No matter how much you try to focus on the cityscape, your thoughts inevitably circle back to him: Bucky Barnes. Every time you blink, he is there—braided into the crevasses between your heartbeats, dithering in the warmth still coiled beneath your skin.

As though summoned by the constant notions of him in your head, you catch the unmistakable sound of the front door unlocking, followed closely by the echo of heavy footsteps entering the room.

When you emerge from the balcony, Bucky is already standing in the middle of the lush executive suite, shedding off his tuxedo jacket and bow tie where they end up in a pile above the sofa. He looks up at the sound of the sliding doors being locked, the stress in his shoulders dissipating when his eyes finally find yours. 

Examining him from head to toe, you lean your shoulder against the balcony door and ask, “How was the phone call?”

“Fine,” Bucky answers simply. “I took care of it.”

“Hm. Good.”

The atmosphere desiccates with tension. There is a flame starting in the pit of your stomach, one that you’re trying miserably to quell before it grows into something destructive and menacing. But the way Bucky is looking at you from the distance, so stubborn and piercing, suggests that he already knows what kind of turmoil your body is currently battling with itself.

Clearing your throat, you walk over to the assortment of liquors available in the mini bar, avoiding Bucky’s stare as you ask, “Would you like something to drink?”

Reaching for the undoubtedly expensive wine, you turn it over in your hand, nearly dropping the bottle when Bucky replies, “I don’t know, sweetheart. Kinda craving something else right now.”

Your chest hammers as you listen to the scratch of shoes against the floor, the surrounding temperature rising with each breadth of space Bucky erases with his footsteps. He is a fortress when he finally stands behind you—a man of battle and steel, whose hands have seen bloodshed beyond your wildest nightmares, whose same hands are now ghosting over your arms with a tenderness that tugs at your heartstrings.

Bucky drops his head on the nape of your neck, his breaths spluttering as he grounds himself with a grip around each of your forearms. Your stomach folds at the brush of his plump lips against your skin, the nudge of his nose as he breathes in your scent like it was an appropriate substitute for oxygen.

“What are you doing to me?” he bleats, almost to himself, sucking in a bruise to your pulse point that wrenches a gasp out of your throat.

“Bucky.” You sigh, the bottle of wine long forgotten as it stands lonesome on the counter. Turning in his arms, you are faced instantly with the intense blue of Bucky’s eyes, brimming with a hunger so conspicuous it threatens to consume you whole. You card your fingers through his hair, rejoicing in the gravelly rumble Bucky makes over the simple touch. “I could ask you the same thing.”

In Bucky’s company, the extravagant suite around you feels smaller, as if the walls were closing in to bear witness to the charged moment simmering in the meager space separating you both. Metal fingers sweep your jaw, featherlight yet sizzling, treading carefully before finding purchase on the side of your face. You barely register what is happening before Bucky’s lips are suddenly on yours—kissing you, claiming you, molding against yours in a dance of affection that soon bleeds into desperation. 

Bucky swallows every whimper and plea, his tongue exploring your mouth as if the kiss itself has become his soul's main source of sustenance. His vibranium palm on your cheek is alleviating, but his flesh hand on your waist is rough, gripping tenaciously, pushing you back until your spine is pinned between his imposing frame and the mini bar's counter. His lips teeter away from the kiss to find your jaw, trailing a path down your neck until there is no inch of skin free from the adornment of his marks.

He slots his thigh between your legs, nudging against the place where you yearn for him the most, making you mewl.

“Bucky, please,” you cry out, grinding yourself down on the toned muscles of his thigh.

“Fuck, sweetheart. Can't believe you're wrecked and bothered already,” Bucky muses, eyes drifting downward to drink in the erotic roll of your hips. “And I haven't even started yet.”

You should be embarrassed, should be alarmed by the mess you have become from just a single kiss. But any semblance of self-consciousness in your body evaporates in the blink of an eye, especially when Bucky yanks at the flimsy straps of your gauzy dress without so much as a warning, tearing it clear from your frame and letting it pool in a pathetic heap around your feet.

“Bucky!” you shriek, half from shock and half from the cold air that has suddenly enveloped your skin.

The man only licks his lips. “I'll buy you another one.”

You do not protest after that—not when his eyes rove over you as if you were the long-awaited feast to his ravenous beast. A thrill runs down your spine, satisfaction blooming in your chest at the way his stare lingers on the lacy matching set you so carefully chose to don for the night. It was meant to be a simple indulgence—a cute little thing you bought on a whim after catching a glimpse of it while you were out window shopping with friends—but now, under Bucky’s shameless admiration, the lacy number feels like the most brilliant spending decision you have ever made in life.

“Goddamn, Angel,” Bucky rasps, his teeth sinking down onto his bottom lip. “You sure as hell know how to send a man to their knees.”

“And yet, here you are.” You raise your eyebrows. “Still standing.”

The grin he rewards you is a thousand times brighter than the sun. “Not for long.”

Bucky drops his head lower, trailing open-mouthed kisses across your décolletage, nibbling on the silky skin that borders the line of your lacy bra. He makes quick work unclasping the garment and tossing it to the side, the cool air briskly nipping at your skin before his mouth is back on you once more, lavishing attention on each sensitive peak until you are trembling in his arms.

“Oh, Bucky,” you murmur amorously.

“I know, sweetheart.” He pinches your nipple, forcing you to bite his shoulder to stifle your squeal. “God, you’re one beautiful thing.”

His journey continues southward, across your torso, all the way down to your most private area. Bucky is kneeling before you now—the madman finally paying reverence to his most beloved goddess—and he looks absolutely fucking ecstatic. The sight of him between your legs, mouth-watering and aching to taste, is enough to have your head spinning in anticipation.

“I can smell you.” Bucky groans, sinking his head to press a kiss on your clothed core. The contact sends you spiraling over the precipice. “So fucking pretty. My pretty angel.”

Bucky's hands caress the back of your thighs, the contrast between flesh and metal sending a jolt of electricity through your veins. He dips his head again, this time wrapping his mouth around your mound, and starts eating you out despite the barrier of your panties.

You moan wantonly at his sinful attention, nearly collapsing to the floor if it weren't for Bucky's firm support keeping you upright. He fidgets with the fringe of your underwear, holding the fabric to the side to coat two of his flesh digits with your wetness.

“So wet for me already,” he murmurs, lapping at his soaked fingers with a blissful look across his face. “Tastes like nectar, sweetheart.”

“Bucky,” you whine, pulling at his shoulder-length hair until his blue eyes are locked onto yours. “No teasing.”

The shit-eating grin on his face would have aggravated you if it weren't for how unbelievably gorgeous he looks, kneeling at your mercy.

“Yes, Ma'am.”

Without wasting another second, Bucky lets go of your underwear with a final kiss on your covered clit, standing to his feet and hauling you up in his arms all in one breath. You yelp in surprise, securing your legs around Bucky's waist as he carries you efficiently towards the bed, the delicious friction of his pants compelling your inner walls to tense in ardor, making you crave him even more.

Bucky ensures that your back meets the mattress gently before he withdraws, though your whine of protest stops him before he can go far, your arms reaching for him as he takes your hands with a laugh.

“Eager, are we?” he asks impishly, peppering tiny kisses across your knuckles.

“Only for you, Buck.”

Bucky's smile softens, his lips securing a final kiss on the back of your hand before his deft fingers start undoing the buttons of his shirt. You observe with bated breath as he reveals the muscular panes of his torso, biting your lower lip when his hands begin working on his belt buckle and dress slacks.

Once he is back on you again, this time in nothing but the thin fabric of his boxer, it feels like everything in your life has slid right into place.

“Hi,” Bucky says, breathless, a boyish grin stretching his lips into a charming curve.

“Hi, handsome.”

You wrap your arms around his neck, lugging him down into a heated kiss and relishing in the feeling of metal fingers pinching your hip. Every sensation is amplified as his breath stumbles in your mouth, the softness of his lips contrasting with his metallic touch. Your hand wanders the expanse of skin, exploring the river of veins and the constellation of freckles, drawing random patterns down Bucky's abdomen until you reach the waistband of his drawers.

When your palm slips inside, circling around his hardening length, Bucky stammers into the kiss.

“Angel.” His voice comes out as a guttural moan. “What are you doing?”

“Wanna make you feel good, Buck.” You bury your nose in his temple, kissing the corner of his eye. “Please.”

Bucky barely has time to nod before your fingers scramble to rid him of the last barrier casing his body. His underwear is gone in a swift motion, ditched somewhere in the room through the haze of urgency. 

At last, Bucky is there—above you, all around you, entirely overwhelming in his presence—and the sight of him alone steals the breath from your very lungs. The austere glow of the room carves shadows along the solid lines of his body, every muscle and sinew sculpted into something unreal. His skin is littered by old scars and the passage of time, telling a story that you long to trace and memorize with every subtle scrape of your heart.

He is devastating—an Adonis chiseled not by gentle divinity, but by violence and calamity. And yet he is here, flesh and blood, naked and glorious, a whole man despite history and remorse masticating him bit by bit. And right now, Bucky Barnes is looking at you like you are the only thing in this world tethering him to reality.

Your heart constricts, synchronously with your pussy, catching you somewhere between awe and want as you reach for him once more.

At the first grip of your fingers around his shaft, Bucky lets out a hiss.

“Is this okay?” you ask cautiously.

“God, yes,” Bucky respires, forehead creasing when you give an experimental squeeze around his girth. “Yes, sweetheart, it’s more than okay.”

His rough response motivates you to start pumping.

It doesn't take long for you to settle on a rhythm, moving your hand up and down, twisting and clutching until you are requited with his morose sighs and moans. Bucky is utterly beautiful like this—eyes shut, long hair shielding his face as his hips snap up to meet your depraved ministrations. Each moan that escapes him only drives you to move faster, your own pulse quickening as you feel him unraveling beneath your touch.

When your thumb resolutely swipes over his slit, Bucky's entire body staggers, a shuddering gasp tearing through his throat as he jerks in your grasp.

Your chest inflates with titillation. “You like that?”

“Y-Yes. Oh God,” Bucky stammers, burying his face in your neck when you repeat the movement again, collecting his precum. “Shit, Angel. M’ not gonna last if you keep that up.”

His admission only spurs you on, tightening your grip, encouraging your strokes to grow bolder. Bucky is a mess above you—all ragged breaths and sweat-slicked skin, every muscle in his body coiled like a rubber band on the verge of snapping. It is an addictive view, so intoxicating that you could live off it, spending the rest of your days ravaging him like this.

But before your dream can materialize, a calloused hand clamps around your wrist out of the blue, putting an end to your movements and forcing the thrill in your veins to a halt.

Your forehead knits in confusion as you stare into Bucky’s eyes.

“Gotta stop, sweetheart,” he pants, an easy but wrecked smile embellishing his gorgeous face. “Or else I'd blow before we even get to the good part.”

Heaving a deep sigh, you jut out your bottom lip and sulk. “Is that such a bad thing?”

“Christ, no.” Bucky chuckles. “Another time, I might take you up on that. But tonight?” He ducks his head, stealing a quick kiss that has you seeing stars. “I wanna be inside you when I cum.”

The promise catches you off guard, sending a dash of anticipation through your ribs and into every corner of your being. Bucky's fingers gently unwrap yours from his length, his cock still red and leaking from your recent attention. He regains control in no time, his lips descending upon your skin like a voyager mapping out a sacred route, pressing open-mouthed kisses as he charts a path down the curves of your body.

 His breath is warm against your stomach, each kiss dragging lower, teasing ruthlessly, until his fingers hook into your underwear and strip it away in one hasty, practiced motion. He groans at the sight of you, his voice thick with admiration and something more primal as his mouth lets out a muttered curse. 

“Jesus, sweetheart.” Bucky’s dark lashes flutter, drinking you in. “You’re a damn masterpiece.”

The raw compliment nudges your heart, brewing the fog in your mind until you are nothing but a heap of fire and lust. 

Words fly out of your head as Bucky eats you out like a man starved—licking, sucking, and biting with a desperation that borders on worship. His tongue moves in volitional strokes, alternating between featherlight flicks and deep siphoning of your bundle of nerves. Your fingers twist into Bucky's hair, tugging hard enough to earn a growl, the sound vibrating in pleasurable waves all throughout your body.

As if his current ministrations weren't enough, Bucky suddenly brings his metal fingers to your opening, prodding and unfolding gently, pushing two of his digits in until they are sheathed inside the heat of your weeping hole.

“Holy shit, Angel. Look at ya,” Bucky mutters, watching your walls throb around him as he pushes and retracts his vibrainum hand. The sight alone makes his own hardness twitch. “Soakin’ me like a dam, sweetheart. This all for me?”

“Yes, Bucky. No—ah! N-No one else,” you let out between helpless gasps, grinding despairingly onto Bucky's hand.

Bucky's pupils dilate, his eyes scanning you from head to toe as if immortalizing you into memory. The pace of his fingers is increasing by the minute—scissoring, curling, grasping for that one magical spot that never fails to ruin your whole being. Bucky's mouth returns on you in no time, nibbling and tracing with his tongue, humming heartily with every wrecked sound escaping from your chest.

“S-Shit. Bucky, that feels—mpphh. I'm s-so close—ah!”

The climax crashes into you in a matter of minutes, arriving like a tsunami, abrupt and earth-shattering. Bucky is patient as he guides you through it all, continuing the lazy licks on your clit and the slow pumps of his fingers inside you. He only relents when you begin squirming away from him, whining at the over-sensitivity aching through your bones.

“Are you okay?”

You blink through the mist in your vision, your eyes slowly refocusing on Bucky's concerned face.

He is a perfect picture of debauchery—kneeling on the bed in all of his majestic nudity, remnants of your release coating the nether part of his face. His question should be startling—the way it juxtaposes everything he has done to you thus far. However, Bucky Barnes is no man if he is not a decent one, and you let yourself find solace in that little fact as your lips widen into a smile.

“Bucky.” Your voice is sheer, grated away by the daze of satisfaction that still muddles your mind. “I am fantastic.”

A cheeky grin overtakes Bucky's lips as he crawls up your frame. 

“Fantastic, huh?”

“Hm.” You nod, cloaking his neck with your arms. “You're fantastic.”

Bucky seizes your lips in a kiss, allowing you to taste your own desire on his tongue. Moans spill out of your mouth at the delectable shove of his shaft on your wetness, cherishing the way Bucky returns each roll of your pelvis with his own, his haze-lidded mind reducing the once mighty soldier into a mess of broken whines and crushing rapture.

With a sudden tide of momentum, you push against the formidable wall of his chest, catching Bucky off guard as you send an abrupt shove that sends his back straight to the mattress.

Bucky blinks up at you, stunned, taking in the sight of your body above his, straddling his hips like they were a throne created specifically for you to sit on. His hands instinctively come up to grasp your thighs, fingers flexing against fiery skin as his gaze darkens with an avid yearning.

“Damn,” he breathes, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Didn’t see that one comin’, sweetheart.”

You brush your mouth against his jaw. “I can’t wait any longer, Bucky. I need you inside me.”

A responding groan rumbles from Bucky's chest the moment you start to sink down, his cock stretching you open, filling you inch by inch until the two of you are joined as one. The world outside ceases to exist as you take him in, your bodies fusing together until there is no distance separating you two, no way of knowing where Bucky ends and you begin. 

You take a speculative roll of your hips, testing the waters, finding your footing before descending on a lascivious, steady tempo. Bucky's hands are explorative on your skin, caressing down your thighs and up your hips, all while mumbling breathy curses and gentle encouragement that crackles down to your hankering core.

"That’s it, Angel," Bucky rasps, his hands squeezing the plush flesh of your backside. "So damn beautiful. Feels like you were made for me.”

“Buckyyy,” you wail, your hands bracing on top the sturdy surface of his chest. “You feel—oh! S-So—uhh—so good.”

Euphoria stumbles past your lips in a concoction of jumbled words, babbling against Bucky's chest while occasionally littering his hard panes with kisses. Every nerve ending in your body is alight, every drag of him inside you a luscious reprieve. Your entire senses are heightened with everything Bucky.

The gallant man beneath you sits up slightly, drawing you down by your neck until your foreheads are wedged against one another.

“You tired, sweetheart?” His voice is the epitome of lust, woven discreetly by a tenderness that threatens to liquefy your bones.

A breathless nod is all you can manage. Before you can fully grasp what is happening, Bucky is already taking control, wrapping you in his embrace and thrusting up into you like there is no tomorrow. Each snap of his hips sends you spiraling closer to the edge, his name spilling from your lips over and over again like a prayer to the moon, the stars, and the universe.

“B-Bucky!” Your voice hitches. “P-Please, I want to—ahh.”

“I know, sweetheart. Come on,” he urges, rough and terse, a drastic contrast to the kiss he presses to your forehead. “Give it to me.”

The pinnacle crashes over your whole being in an explosion of colors and light. A sharp cry tears from your throat as your walls tighten around him, your entire body convulsing while Bucky holds you through it, murmuring praises into your cheek and peppering soft kisses all over your face. You lose track of how long the two of you stay in that position—your face nestled safely in the crook of Bucky's neck, his hands skimming abstract patterns on the dimple of your spine. 

The room is still buzzing in the aftermath of your orgasm when Bucky gently maneuvers you onto your back, switching places with you so that he is now hovering on top of your spent body. A quiet whimper escapes your throat the moment you feel him nudge against your over-sensitive core, the aftershocks still humming through your nerves like the echo of a symphony’s final crescendo.

Bucky notices immediately, his lips curving into a smirk as he brushes a hand down your cheek. “Too much, sweetheart?”

You swallow an empty air, the heat returning to your belly at the way Bucky is looking at you, like he is not nearly done devouring your body, mind, and soul. Still, he waits, his breath warm against your lips as his vibranium fingers stroke slow circles along your outer thigh.

“I know you’ve got one more in you,” he coaxes, sprinkling teasing kisses to your jaw, your throat, and the curve of your shoulder. “But I need to hear you say it, Angel. You want this?”

Despite the delicious ache between your legs—the overstimulation still singing beneath numerous layers of your skin—you don’t hesitate. You thread your fingers through his hair, tugging just enough to make him grunt.

“Yes,” you whisper, breath staggering when he moves his hips against yours. “Please, Bucky. I need you.”

Your confirmation is all he needs.

With a low, unruly sound, Bucky slams back into you, his restraint disintegrating as he buries himself to the hilt. This time, there is no leisure buildup—just raw, unadulterated need that ignites the blood coursing through your arteries. His rhythm is frantic and desperate, his hands bruising your waist like he needs to hold onto something real before he completely loses himself deeper in the bliss.

“Fuck. You're so tight, sweetheart. So warm and wet,” he groans, his forehead dropping against yours. “You feel perfect around me.”

You gasp at the thickness of him, the drag of each ridge of his length against your tender walls. Bucky is pounding relentlessly into you as he chases after his own release; the air between you thick with heat, with the sound of your bodies moving in an erotic, exquisite harmony.

“Oh, Bucky. Feels s-so good. So big.” You meet each of his thrusts eagerly, your body welcoming him as if the two of you were always meant to be one. “That's it. Ah, ah, t-take what you need, baby.”

A ragged moan rips from his throat, his movements turning erratic as he barrels toward the edge. Your walls shudder around him, making him stutter in his rhythm. 

“Grippin’ me like a vice, sweetheart.” Bucky's eyebrows furrow, jaw clenched as his gaze finds yours. “Can't last long. Gonna—fuck. Shit, shit, m’ gonna cum.”

You pull him down into a frenzied kiss, pouring every ounce of your need into him, letting him listen to the way your blood, your organs, and every other thing inside you chant his name like a prayer recited in reckless devotion.

Bucky trembles as he reaches his peak, spilling everything he has to give into the deepest crevice of your heat, his body tensing before melting into a pliable mass above you. A broken moan catches in your throat as the pleasure pummels into you once more, your limbs clinging to him with whatever bit of strength remains in the fragmented pieces of your body.

For a while, there are no words spoken between the two of you. Just the shared intakes of your breaths, the soft press of Bucky’s lips against your temple, and the grounding strokes of his fingers tracing along your skin. 

You shift slightly beneath him, tilting your head up to meet his gaze, and what you find there steals what little breath you have left—something reverent, something vulnerable. His thumb brushes over your cheek before he leans in, capturing your lips in a kiss so gentle and profound, a stark polarity to the frantic passion that has consumed you moments prior.

Bucky exhales a quiet chuckle once he withdraws, resting his forehead on top of yours.

"Christ, Angel," he mutters hoarsely, his voice strained with exhaustion and something unguarded. "You're gonna be the death of me.”

You hum, an appeased smile decorating your lips as you thread your fingers through his damp hair.

When Bucky finally pulls out, the absence of him leaves you aching and remarkably empty. Your body, already boneless from exhaustion, instinctively reaches for him, fingers grazing over his flesh hand in an attempt to search more of the warmth he naturally emits. Bucky chuckles, low and affectionate, his lips pressing a lingering kiss to the clammy skin of your forehead.

"Stay put, sweetheart. Gotta take care of you," he says before putting on his boxer and disappearing into the bathroom.

Bucky returns a moment later with a damp towel in hand. He goes to kneel beside you, his touch reposeful as he cleans you up with a forbearing care.  The first press of the cloth against your sensitive core has you sucking in a breath, a whimper slipping free before you have the mind to stop it from resonating in the air. Bucky’s gaze flicks up at the sound, concern knitting his eyebrows as his hand stills above your pelvis.

“Easy, Angel,” he soothes, trailing a hand up your thigh in a comforting caress. “I know what you're gonna say. But you took me so damn well. Gotta make sure you don’t wake up hating me in the morning.”

You scoff, rolling your eyes despite the fond smile wresting your lips. “Pretty sure I already hate you a little.”

Bucky's responding beam is radiant, his chest deflating in the assurance that you are okay—or at least, okay enough to still have the fire to put him in place—before tossing the used towel onto the floor where it lands with the other discarded fabrics of your clothes.

“Nah,” Bucky shakes his head, flumping beside you on the bed and gathering you in his arms. “You love me.”

You sigh in contentment the second Bucky's arms surround you, keeping you pressed to his side and pulling the covers over both of your satiated bodies. You fit against him like two conjoined puzzle pieces, like you were always destined to lie in each other's arms and slot perfectly into the apertures of each other's lives. Bucky’s flesh hand finds your right palm on his chest, bringing it to his lips to fleck tiny kisses across each knuckle, the matching golden bands wrapped around your ring fingers glinting against one another.

Something in the cerulean blue of his eyes shifts. By the next time you blink, Bucky is already claiming your lips in a kiss so compassionate you fear your heart might burst from the sheer ferocity of it. 

When he pulls back, Bucky is grinning, utterly smitten as he nuzzles his nose to the apple of your cheek.

“Happy anniversary, Angel,” Bucky murmurs, his voice heavy with selfless devotion and helpless exaltation. “I love you.”

A slow smile spreads across your lips, your nose wrinkling in happiness as you return, “Happy anniversary, my love.”

Your wedding bands catch the dim lighting of the bedside table lamp as Bucky laces his fingers through yours—sure and steady, a silent vow renewed without the necessity of spoken words. He exhales deeply, thoroughly at peace, and you let yourself sink into the warmth of his love, knowing with absolute certainty that there is nowhere else in the world you would rather be.

Nowhere but here, in the safety of your husband's arms, where your heart has always meant to stay.