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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)

[mrsbuckybarnes1917]

Can you do one where the reader is on medicine that makes it hard for her to finish or even get close to there, so she never expects anything during sexy time, and Bucky understands that and is so patient and he keeps getting her close, but she just can't and she's frustrate but ok with it. So finally he goes back down on her or something and she is able to orgasm for the first time in forever, and she doesn't want him to stop, so he doesn't. but it triggers an emotional release as well and he just keeps praising her through it, as we all know Bucky is the king of soft and sweet and praising! And aftercare and fluff as well?

Sertraline Nights

Word count: 8.4k

Warnings: 18+ minors dni, smut, explicit sexual content, established relationship, reader is on sertraline, detailed depiction of SSRI-induced anorgasmia, multiple failed attempts at orgasm, eventual successful orgasm (first time in years), oral sex (f receiving), unprotected piv sex (established relationship, no condom use mentioned), creampie, heavy praise, “sweet girl” pet name, body worship, soft!Bucky, protective!Bucky, patient & loving Bucky, emotional hurt / comfort, anxiety mention (reader’s history), post-mission intimacy, bath scene, non-sexual caregiving, aftercare, massage, oil massage turns sensual, accidental love confession, mutual “I love you”, tears during/after sex (both frustration and relief/joy), very soft ending, no y/n, reader has hair long enough to tuck behind ear (minor detail)

Sertraline. You’d done the research. A selective serotonin reuptake inhibitor. An educated and informed decision. It had been a quiet miracle for your anxiety. It steadied the wild currents of your mind, like a hand on the tiller, guiding you through storms that had once felt unending. Unfortunately, every dose you took came with a cost. Each morning rolled in with nausea that turned your stomach like an unwelcome tide. But what was more devastating was the delicate dimming of your desire. Arousal would build like a wave, only to crest and dissolve before you could find release. And you had gladly accepted the trade— calmer days for… muted nights. It was a fragile equilibrium, one where you had traded pleasure for some modicum of peace. You had accepted that healing came with a cost. It was fine. You could cope.

And you did.

Until you met Bucky.

Friendship first. It blossomed quietly between you. Flourishing through shared coffee runs and late-night talk on the tower’s helipad when sleep wouldn’t come. His presence felt like an anchor, the counterweight to the chaos you’d grown accustomed to managing alone. Bucky never pushed you for anything. Never asked for more than you could offer. He wasn’t like other men you’d been friends with. He wasn’t like John or Alexei. He listened when you ranted about your anxiety, the eventual decision to take medication. He said nothing when you admitted to the trade-offs, the days when your body felt like it didn’t belong to you. His blue eyes held no judgment, only quiet understanding.

Over time, things shifted. In small ways at first. A lingering touch when he passed you a mug. The way he tucked a strand of hair behind your ear after a mission, letting his fingers rest against your cheek for longer than necessary.  Late night movie nights became tradition rather than obligation. Shared laughter turned into more meaningful glances. Then one day, after a particularly hairy mission, he took your hand and hadn’t let go since. That was the moment the gravity between you became undeniable.

Your first kiss had been tentative… almost reverent. In the quiet common room, long after everyone else had retired to their rooms, his lips brushed yours. Bucky kissed you like you were the only person in the world. Like he had all of eternity to spend with you. He moved like he was memorizing the shape of your mouth, the cadence of your breath. He didn’t rush. He didn’t demand. When your anxiety made your hands tremble, he held them against his chest grounding you.

You helped him in the same way he helped you. Quietly. Without fanfare. When the nightmares dragged him under, you stayed awake by his side. Your fingers traced slow patterns on his back until his breathing would even out. When the weight of his past pressed too hard on his conscience, you listened without trying to fix things. You let him speak without interruption until the ghosts faded back into the dark of night. You reminded him he was more than his history. More than a weapon. And in the darkness, when his metal arm felt like a crushing weight, you kissed the seams and whispered that every part of him was welcome here.

You made space for his healing the way he did yours— patient, steady and unwavering.

Intimacy unfolded for you slowly. It was different from any other relationship you’d had. Both of you had reservations about yourselves which held you back. At first it was only kisses— long, intense, ones that left you both breathless, but never felt hurried. Bucky’s hands conversed with your curves, moving with reverence as he learned the shape of your body. In return, your touches were tentative and tender. Your clothes stayed on for weeks, but desire simmered under the surface, without demand.

When the time came, you both knew it was right.

It was right after a mission. One which had been too close for comfort. Bullets grazed a concrete wall just inches from your head. Bucky’s arm had taken a hit meant for you. Adrenaline buzzed quietly under your skin, even as the quinjet touched down on top of the tower. And the deep seated fear lingered far sharper than the exhaustion in your bodies. Neither of you spoke on your way back to your floor. Words somehow felt too tiny for the what-ifs that echoed in your minds.

He followed you into your bedroom without prompting. Once the door clicked shut behind you, Bucky turned you around, eyes dark with the depth of his feelings. He reached out. Slow. Careful. He cupped your face so gently, like he was afraid a simple touch might make you vanish.

“Need to feel you’re here,” he rasped.

You nodded, throat tight. “Me too.”

Your tactical gear came off with a quiet urgency. Not frantic but necessary. Your fingers skirted over each other’s wounds. Grazes from bullets which had slid across your skin far too close for comfort. Skin met skin and the world quickly narrowed to the feel of his heartbeat against yours. You reveled in the feel of his breath in your hair. His solid weight was grounding for you both. There was no rush to the finish line, only the raw need to prove that both of you had come home safe and alive. You held on, like he was your lifeline and you his. Neither of you let go until the fear ebbed away and only warmth remained. He explored you with patience. His thrusts slow and loving, checking your eyes, your breath, every whispered yes. You felt the pleasure build, the tightening of the sweet coil was familiar… welcome even… only to have it unravel into nothing. 

If he noticed, he didn’t mention anything. But after the third night of you trembling on the edge without tipping over, you finally said it out loud. Your voice felt small in the darkness.

“Bucky, I can’t…”

“Can’t what, sweet girl?” he asked, caressing your sides lovingly.

“You know… finish,” you mumbled. “The sertraline. It just… doesn’t let me.”

Bucky stilled his movements, pulling you tighter with his lips pressed against your temple. “Figured something was holding you back,” he murmured. “Doesn’t change a damn thing. I’m here for all of you— not some finish line.”

Relief washed through you like cool water. From then on he loved you without expectation, drawing pleasure out in soft waves instead of chasing a peak that wouldn’t come.

Over the next four months, the two of you slipped into a quiet but steady rhythm of shared mornings and entangled nights. The tower stopped feeling like work quarters and more like home. All because Bucky was by your side. His hoodie was permanently draped over your chair. He got up early to make you pancakes when you’d had a bad day or your anxiety was particularly bad. The others teased you about how domestic things were between you, but you didn’t care.

Sex had become part of your routine too. Bucky was patient, generous and not once rushed you through the act. He never made you feel bad or broken for what the sertraline stole from you. He simply loved your body the way it was— responsive in every way except the one that you needed most.

Tonight was just the same as any other. Rain drummed down steadily against the giant window panes, punctuating the soft sighs and gasps shared between you. Bucky had you on your back with your legs hooked over his shoulders. One hand was braced beside your head while the other was rubbing slow, perfect circles over your clit. As usual, he was buried deep inside you, rocking back and forth in a rhythm that he knew you liked. Just enough drag. The exact amount of pressure. It was all perfect… except for that final spark.

And you could feel it. God, could you feel it tonight.

The coil in your belly was wound tighter than it had ever been before. Every thrust sent the brightest sparks shooting through every nerve in your body. Every swipe of his thumb on your swollen clit made your thighs tremble dangerously. Your usually steady breathing had turned into short, desperate pants. You were there. Right there! Right on the edge. The abyss stretched out in front of you. Waiting for the leap of faith. Your muscles fluttered. Toes curled. The pressure in your core was so exquisite that it bordered on pain. You were closer than you’d been in years. So close you could almost taste it. So close that you dared to believe it would happen this time.

“Buck—” Your voice cracked, begging him to push you over. “It’s… it’s so close. Don’t stop. Please.”

He didn’t. In fact, he leaned further down, pressing his forehead against yours. Blue eyes locked on your like you were the only thing that kept him grounded. “I’ve got you, sweet girl. Right here. Let it happen. Just breathe with me.”

You tried. You really did. Breathing deep. You arched up into him, matching his pace, clenching around him like you could force the wave to break. The tide was coming in. The wave of pleasure you were riding crested higher, flooding very every nerve in your body until your body vibrated. You were shaking. Literally shaking. Tears pooled in the corners of your eyes because you were convinced that this was finally going to be the one. It felt so possible. It was right within your grasp.

And then… nothing.

The long awaited tension held taut for one agonizingly cruel heartbeat before it slowly began to unravel. There was no crash. No dive into ecstasy. But all you got was a slow fizzle of feeling. The wave dissolved into the familiar and hollow ache. You went still beneath him, your breath hitching as you choked back a sob.

Bucky noticed immediately. He stopped moving. He stayed buried inside you, but his hips stilled. The hand that had been caressing your clit came up to cradle your face instead. “Hey. Hey, sweet girl. Look at me.”

You did, eyes glassy with frustration and something suspiciously close to grief. “I was so close,” you whimpered. “I swear, Buck. I was right there. Closer than ever. I could feel it. I could! I thought…” Another tear slipped free. “Why can’t I just… why won’t it let me come?”

Bucky eased out of you, ignoring the unsatisfied ache in his throbbing cock. He wrapped his arms around your waist and gathered you against his chest. His fingers threaded through your hair and he held on tight, like if he relaxed his grip you might shatter. “Shh. I know. I know you were. I felt it too— how tight you got, how well you squeezed me. You were beautiful, baby. So damn close.”

You pressed your face into his neck, taking deep shuddering breaths to try to calm your pounding pulse. He smelt like sweat and sex and soap. The warm, comforting scent that was so uniquely him. “I hate this,” you mumbled in admission, voice small and vulnerable. “I hate that my body won’t listen. I hate that I get you all worked up and then… nothing.”

Bucky pulled back just enough to meet your eyes. His thumb brushed the tear tracks on your cheek. “You don’t get me worked up for an orgasm, sweet girl. You get me worked up because you’re you. Because the way you sound when I kiss your neck. Because the way your fingers dig into my back. ‘Cause the way you say my name when I hit that special spot. That— that’s what I’m here for. Not some… finish line.”

With that he kissed you. Slow. Soft. Pouring every ounce of his truth into it. And when he pulled back for a breath, he looked at you again. “We keep going until you’re ready to stop. Or we stop now and I hold you all night. Your call. No pressure. Never pressure.”

You let out a shaky exhale. Relief. Desire. Frustration. The conflicting emotions buzzed under your skin, like static. But his words wrapped around you, comforting, like a warm blanket softening the edges of your emotions. You searched his eyes, steady blue that had the depth of an ocean. Reflected back at you was nothing but soft devotion and you felt a spark of determination flicker back to life. You weren’t defeated. Not yet.

“Let’s try again,” you whispered, your hand sliding up his chest to cup his jaw. “Please, Bucky. I was so close. Maybe… maybe if we switch it up a little.”

He studied you for a moment. You felt like his gaze could pierce through to the very core of your soul. And all throughout this assessment, his thumb traced small arcs on your cheek. There was no pity, just the same quiet resolve you’d fallen for. “You sure? I don’t mind—”

“I want to.” You were quick to answer, more confidence instilled in your voice. Your fingers trailed down his chest, grazing his abs until they were wrapped around his length. He was still hard and aching from the unfinished rhythm. You worked on him slowly, watching as his breath hitched and eyes fluttered half-closed as you stroked his cock over and over. “And even if I can’t… I want you to finish. Let me help you. It’s not fair that I—”

He caught your wrist gently, halting you mid-stroke. “No.” His tone was firm but soft. The protective edge in his voice made your heart swell. “Not until you do, sweet girl. We’re in this together. If you don’t get there, neither do I.” He leaned in, lips brushing yours in a tender kiss. “It’s not about fair. It’s about you feeling good. All of you.”

Heat bloomed in your chest at his words, chasing away the last shadows of the doubt that often consumed you. You nodded, pulling closer to him. “Okay. Then let’s try doggy. The angle… maybe it’ll help?”

You watched Bucky’s mouth curl into an appreciative smirk. You knew how much he loved this position, but the best thing about Bucky was that he really saw who you were and accepted all of you despite your flaws. His hands found their way to your hips, helping you to turn and guided you down onto your hands and forearms. You cranked your head around to glance at Bucky’s face as you arched your back— just the way he liked. You offered yourself without shame and you loved hearing the rough exhale from his lips— like the sight of you alone was enough to unravel him a little.

Without further hesitation, Bucky lined himself up to your entrance. You’d long ditched condoms in the hope that feeling him bare would help. It didn’t. He nudged your folds until you pushed back against him and then pressed in— inch by careful inch. The stretch was exquisite. Thick. Hot. Filling you so completely your breath caught mid moan. You both groaned in unison at the reconnection. Low and raw. The sound vibrated between your bodies like your own private symphony.

His first thrust was deliberate. Measured. Testing. He almost slid all the way out, letting you revel in the sensation of every ridge, every engorged vein dragging along your wet sensitive walls, before he sank right back in, right to the hilt. Your head tipped back. The slow drag ignited a deep feral heat low in your belly. His fullness pressed right against your cervix, brushing the special spot inside you slow enough to make your fingers curl into the already wrinkled sheets as pleasure rippled outwards in soft, steady waves. 

Once he was certain you were comfortable, he set his pace. Controlled. Unhurried. Each roll of his hips was as precise as his sniper shots. The second thrust hit deeper. The change in angle let him grind on your front wall as he pulled out. You loved that he started slow, waiting for your responses. Letting the sparks dance over your spine. Feeling your muscles flutter involuntarily around him. Reveling in the fact that they tried to hold him there. A soft, involuntary whimper escaped you as the pressure built in slow, delicious layers.

Thrust number three was angled differently. Upward this time, and oh— right there. You moaned again as his head nudged the swollen spot inside with unerring accuracy. The coil tightened. Sharper. Brighter than before. The thread pulled taut in your core, tugging at every inch of you. Your thighs trembled as you pushed back to meet him, chasing the exact pressure.

Four. Five. Every thrust built on the last. The drag of his cock on the way out teased your entrance, hypersensitive now, while the push inside you filled you so completely that your toes curled inwards. Heat pooled. Your legs shook. Your pussy leaked, slick and insistent. Every time he bottomed out, the base brushed your clit indirectly, sending tiny lighting bolts through your nerves.

You felt yourself loosen up a little. Moans came more freely. Breaths a tad faster. It all spilled out into the pillow Bucky had passed you. Both his hands cupped your hips, guiding your movements while his thumbs stroked soothing circles over the back of your pelvic bone, grounding you even as the pleasure climbed. But once you learned his momentum, his right hand moved to your back and the left slipped round to find your clit. He was gentle at first, considerate. He let you learn the firmness of his touch before he matched the rhythm of his thrusts. Each circle synced perfectly with the buck of his hips making your walls pulse and your vision white. The dual sensation was overwhelming— deep internal pressure meeting bright, electric surface sparks. Your whole body sang with it.

You were shaking with anticipation now. Trembling on the tightrope. Every thrust sent a fresh wave of pleasure surging through you. The stretch. The grind. The relentless build. Your walls fluttered harder around him. Gripping. Pulling. Desperate. “Bucky— oh God, it’s— it’s right there— need—”

He leaned over you. His chest flush to your back, lips at your ear. “I feel it, sweet girl. How tight you are. How close. Just let it happen. I’ve got you.”

Another thrust. Deeper. Slower. The coil was stretched to its limit. You cried out, body locking. Muscles tense. You pushed. You chased that edge. The pleasure crested so high that it threatened to steal your breath. Teasing. Hovering. To no avail. You whimpered. Hips rocked uselessly. So close. You’d been so damn close.

You buried your face in the pillow, a frustrated sob tore out of you. Your body continued to tremble, but no longer from pleasure, but the bitter sting of being denied yet again. The ache between your legs throbbed mockingly. Unsatisfied and raw. You curled in on yourself, fists clenched in the sheets.

“Fuck,” you choked out, voice muffled by your pillow. “I can’t— I’m just so fucking tired of this. It’s never going to happen. Just… stop. Please.” You waved Bucky away.

He eased out. But instead of stepping away, he gently pulled you back into his arms before you could spiral further. He tucked you into his chest, your head rested just under his chin while his arms wrapped around you. His fingers stroked gently over your arms as he tried to calm your distress.

“Hey. Hey, no,” he murmured, pressing his lips to your temple. “We’re not done, sweet girl. Not even close.”

You shook your head dismally. “You don’t have to keep pretending it’s okay. I keep getting you worked up and then—”

“I ain’t pretending,” he cut in, soft but firm. “Not giving up on you. Not tonight. Not ever.” He tilted your chin around until you met his eyes, his gaze unwavering. “We got closer this time. I felt it. You felt it. Means we’re learning what your body needs. So we try again. Different angle, different rhythm, whatever it takes. Together. ‘til it works. Or ‘til you tell me you’re really done. But I’m not walking away from this— from you. Okay?”

He brushed a tear away with the pad of his thumb, waiting for your answer. When you didn’t respond, his voice dropped to a lower octave, comforting and grounding. “We’ve got all night, baby. And I’ve got all the patience in the world for you.” He kissed you. Slow. Deep. Tender. “Lemme hold you a minute. Then we try again. Deal?”

You took a shaky breath and exhaled slowly, your cheek brushing against his Adam’s apple as you nodded. Frustration still simmered under your skin, but the warmth of his arms around you dulled its bite. “Deal,” you whispered. “Just… please… don’t let go.”

“Never,” he promised, tightening his embrace. “Not even if it takes a hundred more nights.”

You chuckled. “Sounds like a long time.”

Bucky kissed the nape of your neck. “Let's start with tonight. We got time. And I'm not done yet. Just breathe for me.” His lips moved to the curve of your shoulder, lingering as if to seal the deal that he was here to stay. 

You closed your eyes, exhaling slowly. Over and over until your muscles grew looser. But you knew he was still wanting. There was no denying the incessant press of his arousal against your back.

“I’m ready, Buck,” you whispered into the room.

“You sure?” he murmured back.

You turn back to look at him, nodding once firmly.

“Alright, then turn over for me, sweet girl.” His voice rumbled, gravel-rough with want but still so gentle. “I want to watch every second of this.”

You rolled onto your back, legs parting instinctively, letting him settle between them. He didn’t push in immediately, choosing to run his rough palm over your arms and legs. He didn’t act like any of the other men you’d been with before. Bucky worshipped your body like it was his personal temple. Treating it with reverence and adoration. Once he made his way back between your legs, you were squirming, eagerly awaiting his touch.

You reached out to caress his cock, guiding him into the space between your legs, spreading them wide enough to let him sink right back inside you in one unhalting movement. That first slow glide stole your breath. In this position, everything felt different but exquisite in its own way. This time you could feel the thick ridge on the underside of him pressed down steadily. It felt heavier. More insistent. And suddenly there was a pressure building behind a dam that you hadn’t even known existed.

He leaned down, bracing onto his forearms, caging you without crowding. His forehead rested lightly on yours and you could feel every ragged exhale as he fought to control his urges. The second thrust shot through you— lightning— sharp, fast, electric. And lightning is inevitably followed by thunder, the third thrust rolled in, deep and resonant, sending a bloom of warmth spreading out from your core to your nipples and on the insides of your thighs.

You dug your heels into the mattress, pushing off the memory foam so your hips could meet his. The movement made your clit drag over the base of his shaft in a fleeting but electrifying way. Enough to make your stomach flutter. He held himself inside this time, grinding small tight circles that stirred up a storm inside you. The friction against your swollen entrance combined was maddeningly good. Heat surged through you in pulses, each one brighter than the one before. The fire lingering longer than the flame that came before. You realized your fingers were pressed tightly around his biceps, your nails leaving half moons in his muscle as the storm intensified.

He started moving faster now. Longer strokes. Almost pulling free before sliding all the way home with more eagerness than he has shown so far. Again. Your walls fluttered. Another thrust. The re-entry filled you so thoroughly that your vision blurred at the edges. You moaned, losing track of how many times he’d pushed into you. One time he angled his hips just a fraction higher, the head catching you in a spot that short white-hot sparks racing up your spine and your breath stuttered into soft, broken cries.

It felt like a whirlwind, gaining strength and momentum— faster, deeper, more desperate. Except now Bucky’s control was frayed at the edges. With every thrust his breath came in harsh pants against your neck. But that didn’t matter because you could feel it again. That ever elusive edge, the one that shimmered in the distance like a mirage. You’d chased it so many times before. Only this time it  was closer. So close that your whole body locked up in anticipation. Your walls clenched hard around him, fluttering wildly, pulling him deeper as if your body finally understood what it was supposed to do.

“Yes… Bucky… right there… don’t stop…” you gasped. The words spilling free, a mix between a plea and a prayer.

Your nails raked down his back, urging him to go harder, faster. He responded. So did you. The pressure coiled ever tighter, unbearably brighter. Your whole body was shaking now, thighs quivering at a frequency which resonated right through you. This had to be it. You remembered the feeling. Like an old friend. It felt real. Vivid.

Tears prickled in your eyes once more. Not from frustration this time, more from the sheer overwhelming hope that this might be the one. Bucky groaned, the sound low in his throat as his hips snapped forwards. There was far less precision in his trusts, more instinct.

“Fuck… sweet girl… you’re so tight… gonna…”

His voice cracked. He tried to slow. Tried to hold back. But your body was gripping him like a vice. Your pussy milked every inch of him. In the end it was the sound of your pleading whimpers tipped him over.

He came hard. Burying himself right to the hilt as a choked out curse left his lips. His cock throbbed and pulsed as his release flooded deep inside you. Hot and endless. His whole body shuddered above you, both arms braced beside your head as his hands fisted in the sheets. You felt it. Every throb. Every spurt. But the wave you’d been riding… it simply dissipated and fell away. No blinding crash. Just a slow fade into emptiness.

The tension in your body emptied out, like someone had pulled the plug. You lay limp beneath him, staring up at the ceiling as a silent disappointed tear streaked down your cheek. Bucky’s breath came out in a few more ragged gasps, but as soon as he came down from his high, he realized what had happened. He eased out carefully, wincing at the oversensitivity, then gathered you close, pressing frantic kisses to your temple, your cheek, your mouth.

“Oh sweet girl… I’m sorry… I tried to hold on…”

You shook your head vehemently. “S’okay,” you said, voice thick with emotion. “You couldn’t help it.”  A bitter laugh escaped you. “Neither could I, apparently.”

He cupped your face, thumbs wiping at the tears. “We can try again. Give me a minute… I’ll…”

“No.” The word came out sharper than you meant. You turned your face into his palm, closing your eyes with a sigh of resignation. “I can’t… I can’t keep doing this tonight. I thought… I really thought this time…” Your voice broke. “I’m tired, Buck. I’m so fucking tired of almost. Of getting right there and then nothing. I just… I want to stop trying. Please.”

Bucky stilled. You could see the heartbreak in his eyes. But as per your request, he didn’t argue. Instead, he pulled you closer into his chest, your head was tucked back under his chin while one hand stroked slow, soothing circles over your bare back.

“Okay,” he whispered. “We stop. No more tonight. Just you and me. I’ve got you.”

He didn’t say anything more for a while, just letting the silence wrap around you both like a blanket. Finally, he shifted. Just slightly at first, but enough to get your attention.

“C’mon, sweet girl,” he murmured against your hair. “Let’s get clean. Gonna take care of you.”

You pressed yourself closer into his chest, nodding your head a fraction. He wrapped a sheet around you, scooped you up— bridal style— and carried you into the bathroom. He didn't turn on the bright overhead lights, instead choosing to use the soft glow from the mirror over the vanity. He set you down on the closed toilet lid, then turned to the tub.

The water poured out in a steady rush, filling the porcelain bath. He poured in a generous helping of your favorite scent and added some Epsom salts for your sore muscles after the grueling mission. He tested the temperature with his right hand, adjusting until it was warm but not scalding. Just how you liked it.

He turned off the water when the tub was half full. You’d done this before and he knew the exact level needed to allow you both the sit without overflow or being underfilled. He turned back to you and you searched his eyes— they gazed back at you gently, no trace of frustration or impatience. He held out his hand to you, helping you stand as soon as your fingers were in his palm. The sheets fell to the floor and he supported you into the water. You sank down into the heat with a small, involuntary sigh as the water lapped at your bruised skin and soothed the ache in your soul.

Bucky gave you a moment before he stepped in behind you, getting comfortable so you could lean back against his chest. You relaxed the second he settled, his fingertips guiding you with the gentlest of pressure. You were able to rest your arms on his thighs as they bracketed yours and one arm curled around your waist like an anchor. He didn’t speak immediately, for which you were grateful. Bucky always seemed to know when you needed words or just silent company and you let the slow rise and fall of his chest ease your mind.

Eventually he picked up a clean washcloth, soaked it and began to clean you with slow, reverent strokes. Moving the cloth over your shoulders, down your arms, skimming softly around the grazes that still stung. When he reached between your legs, you moved to take the cloth from him, but he held firm.

“Let me,” he said quietly.

You looked back at him, for signs of hesitation. But you found none. So you let him continue. His touch was feather-light, care without expectations. He washed away the evidence of your failed attempts, the stickiness until the ache was replaced with warmth and quiet acceptance.

You tipped your head back against his shoulder. “Feels good,” you whispered.

“Yeah?” His lips brushed over your temple. “Good. Just breathe. Let it all go.”

He helped you stand and started the shower, helping you rinse your hair, massaging shampoo into your scalp until your eyes fluttered closed. He left you standing under the hot water while he scrubbed his own body. You watched, your eyes roaming over his body, admiring his physique. They lingered over the scars around his shoulder until he realized you were watching. Your gaze flicked up to his immediately, a shy smile crept onto your face, as did a feeling of heat on your cheeks that had nothing to do with the hot water. You wiggled your eyebrows at him and he chuckled, turning off the water. He helped you out and offered you a towel first, wrapping it around your shoulders before grabbing one for himself and ushered you back to bed.

The wave of exhaustion from the mission and the emotional rollercoaster of the night washed through into your bones. But there was a quiet comfort in the way he handled you— like you were something precious, not broken.

The rain on the large bedroom windows had softened to a gentle patter when you returned. It was a sound that had always soothed you. You reached for a clean shirt to wear, one of your favorites that you had ‘borrowed’ from Bucky and had long since claimed for yourself. But Bucky stopped you, guiding you back to the bed, asking you to lie down on your stomach and offering you a pillow for comfort.

“What's this?” you asked.

“Got that oil you use on my back.”

You looked up at him in surprise. “But that's—”

“To help you relax,” he interrupted, soft but firm.

“But Buck, you need that.”

“So do you. Please, let me take care of you like you deserve. You always do so much for me. Let me do this for you?” he murmured, his voice low and steady as he warmed a few drops between his palms. The faint scent of sandalwood and vanilla wafted up, earthy and calming. “Gonna work out those knots from the mission. You did so good on the mission today— handled everything like a pro. So strong, sweet girl. Proud of you.”

You sank into the mattress with a sigh, your skin tingling with his praises. Your body hadn’t quite relaxed all the way, still humming from residual tension of mission chaos and the frustrating almosts.

His reassuring words wrapped around you in the same way the warmth of his hands did. The oil seeped into your skin as Bucky started working his fingers over your shoulders. Thumbs pressed firm circles into the tense muscles. He kneaded the tightness with a rhythm that was bordering on hypnotic. You closed your eyes, focusing on the sensation. Reveling in the way the pressure radiated outward and eased the ache in your upper back. 

“That's it, relax for me,” he continued, his voice a gentle rumble. “Your skin’s so soft— feels like silk. You're perfect, you know that? Every inch of you.”

His praises ignited a warm glow in your chest. For years, you'd always been your own harshest critic, especially on nights like this when your body betrayed you, but Bucky's devotion was unwavering. And you had no reason to not believe him. He had never lied to you. 

His words chipped away at the frustration that lingered from earlier. He made you feel seen, feel valued beyond your physical being. His hands ventured lower down your back, following the curve of your spine, fingers splaying out to cover more ground. Each stroke was deliberate, precise, coaxing the knots to unravel.

“Look at you, letting go like this,” he said, eyes and voice filled with admiration. “My brave girl. You fought so well today, and still you came home to me. So incredible.”

He kept kneading despite your silence, sensing the way your breaths became deeper and more relaxed. He noticed the subtle hitch when his thumb tackled a particularly stubborn knot just below your scapula. He smirked at the tiny moan that you let out unconsciously. It wasn’t arousal. Not at first. Just a different kind of release. One that came from being cared for without any obligation of reciprocity. It was only when his hands glided down to your calves— there was something about the way he massaged the soreness away— it stirred something inside you. The oil made his touch slick, the glide effortless and the warmth spread up your legs and tingled in your veins.

“Doing so well, sweet girl,” he praised. “These gorgeous legs of yours carried you through hell today. So strong, so beautiful. I could do this all night for you.”

His hands had crept a little higher now, to the backs of your knees— he rolled you onto your back as he started on your thighs. He parted them with a look of veneration, but only enough so that he had access to your inner thighs. His fingers pressed into your skin in slow, rolling motions. The proximity made your pulse quicken and you felt a faint awareness blooming between your legs. It wasn’t like you were thinking about chasing something. Not after all the disappointments. It wasn’t like your body responded anyway. But you felt a subtle warmth gathering despite yourself.

Naturally Bucky noticed. He noticed everything about you. You didn’t see the way his breath caught, and he didn’t change his pace. Completely unhurried.

“Feel that tension melting away? That's all you… letting me in… trusting me. You're everything to me, you know that, sweet girl?”

He wasn’t looking at you as he said it. Everything to me. But the words lingered in your mind. They softened the ache from your earlier defeat. His hands inched higher and higher, thumbs brushing the sensitive skin where your thighs met hips. That's when you felt it. The wet heat, the slickness between your thighs. It had arrived, unbidden and unexpected. Heat flushed your cheeks, but you didn't pull away. Bucky didn’t bat an eye. But he did pause for a beat, his touch lingering before he spoke.

“God, sweet girl... look at you,” he breathed, awe in his voice. His fingers stilled on your inner thighs. “Your pussy's so pretty like this, all wet and glistening for me. Can I taste you? Please? I just… I love you too much not to.”

The words hung in the air between you. Making your heart stutter. They had been murmured so casually, like he’d said them a thousand times before. Your mind was in overdrive, a million thoughts flashed up in seconds.

I love you.

Had he meant to say it?

It slipped out so naturally. Tucked into his plea as though it was just another praise in his arsenal.

Did he know what he had just done to you? Did he realize?

It was hard not to let your mind spiral, your natural instincts to catastrophize were working in overdrive. 

Was it just a heat-of-the-moment thing? Or something deeper?

The vulnerability of it terrified you, but it also ignited a spark, a desperate need to believe it, to hold onto it like a lifeline.

Love.

Bucky loved you. The man who had seen every fractured part of you and stayed anyway.

Your throat tightened and tears formed in your eyes again. But this time it wasn’t from frustration but from the overwhelming rush of emotion. If he loved you like this... God, that changed everything. It made your almosts feel less like failures and more like shared battles. Just like the ones you shared in the field.

If he loved you, you wanted to make him happy. You could give him this. Even if it was only just another almost.

But this was something more than that. His love made you want to try. Not just for him, but for yourself.

He was looking right into your eyes now. Not knowing what his emotional bomb had done to your insides.

“Okay,” you whispered with a small nod.

Then you shifted slightly, opening yourself to him. The quiet gratitude in his groan sent a shiver right through you. He didn’t hesitate to position himself between your legs, his breath warm against your wet folds as he pressed a soft kiss to the inside of your thigh.

“Thank you,” he mumbled into your skin, his lips brushing higher. “So beautiful— but taste even better.”

Just as you were appreciating the sensation of him nipping at your skin, he shifted his attention, tongue tracing a slow deliberate line over your folds before lapping gently at your entrance. The first contact was electric.  A soft spark shot through your core making your toes curl. He hummed in pleasure and the vibration rumbling through you. The sound was low and satisfied, like he was savoring his favorite meal, making your heart and stomach flutter.

“Mmm, so sweet,” he said between licks. “Doing amazing, sweet girl— letting me have this. Love how you taste, all for me.”

It felt like his words were weaving directly into the way he was touching you. Every praise, every word of worship amplified the slow building heat in your belly. At first, it was a gentle warmth, soothing more than frantic. His tongue circled your clit with a rhythm that bordered on laziness. He didn’t press, just explored and that was what made the tension inside you uncoil. It was like that spring inside you was being wound in reverse. But as he continued, the build was insidious. As he switched between using his tongue and fingers, you felt the familiar feeling creeping up on you.

“That's my girl— feel that?” he whispered, sucking your clit between his lips with a pull that made your hips twitch. “Soaking my chin. So good, gorgeous.”

He made so many pleased noises with his face buried inside you. Every wet smack, every contented hum echoed in your ears, making you feel desired, cherished even. He hadn’t just changed the goalpost, he had obliterated the finish line. This wasn’t about completion, it was about intimacy. It was how he showed you his love, poured into every touch.

You didn’t concentrate on the build this time, letting the pleasure deepen slowly. You focused on the moment, one layer on top of the next. His tongue worked with more insistence now. He alternated between broad strokes that dragged deliciously over your folds. The heat in your belly was now simmering at a higher setting now, radiating outwards. It was enough to make your thighs tingle and your nipples harden. You fisted your hands in the already crumbled sheets, breaths coming in uneven gasps. Regardless of your growing feeling of euphoria, his praises kept coming.

“Perfect like this— just feel this. I've got you, sweet girl. You deserve this, every bit.”

His words felt like a caress, his sentences weaving around you, weakening the walls you’d build around your expectations. The words. Those words. Three small ones. They changed everything for you. They echoed through your mind, fueling the fire that he had ignited. Maybe once you could let it burn through you. Let your body surrender to the flames.

Everything didn’t shift at once. You didn’t quite feel the earth move. The ascent was so gradual that you didn’t realize your walls fluttered as his tongue delved deeper. He tasted you with a hunger that bordered on reverence. Sparks of desire finally danced along your spine, multiplying without warning. Your hips rocked subtly against his mouth, the movement more instinctive than purposeful. He groaned in approval as you chased the sensation, the sound vibrating right up into your core.

“Yes, just like that. Feel how wet you are? Love how so damn responsive you are. My beautiful girl.”

You didn’t know how high the wave had built. The swell had started so far out at sea that the shore still looked far away when you reached it. One moment the wave was a distant hum, and the next it was surging, crashing through you, your muscles clenching as ecstasy ripped right through you. The lightning was blinding. All-consuming. Your body arched off the bed without warning, a cry tore from your throat as the waves of pleasure pulsed outward from your core. Toes curled. Thighs quivered. And for the first time since you’d taken that first dose, the dam had broken completely. The euphoria flooded your senses in relentless surges. A white-hot bliss that left you trembling. You couldn’t quite form his name fully, even though your lips tried. He kept moving his tongue through it, gentler now. Drawing out the release with approving murmurs.

“There you are, sweet girl. Knew you could. So perfect, coming for me like that.”

Bucky’s tongue slowed as your hips stilled, applying a steady pressure as the aftershocks faded into calm. He listened to your breathing steady before pressing one last lingering kiss to your swollen clit before he crawled up your body to lay beside you. He wrapped his arm around your waist and pulled you against his chest, slotting one thick thigh between both of yours. His right arm snaked around your shoulders until your chest was flush against his.

You were still trembling, breaths coming in uneven hitches. Tears had slipped free during your climax. But these weren’t from grief or disappointment, but from the sheer, overwhelming force of the release. A combination of relief, of joy and a deep sense of gratitude that felt almost too big for your body to contain. And underneath it all, there was something else. Something new and oh so fragile. The echo of those three words that he had let slip so casually. Not like it was something strange or cautious. More like something certain. Bucky brushed his thumb beneath your eye, catching the newest teardrop.

“Hey,” he whispered, slightly voice rough from everything he’d just done with his mouth. “You still with me, sweet girl?”

You nodded weakly, swallowing down the emotions that were still threatening to leak out of you. “Yeah. I’m… I’m with you, Buck.”

His blue eyes— now a soft cerulean— searched your face before leaning in to kiss you. His mouth tasted of a combination of the two of you and something so tender that it made you ache inside. When he pulled out of the kiss, he rested his forehead against yours.

“That was…” He exhaled shakily, ending with a small laugh. “God, you were beautiful. You are beautiful.”

You let out a small, watery chuckle. “I came,” you murmured in surprise.

The words felt surreal coming out of your mouth. They were so simple and yet they carried years of weight. A soft smile broke out on Bucky’s face. “Yeah,” he breathed. “You did. Fuck, baby girl, yeah you did.”

You grinned back at him as he stroked your cheek with his thumb, a slow grounding brush. You could feel his heart pounding against your ribs, your own gallop trying to steady enough to match his. For a few moments, neither of you spoke as your skin cooled and the rain continued to tap out a soft melody against the glass.

“You said you love me.” You spoke softly, almost tentative.

Bucky blinked. Once. Twice. Then his brows drew together as realization hit.

“I— shit.” He let out a soft, self-conscious laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “I did, didn’t I?”

You watched him, the faint reddening of the skin on his cheeks. 

He huffed a small laugh, his gaze dropping to your mouth, then back to your eyes. “Wasn’t planning on dropping it on you like that. Not while I was—” He gestured vaguely toward your hips. “You know… face-first in paradise.”

A snort of laughter burst out of you. “Paradise?”

“Best damn view I’ve ever had,” he said without hesitation. “But I meant it. I love you. Been meaning to say it for a while. Just… wanted it to be right. Not buried between your thighs while I’m trying not to come in my own pants from how good you taste.”

Your laugh turned into something that sounded a little like a sob. You reached up, your fingers curling around the angle of his jaw, leaning in to him until your foreheads rested against each other once again.

“I love you too, Bucky,” you whispered.

The words felt terrifying but also perfect. 

Bucky went very still. Like he was afraid that any kind of movement would shatter the moment. That he was dreaming and might accidentally wake up.

Then he let out a shaky breath that sounded a little like relief. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He leaned in to kiss you again. Slower this time. Deeper. Like his words weren’t enough and he was trying to pour his unspoken feelings  into it.

“Was afraid that maybe the sertraline took that from you too,” he murmured. “Feeling… this much.”

You shook your head. “It dulled a lot. But not this. Not you. Never you, Buck.”

“Good. ‘Cause I ain’t going anywhere. Orgasm or no orgasm. Almost or… tonight.” His thumb traced your bottom lip. “You’re stuck with me, sweet girl. Every version of you. The anxious days, the muted nights, the nights you come so hard you forget how to breathe and the ones you can’t come at all. All of it.”

Fresh tears slipped free and this time you didn’t even bother to try to hide them.

“I was so scared it would never happen again for me,” you admitted, voice cracking. “That I’d always just be… stuck. That… you’d get tired of waiting.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened, not at your concern, but at the thought that you’d carried that fear alone.

“Never,” he said fiercely. “Not even if it took the rest of our lives. But tonight?” He brushed his nose against yours lightly. “Tonight proved something. Your body can get there. With the right touch. The right headspace. The right person telling you you’re loved while he’s got his tongue buried in you.”

You snorted through your tears. “Romantic.”

“Damn right it is.” He kissed the corner of your mouth. “You deserve romance. You deserve to come. You deserve to feel safe enough to let go. And I’m gonna spend every damn day making sure you have that.”

You curled tighter into him, tucking your face into his throat. “I… I don’t know if it’ll happen every time,” you whispered. “The sertraline… it’s still there.”

“I know, sweet girl.” He stroked your hair. “And that’s okay. We’ve got time. We’ve got options… lube, toys… positions—” he smirked and wiggled his eyebrows, before softening again… “patience. But mostly we’ve got this. Us. No pressure. No finish line. We can figure it out… together.”

You exhaled, long and slow, feeling the last knot in your chest loosen.

“I like the sound of that,” you murmured.

“Yeah?” He stroked your chin gently. “Good. ‘Cause I’m not done saying it. I love you. Past, present, sertraline side effects and all.”

You smiled. It was small and shaky, but a hundred percent real.

“I love you too, Buck. Scars, metal arm, terrible pancake batter judgment and all.”

He barked a quiet laugh. “There was nothing wrong with that batter. It was just… experimental.”

“Sure it was.”

He kissed you again, then pulled the blanket higher up over your shoulders.

“Go to sleep if you can, sweet girl,” he murmured into your hair. “You need all the rest if we’re gonna try that again tomorrow.”

You closed your eyes with a smile lingering on your face. The sound of the rain and the steady thumb next to your ear lulled you towards slumber. And for the first time in a very long time, the quiet didn’t feel empty.

It felt full.

[stellar-solar-flare]

Comment under cut.

This was really beautiful, and I like the way you'd done both the communication and the smut.

Her feelings and the frustration were very believable, and I think you did a great job with a topic that isn't usually talked about a lot and that can be a tender place for many.

We love a Bucky who takes care of those he loves, in every way...

And the love confession was adorable, and I enjoyed how it affected the ending! It made sense that that was a part of how she was able to relax and feel safe; and I think it was very realistic that a part of the resistance was also mental, not just physically about the medication. You can get stuck in your own head on much less intimate and complicated topics as sex and difficulties related to it, so it makes sense there'd be some mental block too.

Thank you for sharing, this was beautiful and tender in the best way.

[mrsbuckybarnes1917]

Ahhh Stella, thank you!! Your words just made my whole week. I wanted so badly to do the frustration & the tenderness justice, and knowing it landed means a lot. Bucky taking care of her (in every sense) is my favourite version of him too. Thank you for this comment  💛

[ozwriterchick]

Beautiful. He was perfect 👌

[mrsbuckybarnes1917]

☺️☺️ Thank you

[hhiggs]

Omg this was awesome and the feelings so true to life. God i love Bucky. He really is perfect. Great story 🥰😍🤩

[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 😍

[thewintermuse]

try it on for me

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Pairing: Feral!Bucky Barnes x Reader

Warnings: Explicit Sexual Content (18+), Oral Sex (F Receiving), Pillow Princess Worship, Praise Kink, Possessive Behavior, Feral Bucky Barnes, Lingerie Kink, Filthy Talk, Mild Degradation (playful), Manhandling, No Plot, Just Lingerie and Bucky Losing His Mind, Ten Lingerie Sets, One Very Desperate Man. 

Word count: 2.1k

Music:

Dangerous - Sleep Token

MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT - Elley Duhé

I WANNA BE YOUR SLAVE - Måneskin

Infinity - Jaymes Young

Closer - Nine Inch Nails

Cheekbones - Arrows in Action

Notes: This is part one, find part two here! First time posting to tumblr so I’m still learning. Hope you all enjoy!

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It started three days ago, when you opened your lingerie drawer and found, well… nothing.

A few sad scraps of lace, one single strap from a bralette that looked like it had been mauled by a wild animal (a six foot tall, blue eyed, super soldier shaped wild animal…), and a pair of panties with one side torn clean through. And the rest?

Thrown out.

The ones that had gotten too small.

The ones you bought on impulse at 2 a.m. but never wore.

And all the ones Bucky had… destroyed. With enthusiasm.

So you simply shrugged, grabbed your laptop, and told yourself: I’ll just get a few new things.

Except “a few” had somehow turned into twenty four items.

And the total had somehow become… $218.43.

Give or take.

(Definitely do not let Bucky know that part.)

By the time you pulled into the garage after a long day at the compound, you’d nearly forgotten about the reckless shopping spree. You toed your shoes off neatly by the door, hung your keys on the hook, and called out softly:

“Buck? I’m home!”

Footsteps padded down the stairs, heavy stride, familiar rhythm, and before you could take another breath, Bucky’s warm presence filled the doorway. He leaned in immediately, kissing your temple like he couldn’t help himself.

“Hey doll,” he murmured, brushing a stray curl behind your ear. “You, uh… got a package upstairs.”

“A package?” You echoed, distracted as you started unbuttoning your coat.

“Yeah,” he said with a grin. “Pretty sure it’s yours. Big box. Like… giant.”

You froze halfway through the second button, blinking up at Bucky as though he’d just announced the second coming of Christ.

“A… a giant box?” You echoed, voice going a touch too high-pitched.

Bucky’s brow lifted instantly. Suspicious, amused, and definitely interested now. 

“Yeah,” he said slowly, like he was watching live footage of your brain buffering. “Big one. Brown cardboard. Has your name on it. We talkin’ shoes? More candle shit? Don’t tell me you bought another weighted blanket—”

“Nope!” You blurted too fast. Way too fast.

Bucky narrowed his eyes.

“Sweetheart.”

“…yes?” you squeaked.

“What’d you order?”

You opened your mouth.

Closed it.

Opened it again.

Lie. Lie. Lie, you begged your own brain

“Just… stuff.”

“Uh-huh,” he murmured, his metal fingers trailing up your arm like a man who definitely knew you were hiding something. “Stuff that needs a box bigger than you?”

Your stomach sank.

He was going to see the total if he opened it. He was going to find out you spent the price of a small utility bill on lace, mesh, silk, and bows.

He’d combust… and not in a normal way.

“Don’t… open it,” you said quickly, poking his chest.

His grin went slow and wolfish.

“Oh, absolutely opening it now.”

“James Buchanan Barnes, don’t you dare—”

He was already halfway up the stairs.

“BUCKY!”

He reached the bedroom door before you did, grabbed the giant box like it weighed nothing, and set it on the foot of the bed. When you burst in behind him, breathless and ready to throw yourself between him and the cardboard like you were preventing a bomb detonation, he gave you the smuggest grin you’d ever seen on his stupid handsome face.

“You know,” he said mildly, hooking his thumb under the tape, “I could smell something on it. Perfume or somethin’. You orderin’ new lotion?”

You lunged.

He sliced the tape open.

Lingerie of all colors, fabrics, lace, silk, and ribbons spilled open like a treasure chest from the world’s sexiest pirate ship.

Bucky went silent.

He stared down at the pile.

Then at you. 

Then back at the pile.

Then at you again, slower this time, eyes darkening like storm clouds rolling in.

“You… did… not…”

You backed up until your calves hit the dresser.

“It was on sale.”

He raised one eyebrow.

“All of it?”

“Some of it.”

“How much did you spend?”

You pressed your lips together.

“Doll.”

“…two hundred-ish?”

He moved.

Not fast, not slow.

Just… predatory.

“That’s not a number.”

“Two—” she winced, “—eighteen.”

He blinked. Once. Twice.

Then dragged a hand over his face like he was seconds from falling to his knees in prayer.

“Two hundred and eighteen dollars…” he hissed. “On lingerie.”

You nodded.

“For you.”

He looked like you’d just personally handed him the keys to heaven.

“Baby,” he said hoarsely, “you tryin’ to kill me?”

“Not intentionally.”

He stepped closer until your back hit the dresser next and bracketed you in with his hands, caging you without touching.

“Show me.”

Your breath caught. “What?”

Bucky dipped his head so his lips brushed your ear.

“Show. Me.” Each word a growl. “Every. Fuckin’. Piece.”

Your damn knees almost gave out.

“Oh,” you shakily whispered. “Okay.”

He stepped back from where he had you pinned and lowered himself into the armchair across from the bed, spread his thighs, and settled in like a man ready to witness something holy.

“Sunshine.”

“Yes?” you whispered, already reaching into the box.

“I’m not touchin’ you until you’ve shown me all of it.”

Your inhale was sharp.

“That’s… Bucky, that’s like ten sets—”

“Then you better start,” he murmured, voice dark honey. “Slow.”

You swallowed hard and pulled out the first set, a pale lilac mesh with tiny embroidered daisies, and disappeared into the bathroom. You changed fast, heart hammering, hands shaking.

And when you stepped out…

Bucky’s jaw dropped open.

“Fuck…”

You flushed bright pink. “Do you… like it?”

He didn’t answer, he stood so suddenly the chair scraped. He walked toward you in two long steps, cupped your face, kissed you like he was starving, then ripped himself away with a growl.

“No. No, I said I’m not touching you. I sit. You model. Don’t tempt me.”

“You kissed me!”

“That was a reflex!” he half–shouted, pacing away from you like a feral animal. “You can’t just come out lookin’ like… like that! I need a second—Jesus—okay, keep goin’.”

The second piece was black lace with velvet straps.

He choked on air the second you stepped out. 

The third was white and barely there.

He swore under his breath the entire time you modeled it.

By the sixth piece, he was gripping the arms of the chair hard enough to bend steel.

By the ninth, sweat had broken along his forehead.

When you stepped out in the tenth, a red satin ribbon set that literally tied at your hips, Bucky made a sound that wasn’t human.

“Sunshine,” he said weakly, “if you don’t get on this bed right now, I’m gonna pass out.”

“You said all of them.”

“I lied.”

“But you said—”

“I liiiiied,” he practically whimpered, dragging himself up.

“But you said—”

“Baby,” he said through gritted teeth, “I’m beggin’ you. Come here.”

You sauntered—sauntered—toward him, all tease and sunshine and sin in red ribbon.

“Say the magic word.”

His head tipped back.

“Please,” he whined, his voice soft, wrecked, and utterly desperate.

And when you climbed into his lap, he grabbed you so hungrily you gasped, finally letting days of pent-up need pour out of him.

“You bought all this lingerie,” he panted against your throat, “and you modeled damn near every piece knowing what you were doin’ to me.”

“I wanted to look pretty.”

He laughed, breathless and disbelieving.

“Pretty? Doll, you look like a fuckin’ fantasy. You look like every dream I’ve ever had, sittin’ in my lap in ribbons. I’m gonna ruin every single one of these sets. Every one.”

You shivered. “You already ruined the last batch.”

“Exactly,” he said, pushing you back onto the bed with a growl. “Now be a good girl and let me ruin this one too.”

You laughed breathlessly as you hit the mattress, your hair spilling around you like a halo of sunshine dipped in sin. The red ribbon lingerie sat perfectly against your skin, thin strips of satin crossing your chest, a bow above your sternum, two long ties at your hips framing soft, warm skin Bucky had dreamed about all damn day.

He just stood there for a moment, staring at you like he legitimately didn’t know if he should get on the bed, get on his knees, or climb onto the ceiling like some feral creature.

“You’re starin’,” you teased, propping yourself up on your elbows.

He blinked hard.

“You’re sittin’ on my bed,” he rasped, “wearing somethin’ that’s barely cloth and expectin’ me to act normal.”

“It’s just lingerie—”

“No,” he cut in, voice low and hot, “it’s you in lingerie.”

He crawled onto the bed and over you like a man possessed. His metal hand traced the red satin at your hip, fingertip brushing the bow.

“This…” he murmured, “…this is what broke me.”

“You haven’t even touched it yet.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” he said, leaning in until his breath warmed your neck, “I don’t need to. You walkin’ outta that bathroom wearing this? That did it.”

His mouth found your jaw, your throat, dragging open-mouthed kisses down to the top of your chest. His vibranium fingers teased the bow at your sternum, pulling at one ribbon slowly, deliberately, just to watch you gasp.

“You spent two hundred dollars on lingerie?” he breathed against your skin. “You know what that tells me?”

“That I have terrible self-control with online shopping?”

He laughed into your neck. “No, doll. It tells me you bought all this because you knew I’d lose my mind the second I saw you in it.”

His flesh hand cupped your breast, thumb brushing the satin edge.

“And you were right.”

You arched up into him, nudging your knee between his thighs, feeling how hard he already was for you. He hissed.

“Sweetheart,” he warned.

“What?” You asked sweetly, feigning innocence you absolutely didn’t have.

“Stop temptin’ me.”

“You literally just said that was the point.”

He groaned like you were murdering him with sunshine.

Then he kissed you, deep and needy, all tongue and heat and pent-up hunger, like he’d been waiting for this since the moment he opened that damn box. You grabbed the back of his neck and pulled him closer, and that was all it took.

He snapped.

One second he was kissing you, the next his fingers hooked into the red bows at your hips, pulling them loose in one forceful tug. The satin slipped apart like it was made to be undone by him.

“You’re gonna ruin it,” you whispered, breathless.

“Yeah,” he murmured darkly, kisses trailing down your stomach, “I am.”

He moved lower. Lower. Until his face hovered right between your thighs, eyes staring up at you like you were dessert.

“You look at me like that,” he said, voice a growl, “in red ribbons… and expect the set to survive?”

Your hand slid into his hair, tugging gently.

“Buck—”

He didn’t give you time to finish.

His mouth was on you, hot, greedy, and reverent, licking into you like he’d been starved for days. You gasped, hips jerking, thighs squeezing around his head, and he made a sound that vibrated through you. 

His grip tightened on your thighs, pulling you closer, holding you exactly where he wanted you. His metal hand flattened against your stomach, keeping you pinned while his tongue worked deeper, slower, then faster, then slower again because he wanted you begging.

“Oh my God,” you choked out, fingers gripping his hair so tightly he groaned into you. “Bucky—”

“That’s it,” he panted between long, messy strokes, “say my name in that voice. The one you only use when you’re wearin’ stuff I bought you—”

“I bought this!”

“And now it’s mine.”

He sucked at you like he wanted to claim every inch. You were trembling, your thighs shaking around his head, your breath uneven and broken as you tried to hold on…

But he wasn’t having it.

Two fingers slid inside you, deep and slow, curling perfectly, and your back arched so sharply your shoulders lifted off the sheets.

“Buck—!”

“Good girl,” he growled, dragging his mouth up to your clit again, lips sealing around it. “Come on, sunshine. Give it to me. Let me taste what two hundred dollars bought.”

That was it.

You shattered, crying out his name, your whole body shaking with the force of it. He held you through it, groaning into you as he worked you through the waves, drinking down every sound you made.

When you finally collapsed back onto the bed, chest heaving, Bucky kissed the inside of your thigh, leaving a wet mark straight on your skin. 

“Okay,” he said hoarsely, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “One set down.”

Your eyes fluttered halfway open.

“One… set?”

“You modeled ten,” he said, crawling up your hovered over you again, his voice a sinful promise. “I’m gonna ruin all of ‘em.”

You stared up at him, cheeks flushed, hair a halo on the pillow.

“You’re insane.”

He smirked, digging his knee between your thighs again.

“Insane about you.”

And then he reached for the next lingerie piece in the box.

[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?! 

[late-to-the-party-81]

Tangled Desires - Ch1

AN: When I saw the pictures of Seb for the L’Officiel Malaysia x Cartier I knew it was time to return to the world of Good Graces and our Older Reader x Ex’s Best Friend Bucky, and by adding in Hot Bucky Summer by @buckybarnesevents, we have a FIVE part sequel. This first part covers the week 5 prompt - Cock Worship. The story picks up immediately after the end of Good Graces

Beta’d by @sleepysongbirdsings

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Master List | HBS Master list 

Summary: After your unplanned tryst with your ex-husband’s best friend, in your pantry no less, the pair of you arrange a proper date.

“I’m paying, sweetheart, so if you want the foie gras, followed by the lobster and a bottle of champagne to wash it down, that’s what you’ll get.”

“What about dessert,” you ask breathlessly, a little stunned and wide-eyed by his firm, commanding tone.

“Well I was thinking that if you still want dessert when we get to the end of our meal, we could have it back at my place?”

You almost ask for the check then and there.

Relationship: Ex’s Best Friend Bucky Barnes x Older Single Mom Reader

Word Count: 2k

CW: Flirting, Developing relationship, dating, Explicit Sexual Content, Cock Worship, Blow Job, implied sexual content.

In the end you don’t sneak out of there, as tempting as it would be. Instead you just enjoy a few more toe curling kisses before you convince him to head out the door. You’ve just managed to close it and head back to the kitchen when Gabi appears from the garden, carrying a handful of rainbow decorations. She stops in her tracks when she sees you walk back in, looking you up and down with wide eyes, before gasping.

“Girl, you didn’t?” she questions despite being almost 100% of the answer.

“Girl, I did!” you confirm immediately.

You cover your mouth and dissolve into a fit of the giggles.

When the next morning comes you’re wondering if you’d dreamed  the events of the previous afternoon. It just seems so surreal. Things like this don’t happen to suburban single moms, unless it’s in a Hallmark movie and last you checked you weren’t a fictional character.

You’re attempting to clear up the last of the party detritus – seriously, where were you going to keep these decorations? – and coax the twins down from their toy induced high when your phone chimes with an incoming text. You pick it up, expecting something from Gabi, or maybe one of the parents from those invited yesterday, but it’s an unknown number.

“Hey sweetheart, I really enjoyed meeting you yesterday (if you couldn’t tell) and was wondering if I could take you out on a date sometime?”

“It’s Bucky, by the way.”

You gnaw at your lower lip to stop your mouth spreading into a broad grin.

“A date could be nice. But how did you get my number?”

“From Lee’s phone. I can be resourceful when I want to get to know a person better.”

“I thought we got to know each other pretty well, yesterday. What else is there to find out?”

“Lots of things. Your favourite colour. Your favourite food. What you sound like when you come and you’re not trying to be quiet…”

God, the man’s a menace. Your face is on fire and your imagination’s racing.

“I’ll see what I can do about a sitter and get back to you?”

“I can’t wait.”

The following Friday rolls around and you really can’t believe this is happening. You’ve known Bucky less than a week and you’re going out on a proper, grown-up date with him. Gabi hadn’t hesitated to watch the kids for you, even going as far as saying they could have a sleepover at her house, so you could stay out as late as you wanted, that last past accompanied with a theatrical wink.

When the taxi pulls up outside the restaurant Bucky picked, you exit it and nervously smooth out invisible wrinkles from your dress, hoping that it doesn’t look too out of style. It’s been a while since you’d bought any items that were suitable for this sort of thing. This dress, like several others, has been sitting in the back of the wardrobe for goodness knows how long.

You look around and spot Bucky leaning nonchalantly against the wall by the doors, his hands in his suit jacket pockets. He looks stunning in rust coloured two piece with a white shirt and burgundy tie and you can’t believe that someone as handsome as him is interested in someone like you. His eyes lock with yours a few seconds later and he pushes away from the wall with one foot and approaches you, grinning. He dips and brushes his lips over your cheek and you swear your heart skips a beat. 

“Hey there, beautiful.”

“Hey, yourself,” you parrot back, feeling a little tongue-tied. “I’m not late, am I?”

He gently takes your arm and threads it through the crook of his and leads you back to the door. “Not at all. I got here early because I didn’t want you to have to wait around for me if you also got here early.” Reaching the door, he pulls it open and stands to the side to let you through as your arm slips free.

“Such a gentleman,” you tease.

“Always, until you don’t want me to be,” he jokes right back, a devilish glint in his eye, and it’s all you can do to suppress the frisson of electricity that judders down your spine.

Your mutual flirting is halted by the presence of the maître 'd, but you don’t pull back when Bucky twines the fingers of his left hand with your right as you’re led to your table.

Once you’re seated, you have to admit that this place is perfect for a date. The lighting is subtle – not too bright, but not so dark that you can’t see your companion clearly – and the background music is just loud enough to register without intruding. You do let out a small gasp when you open the menu and see the prices, but Bucky seems to immediately understand the cause of your noise of discomfort and hooks a finger over the edge of the leather, pulling it down so he can see you properly.

“I’m paying, sweetheart, so if you want the foie gras, followed by the lobster and a bottle of champagne to wash it down, that’s what you’ll get.”

“What about dessert,” you ask breathlessly, a little stunned and wide-eyed by his firm, commanding tone.

“Well I was thinking that if you still want dessert when we get to the end of our meal, we could have it back at my place?”

You almost ask for the check then and there. However, it’s been longer than you care to remember since you were last on a date and you want to enjoy the whole experience. Unsurprisingly, Bucky is the perfect companion. He’s witty and charming, drawing you into a conversation that you have as much to contribute to as he does. He does ask you about your favourite colour and your favourite meal. The twinkle in his eyes tells you he intends to find out the answer to his third question before the end of the evening and to be honest, you can’t wait.

You fall backwards as the door opens behind you, and it’s only due to your multiple points of contact with Bucky – both your hands, one of his and both your lips – that you don’t fall to the floor. It’s so comical, so cliche, that you start to giggle, feeling for all the world like you’re twenty – thirty – years younger. It doesn’t stop you, though. You’re feeling feral, exactly like you were last week.

Your fingers slip open the single button holding his jacket closed before you slide your hands up his chest and push the expensive feeling fabric from his shoulder to land, immediately forgotten on the floor. You kick off your shoes as you work on the much smaller buttons of his shirt, your arms bumping against his as he works on his belt. As he pulls the leather free of his pants, you change tack to fight with the zipper on the back of your dress, half wondering if there’s a way you can get naked and hide your soft stomach at the same time. However, from the corner of your eye you see him kick his removed pants to the side and you stop in your tracks.

Because he’s so fucking beautiful you don’t think you can breathe.

He’s on one leg, lifting up his foot to remove a sock when he notices your stillness. “What’s wrong, sweetheart?”

You shake your head and worry at your lower lip, and close the distance, your half undone dress forgotten. With your hands resting on his pecs, you gently push him until his back hits the wall. He regards you, eyes dark as you trail your fingers over the firm muscles, before circling each nipple, watching them pucker. You move them lower, down his abs, and follow the trail of hair until it disappears under his boxers, the fabric stretched over his length.

Pressing even closer, your body flush to his, you place your lips to the fluttering pulse point on his throat and then use them to duplicate the trail you’d just made with your fingers. However, this time, when you reach the waistband of his boxers, you don’t stop. You map out the length of him, covered in soft cotton, with your mouth.

There’s a thunk which you guess is the sound of Bucky’s head hitting the wall, followed by an uttered ‘Fuck!’, and your lips curve into a smile.

When you discover a small wet patch near the top of the distended fabric you suck on it, and by extension the tip of his cock, drawing a deep groan from Bucky’s lips. You savour the flavour of him, before deciding you want more and you pull back to tug down the sodden fabric and get your first real look at his cock.

Before now you would have subscribed to the idea that once you’ve seen one cock, you’ve seen them all, and that they’re really not very attractive parts of the male body, but you couldn’t seem to look away. You must have been silent and staring for too long, because Bucky lets out a little cough from above you and you look up.

“You alright there, sweetheart?”

“I’m gonna be asking you that in a few minutes,” you smirk back as you wrap your right hand around him and use your left to cradle his balls.

Gently, you stroke him a few times, feeling him under your hand before you press your lips to the base of his shaft. You repeat your mouthing action from earlier, moving upwards, but before you reach the tip of him you drop back down and lick a stripe from bottom to top. Bucky’s hands fly to your head with a hiss, but he doesn’t try to control your movements. 

“Are you trying to kill me?” he asks, evident strain in his voice.

“Not yet,” you murmur. 

You remove your right hand and, keeping eye contact with him, you lick your palm before you start stroking him again.

“Jesus–”

“Don’t blaspheme,” comes your trite response, but Bucky doesn’t get the chance to make a follow-up quip because at that moment you take him into your mouth and all that comes out of his is a whimper. God, the thrill that runs through you at that.

You swirl your tongue around the head of his cock and then slip the tip of your tongue into his slit. Then, feeling emboldened, you take a deep breath and slide down as far down as you can while remaining comfortable. All the while, Bucky mutters under his breath and lets out the most amazing noises, especially when you suck on each of his balls in turn. You’ve never really been one to go this overboard on a blowjob in the past, but something about this situation – something about Bucky – feels different.

When he stutters out “Sweetheart, if you don’t stop, I’m gonna come,” you double down, massaging the underside of his cock with your tongue. Your ears are filled by the sound of your blood pounding in your ears and Bucky’s imaginative swear words as he comes down down your throat, unable to stop himself from jerking his hips. Finally he stills, gasping loudly, and you stand up, wiping the corner of your mouth with the back of your hand. He looks at you, eyes glazed, before tugging you to him and kissing you deeply. The thought that he can taste himself on your tongue, but at worst he doesn’t care, does something to you and it’s your turn to whine.

Breaking the kiss, Bucky steps back, pulls off his one remaining sock and his boxers that had been caught around his ankles, and then spins you so he can pull on your half undone zip, making your dress finally pool at your feet. He’s back to kissing you in an instant, walking you backwards through his apartment at the same time, until you fall down onto what you guess is his bed. He crawls up over you, nipping over your jaw and throat, his hand stroking over your stomach before you can even get self conscious about the wobble of it and the marks that criss-cross it.

“Relax baby,” he purrs. “It’s your turn to be worshipped, and when I’ve done that – got you mewling and shaking under me and I’ve finally unlocked the mystery of how you sound – I’m gonna fuck you until you don’t even know your name.”

Chapter 2

Tag list: @christywrites, @alexakeyloveloki, @wolfsmom1, @doasyoudesireandlive,

@sonatabee-blog, @goldylions, @galactusdevourerofworlds, @apenny4thots,

@crayongirl-linz, @nicoline1998enilocin, @king814318, @blackhawkfanatic,

@strawberrylore, @scram1326, @hhiggs, @athene-noctua08

@km-ffluv, @wheezy-stucky, @kmc1989, @kombatfather1796

@peaches1958

[hhiggs]

[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 🌷

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