iannebear

just here for the fanfictions

[buckyswan]

Oneshots | STALKER!WINTER SOLDIER X BOOKSTORE OWNER!READER

summary:: The Winter Soldier was trained to kill, not to love. Then he sees you — stalks you and eventually plans on rocking your world <33

warnings:: 18+,Stalker!Bucky,Dark winter soldier,reader has a personality lmao (she likes pink roses,books,wears vanilla perfume),reader turns out to be not that innocent either,she kinda matches his freak,PiV,no protection, questionable aftercare,public sex,sex on a motorcycle lmaoo,mentions of Hydra,trauma,masturbation,dubcon,predator/prey,orgasm denial,he cums on reader's tits and stomach

word count:: 7k

A/N:: I love love love this so much

The Winter Soldier doesn't love anyone, he’s got a heart made of Siberian ice and a soul that drowned in the dark waters of his past.A past he can’t even remember, leaving him completely numb to the world.

They built him to be a cold-blooded killer, a weapon wrapped in tactical gear, moving through nights like a phantom. He doesn’t know the touch of a real romance, he doesn't know how to hold a girl's hand without feeling the weight of a trigger.He only understands the darkness.

His metal arm is freezing to the touch, smelling of gun oil, cheap gasoline, and the bitter copper of old blood. It's a flawless piece of Soviet machinery designed to break pulchritudinous things into a million little pieces.

He has seen too many empires fall, too many cities burn, and too many innocent people beg for their lives. There’s no softness left in his damaged mind, no vintage love songs from the quadragenarian years playing in his head. The only sound it the loud static of old military radios and a long list of names he was programmed to erase from the earth without a single spark of pity or regret.

He is a monster masquerading as a god, a beautiful nightmare that you just can't wake up from no matter how hard you scream. When he breathes, it’s just the freezing air of a perpetual winter filling up his hollow chest.

He is not a human, he’s just a ghost trapped in a body of muscle.A hollow shell where a man’s soul used to live before they tore it out and replaced it with wires and Soviet steel. He does not feel, he doesn't know what it’s like to have a warm heart beating against his ribs. He doesn’t feel the sting of the freezing rain on his face, he doesn’t feel the ache of loneliness in the middle of the night, and he certainly doesn’t feel a single drop of guilt when his hands are wrapped around someone’s throat in a dark alleyway.

You could cry right in front of him, you could bleed all over his black leather boots, and those storm-colored eyes wouldn’t even blink, because there is no pity inside him, no tenderness.

So why is it that every time he sees you in your little bookstore, tucked away between the dusty old paperbacks and the soft glow of the lamps, he swears he feels something?—a terrifying little spark that cuts right through his chest?

It’s probably a glitch in his programming...right?An agonizing malfunction that shouldn’t exist in a man like him. Every time he looks at you, the heavy static in his brain suddenly clears, replaced by a strange warmth. It feels like a forgotten memory of a summer sun he hasn't seen in fifty years.

It makes no sense to an asset like him; it scares him more than any bullet ever could, because he doesn't know how to handle the sudden weight of being almost human again.

Because of that terrifying feeling, he’s been stalking you for months now. And he's completely unable to stop himself from drifting toward you. He’s become a permanent fixture in the shadows across the street, parking his motorcycle.

He watches you through the rain-streaked glass of your shop as you dust the shelves, drink your black coffee, and read those sad, romantic books until closing time. He knows the exact time you turn off the radio, he knows the sound of your keys jingling in the front door lock, and he has completely memorized the way your perfume smells when you step out into the night air.An intoxicating mix of expensive vanilla and something he can't name.

He tracks your movements like a predator, knowing which train you take, which street corners you cross, and exactly how long you linger at the flower shop down the avenue.

Pink roses are your favorites,he has learned.

He hates himself for it, he hates that a cold-blooded killer like him is utterly hooked on the simple, mundane sight of a girl who doesn't even know his name. He’s an addict, unable to tear his dead eyes away from you.Because in a world full of blood and white noise, you are the only thing that makes his heart beat against his metal ribs.

He tried to forget you, god knows he tried to wipe the very memory of you from his damaged mind. He went back to the dark streets of foreign cities, trying to forget you. He threw himself into the violence, losing himself in the familiar comfort of high-stakes missions and the sound of gunfire.

He was desperate to let the adrenaline wash away the soft light in your eyes. He stared at the cracked ceilings for days, trying to force his brain back into the icy state of a perfect soldier. But none of it worked, absolutely none of it, because no matter how many miles he put between himself and your shop,it just didn't work.

Mostly, he just can’t get your soft lips out of his mind. It’s a sick obsession that keeps him awake in the dead of night A cold-blooded killer shouldn't know longing, but he craves the thought of your lips more than his next breath, imagining how incredibly soft they would feel against his own unholy mouth.

He imagines the sweetness of you on his tongue even when he’s surrounded by the bitter smell of gunpowder and blood, a torture that makes his metal fists clench in sheer frustration. He is a monster completely ruined by the simple, devastating thought of your lips.

He can’t get the thought of you on your knees for him out of his head.It’s an obscene image that burns behind his eyelids every time he closes them. It's a vision so sharp it makes his breath catch in his hollow throat.

He imagines you there, small and completely surrendered on the cold hardwood floor of your little shop, looking up at him through your eyelashes with that soft innocence. He craves the total submission of it. He wants to look down and see you ruined by him

And your lips. God, your lips on his...

The thought alone is a lethal dose of adrenaline running through his frozen veins. He wants to feel the agonizing contrast of your warmth against his vile mouth. He wants to ruin your neat little world with his heavy, rough hands.

He wants to press his mouth against yours until the taste of blood and gunpowder is completely drowned in your sweetness, leaving him choked on a desire he has no right to feel.

It’s a suffocating hunger. He knows he would break you—but the dark, selfish part of his broken soul doesn't care. He wants to be the one who brings you to your knees, and he wants to be worshipped by your mouth.

He knows that this wrong. Every single cell in his genetically engineered body screams at him that this is a fatal error. A weapon doesn’t crave the softness of a girl’s lips. A soldier doesn’t dream of a submissive angel on her knees in the warm glow of a bookstore.

It’s a betrayal of everything he is. Every time his mind drifts back to the vanilla scent of your skin, a cold sweat breaks out under his tactical gear, a raw panic that he hasn’t felt since they first strapped him into the chair.

Because he knows what happens if Hydra finds out.They will come for you. They would see you not as a girl, but as a contagion. A weakness to be excised with surgical precision. They would hunt you down, shatter the glass of your pretty little shop, and paint those dusty paperbacks with your blood just to prove to him that he belongs to them.

They would make him watch. Or worse, they would re-program him, wipe his mind until his eyes are dead again, and force his own flesh and metal hands around your delicate throat.

The mere thought of Hydra discovering your existence sends a spike of pure terror through his chest. He can already hear the clinical voices of his handlers, the heavy clanking of the laboratory doors, and the terrifying phrase that strips away everything he is: Longing. Seventeen. Daybreak.

He should leave. He should turn the key to his motorcycle, speed into the freezing rain, and never look back at this street corner again. He should let the winter swallow him whole.

It’s Valentine’s Day, but the flashing red and pink neon signs down the avenue don’t mean a damn thing to you. You’re standing inside your little bookstore, surrounded by the comforting scent of old paper and dust, completely detached from the cheap, plastic romance that the rest of the city is buying into tonight.

You haven't cared about this day in years, closing your heart off to the hollow promises of drugstore chocolates and rushed dinners, choosing instead the quiet safety of your own solitude. It’s not that you’re bitter; it’s just that you have these impossibly big, cinematic expectations of what love should be.A grand, dangerous kind of devotion that nobody in this mundane world could ever give you. You have these high standards built from the poetry and romantic novels on your shelves, and you’d rather spend your nights completely alone than settle for a lukewarm boyfriend who doesn't understand the depth of your personality.

You look out the rain-streaked window at the couples rushing past under their umbrellas, knowing that you’re waiting for a different kind of romance.

So it shouldn’t bother you that all of your friends are out tonight with their partners, dressed up in their expensive, velvet clothes, drinking cheap red wine under the dim lights of fancy downtown restaurants. It shouldn't matter that they are whispering sweet, mundane little clichés into each other's ears.

But it does, it really does. You can feel your chest tightening with a heavy ache at the thought of spending another long night entirely alone.

It’s always been like this though. They’ve always had their fun, drifting through the easy phases of normal romance, while you—well, you always stayed behind. A disastrous girl locked away in her own ivory tower of old paper.God,it sounds like you're a character in a Paula Fox novel.

You try to tell yourself that you’re above it all, that their drugstore version of love could never fulfill a girl with your kind of imagination. But as the hours tick away, the quiet of the bookstore becomes an absolute prison, and the crushing, agonizing realization that you are completely on your own in the dark.

Or...are you?

You glance at the clock on the wall and realize it’s finally time to close up, because the streets have been empty for hours and nobody is going to walk through that door tonight. I mean, who in their right mind would come to a dusty old bookstore on Valentine’s Day anyway?

You start moving through the golden shadows of the shop, your fingers lingering on the spines of the sad poetry books as you prepare to shut it all down.

You turn off the vintage radio, cutting off the melancholic jazz that was keeping you company, and the sudden silence hits your chest like a physical weight. You grab your keys, the metal clinking sharply in the quiet room, ready to lock the door, completely unaware that the only man who has ever truly looked at you is still waiting out there in the dark.

You step out into the freezing night, turning the key in the lock until the bolt clicks firmly into place. You pop open your black umbrella against the pouring rain, pulling your trench coat tight around your chest as you take your first step onto the wet pavement.The wind is howling down the avenue, and you’re walking with your head down, just trying to escape the bitter cold.

You only take three steps before you crash hard into a solid, unyielding wall of muscle and wet leather. A force so heavy it sends a sharp shock straight up your spine and makes your umbrella wobble in your hand.

You stumble back, your breath catching in your throat as you look up through the rain-streaked air, trying to make out the silhouette towering over you.It’s too dark to see his face under the shadows of the street corner, but you can perceive his shoulders and the dark tactical gear strapped tight under his jacket.

Then you look down, and your heart skips a heavy beat.A single, delicate pink rose is lying in the puddle, its soft petals bruised by the cold water. It must have fallen from his hands the moment you collided.

“I'm so sorry,” you whisper, your voice trembling slightly in the freezing air as you lean down to gently pick up the flower.You stand back up, holding the bruised pink rose out to him. You wait for him to take it, wait for a curse, a brush-off, or the sound of his voice—anything to break the awkward silence stretching out between you under the pouring rain.

He doesn’t say a word. He just reaches out and takes the pink rose from your hand, his black leather glove brushing against your fingers for a brief second. He tucks the flower into his jacket pocket, turns around, and walks away into the rainy night, leaving you standing alone under your umbrella.

You stay there on the sidewalk for a long time, watching the spot where he disappeared. Your mind is spinning, completely confused by what just happened.

You wonder who this giant of a man was.You touch your fingers to your lips, still tasting the bitter scent of his gasoline and gun oil in the air.

You walk back to your apartment, the freezing rain soaking through your coat, but you can barely feel the cold. You climb the stairs, turn the key to your bedroom, and throw your wet clothes on the floor.You pour yourself a glass of cheap red wine and sit on the edge of your bed, staring at the ceiling.

Your mind is completely hijacked by him. You can’t stop thinking about the dangerous contrast of his body against yours.It’s a haunting image that keeps looping in your head—this silent, terrifying monument of a man, carrying a single pink rose through the storm like a cliché.

You crawl under the blankets, wondering where the stranger was going.

You don't know that outside your window, tucked away in the alley, his motorcycle sits idling in the dark. The Winter Soldier feels so incredibly foolish, a cold-blooded assassin frozen in place by a girl who smells like vanilla and old books.

He looks down at the bruised pink rose resting on the leather seat of his bike. He hadn't planned on any of this. He had only intended to slip into your shop during the closing chaos, to leave that soft, stupid flower on your counter when you weren't looking—a silent, anonymous token from a monster who has no right to feel like this.

But then the brass lock had clicked, you had stepped into the rain, and you had broken right against his chest.He couldn't even speak. A machine that knows how to order an execution in five different languages completely lost his voice the moment your hands brushed his glove.

Oh,he's pathetic.

Maybe it was because, for the very first time, he actually looked at you. Not through the distorted scope of a rifle, not through a rain-streaked windshield, but right there in the blackness of the street corner.

He saw the soft innocence in your eyes, the gentle way you rescued his bruised flower from the puddle. He feels trapped between his violent programming and the terrifying realization that your sweetness has officially conquered something inside him.

He decides it’s better to keep his distance, at least for a little while. He needs to pull back and disappear, if only for a single day, just to analyze the fatal error running wild through his system.

He needs to look at the situation with the calculating precision of the weapon he was built to be, rather than the desperate longing of a man who has lost his mind over a bookstore girl.Yeah..he's pathetic.

Few hours later he sits in a cheap motel room on the edge of the city. The bruised pink rose sits on the nightstand next to his silver handguns and his black tactical knife—a delicate little intruder in his violent world.It's kinda ironic.

He tells himself that one day away from your bookstore will cure this sickness, that twenty-four hours of isolation will put the ice back into his veins and force the vanilla scent out of his head. He promises himself he will stay away, that he won't drive past your street corner, and that he will find a way to become himself again.

And then...the air in the motel room is thick. He sits on the edge of the mattress, his tactical gear half-undone, staring at that pale pink rose on the nightstand until his vision blurs. He tried to think like a soldier, he tried to run the numbers, but the cold analysis completely shatters under the memory of your body breaking against his chest in the pouring rain.

His heavy leather glove hits the floor with a dull thud, and he reaches down with his bare human hand, his fingers trembling with hunger he hasn't felt in a lifetime.Or has he? He knows what he's doing,how to...but why? He knows pieces are missing from his brain.

He closes his eyes, and suddenly he’s not in this rotting room anymore—he’s back in the golden glow of your bookstore, watching your soft lips part, visualizing you shape,your submission as you drop to your knees on the hard wood floor just for him.

He touches himself with a rough slowness, his breath catching sharply in his hollow throat as the image burns behind his eyelids. He visualizes his metal fingers tangled ruthlessly in your hair, holding you down, forcing you to take every inch of him.You look up at him with those innocent eyes,that tear up a bit,and he gets harder at the thought. Every stroke is fueled by adrenaline and a fatal error in his system that makes his muscles lock up and his chest heave as he chases the taste of your skin and your sweet, ruined mouth in the dark.

He groans into the empty room, a low sound that tastes like sins, his hips moving in a punishing rhythm against his own bare hand. He’s completely losing his mind in the red neon light of Valentine's day, hallucinating the friction of your soft thighs against his waist.

He pulls his own hair with his metal hand, wanting the sharp sting of pain to wake him from this wicked dream, but he’s too far gone, too deeply drowned in the fantasy of ruining you. His imagination ahifts from the bookstore.He imagines pinning you down into this mattress, your delicate wrists held captive above your head by his silver fingers.

He is chasing a high he was never meant to know, driving himself closer and closer to the edge with the devastating thought of your lips stretched wide around him.

His muscles lock, veins standing out against his neck as an electric jolt of adrenaline tears through his frozen spine. With one final thrust against his own hand,it hits him like a physical blow, that leaves him completely undone in the bleeding red light of the neon sign.

He gasps, a low sound echoing against the peeling wallpaper. He collapses back onto the damp sheets, his human hand slick and his silver fingers trembling against the mattress, completely paralyzed.

The static in his brain is gone, replaced by a silence that offers no comfort,and terrifying realization that he didn't wash you out of his system at all. He just let you entirely inside,his heartbeat slowly drops back into the freezing dark.

...

Two days. Two whole days of absolute silence.

He managed to stay away from your street corner for forty-eight hours, hiding out in the dark. Trying to cure himself of a wicked addiction. He cleaned his weapons, and tried to pretend that the sweet scent of vanilla had finally faded from his leather jacket.

He told himself that the error in his system was corrected, that the cold-blooded killer was back in control, and that your little bookstore was just a hallucination he had successfully left behind in the rain.

But it was all a lie, a delusion he built just to keep from tearing the city apart. Every single tick of the clock on his nightstand felt like a blow against his ribs. He didn't cure the sickness; he just let it fester in the dark, his hands shaking under his tactical gloves every time he pictured your soft lips.

Two days of playing dead was all his broken soul could take. He needed you.During those two days, you felt a strange mix of disappointment and relief. Part of you wanted the dangerous stranger to reappear out of the rain, to prove that the shock of your bodies colliding wasn't just a figment of your wild imagination. But as the hours dragged on and your shop remained empty, the ache in your chest began to soften into a familiar numbness.

You told yourself it was for the best. You cleaned the shelves, reorganized the poetry section, and drank your black coffee in silence, slowly letting the memory of his heavy leather jacket and the bruised pink rose fade into white noise.You had almost forgotten the whole thing, convinced yourself that he was just a nameless stranger passing through the dark, never to be seen again.

He can't take the distance anymore, and he sure as hell doesn't do polite invitations.So he writes you a letter.It’s not a soft, romantic Valentine's card; it’s a rough piece of paper torn from a tactical notebook, written in aggressive black ink that nearly rips through the page. It’s short, blunt, and so utterly typical of the Winter Soldier that it’s almost funny—a dangerous machine trying to command a girl who smells like vanilla.

Midnight.The old abandoned observatory on the hilltop. Under the broken dome.Don’t make me come fetch you.Be there.

He slips the note straight under the front door of your bookstore right before closing.You find the paper lying on the hardwood floor, your heart doing a dangerous flip against your ribs as you read the crude ultimatum. He isn't asking for a chance,—he is ordering a surrender.

You hold the rough piece of paper in your hands while the cold adrenaline starts to flood your veins. Your mind is racing, honey, frantically trying to piece the puzzle together as you stare at the ldark ink and the aggressive handwriting that feels more like a tactical order than a love note.

You find yourself wondering who could have possibly slipped this under your door. Who even knew you were here...well,you have a lot of costumers. So it could be anybody.

But deep down, in the dark corner of your soul, you already know the answer. Or at least, you desperately hope you do.

You know it’s crazy, you know a smart girl would tear the paper to pieces and lock her bedroom door, but your heart is hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs because the thought of him waiting for you up on that star-lit hilltop is a drug you’re already too weak to refuse.

You spend the next few hours in a fever dream, the minutes ticking away on the wall. You step into your bathroom, the mirror fogging up with warm steam as you try to wash away the mundane exhaustion of the day.

You pick out your clothes. You slide into a soft, dark slip dress that clings to your curves, and pull your heavy leather trench coat over your shoulders to protect you from the freezing night air.

You don't put on much makeup, just a touch of your signature expensive vanilla perfume behind your ears and on your wrists. You stare at your reflection one last time.

The winding mountain road is completely black, swallowed by the suffocating silence of the pines and the cold mist rolling off the hills. You drive up the dark asphalt, while the radio hums a slow melody.

When you finally reach the crest of the hill, the abandoned observatory rises from the darkness. Its massive, rusted dome looks like a fractured skull against the midnight sky, with jagged shards of broken glass catching the brilliant light of the stars above.

You cut the engine.You step out of the car, the gravel crunching beneath your boots.And then, you see it—tucked away beneath an old oak tree, the dark silhouette of his motorcycle sits in the dark, its guttural purr vibrating straight through the ground and up into the soles of your shoes.

He just watches you step closer in your dark slip dress and leather trench coat, his jaw clenched tight as he realizes you actually came.

He cuts the engine, and the sudden silence on the mountaintop hits you both. He swings his leg over the seat, stepping off the motorcycle with a predatory grace that makes your breath catch in your throat. He takes a long step toward you, his massive combat boots crunching against the gravel.

“You came,” he mutters.

“I didn't think you'd actually show up,” you whisper.You try to sound brave, but the slight tremor in your voice betrays every high expectation and desperate hope you've been nursing for the last two hours.

He leans down just a fraction of an inch closer, his hot breath brushing against your cold cheek.“You've been in my sights for a very long time.”

He grabs your wrist—his grip tight but not breaking you—and leads you up the rusted iron steps of the observatory, toward the highest observation ledge right under the open sky.

When you reach the top, the entire world opens up below you. The city is distant, completely insignificant compared to the silver cosmos stretched out over your heads.He walks right to the edge of the stone platform. He sits down, letting his heavy combat boots dangle over the ledge into the empty blackness, and nods once toward the space beside him.

You take a slow breath, your heart hammering against your ribs, and sit down right next to him. The contrast is devastating—you in your delicate black silk, and him wrapped in cold tactical gear and wet leather.

Your bare shoulder brushes against his heavy jacket, and the electric warmth of his body almost makes you shiver. You both look up at the infinite dark, completely isolated from the rest of the living.You sit there on the cold stone ledge, your bare legs dangling into the empty blackness right beside his heavy combat boots.

“Which one is your favorite?” you ask softly. You tilt your head back, your eyes search the silver dust of the Milky Way.

He doesn't look up at the sky. His storm-colored eyes stay fixed on the side of your face, watching the way the starlight hits your cheekbones.

“I don't look at them to admire them,” he grunts. He reaches down with his human hand, his rough fingers tracing a line along the seat of the ledge. “In Hy— where I was trained, the stars just meant we had three hours of navigation left before dawn. They aren't pretty, They're just coordinates”

You let out a soft laugh, turning your head to meet his intense gaze. “I know who you are Bucky.”

The realization that you knew exactly what he was didn’t scare him; it liberated him.He leaned in closer, the scent of rain and old leather completely erasef the sweet vanilla on your skin.

“Good,” he growled. “Then I don't have to pretend anymore.”

“You know what I am,” he stated, his human hand moving from the stone ledge to grip the back of your neck. His fingers were rough, anchoring you in place.“You know what these hands have done. And you still drove up a pitch-black mountain just because I told you to.”

He tilted your head back slightly, forcing your eyes to meet his. His gaze wasn't romantic; it was hungry. It was the look of a predator claiming territory it had been stalking for months. He looked at your mouth, his thumb brushing against your lower lip with just enough pressure to part them. He didn't want a sweet, innocent kiss. He wanted you on your knees, entirely consumed by him, surrendering every piece of yourself to his control. He wanted to ruin you for anyone else.

“Maybe I don't want a softness” you whispered, your voice trembling slightly but holding your ground. “Maybe I wanted exactly this.”

A dangerous silence fell between you. His jaw clenched so hard a muscle ticked in his cheek. He didn't say another word. He didn't need to. Your answer was the green light the predator inside him had been waiting months for.

With a single, effortless movement, his human hand tightened on your neck and he hauled you up off the stone ledge. He didn't do polite. He marched you backward into the deeper shadows of the observatory, until your lower back hit the cool, metallic frame of his motorcycle.

You submissively started to sink toward the gravel, your knees going weak as your instincts told you to kneel for him. But before your knees could even touch the ground, his metal hand shot out. His vibranium fingers wrapped firmly around your bicep, arresting your descent with effortless strength and pulling you right back up.

“No,” he growled. He leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Not tonight. You save that for the next time I command it. Tonight, I want to look into your eyes while I take you.”

He didn't give you a chance to process his words. His flesh-and-blood hand moved down to the hem of your dark slip dress, bunching the soft silk upward in his rough palm. His calloused hand dragged against your bare thigh.

He gripped your hip, lifting you effortlessly and placing you right onto the leather seat of the motorcycle. He stepped his heavy combat boot between your thighs, opening you up and claiming every inch of your space.

“Legs up,” he commanded, his voice dropping into a rough growl.You didn't hesitate. You wrapped your bare legs around his waist, the soft skin of your thighs pressing tightly against the rough canvas of his tactical pants. The position placed you perfectly at eye level with him.

He stepped his heavy combat boots closer, crowding right between your thighs until his massive chest was pressing you back against the handlebars. You were completely trapped between his heavy frame and the cold metal of the bike, your delicate black silk dress bunched up around your waist.

His large human hand slid up your bare thigh, his rough fingers hooking into the delicate elastic of your underwear. He didn't ask for permission. With one deliberate tug, he ripped the lace right down your legs, tossing the ruined fabric onto the gravel below without a second thought.

Your breath caught in your throat at the sudden display of dominance. You were completely exposed to the freezing night air now, shivering against the seat of the motorcycle.

He didn't bother taking off his leather jacket or his tactical gear—he wanted to keep you warm, and honestly, he was too far gone to care about undressing completely. Instead, his human hand moved down to the front of his tactical pants. You watched with wide eyes as his fingers quickly unbuckled his belt and lowered his zipper, aggressively freeing his thick length into the cold air.

“Look at me,” he muttered, his eyes dark with an intensity that made your heart hammer against your ribs. “I want you to remember this.”

He didn't push in yet. Instead, he just pressed his hot length right against you, teasing the entrance while his storm-colored eyes tracked the desperate, shallow breaths escaping your lips.

“Bucky—”

His human hand clenched tighter around your hip, his thumb digging into your skin to anchor you. “Don't call me Bucky.”

You blinked through the darkness, your breath hitching as your hands clutched the rough leather of his jacket. “Then... what do I call you?”

“Soldat,” he growled.

You didn't fully understand what it meant to him, or what dark memories it triggered in his conditioned mind.You swallowed hard, your heart hammering against your ribs as you looked up into his unyielding eyes.

“Soldat...” you whispered softly, the word tasting strange on your tongue.

His eyes blew out completely black with lust, and without another second of hesitation,he drove all the way inside you.

A breathless scream tore from your throat, as the sudden fullness stretched you completely open. Your legs instantly locked tighter around his waist, your boots digging into his lower back as your fingers clawed blindly through his jacket.

He didn't slow down. The rhythm of his hips remained heavy, each deep thrust making the motorcycle shift slightly beneath you. His combat gear and heavy leather rubbed roughly against your bare skin, a constant reminder of his sheer size and power.

“I watched you for months,” he growled against the skin of your throat, his breath scorching hot as he drove into you again. His metal fingers dug firmly into your hip. “I sat in the dark across the street and counted the minutes until you opened the doors.”

A needy gasp escaped your lips, your body clenching tightly around him. Hearing him confess to the unfiltered depth of his stalking didn't scare you—it sent a violent rush of heat straight to your core, making you tighter and completely undone.

“I know,” you cried out breathlessly. “I knew you were there... I saw the edge of your jacket in the pines. And I liked it, Soldat.”

Bucky’s entire body went dead still for a fraction of a second, his chest heaving violently against yours as your words registered in his mind. The realization that his target hadn't been an innocent victim, but an active participant playing the game right back with him, completely shattered the last of his restraint.

“Fucking whore,” he muttered.His grip on your waist turned entirely feral, lifting your hips higher against the leather seat, and he began to drive into you with a relentless pace.

“You liked it?” he growled. He drove deep, bottoming out inside you until you let out a helpless sob. “You liked knowing a killer was tracking your every move? You're a sick little girl.”

The leather seat of the motorcycle creaked beneath you with every ruthless strike.“Look at you now. Completely stretched out on my bike, taking every inch of me.”

“Soldat... please—” you cried out, your legs tightening around his waist, your fingers clawing deep into the leather of his jacket.

“Please what?” he muttered roughly. “You belong to me now. Say it.”

“I'm yours,Soldat” you gasped.

“Damn right you are,” he growled. He pulled back just enough to drive back in with a heavy thud that made your vision spot. “You don't get to come until I tell you to. You hold it in for me, you hear me? You take every single thrust until I'm ready to give it to you.”

Your fingers clawed desperately into the thick leather of his jacket, your bare legs trembling violently where they were locked around his waist.

“I can't... Soldat,” a helpless sob tore from your throat. Your entire body was trembling violently beneath him, as the agonizingly sharp waves of pleasure threatened to pull you under. “You're... you're too deep. It's driving me crazy, please...”

“I told you to wait. I want to watch your eyes roll back when I finally let you break.” His metal hand slid up to cup your jaw, while his flesh hand held your hip perfectly pinned to the leather seat of the bike.

“Tell me what you want,” he commanded roughly, his face dropping down until his forehead rested against yours.“Beg for it.”

“Please, Soldat... please let me come,” you sobbed out. You arched your back against the cold handlebars of the bike, your trembling thighs squeezing his waist as tightly as you could.“I'll do whatever you want... just let me come. Please.”

“Good girl,” he growled, the rough words vibrating straight against your wet lips.He didn't give you another second of warning. His hand slammed hard against your hip, holding you locked flat against the leather seat, while his left hand anchored the back of your neck. He picked up the pace.

The motorcycle creaked violently beneath the sheer force of his movement. You couldn't even breathe, let alone speak, as he ruthlessly drove you over the edge.

“Take it,” he muttered roughly, his face burying into the crook of your neck, his teeth bruising the soft skin over your collarbone. “Come for me now,sweet thing.”

The command was all it took. Your head fell back, a loud scream escaping your lips into the silent night.Hearing you break completely unraveled the Winter Soldier.

He let out a harsh roar—a sound of pure animalistic release—as his own climax hit him. His jaw locked so tight the veins in his neck strained.At the final moment, he shifted, pulling away to ensure the intensity of the encounter reached its conclusion outside of you.

The thick heat of his climax painted the dark silk of your bunched-up dress and the pale skin of your stomach and chest in long surges.He stood there shivering from the sheer force of the release, his chest heaving violently against yours.

The only sound in the ruined observatory was the frantic rhythm of your shared, breathless recovery and the distant, lonely sigh of the pines below.His thumb remained resting against your skin, tracing a slow line over your thigh as if he were trying to process the physical reality of what had just happened.

For a man who had spent decades living as a ghost— who only left blood behind—the sight of his own messy, unmistakable mark of possession on a living person seemed to completely stun him. He looked entirely trapped somewhere between the efficiency of the Soldat and the stunned awakening of a man who hadn't felt this alive in half a century.

His fingers aggressively pulled his tactical pants back up, tucking himself away before his metal hand yanked the zipper shut with a sharp, metallic clack. He reached for his tactical belt, tightening the buckle with a loud snap.Only when he was fully dressed and locked back into his soldier uniform did he look back up at you.

Was it normal to get aroused again just by looking at him? Probably not.

He reached into one of the side pouches of his tactical belt, pulling out a dark military-grade utility cloth.He didn't ask you to move. His large flesh hand gripped your thigh to hold you steady on the leather seat, while his left arm braced against the frame of the bike. He leaned over you again.

The cloth was dry and rough against your sensitized skin. He wiped the cooling smears of his climax from your stomach and chest with firm strokes. He didn't look into your eyes while he did it; his focus was entirely objective, cleaning your skin with the same detached, methodical thoroughness he would use to maintain a weapon after a heavy firefight. His fingers were rough, but he wasn't trying to hurt you—he was just completely devoid of tenderness.

Once your skin was clear, he shoved the cloth back into his pouch. He reached down, grabbing the hem of your bunched-up dark silk dress, and pulled it back down over your thighs with a single, rough yank to cover you up.

“I need my underwear back,” you said.He looked down at the dark gravel between his combat boots, where the delicate, shredded lace was lying ruined in the dirt. He had ripped them off with zero regard for their survival, and they were completely useless now.He didn't bend down to pick them up. Instead, he looked back up at your face, his expression deadpan and entirely unbothered.

“You're not getting them back,” he grunted. He took a single step closer, crowding your space one last time. “I tore them. They're mine now.”

“Take your coat,” he ordered. “The mist is rolling in. You're going back to the city.”

He had taken your underwear, marked your body, and ordered you back to the city with military authority. He was already pulling away, retreating back behind the icy walls of the Soldat.But you weren't ready to let him go yet.

“Can I kiss you?” you whispered into the dark. Bucky went entirely still, his hand freezing on the handle of his motorcycle. In all his decades of programming, nobody had ever asked for his permission to touch him. Nobody had ever looked at his lips—the lips of an assassin—and wanted a kiss.

He leaned down just a fraction of an inch, his hot breath brushing against your lips, teasing you with the very proximity you were begging for. His thumb pressed hard against your bottom lip, deliberately parting them, but he kept his own mouth just out of reach.

“You want a kiss?” he muttered, his voice a low, gravelly warning that rattled down your spine. “You earn it first. Go back to your shop. Sit bare under that dress all night and think about what we did up here. If you're a good girl, maybe next time I'll give you what you want. Now get in your car.”

[scarlettbeth]

Read HERE or on A03

She thought her days of working in the shadows were over… until the Avengers came calling.

After years of keeping her head down and letting her work speak for itself, a former intelligence specialist is drawn into a new role inside the Avengers’ inner circle. Surrounded by legends, she must navigate unfamiliar territory, build trust, and find her place in a team that thrives on split‑second decisions and unshakable bonds.

But stepping into the spotlight—no matter how reluctantly—means facing challenges she never trained for and discovering that sometimes the hardest battles aren’t fought on the front lines.

A story of resilience, reluctant belonging, and the quiet strength that can change the course of a mission.

*This story is AU as fuck! Post-AoU/Pre-CW, Bucky is back and Tony doesn’t hate him.*

TBR...

[blowingbarnes]

Ya gotov otvechat'

a/n: READ THE WARNINGS! I AM NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR YOUR MEDIA CONSUMPTION. This has not been proofread, I feel like I just got out of a gangbang.

Pairing: Soldat!Bucky x SHIELD!Reader (takes place a little before CATWS) Warnings: SMUT! 18+ MINORS DNI!!! DARK!Bucky, NONCON/DUBCON, masturbation (f&m), somnophilia, p in v, creampie (?), fingering, oral (f receiving), drug/roofie usage, dumbification if you squint, dacryphilia, nicknames. The Asset is an unreliable narrator <3 Word count: 6.4k Summary: The Soldat had been observing you for weeks. One day, looking at you from the rooftop one building over isn't enough anymore.

part 2 here

It had been 245 days since the Asset was assigned to do surveillance on HYDRA's most sensitive operation to date. Project Insight was going to launch soon enough, and for that Nick Fury had to be gone.

Efficient. Precise. Mechanical.

Surveillance. Intelligence. Elimination.

Like blinking. Like breathing.

He sat on a rooftop across the street from Steve's apartment, using the scope of his rifle to see more clearly across the way. Empty, as it always was at 8:03pm on Thursdays. Steve wouldn't be home for another 28 minutes.

The Asset didn't feel much. Didn't feel anything, really. Nothing but the uncomfortable grip of the muzzle around his face, and the stiff leather and kevlar around his body.

And he didn't say a single thing about it. Because the Winter Soldier never complains, only complies.

But one day, he felt really, really bored. And his scope wandered to your apartment balcony windows, right to the left of Steve's.

He took in the little string lights you had put on the railing, twinkling like stars against the warm summer weather, and the little outdoor mat you put out along with a comfy outdoor chair for when the weather was nice enough for a cup of tea looking down to the city lights.

He adjusted the scope. Slowly.

Curtains not quite closed.

There. You.

Back turned to the glass, you moved across your living room barefoot, your arms lifted above your head as you tied your hair. Loose shirt. Soft shorts. Skin.

Soft, supple skin his eyes took in as he moved his gaze from your ankles, to your calves, and up your leg, until he reached the smallest hint of ass cheek that was peeking out from under your shorts.

Soft, supple skin he wanted to bite. And suck. And spank if you gave him a reason.

But in his mind, he wouldn't need to. Cause you'd be so good for him, wouldn't you?

That was 94 days ago.

And in 93 nights, he watched you. Sure, yeah, he had to watch Steve, make sure intel was up to date, but Steve got home a little later than you, and went to bed a little earlier.

Which allowed him exactly 186 minutes of just observing you. He allowed himself the small treat of letting his eyes follow your every move for about three hours a night.

He knew your routine. He knew you liked takeout from the little Japanese place three blocks down, the knew chamomile and lavender tea was your go to when you couldn’t sleep, and he knew you fell asleep with a spoon in your mouth from late-night ice cream more than once.

That was easy. He got that intel about 9 days in. And then something else started brewing.

Not duty, not rage. Something so much worse in the eyes of HYDRA. Curiosity.

Hunger for something he thought was lost about 62 years prior after many times in the wiping chair. Hunger in the shape of heat pooling low in his stomach, hunger in the shape of you spilling something on your shirt and taking it off to reveal nothing underneath before tossing it in the hamper and pulling another one on.

68 days ago, he lingered too long.

He saw you turn off the lights and light a candle in your room, placing it in the dresser by the door, across your bed. He watched you put on little white earbuds, get comfy in bed while downing your second glass of red wine, and figured you were gonna listen to rain sounds like you did a couple other times.

The Asset was packing up his rifle, and then he saw movement. Followed by the shadow of your oversized shirt being thrown carelessly onto the armchair by the bathroom door.

He tilted his head, crouching down again with the scope, eyes narrowing at you until he processed the image before him.

The sweet, sweet image that was definitely not for his eyes. No, his eyes have seen the insides of dead bodies who only met their end because of him. His eyes have seen torture, murder, arson, and every other bad thing you could think of.

Surely, the same eyes could not be graced with seeing you bite your plush lips as one of your hands rolled a nipple between your index and middle finger, and the other tickled its way down your stomach until in found the heat between your thighs.

He shifted uncomfortably on the rooftop across the way. Heat blooming up his chest and down his crotch, making his neck chafe and his pants feel impossibly tight.

He groaned deep when he saw you curve your back forward and plunge two fingers inside of yourself. Fingers he knew were much thinner and shorter than his, and not even comparable to the dimensions of what’s resting heavy between his legs.

It was cute, really.

The way your brows furrowed and your hand pumped your digits in and out like that was going to satisfy you. No… you needed about two inches of width and nine of length.

Which Bucky would gladly give to you.

He watched you chase a high, a whimper escaping through your curtains and into his serum enhanced eardrum, making it vibrate like the air above hot asphalt: soft, barely there.

Somehow, his tactical pants got tighter.

He watched your body contort, watched you turn on your stomach, making the sheet fall from your body. His eyes grazed the curve of your tricep, evident in the candle light as you worked your fingers in and out, slapping your clit with the heel of your hand.

He didn’t miss the expression on your face when your hips moved faster, chasing friction until a relieved look took over your face and you buried your face in your pillow to catch a breath.

That same night, his boots made the first contact with the soft fabric of the rug in your room.

He waited until you were asleep, all cleaned up, having discarded the panties you had on before into the hamper. He was silent, stealthy, deadly.

The thud of each step was soft, muted. He kept an eye on your sleeping frame, and told himself he was gathering more intel. He removed his glove off of his flesh hand, letting himself revel in the fabrics hung in your closet and tucked away in your dresser.

As if HYDRA would care that your perfume smelled like orris and vanilla, or that your lipgloss had tiny little specks of golden glitter in a sea of pink, or that you color coded the softest sweatshirts in your closet.

They would, however, care that he went through your hamper and took a pair of lacy, powder blue panties and put them in his back pocket. The Soldat had no wants of his own, and they certainly did not order him to do that.

That was the night he crossed a line.

He stood by your hamper with every intention to leave, he couldn’t be gone much longer or they’d wonder where he was and send his handler.

But then you moved.

Mindless, conscience far away in some dreamland brought to you by the sweet smelling wine leftover in your glass.

You turned to face him, eyes still closed, cheeks still flushed, body still entirely too naked. Your leg swung up to rest flexed, making you cuddle your pillow in a mountain-climber position, giving the hungry beast inside of him a view of the perfect feast: the needy, wet lips of your pussy.

He really, really should’ve left. But the hardness of his cock and the heaviness in his balls told him differently. Told him to make a choice for himself for the first time in God knows how long.

And he chose to take a deep breath inside of your safe haven of a bedroom, inhale a scent that was sweetness, soapy from your bath bombs, and just you, and pull his pants open with the most agonizing pace ever known to man, to make the least amount of sound possible.

The second his hand wrapped around his cock, he bit back a hiss. The discarded blue lace still tangled in his fingers, rubbing the skin, making the leaking tip even more needy.

His breathing got heavy behind the muzzle. His eyes couldn’t decide where to stay planted on: your cheeks, one squished into the pillow; your lips, letting out soft little puffs of breath in response to whatever dream you we're having; the slope of your waist, the curve of your ass, or the barely spent folds of your pussy.

God, he’d make good use of you. Rut into and rub you until you were puffy and sore and slick, and then do it some more just for good measure.

You tossed in your sleep again, laying on your back with your right leg tilted outwards and he just about lost it. One day he’d paint you with his release, leave you sticky with his cum until the morning, after hours of making you cry and sob on his cock driving in and out of you.

For tonight, he’d settle for cumming in your panties just picturing you beneath him, willing and wanting, while his hand jerked him faster.

He spilled over his own hand and the blue lace, the discreet little pink bow on the front of it now soaked, covered in cum. Like you would be, soon enough.

He placed bugs in your apartment that night.

One behind a painting of a cheetah you had hanging on your wall in the living room, one behind the bookcase by the TV, closer to the door, and two in your bedroom. One in the light fixture and one hidden on the underside if your bed frame.

It took you three days after that to notice something was... different.

It was laundry day, and no matter how many promises you made to patron saints that didn't exist, you just couldn't find your favorite pair of panties.

"You probably just forgot it in the dryer and now it's in some random hamper in the building causing relationship problems to an unsuspecting couple." Nat joked when you told her about it.

You just chuckled and agreed. Had to be, right? Wouldn’t be the first time something travelled to the wrong hamper. Hell, you got one of Sharon’s scrub tops in your laundry the other day.

It had been a particularly taxing day on the sparring mat, Steve probably made you sweat about six pounds off, and there was a bruise blooming somewhere from a hit you were too fatigued to dodge.

So, a little glass of wine and your favorite audio would surely solve the problem. Loosen all the tight muscles in your body and help lull you into a restful seven hours of sleep.

Your AirPods were dead, so on speaker it was. The link was much too easy to find. A solid performance you often came back to.

The Soldat saw both Steve's and your lights flick off at the same time, and his scope focused in on the open window that brought the warm summer breeze into your room.

Static crackled low in his ear as he turned on the device, and shortly after he heard your dreamy little sigh as he saw you set the phone on your nightstand and get comfortable in your bed.

The voice coming through the speakers was low, manly, rough. Commanding. He thought you were on the phone with somebody, and the thought of you touching yourself to please someone other than him made jealousy bloom in his chest, bitter little monster it was.

It didn't take him more than a couple of lines to realize it was a recorded audio, relief washing through his chest for a split second before it tightened again, with desire this time.

Hearing you follow the instructions the faceless voice gave you, it wasn't soft or slow. It was deliberate. Commanding. Every word an order disguised as pleasure.

"Hold still… I didn’t say you could move." "You can take it. Just like that."

He could hear how wet you were through the audio, the slick sound of your wetness mingling with the whimpers you let out when the voice told you to "Hold it... You haven't earned it yet."

"Say you're mine."

"I'm yours, please..." Oh the sweetness in your voice, pleading so pretty. Wouldn't be enough for him, though. He watched you make yourself cum way too fast, not even keeping pace with the recording this time, and thought about all the ways he could punish you for disobeying.

Would he edge you for hours? Maybe every night for a week? Or since you wanted to cum so bad you disregarded his orders, you should. He'd make you cum over and over again until your eyes crossed and your brain gave out.

The night when he snuck in, he added another line to his newly acquired collection. He touched you.

Passed out and deep in your subconscious, you didn't even flinch. You nuzzled into him, actually. The cool metal of his hand coming to graze your cheek bringing relief from the hot humid air.

You had your leg flexed again, and he just had to feel your skin against his. He told himself he'd go after that.

And his hand grazed lower, warmer, until it reached the curve of your hip, and the flesh of your ass cheek.

He squeezed, making you sigh into the pillow, not even budging, just one little grip and he'd go. He swore it.

And then another.

And then his hand travelled lower, until it found the warm slick of your pussy. The smallest whimper left your lips, almost imperceptible, at the feel of his index and middle finger parting your folds, once, then twice, then collecting the wetness that started to tease out of you.

Responsive little thing, weren’t you?

You stirred, brows furrowing when he rubbed lower at the bundle of nerves that hardened beneath his fingertips, and the crease between your brows deepened when he stuck two fingers inside of you.

Just a feel.

One feel of your velvety walls tight around his fingers, fluttering around him when he curled them to rub against the sweet little spot inside of you.

Then he’d go.

He had to.

You had come plenty that night, he didn’t have to make you do it again. In fact, he shouldn’t, you came too fast. Didn’t listen to directions.

He made the mistake of pulling his fingers out of you, and your hips instinctively chased after the friction.

He should go.

His lips wrapped around his fingers, licking the sweet juices off of them and reveling in the taste like someone would a sweet, juicy peach.

He groaned low in his chest, and the line got pushed just a little further. He knelt by the bed and spread your cheeks, movement that had your pussy clenching around nothing, attracting him like moth to a flame.

His mouth watered. Actual drool pooling between his teeth and onto his tongue, begging to make you slick all over. Ordering him to taste your sweet nectar and suck you dry.

The Soldat never complained, only complied.

Before he could think about how terribly bad of a decision that was, he leaned forward, tongue darting out of his mouth and onto your glistening folds, eliciting something between a whine and a gasp from you.

If there was any kind of super soldier MDMA, he was sure he found it then.

Both of his hands cupped your ass now, grabbing firmly enough to dig into the skin, pulling you closer to his face as he nuzzled further, flattening then curling his tongue up and down your slit before it plunged in and he sealed his lips around you.

Your whines got a little louder, still very obviously asleep, and he rutted his hips against the bed.

When he flicked your clit and gazed it with his teeth, you yelped, and he was sure he was thoroughly fucked. But you didn't move further, didn't get up and scream and try to grab for the gun he knew was under your pillow, you just kept pliant, unconscious, and delicious under his control until he decided you'd been good enough to cum.

You'd let him in, been a good little toy for him to play with, put on a show, and let him taste you. He could let you cum.

He felt your walls tighten around his tongue while his thumb rubbed your clit, and took that as a sign to see just how tight you could get. Deft fingers pumped in and out of you again while he sucked your clit until you came with a breathy whine, and barely a shuffle of your body chasing friction.

Needy little thing.

“Okay,” Natasha said as she breezed in, flipping through a classified file like it was a fashion magazine. “What’s with you?”

You blinked. “What?”

“You’ve looked like you’ve seen a ghost all morning.”

You hesitated. "I just… had this weird dream last night.”

Nat’s brows arched immediately. “Weird how?” You sipped your coffee instead of answering. Her eyes narrowed. “You’re flushed.”

You rolled your eyes. “Jesus, Nat—”

“Oh my god.” She dropped the file and grinned like a shark. “Was it dirty?”

You stared at her for a second too long. “No way,” she gasped. “You did have a dirty dream.”

“It wasn’t like that—” you started, but your voice caught. Because it was. You'd had your share of dreams like that, but none like that. None that you could still feel the next day.

Nat leaned back in her chair, folding her arms with a smug look. “Let me guess: tall, mysterious, dangerous eyes, probably some masked psycho from one of the horror movies you insist on watching before bed you’ve convinced yourself you could ‘fix’ with your mouth—”

“Nat—”

“Was it Steve?” she teased, waggling her brows. “Tell me it was Steve.”

“No,” you said too quickly. And maybe too defensively.

She tilted her head. “So… who, then?”

You stared at your coffee. “I don’t know. Didn't see his face.”

"Oh, so it was from the back, huh?"

"Natasha!"

The candlelight flickers the same way it always does. Your sheets are clean. Your hair’s damp from a shower. The same wine bottle from the night before sits untouched on your nightstand.

Everything should feel normal.

Your phone is already queued up with the usual — the audio you’ve played dozens of times when you need to forget the world, to relax, to release. You slip your earbuds in, press play, and sink back against the pillows.

The voice starts — low, commanding, steady.

"Don’t move. Hands where I left them."

You shift slightly, waiting for that familiar ache to start in your stomach, for your body to respond on autopilot. But nothing stirs.

You blink at the ceiling, adjusting your position. Maybe you’re just tense. The audio keeps going.

"You’re mine. Say it."

You close your eyes, but it doesn’t hit the same. You press your thighs together to no avail, feeling only static. You huff, and you puff, and you look for other audios. A couple peak your interest, you try them, and the same thing happens.

Then you stumble so far back into the username's plethora of posts that you ended up right back onto last year's Kintober, and an uncommon title catches your eye.

You get comfortable and press play.

It's rougher. There's special effects. The clicking of a lock, the rustle of fabric, a muffled scream against hands too rough to touch, and the soothing but rough voice just shushing the listener.

"Wouldn't want to be bad now, would you?"

For some dark and twisted reason, that's the audio that makes you gasp into the pillow on your stomach, knees propping your hips up while your shoulders stay down, touching yourself in the privacy of your own home, alone.

Well, with Bucky.

He heard you.

He heard you beg, and plead, and all of your "no, please!", "please stop!" with barely any conviction at all turn into "please let me cum" and "I'll be so good." like you weren't in complete control. Like you weren't pretending he was doing all of that to you.

But you didn't wanna be, did you? You wanted someone — him — to take control of you, of your body, so you could be a brainless little thing for him to use. So he could fuck you until you couldn't think of anything else but how full you felt with every ridge of his cock dragging in and out of you.

So he snuck in, beelined to your fridge, and dosed the bottle of wine you had in there.

Not too much, just enough to keep you pliant, loose, willing to understand that he was doing that for your own good — and his.

The cork gives that soft little pop and you pour the wine onto the glass, fresh sheets on the bed and the smell of violet, star anise, and vanilla from your bath bomb was clinging to your skin.

By the third sip, you’re back on the couch. Your limbs feel fine. A little loose, maybe. Relaxed. That’s what the wine’s supposed to do, isn’t it?

But your fingers feel slower on your phone screen. Like there’s static between thought and action. You thought about watching a TV show or a movie, but nothing seemed interesting enough.

You made your way to your room, and the room spun for a second when you got up at first. "No more port wine on an empty stomach, got it." You chuckled.

Ditching the robe in your bathroom, you grabbed the lotion and a pair of underwear from the dresser in your closet, light dusty pink this time.

How nice of you to make your skin even softer for him, dressing it in the prettiest lace you could find. He decided to observe from closer tonight, sitting right outside your balcony window.

You didn’t even register the lights outside were off.

The swoosh of the sliding door opening was muted by you humming something under your breath, spreading the lotion up and down your legs as it absorbed.

He was quiet like a cat coming in, sneaky beast ready to ambush you. God, you were so pretty. Like an innocent little doe not even knowing what was about to hit you.

When you registered the weight of a broad chest pressed to your back, leather digging into your skin, his hand was already over your mouth, muffling your screams.

You kicked your legs around trying to escape, but it didn’t even phase him.

Did that make him chuckle?

He tried to shush you, in between the ghost of a “let me go!” and a sob, the plopped you down on the bed, straddling your hips with his hand still over your mouth, the other one holding your wrists above your head.

Icy blue eyes stared at your tear rimmed ones. “If I take my hand away are you gonna be good?” Your squished cheeks nodded under his grip, harsh breath coming out of your nose, his brows perked up slightly and he slowly took his hand away from your mouth.

“HELP! PLE-“ He groaned in disapproval and his hand went right back to where it was before.

Clicking his tongue, he spoke again. “That was a bad, idea, baby.” A sob ripped through you and you squeezed your eyes shut. This had to be a nightmare, that was the only conceivable explanation. “No, no, don’t close your pretty eyes.”

His voice was low with desire, but soft and adoring like he was giving you what you always wanted. You could feel his breath over your face when he talked, the heavy weight of him covered in kevlar, dirty boots digging into your crisp white comforter tainting the fabric like how he was about to taint you.

"I heard all that begging, sweetheart." Wet lips kissed your jaw, and it made your skin crawl with the same strength it send jolts down your body. "You wanted me to take control, right? Wanted me to do whatever I wanted to ya."

Your eyes widened and you shook your head, another sob ripping through you, words muffled behind his palm. "Gonna give you another chance to tell me what you want, okay? Don't make me punish you."

You nodded, a little more dizzy than a couple of minutes before.

A beat of reluctant silence after he removed his hand let your hiccup be heard loud and clear in the room. "Please, just go." Your lips trembled around the words, like you didn't fully mean them. "I'll stop looking into-"

"Oh, honey.. This has nothing to do with that." His hands released your wrists and held your face in between both palms. "Though they're not gonna be happy about it either, I'll tell you that much."

Confusion flashed before your face, and that damn furrow between your brows and the pout on your lips as the gears turned in your head made him want to rip you apart just so he could be the one to put you back together.

"No, you... This... This is all mine." His hands roamed lower, thumb grazing the curve of your breast by your ribs.

"You don't have to do this-" He grabbed your face in his hand and got impossibly close to you.

His tongue came out to collect the salt of your tears pooling by your temple. "I do." He took a moment to savor the taste. "I really do." He caught your arm as it was aimlessly exploring under your pillow. "I took care of that too."

And you looked at him in horror. "You didn't think you were alone all this time, did you?" And as if looking for a weapon he had already discarded took the bit of grace he was about to give you away, he grabbed both of your wrists in one of his hands again, tying them to the headboard with something from one of the many pockets in his suit.

“Please, don’t do this, please…”

He just smiled at you. Wolfish and knowing. “But you’re enjoying it, baby.” He kissed down your neck and bit your collarbone, making you wince. “See?” Rolling the stiff peak of your nipple between his fingers.

You shook your head again. “No, I don’t, please—“

“No?” His face tilted, as if the question wasn’t rhetorical. “What’s this? Mmm?” His hand went to the front of your panties, rubbing slowly, making the fabric dance on top of your skin with the barrier of slick that had pooled there. “So wet, sweet thing… just like the other night.”

He saw a flash of recognition on your face, and you don’t know why your tummy flipped instead of bile rising in your throat. “You thought it was a dream, didn’t you?”

His fingers pressed harder, and you got dizzier. “No dream could make you cum like that, baby… I didn’t mean to… was greedy…” he kissed down your body, lips brushing against you with every word.

He nuzzled against the fabric of your panties. The lace felt softer against his face than it did against his cock all those nights ago.

“Y’can’t blame me, though… smelled so good, I had to get a taste.” He bit your lip through the lace and you hissed.

Bucky pulled it all the way down your legs, thick string of arousal connecting your pussy to the fabric until he pulled it far enough from you.

Stray tears kept coming here and there, and you kept squirming, flexing one leg quickly to try to kick him away, but he was too fast.

Holding your left thigh with his right hand and the other ankle with his left, he clicked his tongue again. “Now, angel, what did I tell you about being good? Mm?” He kissed over the bone of your ankle and bit down on it, not hard enough to leave a mark but hard enough to sting.

His lips soon found the crease of your thigh where it met your hips. “Please, stop…” He didn’t respond to that. Well… not verbally, at least. Your eyes squeezed shut at the eerily familiar feel of his lips on you, kissing you open as he held your thighs apart. “Oh, God—“

He licked, and sucked, and bit like the solace for his miserable existence could only be found in the oasis between your legs. Squelching was loud in the room already and it only got worse when he put two fingers inside of you.

"S'tight, baby." He looked up at you for a second before his gaze dropped down to where he was drinking you from, chin shiny with your wetness. "Don't want me to stop, d'you?"

You nodded your head and he shook his. How long was it gonna take for you to realize the only answers he'll take are the ones he wants? "'Fraid I can't."

When he curled his fingers inside of you, you felt like you were underwater. Your chest felt too tight and the coil in your stomach kept getting smaller and smaller, thighs clamping around his head like you wanted to keep him safe from the Siberian cold he would inevitably return to.

You tried squirming away from him at the same time your feet pressed hard onto his back to prevent him from leaving. As if he'd go anywhere.

You came on his face with a mewl and against your conscious will, which was wearing thin by the second. All of your limbs felt heavier, looser, you blinked slowly, only for your eyes to get back their focus on the fly on his pants, getting undone by flesh and metal.

"See how good it is when you behave?"

Tears welled your eyes again when you realized what he was doing, hovering over you pushing his bottoms down just enough to free, quite literally, the biggest cock you've ever come in contact with.

It hung heavy and thick from his waist, red with want as he kissed under your ear. "S'gonna feel so good, sweetheart. You'll see." He reached down and grabbed the base of his dick, rubbing the head up and down your puffy slit.

He kissed you, all tongue and teeth and you've never been disgusted to taste yourself before, but the fact that the wetness was proof of your own betrayal made it bitter.

"Please, you don't have to do this, please, don't!— ah!" Begging so sweet just wasn't enough, cause he knew your body was begging sweeter. He pushed in, blunt head of his cock breaching you open.

"Fuck! No, no, no, please!"

"More?" He pushed in another inch. "Well, sure, angel, anything for my eager little slut."

"No! Stop! I- mmmnnghhh!" He pushed all the way in until he felt your folds on his pubic bone. You eyes closed in pain and he grabbed your face to make you sit still.

"No hidin' from me, darling. C'mon. Look at me." Your brows were scrunched up in discomfort, disgust, glossed over lips shining up at him. Teary eyes spilling. "Crying so pretty f'me."

He pulled out, then pushed back in, whimper coming out of you along with the feeling of the sting from his thickness. "Yeah? Jus'like that."

"Please, just—" Your words came out muffled by his hand squeezing your cheeks together.

He chuckled, as if that wasn't the worst thing that ever happened to you. "Please, what? Fuck this pussy harder? Being too soft, too caring, too good to you?"

You had no answer. "If you keep being good maybe I'll give you my cum. Mm? You'd like that wouldn't you?"

"No, I'm not on— please—"His fingers stopped bruising your thigh and started rubbing your clit, and he felt you clench around him. "Oh, she would."

Schlick. Schlick. Schlick.

"S'okay, pretty thing. Y'can feel good, nothing wrong with that." Except there was everything wrong with that. The more you pleaded the less the words felt like actual words to be said, and not just what you were supposed to say. "Feels so good having you wrapped around my cock."

You bit your lip to stop a moan from coming out and let out a whimper instead. "You can tell me, it'll be our little secret." Another punctuated thrust. "Feels good, doesn't it?"

You'd blame it on the wine if anyone asked. You'd blame it on your want and will to live. No one besides you and him would ever know you nodded when he asked you that, even less that you meant it. "Atta girl."

His other hand came to pull your bottom lip from between your teeth, way too gentle for what was actually going on. "Let me hear you, baby... Need it."

You released the flesh from its prison, and something between a moan and a yelp made its way out of your throat, scratching and burning in its wake. "Feels... so- oh! Good! Good.. So full."

He smirked against your breast, taking a nipple into his mouth. "Mmmhmm, and you don't want me to stop, d'you?"

You shook your head fast. "Please..."

"Please, what?"

A beat of silence.

And then surrender. "Please, don't stop." If your voice was any quieter, it would be silent.

Whatever demon possessed Bucky in that second, it had teeth so pretty you just wanted him to sink them into your skin and eat you whole.

He kissed you more forcefully, and this time you kissed him back, arms straining against the restraint, legs tightening around his waist, moaning into his mouth when he spoke to you. "There she is. Was that so hard, sweetheart?"

Your eyes rolled back when he put your legs over his shoulder, kissing the inside of your knee before leaning over you and pressing his chest against yours. "Pussy so good, gonna make me cream all over it."

Another clench, and the chuckle vibrated deep in his chest, making your nipples harden more in the process. "What was all that "no" nonsense, hmm?"

"I don't...?" Your head was spinning. Swimming in a sea of oxytocin and whatever roofie he definitely put in your wine.

"S'okay, you don't have to do anything but what I say." His thrusts got erratic, faltering, almost as if he was holding himself back from falling from a precipice he wanted to jump off of with you in his arms. "Can feel y'choking me."

"So— fuck, I'm so close, please."

"Gotta ask nice, baby. You've been trouble tonight." If he was any deeper inside of you he would literally split you in half. You were sure you'd be sore for at least a fucking week.

"Please let me cum on your cock, please." Your tears tasted different now, like he finally tainted something good, spilled red wine on white silk. "I'll be good, I promise! Ah!" A specially harsh thrust made you hesitate.

"Don't know if you deserve it, angel..."

"Please!" You were sobbing now, raw burn of his fingers against your clit driving you mad, you were so close you could taste it. "I'll be good! I'll comply!"

That snapped something inside of him. Whether it was familiarity, rage, or whatever other blindly carnal feeling it was, it made Bucky see red, bloodthirsty to wring every single drop of free will from you.

"Y'promise?" You nodded. Please, please, please. "Slova, kukla." Words, doll.

"Da." Yes. You bit your lip again, straining your neck to look up at him so closely your lips brushed when you talked.

"Gotovyy?" Ready?

"Ya gotova otvechat'" Ready to comply.

His fingers rubbed harder, both deeper and faster circles, and his hips did not cease their movements driving his cock in and out of you. Every drag of his leaking head inside of you felt like fireworks exploding inside of your veins.

He bit your lip so hard when you came around him that it bled, and his tongue soothed the skin.

He fucked you through your orgasm, and pulled out much too soon for your liking, leaving you empty with a whine from you and a dissatisfied groan from him. "Don't think you deserve my cum t'day, angel." What the actual fuck was wrong with you? "Next time, yeah?"

Next time?

Why did your pussy throb at that?

His flesh hand came to jerk himself off on top of you while the metal one kept your thighs spread for him, it took barely any time for him to spill thick ropes across your lower stomach and pussy with a groan of your name and sweat glistening on his forehead.

"Y'look good all painted with my cum."

You didn't realize your eyes were closed until you forced them open in response to his fingers tickling your stomach, playing with his cum, dragging the thick fluid further down and smearing it over your spent folds.

She's not even as spent as he could make her.

You moaned in response, and your gaze caught his. Without looking away he repeated the motion, except he pushed it further down, stuffing his cum inside of you, contradicting himself.

"That's it, sweet thing... Just take it." You really couldn't do much of anything else. If the roofie didn't turn your brain to mush, the two orgasms and the 19% wine would've done the trick just fine.

His voice seemed so far away, but so close. Like a siren calling out your name ready to drown you in damnation. "Fuck, look so good all used up."

You felt the coil in your belly tighten again, not even you with the hottest of audios had gotten yourself over the edge and back at it again so fast. "Too much." You tried to squirm away, but his grip was too strong.

"Never too much, baby." He put a third finger in and rubbed the heel of his hand against your clit every time his palm slapped down as he went all the way in. "Just right."

You might've been the first human being ever to see your own frontal lobe live. Or at least that's what you through when your eyes rolled back again and you became a babbling mess under him, soaking his fingers and the sheets beneath you.

The next day, he was gone just as swiftly as he had come in. Nothing was out of place, everything was perfectly normal save for the throbbing ache between your legs and the cum stain in your sheets.

Like it hadn't been the best thing that's ever happened to you.

Months later, when he was chasing Steve down the causeway in Washington, he didn't even remember you. His hand wrapped around your throat and threw you onto a parked car's windshield like he hadn't made you face the deepest, darkest parts of yourself.

A/N: ANYWAYYYYYYY thanks to the BWA for freaking out with me over this. Hopefully we all got wet together <3 I have too much free time and a mind much too dark. thanks @heldbybarnes for telling me to write this <3 I literally gave myself a 4k word cap and this monstrosity came to life. I make plan, @houseofhyde laughs in my face:

💌 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

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locked

✦Main Masterlist - Read on aO3!✦

✦summary: everyone loves golden boy Steve Rogers. Everyone but you. It's alright, though, because he hates you back. But love and hate are closer than you both think.✦

✦warnings/tags: steve rogers x female!reader, avengers era, no use of y/n, enemies to lovers, pining but they don't know they're pining, idiots in love, no description of reader (pictures for aesthetic only), fluff, angst, love confessions, some plot to get to feral porn, super soldier level smut, (kind of office sex, teasing, dirty talk, dry humping, super soldier stamina, dry orgasms but he's a trooper he keeps going, begging, rough sex, praise and degradation kink, mean!steve, nipple play, manhandling, hyperspermia, big dick steve, squriting, p in v sex, creampie, overstimulation, dacryphilia, dumbification, soft!dom steve), soft!steveoutside of smut✦

✦wc: 9.6k✦

✦Author's Note: i love enemies to lovers with sweet men it's so important to me. thank you!✦

There aren’t a lot of rules to being on the Avengers, and the ones that exist are easy to follow. Don’t feed Tony after midnight, he’s like a gremlin. Don’t laugh at Sam’s jokes when they’re not funny, it encourages him. Always listen to Fury, unless you like being stranded in Utah. Don’t touch Natasha’s food. Don’t piss off Banner.

Easy. You’re not a fool, and if you were, you wouldn’t deserve to be here.

A lot of people still don’t think you deserve to be here, but Nat always reminds you that they just don’t know what kind of enemy you’d make. She’d rather have you on their side. Everyone warmed up to Wanda eventually, too. The team already likes you, and none of you have a clean letter.

Almost none of you.

Steve’s is cleaner than a freshly waxed and plucked floor. Steve’s letter is perfect. He’s perfect. He’s the Golden Boy, designed in a bottle to be likable and confident and collected. Camera’s flash and his smile is whiter than the moon, and more blinding than the sun. He claps Tony on the back after a slightly mocking joke, clearly unfazed. He places his hand on Nat’s lower back in the most gentlemanly way possible, and everyone swoons like he’s some movie star.

He sits next to you on one of these panels you’re not allowed to skip—you tried to, and Clint dragged you to the helicopter like some misbehaving child—and ignores you all together. A tiny nod and smile for the cameras. Stiff shoulders that square away from you, like if he blocks you out, you’ll just vanish in the hazy lights.

He’d like it, if that happened. He’d probably throw a fucking party.

Because you don’t know why. You don’t know what you did. But Steve Rogers hates you, and no one even thought he was capable of that emotion.

It started the first time Nat dragged you in, spitting and weary like a feral cat. She’d given Steve and Tony the brief on your powers. Said that you had a good heart—although she hadn’t done an x-ray, so you have no idea how she was so sure—and asked to keep you.

Asked.

Natasha didn’t ask for anything. She said it like a question, and fixed Steve and Tony with the most terrifying glare in the world. Tony had shrugged, and Steve had tried to protest. Nat had crossed her arms and flicked her brows up in a silent challenge. Steve had swallowed, looked at you with a strange gleam in his eyes, and given up. He’d left the room with a grumble, not sparing you another glance. Tony would tell you later—after you annoyed it out of him—that he’d spent a month trying to talk Nat out of you. Like a toy he didn’t want her to be playing with.

You hadn’t said a single word. Natasha hadn’t told him anything about your past. And he still hadn’t wanted you there.

“Rogers,” you murmur, smiling at the flashing lights that—supposedly—have people behind them.

You’ve come to think of them more as vultures. They’d like to pick you apart and eat out whatever kind of black, charred thing you’re made of. You never give them the satisfaction.

Steve says your name, low and flat. His attention flits over, scanning you from the corner of his eye. You catch his gaze, and he looks away just as fast.

You roll your eyes and huff, slumping back in your seat. You drum your fingers on the smooth, deep blue cloth of the table. They gave you a water bottle. Maybe if you drink it fast enough, you can just go pee and skip this whole thing-

“Sit up.”

Steve speaks so low you almost don’t hear him. You frown at his profile—stupid clean jawline and strong features—and slump further in your seat. Just to test him. Just to make him twitch.

There aren’t a lot of things you find pride in. Being able to get under Steve’s skin is one of them.

He notices immediately, and shoots you a glare. You snort, and his eyes narrow.

“I told you to sit up-“

“I heard you.”

“And you didn’t listen?” Someone shouts his name. He turns to flash them that look at me, aren’t I perfect? Smile, and you try not to gag.

“You’re not my boss.” You hiss through your teeth, smiling at the people shouting your name.

Steve makes a low, rough sound in his throat. “I am your boss.”

“No. I work under Nat.”

“Who works for me-“

“Does she?”

Steve shoots you another look, and this time you giggle. He’s still smiling, through every single glare. It looks psychotic.

He doesn’t even try to reprimand you this time. He just sighs dramatically and looks back to the crowd. You sit up, but not because he told you to. You’re not another one of his dogs.

Because there’s one more rule about being an Avenger. About being an American.

No one hates Steve Rogers.

He’s an angel. A blessing. His pretty boy face and classy words and pure heart. He never falters, never gives up, never does anything selfish, never gets off his fucking high horse. He’s so handsome it hurts to look at, and he’s so innocent about it, like blushing virgin schoolgirl who can’t stand seeing a fucking ankle without getting red faced and sputtering. He’s all kind words to everyone, he carries twenties on him to give to homeless people, he donates most of his Avengers salary to charities, he handles every press question with tact and charm, and he looks at you like you’re sulfur coated gum, stuck to the bottom of his shoe.

No one tells you what to do when Steve Rogers hates you. He’s not supposed to hate anyone.

So you must be the fucking problem.

You try not to look at him, for most of the panel. It’s easy when he gets seated on the other end of the table, but whatever fucker was in charge of seating today must hate you. You can’t turn your head without seeing his lazy, kind smile, and you can’t turn out his deep laugh, and god, what if you just punched him in the face on live TV-

Someone says your name, and your head snaps over.

“Yeah?”

Steve tenses. You’re supposed to just nod, or say yes, not yeah. That’s not professional. Shame for him the media trainers gave up on you years ago. You don’t know why Steve still bothers. Everyone still loves you anyway.

And the person who said your name doesn’t deserve professionalism anyway. It’s a slimy man at the front of the question line, with slicked back hair and an expensive watch and teeth that look too big for his mouth. You know what kind of question this is going to be, before he even opens his mouth.

“Hi,” the man smirks at you, and you smile back. It’s the cold, bored smile that you wear like a shield. If the man feels the chill from it, he doesn’t even flinch.

“Hey.”

Steve’s jaw ticks. If he breaks a tooth, maybe you won’t have to deal with this question.

“Hey.” The man echoes back, his gaze dropping back to your tits. “I have to ask, what does it take to get you out of the Avengers compound and out on a date?”

You laugh, spinning your mic and leaning back in your chair. The audience laughs with you. They always do.

Steve doesn’t, and it stabs near your ribs for some useless reason. Sometimes you wonder if your powers just don’t work on him, which would make him even more annoying than he already is. 

“More than that,” you say, and the man stands a little taller.

“You wanna give me a step-by-step?” He winks. “I’m a good rule follower.”

“Hm.” You smirk. “I’m sure you are.”

A chorus of teasing jeers comes from the back of the crowd, where all the men always get shoved. They’re less insistent than the fangirls who want to see Steve and Thor’s muscles. The man at the front of the line looks back with a proud grin—he got you to talk, what a miracle—then returns his gaze to you.

“What about if I promise to be a gentleman?”

“Then I’d ask you to cross your fingers,” you say, smiling with so much honey you’re worried your face is going to get glued like this.

The oooooos are louder this time, and you laugh. The man at the front looks like he’s about to fall to his knees. He grabs at the mic stand like a lifeline, staring at you with wide, devout eyes, and you don’t even flinch when Steve rips your mic from your hands.

“She’ll be backstage after, buddy.” His tone is light, but firm. The man blinks at him, like he forgot he was there. “Remember, she’s got a whole panel to get through. Don’t want to distract her too early.”

He laughs. Everyone laughs with him, except for you.

You smile at him with enough venom to burn the super solider serum right out of his big, muscled body. Steve smiles back, with that strange gleam back in his eyes.

It’s only there for you. It’s been two years, and you never learned to read it. The questions move on, and your mic gets turned of while Bruce talks about his favorite kinds of tea. You lean to the side, hissing from the corner of your mouth.

“What the fuck is your problem.”

Steve doesn’t blink. He keeps his winning smile on his face, and you’re sure that to anyone looking on from the crowd, it seems like you’re exchanging friendly jokes.

“This isn’t a dating app.”

“I know that-“

“Didn’t seem like it.”

You scoff. Your smile is starting to hurt your face. “What was I supposed to do, tell him to piss off?”

Steve’s lips twitch down, ever so slightly. “You flirted back.”

“So? I was never going to go out with him, he looked like a fucking sewer rat.”

“That’s rude-“

“Oh, suck my dick.”

You look back to the crowd. Steve mutters your name, and you ignore him. He says it again, firmer this time, and you shoot him a shut the fuck up look.

His nostrils flare. His eyes are so blue, you think you could get lost in them if he wasn’t always trying to forcefully burn you out.

“You-“ He lets out a heavy breath through his nose, shakes his head, and look back out to the crowd. “You’re going to find yourself with a stalker one day. It happened to Nat.”

You almost snort. You’ve heard that story. Nat curb stomped him. “I’m sure I’d handle it.”

Steve’s lip curls. “You have no combat training,” he grunts, and you huff.

Not this again.

“If someone got the jump on you-“

“No one gets the jump on me.”

“Yet,” he gives you a pointed look, and you hold it, unimpressed and bored. “But one day-“

“One day what? I’m just going to lose all my powers? And need Captain America to protect me?” You laugh crudely, and Steve scowls.

 “I didn’t say that-“

“Then what were you going to say-“’

“That you need to be careful-“

“And why do you care-“

“I don’t-“

“Really?” You roll your eyes. “Could’ve fooled me.”

“You- You fucking-“

“Steve.” Sam leans over Steve’s shoulder, glaring between you. “People. Watching. Calm down.”

You and Steve both freeze, and glance out to the crowd. Sure enough, almost all the eyes are on you. Shining vultures. For one, at least, picking Steve apart with you.

You smile and wave. Steve sits so tall you think he might be trying to fly away.

“What were you talking about?” The next person asks, and Steve laughs.

Controlled. Always so fucking controlled.

“Nothing important-“

“It looked important.”

Steve shrugs. “We take everything we do here seriously. A conversation about dinner can look like a war meeting sometimes, with how much passion we have for- Everything.”

He waves at the air, and the crowd murmurs. You smirk, because Steve sees the light in that ripple. Only the rising relief. Not the dents it’s leaving in the water.

But you see them. You see them better than anyone. And you know why the people drop it. Tony’s glaring down the table, and Nat is rubbing her face, and you know they heard it too.

You love it when he fucks up. You’re beaming for the rest of the panel, because you know what the headline is going to be in the morning.

Passion, he said.

Idiot.

It happens so fast, and Steve’s the only one surprised by it.

“You two.” Tony points between you in the morning. “My office. Now.”

You smile, shoving your bagel in your mouth and following after him. Steve looks confused. You’re sure he’s never been called to an office before. You’re thrilled to have that first experience with him.

“Tony, what’s going on-“

“No.” Tony points at him with a scowl, and the door locks behind you. “Not a word from you, Cap. This is your fault.”

“My fault?” Steve almost recoils. “How is it my fault, I haven’t even done anything. It’s probably her fault-“

You snort, taking the bagel out of your mouth. “My fault? You don’t even know what we did yet!”

“Well, I know it’s your fault-“

“Because everything is my fault-“

“For stuff like this, yeah. It is.”

“Stuff like this- Like what, you getting in trouble-“

“I’m not in trouble-“

“Oh, you just got called to Daddy’s office because of your good behavior-“

“Can you both shut up?” Tony raises his voice, glaring between you with his nose pinched. “I swear, you’re going to give me a migraine that kills me. And you,” he shoots you a glower. “Never call me Daddy again.”

You smirk. “Why, does it turn you on too much?”

Steve looks at you like he wants to kill you. Tony just looks bored.

“Yeah, it does. Which is annoying.”

“Aw,” you beam at Steve. “He thinks I’m annoying.”

A vein is pushing out of Steve’s brow. If anyone is going to die right now, it’s going to be him, from bursting a vessel. You giggle, dropping in the seat in front of Tony’s desk. Steve just stands behind you, a soldier at attention against his greatest enemy. You tip your head backwards, looking at him under fluttering lashes.

“You should sit down, buddy.”

Something flickers over Steve’s face. “Don’t call me buddy.”

“Don’t stand there like a creep.”

His lip curls. You give him a challenging smile, and he lets out one of those heavy sighs that’s only reserved for you. He stomps over to the chair next to it, and drops down with a scowl at Tony.

“You want to tell us why we’re here, Tony?”

Tony frowns, and glances at you. “Does he not know?”

You shrug. “He’s a little stupid. You know that.”

Tony’s lips twitch despite himself. Steve scowls.

“I don’t know what you two are talking about, or- Planning-“

He cuts himself off, as Tony tosses the printed out article down on the desk. You hadn’t actually seen it yet, but you knew it was coming.  

From the look on Steve’s face, though, he really hadn’t realized at all.

“What.” It’s all he says. One clipped, dumbfounded word as he stares at the paper. You sort of want to laugh, but you bite it down. Tony’s looking at you like this is serious. Like he can’t make it go away with a wave of his hand.

Stever grabs the article. You lean over his shoulder, just to piss him off a little more. He doesn’t even bother to glare at you, his fingers digging so deep into the paper it tears. The headline gets crumpled, like he’s crushing it with just his gaze.

Secret Love In the Avengers.

It’s not very snappy. You think they could’ve tried harder, but at least the picture is good. You and Steve both look nice, and you’re staring at each other so intently you can’t even blame them for the minimum effort. With Sam looking bored on Steve’s other side, and you and Steve leaning so close together, there’s no mistaking in that photo who might be seconds from making out.

“Tony,” Steve mutters. “What’s this.”

Tony snorts. “What do you think this is, Cap? A news article about trades with China? No, because less people would be reading that than they’re reading this.”

“We’re hotter than trades with China,” you offer, and you think Tony would laugh if he wasn’t so pissed.

“Why is there a picture of us.” Steve mutters, and Tony rolls his eyes.

“Well, when two people look at each other like they want to fuck, everyone tends to notice.”

Steve’s jaw locks. You sigh, crossing your arms over your chest.

“So what, do you need us to do another release-“

“No.” Tony glares at you. “This is the third time something like this has happened with you two-“

“What?” You snort. “No, it isn’t-“

“Ah.” Tony raises a hand. “Don’t play stupid with me. I’m trying to be generous with third, and I’m not in the mood to hold your hands through feelings right now.”

“Feelings?” Steve spits, fumbling with the paper. “There are no- I don’t know what you think you’re talking about, Stark-“

“Steven.” Tony says flatly. “You. Shut up.”

Steve shakes his head. “You don’t know what you’re talking about-“

“Yes. I do. And you do too.”

You raise your hand, frowning between them. “Can I ask what the first and second time were, because I’d remember if this happened before-“

“No, you wouldn’t,” Tony snaps. “Because I have spent millions bribing people out of running these stories, and you never look online to see what people are saying.”

“What people are saying?” You look at Steve. “What are people saying?”

Steve coughs, ears turning red. “Nothing-“

“They think you’re fucking.” Tony says flatly, and your mouth falls open.

“They- What?!”

“You have chemistry, kid.” Tony shrugs. “Every second you’re next to each other, you’re eye fucking so much we all feel like we’re supposed to leave the room.”

You sputter, shaking your head. You can feel you flush, burning up your face. When you look at Steve, he won’t meet your eyes.

He never does.

“Did you know about this?” You hiss.

He sighs, running a hand over his face with a half-shrug. “Maybe.”

“Maybe?! What the fuck does that mean-“

“Means he knew.” Tony says flatly. “Everyone knew.”

“Everyone knew what?! That the whole country thinks I want to fuck Steve?!”

Tony snorts. “You do want to fuck Steve.”

Your face burns. Steve looks up with warning pinch in his brow. “Tony.”

“Don’t Tony me, pretty boy-“

“Just- Not now-“

“Yes, now.” Tony glares between you. “This has gotten out of hand. We get it. You’re both hot. You’d have hot sex. But if you don’t either fuck or cut bait and start acting like adults, you’re grounded.”

Steve scowls. “You can’t ground me, Stark, I’m your boss-“

“Well, I cut the checks.” Tony crosses his arms. “So I think I can do whatever I want.”

Steve and Tony keep glaring at each other. You stare off in the middle distance between them. Your hands don’t feel like they’re your hands. Your feet are planted on the carpet, but not on solid ground. Your head feels like it’s pressing into itself, yet also expanding to something bigger than you can hold onto.

You don’t want to fuck Steve. Sure, he’s all muscles and rugged yet soft features, but there are countless men like that.

There are very few men like that. Well, you could find one. You have one in front of you. But you don’t want to fuck him. He’s annoying. Impossibly annoying and bossy and always up your ass about something, and not in the fun way like you’d prefer-

No. You wouldn’t prefer. You don’t want to fuck Steve. You can have anyone else, you’d rather have anyone else. Steve’s just always there and always making you embarrassed and angry, and maybe you’re into that but it’s none of his business. It’s not like he’d be like that in bed, either way.

You think. Not that you’ve thought about it. He’s too perfect. Too boring. He’s not boring when he’s arguing with you. He just hates you that much. That you make him break. Or you let him show that side of himself. You don’t poke and prod at anyone like you poke and prod at Steve. He’s just fun to get a rise out of. He gets cute when he’s pissy. He sneers your name and it goes right between your legs, but that doesn’t mean you want to fuck him.

You don’t. You don’t. You don’t?  

He has big hands, but you don’t want them groping and squeezing all over your body. He’s got a strong nose, but you’ve never thought about it pushing against your clit, just like you’ve never thought about his huge biceps wrapping around your neck while he fingers you stupid. And you’d smile at him, dazed and long fucked out of protesting. And he’d feed those fingers to you while sitting you on his cock, and all that perfection would melt away into something raw. Something real, that’s open and refuses to be stitched close. Something that both of you want to drown in.

Something’s that’s just for you, and Steve, and no one else.

Oh, no.

You want to fuck him.

Tony says your name, and your gaze snaps back over. Your palms are sweating, your face burning, your skin suddenly itchy and your feet restless. You want to fuck Steve. You want to fuck Steve.

He looks at you weird, and you shift in your seat. He can’t know. Ever. This is going to get cleaned up, and Steve will never know that you might, kind of, really want him to just toss you over his shoulder and fuck you stupid. You glance at him from the corner of you eye, and his gaze sears into you. You have to look away.

There’s no way he can know. You’ve barely even known for a minute.  Tony only says he knows because he’s an ass. This will pass. It has to pass.

“Figure it out.” Tony tells you, before walking out of the office.

And you will. By never being in the same room as Steve again.

You shoot to your feet, and almost sprint out of the room. Steve calls your name, but you don’t look back. He’s faster, but he’s also respectful. He won’t manhandle you and force you to listen, like you want him to.

God, you really want him to. You’re going to kill Tony for making you realize that, then kill yourself, and no one will ever have to know that—for all your cool, bored smiles and teasing and flirting, for all your powers and siren-like smile—you just want to be fucked stupid by the most righteous, innocent sex-symbol in America.

But then Steve shouts your name again. He’s following you. Why is he following you.

“Fuck off, Steve!” You shout over your shoulder, and he scoffs.

“No, you heard Tony, we need to talk-“

“We really don’t-“

“Yes, we do- Will you slow down-“

You pick up the pace, just to piss him off. Steve groans, and you hear boots hitting the ground behind you. He’s giving chase, and you can barely outwalk him.

Steve grabs your arm before you can even break into a sprint. You thrash, but it’s useless. He’s too strong, and that’s so hot, and you’re going to throw yourself off a bridge about this.

“Let go-“

“No.” Steve drags you down the hall, into an empty conference room. “Not until we talk.”

“There’s nothing for us to talk about-“

“Will you just stop being such a fucking brat and listen?”

Steve raises his voice, stern and commanding. It’s deep, so deep it echoes through you, and your knees wobble. He sees it. His jaw ticks, his grip slackens, and you rip your hand away.

“Brat.” You mock. “What would America think, if they saw their Golden sun talking to a girl like that?”

Steve’s lips twitch. “You are not a girl.”

“Aw. I’m a woman-“

“You’re a problem.” He leans over you, voice dropping to a hiss.

And this is how he always looks at you, but magnified. With a sharper gleam in his eyes, his lips thin and white, like he’s trying to swallow every word. A vein in his brow ticks, and you smile.

“I’m a problem?”

Steve’s throat bobs. “Yes.”

“Hurtful,” you whisper, and he rolls his eyes.

“You’ll live.”

For a long moment, you just stare at each other. He wants to talk, he can talk. You’re not entertaining this. Not just for him to unravel you then keep being a fucking dick.

“You…” He shakes his head, a tiny motion as his tongue flicks over his lips. “You are impossible.”

“You’re impossible-“

“Because you make me impossible,” he sneers, and you lean back slightly.

“I- You-“ You try to scoff. It’s a weak sound. He’s too close, and he smells like pine trees and something spicy, and it’s not fair. “I don’t even do anything-“

“Yes. You do.”

“What, is my skirt too short? Are my shoulders distracting you-“

“You’re distracting me.” Steve presses forward, until your faces are only inches apart. “You always distract me, you fuckin’-“ He closes his eyes, shoulders heaving.

“Steve…” You breathe, and he chuckles.

“Don’t say my name like that,” he rasps. “You don’t fuckin’ mean it.”

You blink, trying to think over the desire, burning in your body. Of course you meant it. You didn’t even want to say it, but he’s so close. It’s intoxicating. You’d think he was drugging you, if that was possible.

Steve’s pressed you against the conference table. His arms are caging you in, giving you no escape from the electricity, almost crackling in the air. You open your mouth, then close it, lost for what to say. You’re worried you’ll just whisper his name again. He drags his eyes open after what feels like a million years, his voice dropping down to something hot and dangerous.

“You never push anyone,” he says. “Like you push me, doll. It’s not… It drives me crazy.”

You swallow, your voice smaller than you want. “You- You push me-“

“Because I can’t help it.” He presses closer. Your noses are almost bumping. “You are beautiful, and insolent, and infuriating-“

“Steve-“

“And you’re so sweet to everyone.” He grabs your jaw, and your hand flies to his wrist. “Everyone loves you, so they think I’m crazy when I say you’re tryin’ to kill me.”

“Everyone loves me because of my powers.” You try to remind him, because if he does this, you won’t be able to stop him. “You- You know that-“

“I do. Trust me,” he murmurs your name, gaze flicking to your lips. “I know. Spent so long blaming them too. All those daydreams had to be because you’re Nat’s honeypot. Thought it was the wrong thing to do, that I was some kind of monster to thinking about you like that, when everyone else already does. But no,” he looks back to you. “It’s just you, doll. I plugged my nose, avoided your pheromones, let Bruce experiment on me to make me immune, did fuckin’ everything, and I still wanted you.”

You take a deep, ragged breath. You have to lick your lips, to stop the spit, and Steve tracks the motion like a predator.

No one wants you. Everyone loves you, but no one wants you. You’re pretty but untouchable. No one can hurt you. If you ask someone for something, they’ll always do it, whether they really want to or not.

But Steve…

He says he wants you. And you really want to believe him.

“How long.” You breathe, and he sighs, bowing his head.

“Since the second I saw you.”

“You…” You scan over his face, looking for any hint that it’s not really him. That he doesn’t really, fully mean it. “You want to fuck me?”

His ears turn red. “I mean- Not just that-“

“But you do,” you breathe, and he sighs.

Stares for a second longer, then nods.

“Okay.” You whisper. Steve looks to your lips, then back to you again.

“Okay?”

 You nod. Steve’s grip on your jaw tightens, and your breath hitches. He leans down slowly. So torturously slowly.

Your lips meet, soft and chapped and nervous. You lean up, and he presses down. Your noses bump, and his tongue flicks over your lower lip. Your nails dig into his bicep, and he grunts, and-

Steve snaps.

His other hand flies to your face, and he presses over you, hot and demanding. Your breath hitches, you mouth falls open, and he shoves his tongue down your throat with a groan. You grab the collar of his shirt, yanking him so hard you both stumble back. Your knees hit the back of the table, but Steve’s fast. He ducks down without breaking the kiss, and scoops you up into his arms.

You squeal, but the sound is quickly muffled by Steve’s tongue down your throat. Your laugh is breathless and giddy. He chuckles, pushing further forward, and you pull at the collar of his shirt. He jerks forward, angling his head to deepen the kiss.

“Needy.” He mutters against your lips, and you shove his shoulder with weak hands.

“Shut up, I could still stop this-“

“But you won’t.” He taunts. “You like it, don’t you. Like gettin’ on my nerves, making me lose control.”

Steve pulls away, grabs your knees, shoving them apart with rough, firm hands. You gasp, grabbing at his neck. “Steve-“

“You’re wet under there.” He growls, running a big hand up your inner thigh. “I can smell it. Smell how much you want me, every damn time you’d mouth off.”

Your swallow, pressing your brows tight together. You watch him rub your legs, breathing through your nose like some wanton whore. Steve’s thumb grazes the place where you’re leg meets your core, and your whole body shivers.

He smirks, looking at you under pretty lashes. You try to glare, but you’re panting. His gaze just makes the fire in your core burn brighter, and your tongue flicks over your lips.

“You never said anything,” you whisper, and Steve gives you an amused look.

“You would’ve killed me.”

And you can laugh breathlessly. Ten minutes ago, you would’ve. But now he’s all over you, and you can’t even bring yourself to mock him.

“No,” you brush your lips over his. “I wouldn’t have.”

Steve works his jaw, that raw, strange look flashing over his face. The look that’s yours. That’s only ever been for you.

He leans in, and this kiss is softer than before. Steve massages your hips, settling himself between your legs. You spread them wide to accommodate him, and feel it poking against your thigh. His cock, thick and hard, somehow bigger than you imagined, and you hadn’t  been thinking small.

“You feel that.” He pulls your upper lip between his teeth, smiling slightly. “’S what you always do to me. Every day, I’d be walkin’ around so hard I was worried you’d see it. But no.” His kisses one corner of your mouth, then the other. “You’re oblivious, aren’t you honey.”

You hum, tipping your head back. Steve groans, dragging his lips over a pulse point, letting his tongue flick against sensitive skin. One hand slips under your shirt, careful fingers tracing up the line of your spine.

“Steve…” You whisper. “Don’t tease.”

“Oh, but you like it too much when I do.” He rasps. “You love it, love being a sweet little toy for me.”

You whimper, and he reaches around, grabbing a handful of your ass.

“So bossy ‘till I’m touchin’ you,” he sucks on your neck, grinding his bugle into your core. You gasp as the rough friction, and Steve chuckles.

“You- You’re such an ass-“

“You like that too.” He grunts, breath hot in your ear. “You like bein’ the one person that gets me going, that makes me lose it. No one else, doll.” He pushes your ass forward, so your clit is pushed against the thick hardness of him.

A long moan escapes your lips, and you drop your face into his shoulder. Steve grunts, rutting forward, and it’s so fucking hot you can’t think past it. The drawl of his voice in your ear, the strength of him around you, it’s intoxicating. The clothing adding extra friction, his fingers digging into your skin. His hand slips into your pants, deft fingers dragging down your ass to tease right against the drip of your pussy.

“Just you,” he thrusts forward, squeezing your ass. “Only you. So fuckin’ pretty and sassy, drivin’ me insane-“

You whimper, and Steve makes a low sound, taking a deep breath against your hair. The table creaks, with the force of his every thrust.

“So rude of you, sweetheart, to make me try and keep it together when you’re running around, beggin’ to be fucked- God-“

Steve moans, jerking his hips back suddenly. You stare at each other, panting and flushed. He swallows, and there’s a stain blooming on his pants. Your mouth falls open, and normally you’d make fun of him, but fuck. There’s so much of it. You can see white, leaking out of the cuffs of his pants and onto the floor. He came just from that. Just from holding and kissing you.

And he’s still so hard.

You lick your lips, and look back up. Steve’s throat bobs. You smile, fumbling with your pants, and he blinks.

“You’re- Uh-“

“In me.” You point at his dick, about to burst the seam of his slacks, then your core. “You- Do that in me.”

Steve’s hands curl into fists. You’ve never seen his face so red. It’s almost adorable. “Uh- Are you sure-“

“Do you want to fuck me stupid or not?”

He leans back, startled. You hold his gaze, pull down your pants, hike your legs up on the table, and spread them wide.

You could swear you see it twitch, as he takes you in. Head thrown back, your fingers rubbing between the swollen, dripping lips of your cunt. You breathe out his name, dipping one finger into your heat and pumping slowly. Steve takes a rough step forward, grabbing your knees like handles.

“Stop,” he grunts, and you obey.

Steve runs his fingers down your bare thigh, slowly guiding your hand away from your pussy. You grab his shoulder, holding his gaze as he rubs his thumb around your clit. You let out a slow, relaxed breath, and Steve smirks.

“You like that, doll?”

“As much as you did,” you breathe out, and Steve chuckles.

“Ah. Too late for that.” He presses a mocking kiss to your open lips. “You showed me what you want. How bad you want it.”

Steve flicks your clit, and your back arches. He presses back down on the little button, and a long moan rips from your lips.

“I came in my fuckin’ pants,” he whispers in your ear. “And you’re still beggin’ me to fuck you.”

“Wasn’t- Wasn’t begging-“

“But you would,” he coos. “If I asked you to. You’d say please, Stevie and cry for me to stuff this pretty little pussy.” He pushes down on your clit, and you whimper. “Like the good little slut you are.”

God, the hold he has on you should be crime. You choke out his name pathetically, and Steve starts to rub you in thick, unrelenting circles. His free arm wraps around your lower back, holding you in place when his fingers dip down, and start to explore the folds of you pussy.

“So wet,” he mutters, pushing one finger deep into your cunt. You clench around him, and a squelching sound fills the room as he pumps slowly. “Wet and tight.” Steve looks up at you with a smirk. “You think you’re gonna be able to take my cock, doll? Christ, you’re barely taking my finger.”

He pushes in a second one, just to prove his point, and your mouth falls open. He’s right. The burn of his two fingers, it feels like he’s stretching you open with a fist. He slides them in deeper and deeper, his thumb working your clit, and your nails sink into his neck.

“St- Steve,” you gape between your bodies, watching him disappear inside of you. “Steve-“

“Hm?” He gets up to the knuckle, and looks up at you with a smirk.

You try to take a second to catch your breath, and he scissors his fingers, twisting his wrist so it hits a gummy spot inside of you. You cry out, and he silences you with a deep, messy kiss.

“Feel it,” he mutters against your lips, pulling his fingers almost all the way out. “No talkin’ for once, doll. All you gotta do is feel it.”

He slams his fingers back in. You whimper, but nod. Steve hums in approval, and the sound shoots straight between your legs. You squeeze and gush around him, and he groans. You barely get a second to compose yourself before he starts to thrust his fingers, deep and hard, and you start to unravel.

Steve’s strong. This is him holding back, and he’s still so strong. You scramble to get a real, firm hold on something, because he’s pummeling your pussy into a drenched, slack oblivion. The pace is brutal, knuckles dragging right over your g-spot over and over, splitting you open in a way that makes you drool.

He makes his mouth busy, trailing kisses back down your throat, then over your shoulders. You moan, leaning your head against his, and he smiles against your skin. Steve draws back to meet your gaze, and through the daze of the pleasure he’s dragging out of you, you smile back.

Your body is rocking, from the brutality of how he’s touching you. Steve’s eyes flick down, but not to where his fingers are being swallowed by your pussy.

He’s looking at your tits.

He licks his lips, watching them bounce under his force. You think he might be hypnotized. Before you can say anything, he reaches up and rips your shirt clean off.

“Steve- Ooh-“

“Shhh.” He gives you a stern look, twisting his fingers in your cunt. “I’ve got you, doll. Just- Lemme-“

Steve looks back to your tits, and his eyes are almost black with desire. You’ve never seen anything hotter, than how he looks at you as he lowers himself down.

He mouths at the curve of your tits, sucking a tiny, dark bruise. You moan, starching at his bicep, but he just drags you closer. Forcing your back to arch, your tits to push into his face.

“Look at you,” he mutters, voice dripping with something close to reverence. “My girl.”

And you blink. Because that wasn’t discussed, but your pussy clenches all the same. His girl.

You don’t get more time to think about it before Steve’s lips wrap around your nipple, and you lose control.

He mouths at you like a starved man. Kissing and licking and sucking, sending tingling, electric sensations straight from your tits to your pussy. He moans every time you squeeze down on his fingers, which just feels like a vibrator right against your sensitive nipples, and makes you lose it all the more.

You’re grinding up into him, thrashing a little like an animal and whimpering in his ear. Steve bites down softly, his thumb staring to make quick, relentless swipes at your clit.

“Oh- Oh fuck-“ You moan, tugging at his short, soft hair. “St- Steve- Too much- I’m gonna- Fuuuck-“

You don’t know why you thought he was going to slow down. Steve switches nipples, biting down before sucking hard, right as his blunt fingertips hit that spot inside of you. You cry out as you cum, your body writhing against his stronger one. He keeps you in place, his hand working you through the orgasm. Pulling every last spasm of your cunt, and a few more after. He kisses your nipples and over your breasts before he draws up.

When it’s done, your eyes are lidded. Steve stares at you, slowly pulling his hand out. He smears your juices over your pussy, thumbing at your clit for a few more, light seconds. You squeak, and he smiles.

“You look pretty when you cum,” he mutters, and you flush.

You’ve been told that before, but this feels different.

This feels real.

You can’t think of anything to say. Steve doesn’t push you to try. He leans forward, cupping your cheek and giving you a smaller, softer look before he kisses you. You melt into him, too dazed from what might be strongest orgasm of your life to protest.

“’m gonna fuck you ‘till you can’t walk.” Steve mutters. “But- Not here.”

You hum in agreement. “Clean up later?”

“Later.” Steve grunts in agreement. “If I don’t get inside of you, think I’m gonna die.”

You giggle. It’s so stupid, but you giggle. Steve huffs out a low laugh, and drags your forward. You’re being carried like a koala in his arms. He kisses your cheek before drawing up to his whole height, and glancing at the door.

“I, uh-“ He gives you a sheepish expression. “I’m gonna have to run.”

You nod—you’re naked, you expected as much—and he clears his throat.

“You gotta hold on.”

“I am holding on.” You pat his neck, and he sighs.

“Doll, I’m gonna be running really fast-“

“I’m holding on tight.”

“Hold on tighter.”

You roll your eyes, and wrap him in the best chokehold you can manage. The asshole doesn’t even pretend to grunt.

“Your boobs are in my face.” He mumbles, and you snort.

“You were eating them like, five seconds ago-“

“Yeah, but- That was just us. What if someone sees-“

“That you’re carrying me naked? Probably that we’re fucking.”

He twists his neck to glare up at you. You smile innocently back, and he sighs.

His breath is warm, over your breasts. It makes you squirm a little, and Steve’s grip on your body tightens.

“You are such a brat,” he mutters, almost in awe. “I stop fucking you for ten seconds, and you’re already talking back again.”

“Oops.” You beam. “You should fix that.”

Steve chuckles. His tongue flicks over his lips. “Yeah,” his voice is dark. A promise. “Trust me. I’m gonna.”

And he runs. He runs so fast you squeal, because you forgot how fast he can be when he’s really trying. You press your face back into his neck to block the wind, and when he stops, you still don’t look up.

The smell hits you first. It’s deep and rich and-

Steve.

You poke your head up, and you’re in Steve’s room.

It’s not what you expected, a military cell where he sleeps and plans way to torture you. It’s… Cozy. There are books on a shelf that slightly poorly put together, and the bed is made but the sheets look thick and soft. There’s a mirror on the dresser, facing the bed, and so much paper you almost don’t know where to look. Drawings of flowers, and rivers, and sunsets. One of a bird, and a few of the landscape of the compound, and so, so many of-

“Is that me?”

Steve grunts, tossing you down onto his bed and starting to strip. You move to your knees, ready to scramble off the bed and get a better look at the drawings, but he gives you a stern look.

“Stay.”

You roll your eyes. “Shut up, I wanna see- Steve-“

He grabs you like you weigh nothing, and throws you right back onto the bed before you’re even on two feet. Your thighs press together, thrilled with the blatant manhandling. Steve notices it, and laughs.

“You like that, huh?”

“Shut up-“

“No, you liked that-“

“Maybe I did.” You stick your tongue out, and he smirks.

“You love bein’ a ragdoll, don’t you. Needy girl, you’re gonna let me do whatever I want to you-“

“You have drawings of me!” You blurt, because you really don’t need him to make you more horny.

Steve shrugs. “I do. So?”

“So?” You fumble, pulling at the sheets. “You- You like me-“

“That’s a shock to you?” Steve gives you an amused look. “I just fingered you in borderline public.”

“Well- You- You-“ You’re sputtering again. Only Steve does this to you. It drives you fucking insane. “You could’ve just wanted to fuck me-“

“Nope.” He shrugs. “I’ve been in love with you for a while. You just get on my last line sometimes, doll.”

And all your protests slip out of your head.

I love you.

He- He said-

“What?” You squeak, and Steve sighs.

“I love you.”

He said it again. “Wh- Why?”

“Why?” He gives you a tired, almost annoyed look. “Why wouldn’t I love you?”

“Because I’m annoying.” You answer immediately. “And mean, and bossy, and- I’m annoying-“

“You said that one already.” Steve starts to walk towards you, and you lean into his gravity, even as your heart beats in your ears.

“How do you know you love me.” You whisper. “It- It could just be my powers-“

“It’s not.”

“But-“

Steve takes your face between his hands, his thumb dragging over your lower lip. You fall silent, and you know you’re staring up at him like he’s the sun, but you’ve never been so warm. You’re afraid to move. To lose it.

“Steve…” You breathe, and he hums. “You- You can’t mean that-“

“I do.” He presses his thumb forward, and your lips wrap around it on instinct. You suck, and his eyes flash with more approval.

It’s embarrassing, how pliable that makes you. How he’d just need to give you one bit of praise after so much mocking, and you might just cum right here. Sucking on Steve’s thumb, naked on his bed, sheets bunched between your thighs.

“I love you because you’re smart,” he says, and useless, embarrassing tears prick at your eyes. “And funny, and kind. You never abuse what you can do to people. You work hard, you drive me crazy, you’re always ready to do anything for anyone else.”

You try to shy away. You’d been wrong. You’re not cumming, you’re getting so hot it feels like a fever, because having him degrade you is less embarrassing than this. Steve’s grip on you face tightens. He’s not letting you get away that easy.

“You’re gorgeous,” he murmurs. “And it’s got nothin’ to do with any powers. So I love you, doll. And you’re gonna feel it.”

There’s nothing you can say to that. Tears are pricking at your eyes, hopeless and confused and desperate. You need to see what that feels like. Steve’s love, painted all over you.

“You want that?” He mutters, and you nod. “Words-“

“Please,” you breathe out, the words muffled around his thumb. “Show me.”

Steve smiles. He pulls his thumb away with a pop, and taps your check gently.

“See?” He smirks. “Begging.”

Your eyes narrow, but Steve doesn’t let you spit out a response. He crashes down into a harsh, long kiss that makes your toes curl and thighs rub together. Steve gropes all over your body, pushing you down into the mattress before rolling over and forcing you to straddle his chest.

He’s naked. You don’t know how you missed it—probably the love confession—but the thick, hard curve of his cock slaps against your ass, and his bare chest flexes when you drag your nails over his pecs.

“You’re gonna ride my cock, doll,” he rubs your ass, smiling up at you. “Don’t need you to say anything back. Just show me,” he squeezes your ass. “How fuckin’ bad you need it.”

You look back at it, and your breath hitches. It’s huge. Bigger than any you’ve ever taken, bigger than any you’ve ever seen, even in porn.

“Did you take fucking drugs for that thing?” You breathe, and Steve snorts.

“Yes?”

You glare at him, and he raises his brows.

“You getting on, or not?” 

For a second, you think about being petulant. You cross your arms and pout, trying to test how far you can push him. But Steve just snorts, rolls his eyes, and picks you up. You don’t even get to wiggle before he’s forcing you down on his dick, and the air is knocked from your lungs.

Steve sits so deep in your, it might be pushing all the thoughts out of your brain. You gape down at him, making weak noises as your pussy pulses and stretches around him. His fingers dig into your hips, but it’s the only sign that he’s struggling to hold himself back.

“Much as I love you bein’ a brat,” he mutters, massaging your ass. “I’d rather see this.”

He reaches up slowly, tucking air behind your ear. You smile weakly, and he chuckles, settling fully into the pillows.

“Ride it, doll,” he orders, and god help you, you try.

You catch your breath after a long moment that feels like eternity, and start to roll your hips. Steve groans, eyelids fluttering, but doesn’t help you. His hands stay firm on your body, forcing you to use everything you have to grind down onto his dick.

He pushes against that gooey spot inside of you, and you falter with a long moan. You shift, forcing him right against it, and he lets out a sharp breath, but still doesn’t move.

“Feels good, doesn’t it,” he coos, cock throbbing inside of it. “Nice and big, fillin’ up your pussy so good.”

You moan, hips bucking. Steve grunts, thrusting up slightly, and you tip your head back. The friction is good. So good. For a second, back arched and thighs aching, you find a rhythm. It starts slow, rolling and pushing Steve’s cock right where you want it. You look down at him, sweaty and adoring beneath you. His hands wander, his breathing ragged and lips parted.

“That’s a good girl,” he mutters. “C’mon, baby, there you go.”

You keen, and move faster. Your knees are weak, but the need is stronger. You bounce on Steve dick, grabbing at his chest and gasping for air as he splits you open over and over again.

But it’s not enough. You don’t have extra stamina or strength, and he’s so big, and you’re so turned on your body is starting to forget how to move. Every wet, obscene sound makes you glance at where he’s disappearing inside of you, the way your slick is coating his cock when you pull up and his balls are heavy, pushed against your ass when you drop back down. You get hornier, and you want to just let go and allow your eyes to cross and toes to curl, but you can’t. You can’t find the pace.

You can’t cum. You can’t, and pathetic, fat tears stream down your cheeks because of it.

Steve reaches up, brushing them away with a tiny smirk. “Aw, babydoll. Don’t cry.”

You sob, shaking above him as your legs finally get to weak. You’re just squirming above him now, blinking under wet lashes at his teasing, lazy smile.

“Can’t get there all alone, can you,” he pushes you down, slamming his hips up, and you make a choked sound like his name. “Yeah, that’s right. Sweet girl, just a fuckin’ mess on my cock.”

“Ple- Please-“ You blubber, collapsing over Steve’s chest. “God, Steve- Please-“

“Aw. Begging so pretty.” He kisses your brow. “How could I ever tell you no?”

Steve grabs you off his cock, twisting you onto your stomach as he sits up. You’re shoved down into the mattress, your cheek pressed into the cushions by one of Steve’s hands on the back of your neck. The other stays on your hips, dragging your ass high up in the air to present to him.

“Such a mess.” Steve runs the head of his cock between the lips of you pussy, letting it press against your clit before he lines it up at your entrance. “You really needed this, didn’t you?”

He slides in slowly, and your eyes rolls back in your head. He’s impossibly deeper at this angle. You try to press your face into the mattress, to muffle your pathetic sounds, but Steve folds his body over yours, fisting a hand in your hair and yanking it back as he bottoms out.

“Look.” He bites your ear, dragging back before slamming forward, drilling his cock back into your abused, over sensitive pussy. “Look at us, babydoll. Fit so fuckin’ perfect.”

Your eyes dart up, and oh. Oh god.

It’s the most pornographic thing you’ve ever seen. Steve wrapped around you, his jaw tight and one hand resting on your hip. You can’t see where he’s fucking you, but you can see how his muscles flex with each thrust. You’re trapped under him, your gaze locked onto his black, fervorish one. There’s no blue left in his eyes, as he hits a pace like an animal. Only hunger and adoration.

“St- Steve-“

“That’s it,” he rasps. “That’s right, say my fuckin’ name- Scream it-“

“Steve!” You cry out, the tears streaming down your face as it becomes far too much. “Oh- Ooooh-“

 Steve lets go of your hair, wrapping his massive bicep around your neck. It keeps your head up, keeps your eyes on his. He kisses the side of your head, and you can feel arousal sliding down your thighs as he rolls his hips.

“So pretty,” he whispers. “Look at yourself. Look how fuckin’ perfect you are.”

Your eyes dart over, and an unbearable warmth prickles over your skin. You look more beautiful than you’ve ever felt in your life. Thoroughly wrecked, worshipped, fucked into a drooling mess with swollen lips and glazed eyes. Steve noses at you, smirking against your skin.

“Good, good girl.” His words are thick, his thrusts becoming erratic. “Feels nice, doesn’t it?”

You whimper an agreement, and Steve chuckles.

“You gonna cum for me? C’mon, show me how nice it feels, cum on my fucking cock-“ 

It’s like he has more control over your body than you do. The orgasm rips through you at his command, and you sob out his name as you fall apart in his arms. Steve grunts, pulling fully out for half a second to roll you on your back. You barely even feel the loss before he’s burying himself right to the hilt, and you can’t remember what being empty feels like.

There’s more than there looked to be. Steve pulls almost all the way out, to try and make more space, but it does next to nothing. Thick ropes of cum fill you up until you can almost taste it. There are wet, messy sounds as it starts to leak out, over your ass and thighs. You can see it in the mirror, dripping down onto the mattress. You’re stuffed up so well, you try to say Steve’s name, but it just comes out a pathetic moan.

He collapses over you with a grunt, and all the edge vanishes. He pulls fully out, cradling you in his arms and kissing over your neck.

“I made a mess.” He mutters, running light fingers over your inner thigh.

You giggle, kicking him away, and he smiles against your skin.

“You gonna talk to me?”

You shake your head, licking your lips. Your voice is gone, from screaming, and you can see him wince when he realizes it.

“I didn’t hurt you-“

You shake your head quickly, and his shoulders relax.

“Okay. Good. I- I’m gonna-“

He tries to get up. You grab him, and yank him back down. He grunts, giving you an incredulous look.

“Honey, it’s everywhere.”

You glare at him. He’s warm. He’s not getting away from you that easy. And you expect him to argue, like he always had before, but he just… gives in.

“Okay. Five minutes.”

He leans back over you, and you lay there. Cuddling.

Like a real couple.

You could be. Steve said he loves you, and he meant it, and that opens a door you’ve never thought about before. A door you never even let yourself think about.

A door you might want to see the other side of, more than you’ve ever let yourself admit.

But now-

You want it. You wanted this, and you want that, and you’re not going to spend another second pretending you don’t.

“About what I said,” Steve mutters, like he’s reading your mind. “Before we- Or- I guess during-“

 You roll over and grab his face. He blinks adorably, and you smile.

Steve murmurs your name, and you smile.

“I love you,” you croak out.

His jaw goes slack, and your smile widens. It’s the only thing you can think to say. The only thing you want to say.

And when Steve kisses you, it’s slow. Romantic and loving and deep. He really loves you. Everyone in the world, and the perfect man loves you. He holds you like you’re the only thing in his world. You feel like you’re the only thing in his world.

And he might really be the only thing in yours.

✦End note: i will never back off my "he's mean during sex" agenda✦ ✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦ ✦Buy me a coffee!☕️ (and get early access!)✦ ✦Taglist (Fill out this form to be added!)✦

[heaven4lostgirls]

🌷Can I get Steve Rogers smut where he’s extra gentle and a little awkward because he doesn’t know his own strength yet? /flees into the night/

have you ever tried this one? ᥫ᭡

˙⋆✮ summary: request above!

˙⋆✮ wc: 1.4k (these are never drabbles, oh wel!)

˙⋆✮ cw: smuttt (me when i said i was never gonna write smut—who was that??) lowk switch!steve and switch!reader, p in v, steve is horny but awkward (me…jk) unprotected sex (WRAP IT UP FOLKS), nipple play (don’t ask..), cumming inside, can't think of anymore but you guys lmk! not proofread <3

˙⋆✮ author’s note: WAIT NO COME BACK— anyways! welcome back yai to the inbox, love your request, i am not great with a sub leaning character but i tried my best, hope you like it beautiful queen!! everyone go check out yai’s smut fics because they are what i ascribe to be one day! enough yapping soz

join the 1k celebration

· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·

“Kiss?” you request politely, blinking up at your blonde boyfriend with a smile. Steve looks down at you fondly, folding under little to no pressure with a smile as he leans down to press his lips to yours.

They’re soft and delicate against your own and you hum, stretching onto your tiptoes to wind your arms around his neck as you hum into the kiss, your lips ticking upwards the longer the kiss goes on.

Sooner than you’re comfortable with, Steve detaches his lips from yours which draws a whine from your throat in protest. He huffs a laugh, “You’re spoilt.” He teases softly and you frown up at him; arms still wound around his neck and forcing him to crouch slightly to stay within your hold.

“And whose fault is that?” you accuse, your tone whiny at best. Steve’s smile widens as he wraps his arms around your waist and tugs so he can stand up. You’re suspended in the air, and you can’t help the giggle that bursts forth as you kick your feet lightly.

“Who could ever say no to a face like that?” he flirts, blue eyes drifting from your gaze to your lips as he licks his own. You bite your lip and hold back a smile as his eyes immediately snap to your lips at the movement.

“I dunno,” you drawl softly, a mischievous tone in your voice. “A certain super soldier seems to find it quite easy.” You pout, widening your eyes in faux innocence.

He rolls his eyes with fondness, “Alright, I see how it is.” He snorts. He untightens his arms from around you, attempting to set you down but you grab onto his biceps before you can and curl your feet up, not letting them touch the ground.

“I was joking! I was joking!” you squeal jokingly at him, laughing softly as he pretends to drop you anyways.

“You know damn well why I say no,” He asserts, his brow raised in a reprimanding manner. You bite back a sigh and growl of frustration, instead switching back to your previous tactic.

“Please Stevie?” you plead, “I can take it,” you implore him, nodding your head at his dubious look.

“Sweetheart, I don’t wanna hurt you.” He frowns. He looks at war with himself, like he wants you so bad it agonises him but at the same time can’t disregard the doctrine that he could seriously hurt you.

“You won’t,” you state firmly, Steve still looks suspicious. “You won’t hurt me.” You assure him.

You’d never let that happen goes unsaid.

“Fine.” He relents, his jaw tightening as he at you in his arms, “But there’s going to be rules.”

You’re nodding before he can even finish the statement.

˚₊‧꒰ა ✦ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

“Shh, c’mon baby—ha!—you’re fuuck—squeezing me so tight baby.”  Steve gasps out, his eyes clenched tightly shut as he he tightens his hold on the bedsheets next to your face.

He’s only got the tip in, stretching you obscenely wide. You have the urge to thrust upwards into him, but Steve had made it very clear.

We go at my pace okay? I’m not letting you hurt yourself just because you’re eager.

You’d frowned when he’d said it, ready to put up a protest about how you knew your own limits, until he’d actually done it. Now that you’d been able to see—and feel him stretching you out, you’d just wanted more.

“Please Stevie—pleaseplease need more,” you whimper under him, legs wrapped around his waist and clenching sporadically on his mushroom head.

He groans, biting his lip as you tighten on the most sensitive part of him, he can feel the precum leaking from his cock as it practically drools inside of your sopping cunt.

You’re so soft and wet for him, and he grinds his teeth to stop himself from sliding himself inside to the hilt. “God—baby y’gotta stop clenchin’ so tight on me.” He groans, eyes rolling back into his head.

You mewl pitifully, shaking your head, “can’t—feels s’good,”

At the sound of your voice, he grips the base of his cock tightly—staving off his orgasm as you pulse around his tip. You seemingly grow tired of waiting and thrust your hips up off the bed and swallow another inch of Steve’s girth.

Steve’s eyes bulge out of his head as he’s enveloped inside your cunt, blowing out a breath as he slowly sinks in. He pays no attention to the world around him as he fills you, his spongy tip hitting your cervix softly and he bites back a whimper of his own.

Your ears are filled with static, the only feeling that being of Steve’s cock stretching you so sweetly that you swear you can feel it in your throat. Your eyes roll back when you feel him hit that spot inside of you.

You’re brought back to reality by the sound of fabric ripping. Your eyes open dazedly when you notice it’s close to your head, only to see the ripped material of your bed sheets lying in Steve’s clenched fist.

“S-sorry—mm fuck—I’ll…I’ll buy you a new one.” He gasps, thrusting his hips shallowly to get you accustomed to the feeling of his cock.

You roll your hips up to meet his and his hand reaches down to grab your hip—stilling your movements. “Ah, just..just wait—” He chokes out. It all feels so good, too good.

You bite back a laugh, but you can’t help the smile that spreads across your face. When Steve catches sight of it he groans, looking embarrassed. “Don’t laugh at me!” he whines.

This time you can’t help the snort that escapes as you giggle. Your laughter leads to you clenching down on him once again which causes him to thrust into you.

“Fuck, Steve!” You gasp.

“Who’s laughin’ now huh?” he taunts, pulling back slightly before thrusting in again, punching the breath out of your lugs.

The room is filled with the lewd sounds of the two of you as you writhe underneath Steve.

Steve is panting above you, face slick with sweat as his bangs start to stick to his forehead, his brows are furrowed intensely as he thrusts into you from above, his hands holding you hips whilst he guides you up and down his cock.

“’s this feel good honey? Is my cock makin’ you feel good, huh?” he pants, not faltering in his thrusts as he sneaks a hand onto your clit, rubbing it in tight circles in time with his thrusts. You feel yourself almost blackout from the onslaught of pleasure.

Your mind is a garbled mess of thoughts and you’re sure you’re possibly even drooling as Steve’s cock keeps hitting your sweet spot incessantly. “Stevie—feels s’good” you gasp out, squeezing your legs around him as your pussy practically drools around his cock, leaving a white creamy ring at the base.

“Yeah?” he groans, sounding pleased as he picks up his pace, hands returning to your waist whilst his head falls forward to press kisses against your breast, before slipping a nipple into his mouth. He lavishes it with attention, sucking and teasing until your nipple is pebbled and sensitive before detaching and doing the same to the other.

You whine loudly, your hand finding its way into his hair as you pull harshly, drawing out a guttural groan from the man above you. You thrust yourself further into his mouth as you feel your peak approaching.

You reach your hand down to toy with your clit, closing your eyes in pleasure as you feel yourself climbing higher and higher. “Steve…gonna…m’close.” You pant.

Steve detaches, looking debauched while his lips are red and glistening. He notices you rubbing your own clit to which he swats your hand as his own replaces yours. You jerk in his gasp before releasing a hoarse moan as he tugs your clit lightly before applying more pressure to massage it.

“Shh, shh, I gotcha,” Steve croons, “Cum for me baby, wanna feel your pussy cum all over my cock—need…need to feel it.” He practically whines.

Your vision whites out as you cum, your pussy spasming around Steve’s cock as you  writhe and moan nonsensically, your voice growing hoarse in the overstimulation of Steve’s continuous thrusts.

“Gonna paint your insides baby, y’gotta let me cum inside—please baby…need it, need you,” Steve babbles, his head dropping to your shoulder as his thrusts lose their rhythm as he gets closer to his orgasm.

“S’okay Stevie, cum inside me baby.” You murmur assuredly, whining as you come down from your high.

Steve’s babbles of thankyouthankyouthankyou are drowned out by the feeling of his warm cum spurting into your pussy, filling you up as he basically drools into your neck as he cums.

[semper-nox]

Helping hands, and more

Summary: While exploring an old HYDRA base, Steve protects you from inhaling a strange sort of pollen.

Wordcount: 13.6k

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Female Reader (no use of Y/N)

Warnings: MDNI, sex pollen, dom and sub tendencies, multiple orgasms (like, a lot LOT), unprotected p in v (wrap it kids, please), anal stimulation, oral sex, deepthroat, biting, possessiveness, overstimulation, feral sex, cum play, emotional vulnerability, aftercare, enhanced stamina, maybe slight dubcon (due to the pollen-induced frenzy?), generally rough sex, tears, lot of cum, oral (m receiving), short allusion to anulingus, gagging, creampie (lots of it), breast play too (whatever you call that in English, I know we have a lovely name in French that would probably either please or annoy the Spanish speaking people (after looking it up, it's just called titty fuck... English has no imagination)), nipple play

A/N: This has not be beta read. Why? Because it's a gift for my dear Cassie's birthday, and I didn't want @blobfishlol to have her surprise ruined. So, hum, happy birthday Cass! Remember you TED talk on Steve and sex pollen? Well, I DID tell you I was adding that to my list, didn't I?

Masterlist

The dim corridors of the abandoned HYDRA base stretched out like forgotten veins beneath the earth, their walls etched with the faint scars of long-ago experiments. Dust motes danced in the narrow beams of your flashlights as you and Steve moved cautiously through the labyrinth, the air thick with the metallic tang of rust and decay.

As a SHIELD agent, you'd been paired with Captain America for this recon mission – scouring the ruins for any lingering intel on HYDRA's bio-weapon programs. Steve led the way, his broad shoulders cutting an imposing silhouette in the low light, his shield strapped securely to his back.

Every step echoed softly, a reminder of the base's eerie silence, broken only by the occasional drip of water from cracked ceilings.

You scanned the shelves in what appeared to be a derelict lab, your gloved fingers brushing over yellowed files and shattered glassware. Amid the clutter, a small vial caught your eye – sealed with a faded label, containing a fine, shimmering powder that swirled lazily when you lifted it.

Curiosity piqued, you held it up to examine closer, but in the tense quiet, your hand slipped. The vial tumbled from your grasp, shattering against the cold concrete floor in a puff of iridescent dust.

Time seemed to slow as the powder billowed upward, a hazy cloud threatening to envelop you. Panic surged through your veins, but before you could even draw a breath, Steve was there. His strong arm wrapped around your waist, yanking you back with effortless power, positioning his body as a shield between you and the spreading mist.

“Get back!” he barked, his voice a low rumble of command.

In that instant, he inhaled sharply – whether to clear the air or by sheer proximity, the pollen-laced dust filled his lungs. The cloud dissipated as quickly as it had risen, leaving only a faint, sweet scent lingering in the air, like overripe flowers mixed with something primal and forbidden.

You coughed lightly, waving a hand in front of your face, but Steve released you with a steadying grip on your shoulder. His blue eyes met yours, calm and unwavering, as if nothing had happened.

“You okay?” he asked, his tone even, brushing a speck of dust from his sleeve.

He didn't cough, didn't falter – his super-soldier physiology seemed to shrug off the incident like it was nothing more than a minor annoyance. Heart still racing from the close call, you nodded, grateful for his quick reflexes.

“Yeah, thanks to you. Let's just... finish up and get out of here.”

With the mission's urgency pressing, you pressed on.

Steve's focus remained razor-sharp as you rifled through the remaining consoles and data drives, extracting what classified files you could before the base's instability forced a retreat. He moved with his usual precision, covering your back without a hint of distraction, his jaw set in determination.

By the time you emerged into the crisp night air, vial incident all but forgotten in the adrenaline of success, the quinjet waited on the outskirts, engines humming softly.

The flight back to the SHIELD base was smooth, the cabin bathed in the soft glow of instrument panels.

You sat across from Steve, reviewing the downloaded data on your tablet, the steady thrum of the jet lulling you into a sense of routine normalcy. He leaned back in his seat, arms crossed over his chest, staring out the small window at the passing clouds.

At first, everything seemed fine – his posture relaxed, his breathing even.

But as the minutes ticked by, subtle changes crept in. A faint warmth bloomed in his chest, spreading like liquid fire through his veins, making his skin prickle with an unfamiliar sensitivity. His pulse quickened, not from exertion, but from a growing restlessness that coiled low in his gut.

Steve shifted slightly in his seat, adjusting his legs as a subtle ache stirred in his muscles, his mind flickering with unbidden flashes of heat. He clenched his jaw, forcing his expression to remain neutral, unwilling to alarm you or risk derailing the mission's closure.

Whatever that powder had been, it was hitting him now – but he'd be damned if he'd let it show.

Not yet.

The quinjet touched down on the helipad of the SHIELD base with a gentle shudder, the rotors winding down to a low whine as the ramp lowered into the cool evening air. Floodlights bathed the landing zone in stark white, casting long shadows across the concrete.

You unbuckled your harness and stood, stretching out the kinks from the flight, your muscles still humming from the mission's adrenaline. Steve rose beside you, his movements fluid but deliberate, that familiar square-jawed resolve etched on his face.

As you stepped toward the ramp together, you turned to him with a grateful smile, placing a hand on his broad shoulder – feeling the solid warmth of him through his tactical jacket.

"Thanks again," you said softly, your fingers lingering just a second longer than necessary, "for the powder."

He nodded once, his blue eyes meeting yours briefly before flicking away, his lips pressed into a thin line.

No words came out, just that silent acknowledgment, but inside, Steve's world tilted on its axis. The simple press of your palm against him ignited something ferocious – a jolt that raced straight to his core, making his skin burn and his blood roar like he'd mainlined pure fire. Every nerve ending lit up, hyper-aware of the curve of your fingers, the subtle heat seeping through fabric.

It wasn't just touch; it was craving, raw and insistent, flooding his senses until his cock twitched involuntarily in his pants, hardening with a shameful urgency he couldn't suppress.

When you pulled your hand away to descend the ramp, the absence hit him like withdrawal – cold and aching, leaving him hollow, his body screaming for more.

What the hell was this?

He clenched his fists at his sides, forcing his expression to stay neutral, but confusion churned in his gut. That pollen... it had to be. His super-soldier serum had neutralized threats before, but this? This was unraveling him from the inside out, turning a casual gesture into a torment he didn't understand.

You walked side by side toward the debriefing wing, the base's corridors buzzing with the low hum of activity – agents rushing past with reports, techs clacking away at consoles.

Steve and you had run ops like this a dozen times, your partnership seamless: his unyielding strength complementing your sharp instincts. If anyone asked, you'd both call it friendly – professional camaraderie forged in the field, nothing more.

But that wasn't the full story. Twice, maybe three times, after particularly grueling missions, you'd ended up tangled in sheets, bodies slick and urgent, chasing release as a way to unwind the tension coiled too tight. It was practical, you'd reasoned – no strings, just sweat and gasps in the dim light of a safehouse or his quarters. A blowjob here, a quick fuck there, parting with easy smiles and "see you on the next one."

That's what you'd told yourselves, anyway, burying any deeper pull under layers of denial.

Truth was, Steve had caught himself wondering what it might be like to wake up beside you without the excuse of exhaustion, to trace your skin not just for friction but for the way it made his chest ache in a good way.

And you?

Those stolen nights lingered in quiet moments, stirring thoughts of something steadier – his hand in yours off-mission, his laugh without the weight of the world. But neither of you had voiced it, letting the "friendly" label hang like a shield.

Now, as you reached the debrief room doors, Steve cleared his throat, his voice rougher than usual.

"I'll... handle the report. You get some rest."

He avoided your gaze, already turning away, the heat in his veins pulsing harder, demanding he put distance between you before he did something reckless. His steps carried him toward the command center, but his mind raced with images he couldn't shake – your body arching under him, the sounds you'd make if he let go.

You frowned, but listened to him and went back to your office, in order to write your report.

Hours slipped by – reports filed, data analyzed, the mission's success chalked up to teamwork under pressure. The base quieted as night deepened, corridors emptying out, leaving only the distant hum of generators and the occasional footfall of night-shift personnel.

You made your way to your quarters, exhaustion pulling at your limbs, the day's events replaying in fragments: the shattered vial, Steve's protective lunge, that lingering warmth in his eyes during the flight.

A hot shower and fresh clothes waited, but as you passed Steve's door – marked with a simple brass plate, number 47 – a low groan cut through the silence. It sounded pained, guttural, like someone fighting off a wound that wouldn't heal.

You paused, heart skipping, and leaned closer to the door.

There it came again: another rumble, deeper this time, laced with something raw and desperate.

Concern twisted in your gut; the pollen's effects? Or just mission fatigue hitting him harder? You knocked sharply, three raps against the metal.

"Steve? You okay in there?"

No response, only the faint rustle of movement from within. Worry overrode protocol – you twisted the handle and pushed the door open, the hinges whispering softly.

The room was dimly lit by a single bedside lamp, casting warm shadows over the sparse furnishings: a neatly made bed now rumpled, a chair with his discarded uniform jacket slung over it, boots kicked haphazardly by the footboard.

And there, sprawled across the sheets, was Steve – completely naked, his massive frame glistening with a sheen of sweat. His eyes were squeezed shut, blond hair tousled against the pillow, broad chest heaving with ragged breaths.

One hand gripped the base of his thick cock, veins bulging along its length as he stroked himself furiously, the other fisted in the sheets. His hips bucked upward in erratic thrusts into his own palm, pre-cum slicking his fingers, making obscene wet sounds fill the air.

Tissues littered the bed around him – crumpled, stained with his release – evidence of multiple rounds, his body locked in a relentless cycle of need he couldn't satisfy.

The sight hit you like a shockwave: Steve, the unbreakable soldier, reduced to this – frantic, vulnerable, chasing relief that kept slipping away.

His cock stood rigid, flushed deep red, the head swollen and leaking as his hand pumped faster, muscles in his thighs and abs clenching with each pull. A fresh groan escaped his lips, oblivious to your presence, his face contorted in a mix of agony and ecstasy.

Heat flooded your core instantly, a sharp ache blooming between your legs. You squeezed your thighs together instinctively, the friction sending a spark through your pussy, already growing wet at the raw display. Your nipples hardened against your shirt, breath catching as you watched his fist twist over the tip, smearing cum from earlier loads down his shaft.

Steve's body arched suddenly, a guttural curse slipping out as another orgasm ripped through him – ropes of thick cum spurting onto his stomach, splattering his chest, but even as he shuddered through it, his hand didn't stop, the pollen's grip unyielding, demanding more.

Steve's eyes snapped open in the dim glow of the lamp, locking onto yours with a wild, unfocused intensity that sent a jolt straight through you. His blue gaze, usually so steady and commanding, was darkened by lust, pupils blown wide as they raked over your form standing frozen in the doorway.

“Fuck,” he growled low and rough, the word tearing from his throat like gravel, but his hand never faltered – pumping his cock with renewed vigor, the slick slide of skin on skin echoing in the quiet room.

Thick veins throbbed under his fingers, his shaft glistening from the fresh load still dripping down his knuckles, and his hips jerked upward into the tight grip, chasing that elusive peak again.

You stepped forward without thinking, drawn by the magnetic pull of his desperation, your bare feet padding softly across the cool floor tiles.

Worry knotted your stomach – he looked wrecked, sweat-slicked skin flushed from chest to thighs, muscles rippling with every frantic stroke – but beneath it, arousal coiled hot and insistent in your belly. Your pussy clenched at the sight, wetness soaking through your panties as you neared the bed, the air thick with the musky scent of his repeated releases.

“What's happening to you, Steve?” you asked, voice hushed and breathless, hovering at the edge of the mattress, close enough to feel the heat radiating off his body.

He tried to answer, but it came out in stutters, his breath hitching as his fist twisted over the swollen head of his dick, smearing pre-cum in a glossy sheen.

“Can't... stop it,” he rasped, jaw clenched tight, beads of sweat trickling down his temple. His free hand clawed at the sheets, knuckles white, as if anchoring himself against the tide overwhelming him.

“Been hard... fucking hard... since coming back.”

Another groan ripped free, deeper this time, his abs contracting sharply as his strokes sped up, balls drawing tight against his body.

Cum from his earlier orgasms smeared across his torso, sticky trails cooling on his skin, but it did nothing to ease the relentless throb pulsing through him – the pollen's curse turning every touch into fire, every denied inch of friction into torment.

You could see it all: the way his thighs trembled, spread wide to give his hand room, the faint quiver in his lips as he bit down to stifle another curse. Part of you wanted to reach out, to soothe the agony etched into his features, but the other part – the one throbbing between your legs – yearned to dive into the chaos, to feel that super-soldier strength unleashed without restraint.

You eased onto the bed slowly, the mattress dipping under your weight as you perched at the edge, heart pounding in your chest from the raw vulnerability etched across Steve's face. His free hand shot out like a vice, fingers wrapping around your wrist with a grip that was firm yet trembling, pulling you closer until your knee brushed against his thigh.

The heat from his body seeped through the thin fabric of your sleep shorts, making your skin prickle with anticipation.

“Could smell your juices from the door, baby,” he growled, the words rough and laced with hunger, his voice dropping an octave as his nostrils flared, inhaling your scent like it was the only thing grounding him in the storm raging inside.

Your free hand moved instinctively, sliding down to cup his balls, feeling their heavy weight in your palm, warm and taut from the relentless arousal. You massaged them gently at first, rolling them between your fingers, the soft skin shifting under your touch as his cock twitched above.

“Oh yes, just like that!” Steve's head fell back against the pillow for a moment, a deep moan vibrating through his chest, his praises spilling out in breathless bursts that fueled the fire building between your legs.

Encouraged by the way his body arched toward you, you grew bolder, squeezing a little firmer, tugging lightly to match the rhythm of his strokes, your thumb tracing the seam beneath while his groans grew louder, more desperate.

His praises spilled out in broken gasps, “God, baby, that's it... feels so fucking good,” each one fueling the fire between your legs, your nipples hardening against the thin fabric of your shirt. You pressed closer, the heat from his body seeping into yours, as his hips bucked involuntarily, seeking more. 

“Need you, baby girl. Need you so bad...”

The plea tumbled from his lips, his eyes squeezing shut as if the admission cost him everything, his hand on your wrist loosening just enough for you to shift forward.

You leaned in, drawn by the magnetic pull of his throbbing length, the air between you thick with the salty tang of his pre-cum and the faint remnants of his earlier spills. Your breath ghosted over his skin first, making his shaft jerk in response, before the tip of your tongue darted out to lap at the glistening drops beading at his slit. The flavor burst on your taste buds – salty, musky, utterly him – and you swirled slowly, tracing the flared edge of his head to collect every bead that welled up.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

The curse erupted from him in a frantic litany, his hips bucking involuntarily as his fist slowed on the base of his cock, giving you space while his free hand tangled in your hair, not pushing but holding, fingers threading through the strands with a needy tremble.

Then the begging started, raw and unending – “please, please, please, please” – his voice cracking on each word, body taut like a bowstring.

You obliged, parting your lips to take his swollen head into your mouth, the velvety heat filling you as your tongue pressed flat against the underside. He continued stroking the rest of his length with urgent pumps, the wet sounds mingling with his ragged breaths, his balls tightening further in your grasp as you sucked gently, hollowing your cheeks to draw out more of that intoxicating essence.

Steve's hands, large and calloused from years of battles, clamped down on either side of your head, fingers threading through your hair with a possessive urgency that brooked no resistance. He tugged you forward insistently, guiding his cock deeper past your lips, the thick girth stretching your mouth wide as it pushed toward the back of your throat.

The sudden intrusion made your eyes water, a reflexive gag rising in your chest, but you fought it down, drawing in a sharp breath through your nose to steady yourself. Your throat relaxed under the pressure, muscles yielding as you swallowed around him, taking every inch until your nose brushed the coarse blond curls at his base and his heavy balls rested against your chin.

A choked sob tore from Steve's throat the moment he was fully sheathed, his body shuddering violently as if the sensation overwhelmed him completely.

“M'sorry, baby, m'sorry...” he rasped, voice thick with apology and raw need, his grip loosening just a fraction before tightening again.

But the pollen's fire burned too hot for restraint; his hips snapped forward in a frenzy, fucking into your mouth with short, brutal thrusts that made your head bob in his hands. The wet, obscene sounds of his cock sliding in and out filled the room, saliva coating his shaft and dripping down to slick his sac, which you still cradled in your palm.

“Feels good– so... God, so good, baby!” Steve groaned, his words fracturing into desperate pants as he chased the building pressure, each plunge deeper and more erratic.

His thighs tensed on either side of you, muscles rippling under sweat-slicked skin, while his abs clenched visibly with every drive.

“Wanna cum in your mouth. Please. Please tell me I can cum in your mouth.”

The begging was frantic, laced with the super-soldier's vulnerability, his blue eyes locked on yours, pupils blown wide with lust. He didn't wait for an answer, couldn't – his control shattered as he used your mouth like a tight, warm hole designed solely for his release, pounding relentlessly, the head of his cock battering the entrance to your throat.

Drool escaped the corners of your stretched lips, trailing down your chin in glistening rivulets that cooled against your heated skin, mixing with the tears blurring your vision. You hummed around him, low vibrations rumbling from your chest, the pleased buzz sending jolts straight to his core. Each sound spurred him on, his thrusts growing wilder, hips slamming forward with unrestrained force, his balls drawing up tight in your hand as the first spasms warned of his impending climax.

Steve's grip on your head remained unyielding, his fingers tangled tightly in your hair, anchoring you in place as he drove his cock relentlessly between your lips. Each thrust was a piston-like surge, his hips bucking with superhuman force, the thick shaft plunging deep into your throat before withdrawing just enough to let you gasp for air, only to slam back in.

Saliva bubbled at the corners of your mouth, slicking his length and dripping onto the sheets, the obscene slurps and gags echoing in the dim light of his quarters. Your jaw ached from the stretch, but the heat pooling between your thighs urged you on, your own arousal soaking through your panties as you surrendered to his rhythm.

You tilted your head back slightly, lifting your gaze to lock onto his.

Those piercing blue eyes, usually so steady and commanding, were now wild and unfocused, pupils dilated to black pools that reflected the raw hunger consuming him. In your stare, he saw it all – the thrill racing through your veins, the way your body trembled with need, your cheeks flushed and lips swollen around his invading cock.

It fueled him, that mirrored desire, making his thrusts stutter for a heartbeat before redoubling in ferocity.

Your name spilled from his lips like a prayer, over and over, mingled with fragmented praises and desperate pleas that tumbled out in a haze of ecstasy.

“Oh God, darlin’... so perfect... fuck, your mouth... please, don't stop... need you... love how you take me...”

The words blurred together, slurred and incoherent, as if the pollen had stripped away his filter, leaving only the primal man beneath the hero. He was drunk on the sensation, lost in the velvet heat of your throat clenching around him, the vibrations of your muffled moans sending shocks up his spine.

His body tensed like a coiled spring, abs contracting sharply, thighs quivering as the orgasm built to an unstoppable peak.

With a guttural roar that rattled the bedframe, Steve came undone, his cock pulsing violently as thick ropes of cum erupted into your mouth. Jet after hot jet flooded your tongue, salty and thick, coating the back of your throat while you swallowed greedily around him, milking every drop. His hips jerked erratically, grinding deep to ensure you took it all, his grip in your hair pulling just hard enough to send sparks of pain-pleasure through your scalp.

Excess spilled past your lips despite your efforts, trickling down your chin in warm trails that mixed with the sweat beading on your skin.

Steve's chants dissolved into ragged gasps, his body slumping forward slightly as the aftershocks rippled through him, but even in release, the pollen's fire lingered in his eyes, hinting that this was far from over.

Steve's fingers stayed locked in your hair, his hold firm yet trembling with the remnants of his climax as he drew you upward, pulling your body flush against his sweat-slicked chest.

His mouth crashed onto yours in a deep, languid kiss, tongues tangling with urgent hunger, the taste of his own release still lingering on your lips mingling with the salt of your shared exertion. He moaned low into the kiss, the sound vibrating through your core, a raw vibration that made your pulse race. His tongue swept across your chin, lapping up the stray streaks of cum that had escaped, the deliberate swipe sending shivers cascading down your spine.

You quivered in his embrace, your hands clutching at his broad shoulders, nails digging into the taut muscles as waves of heat surged through you, your body responding to his insatiable drive.

With a growl that bordered on feral, Steve's hands roamed downward, grasping the hem of your shirt and yanking it upward in one swift motion, the fabric ripping slightly at the seams from his super-soldier strength. Buttons popped free as he tore at your pants next, the zipper giving way under his impatient fingers, stripping you bare in a frenzy that left you breathless.

You barely registered the cool air hitting your exposed skin before he maneuvered you onto the bed, flipping your positions so you landed on your back amid the rumpled sheets, his massive frame looming over you, pinning you with his weight and intent gaze.

The sticky remnants of his earlier orgasm smeared across your abdomen as his body pressed down, the warm fluid transferring from his toned stomach to yours, creating a slick bond that glued your skin together in intimate adhesion. It cooled rapidly in the room's dim glow, but the sensation only heightened the electric tension between you, a tangible reminder of his unrelenting need.

His cock, still rigid and throbbing with unquenched desire, nudged insistently at your entrance, the swollen head parting your folds with gentle pressure, teasing the slick heat of your pussy. You arched instinctively, a soft whimper escaping as the tip breached you just enough to promise more, your inner walls clenching in anticipation around the intrusion.

"Still need you," Steve whined against the curve of your neck, his hot breath fanning over your pulse point before his lips sealed there in a sucking kiss that marked your skin.

He shifted upward, capturing your mouth again in a devouring assault, his tongue plunging deep as if he meant to consume you whole, teeth nipping at your lower lip while his hips rocked forward, inching his length deeper into your welcoming wetness.

You urged him on, your voice a husky whisper laced with desire.

"Go on," you breathed, your hands sliding down to grip the firm globes of his ass, fingers digging into the taut muscle as you pulled him closer, guiding his hips forward with insistent pressure.

The heat radiating from his body enveloped you, and you were drenched, your pussy slick with arousal that made his entry effortless – his thick cock sliding deep inside you in one smooth, overwhelming thrust that stretched your walls to their limit.

"Take what you need, Steve. I can take it, I want to. Give it to me," you moaned, the words spilling out as your legs wrapped around his waist, heels pressing into his lower back to lock him in place.

The fullness of him buried to the hilt sent sparks of pleasure shooting through your core, your inner muscles clenching greedily around his girth, milking every inch as if afraid to let go.

Steve groaned deeply, a primal rumble that vibrated from his chest to yours, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin of your neck in sharp nips that left faint red imprints. He shifted his mouth along your jawline, biting lightly at the curve before trailing down to your shoulders, sucking and nibbling with a hunger that bordered on possession.

His breath came in hot pants against your flesh, each bite punctuated by a low growl as he adjusted to the tight heat enveloping him.

Then he began to move, pulling back slowly only to drive forward again, his hips snapping with controlled power that made the bed creak beneath you.

You could swear he felt even bigger than usual, the pollen's influence swelling his cock impossibly thicker, the veins pulsing against your sensitive folds with every plunge. The friction built rapidly, his length dragging along your inner walls, hitting that perfect spot deep inside that made stars burst behind your eyelids.

A high-pitched mewl escaped your lips as pleasure coiled tight in your belly, your body arching up to meet his thrusts.

Steve's strong hands gripped your hips, lifting your ass slightly off the mattress to angle you just right, allowing him to piston harder into your pussy. Each forceful stroke slammed home, his balls slapping rhythmically against your skin with wet, obscene sounds that echoed in the dim room. The pace quickened, relentless and deep, his stamina turning the rhythm into a punishing drive that had you gasping, your slick arousal coating his shaft and dripping down to soak the sheets.

Your nails raked down his broad back, scratching fierce trails across the rippling muscles, leaving angry red welts that bloomed instantly under your touch. The marks would linger for days, a secret testament to this frantic coupling etched into his perfect skin.

Steve hissed in response, the pain mingling with his ecstasy, spurring him on as he buried his face in the crook of your neck, his thrusts growing erratic, deeper, as if he couldn't get enough of the way your body yielded to him.

Steve shifted his hips with deliberate precision, angling the base of his body to target that exquisite spot deep within your pussy – the one that sent shockwaves of ecstasy rippling through you every time his cock grazed it.

The adjustment was subtle at first, but as he thrust forward, the thick head of his shaft pressed firmly against your G-spot, rubbing insistently with each powerful stroke. The sensation was electric, igniting bursts of white-hot pleasure that made your vision blur with stars, your body trembling uncontrollably beneath him.

Your fingers scrambled for purchase, nails digging into the solid expanse of his shoulders before sliding down to clutch at his bulging biceps, the muscles flexing under your grip as he drove into you relentlessly.

“Steve,” you mewled his name like a mantra, the sound high and desperate, spilling from your lips in breathless repetition.

“Please... more... I need it... Steve, please, more...”

The pleas tumbled out unbidden, your voice cracking with raw need as the pressure built inside you, coiling tighter with every targeted thrust that battered that sensitive bundle of nerves.

The orgasm crashed over you without mercy, your pussy clenching spasmodically around his invading cock, waves of bliss ripping through your core as you cried out, back arching off the bed. Your walls fluttered and squeezed, milking him in rhythmic pulses that drew a guttural groan from deep in his throat.

Steve followed you almost immediately, his hips stuttering as he buried himself to the root one final time. Hot spurts of cum flooded your depths, his release thick and copious, painting your insides with pulse after pulse until you felt utterly filled, overflowing.

Even with his cock still lodged firmly inside, plugging your entrance, you sensed the excess leaking out around him, warm rivulets trickling down your thighs and soaking the already damp sheets. He made no move to withdraw, staying seated deep within your quivering heat, as if the very idea of separation was unbearable.

Steve gave you no respite, no moment to drag air into your heaving lungs or let the aftershocks fade.

His mouth descended hungrily on your breasts, latching onto one nipple with a fervent suck that sent fresh jolts straight to your oversensitive core. He nursed at you greedily, tongue swirling around the hardened peak before drawing it between his teeth for a gentle scrape, then soothing it with broad laps.

The slight shift of his body as he feasted caused his cock to nudge against your tender walls, the fullness pressing on every raw nerve, eliciting a plaintive whimper from your throat – a soft, needy sound that betrayed how even the barest movement reignited the fire in your veins.

“M'sorry, baby. Just let me have it...” he mumbled against the swell of your chest, his voice rough and muffled, laced with apology and unquenchable hunger.

His lips released the first nipple with a wet pop, only to transfer his attention to the other, enveloping it in the warm cavern of his mouth. He suckled harder this time, drawing it deep as his hand cupped the neglected breast, thumb flicking over the slick, abused bud.

“Need to have you.” He groaned.

“Need to nurse your fucking beautiful tits. Taste so good...”

The words vibrated against your skin, his breath hot and ragged, as the pollen's grip kept him insatiable, his cock twitching faintly inside you, already stirring for more despite the fresh evidence of his climax dripping from your joined bodies.

Steve eased the pace of his movements, his hips rolling with a deliberate slowness that contrasted the frantic urgency of before, though the underlying drive remained unyielding. His cock slid in and out of your soaked pussy at a languid rhythm, each withdrawal pulling slick friction along your stretched walls before he pushed back in, filling you completely once more.

The shift allowed the sensitivity from your recent climax to linger, every inch of his thick shaft dragging against your inner muscles in a way that built the heat anew, slower but no less intense.

A low moan escaped your lips, your body already exhausted from the onslaught of pleasure, muscles aching and skin flushed with sweat, yet it bent to his command without resistance, craving the connection even as fatigue tugged at your limbs.

Your hands reached up, fingers threading through the damp strands of his hair, gripping firmly to keep his face pressed against the soft mounds of your breasts. The pull was insistent, guiding him exactly where you needed his mouth, your thumbs brushing over his scalp as you held him there, unwilling to let go.

His tongue flicked out first, lapping at the underside of one breast in broad, wet strokes that traced the curve before circling the nipple in tight spirals. Then his teeth grazed the peak lightly, nibbling with just enough pressure to send sharp tingles racing down your spine, making your toes curl against the sheets. He latched on fully next, sucking with a rhythmic pull that mimicked the subtle thrusts of his hips below, drawing the sensitive bud deep into his mouth while his free hand kneaded the other breast, rolling the nipple between his fingers.

The dual assault kept the fire smoldering in your core, your pussy clenching involuntarily around his embedded cock, pulsing in time with each suckle, the contractions rippling along his length like a teasing grip.

He was unraveling you completely, the combined sensations of his mouth worshipping your tits and his cock stirring lazily inside you pushing you toward the edge of madness, every nerve alight with overwhelming need.

And you could feel the effect you had on him too – the way his breath hitched against your skin, his body tensing as your walls fluttered around him, your moans vibrating through his chest. The pollen fueled his obsession, but your responses amplified it, turning the shared delirium into a feedback loop of raw, mutual insanity, his groans muffled against your flesh as he lost himself in the taste and feel of you.

It was as if you were drunk on pleasure, your mind hazy and swirling with the overwhelming rush of sensations that drowned out everything else.

Words tumbled from your lips unbidden, spilling out in a breathless rush – “I love what you're doing to me, Steve, oh God, it feels so good” – your voice cracking with raw need. His name escaped in a litany, a fervent prayer whispered against the heated air between you, “Steve, Steve, please,” over and over, blending into moans that you couldn't hold back, didn't want to.

He smiled against your skin, the curve of his lips pressing warm and wicked into the swell of your breast, his breath hot and ragged as he savored your unraveling. He didn't stop, couldn't stop, his hips maintaining that relentless rhythm, his thick cock thrusting deep into your drenched pussy with steady, unyielding strokes that stretched you wide and filled you to the hilt each time.

The friction built like a storm, his shaft gliding through your slick folds, the head nudging against that sensitive spot inside you that made stars burst behind your eyelids.

You felt the climax crash over you then, your body seizing in ecstasy as waves of pleasure ripped through you, shivers racing across your skin and tremors shaking your limbs. Your pussy clenched hard around his invading length, pulsing in rhythmic spasms that milked him greedily, your inner walls fluttering and squeezing as the orgasm tore a cry from your throat.

Juices mixed with his earlier release flooded out, soaking his cock and the sheets beneath you, your thighs quivering uncontrollably as the intensity peaked, leaving you gasping and arching off the bed.

You moaned and whimpered in equal measure, the sounds mingling in a desperate symphony – high-pitched keens when the overstimulation hit too sharp, deep groans when the aftershocks rippled through your core.

It was too much, every nerve ending firing on overload, your clit throbbing from the indirect pressure of his body against yours, your nipples aching from his earlier attention.

Yet even as your body trembled on the edge of exhaustion, you craved more, your hips bucking weakly to meet his thrusts, urging him deeper into the slick heat of your cunt.

Steve growled low in his chest, the sound vibrating against your flesh as he lifted his head just enough to capture your gaze, his blue eyes dark with lust and something fiercer, more possessive.

“That's it, come for me again,” he murmured, his voice rough and commanding, hips snapping forward harder now, chasing his own release while prolonging yours. His hands gripped your hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh to hold you steady, pounding into you with renewed vigor that sent fresh sparks of pleasure-pain shooting through your oversensitive body.

The pollen's curse amplified it all, turning his every movement into an addiction, your shared delirium pulling you both under as sweat-slicked skin slapped together in the dim light of his quarters.

You kept whimpering, the sounds spilling from your lips in a ceaseless stream of desperation and delight, your voice hoarse from the endless cries that had torn through the air. He used you relentlessly, his hips driving forward with a primal urgency, treating your soaked pussy like nothing more than a tight, welcoming hole designed solely for his pleasure, his thick cock plunging in and out with wet, obscene slaps that echoed off the walls of his dimly lit quarters. Each thrust buried him to the root, his heavy balls slapping against your ass, the friction of his veined shaft dragging along your inner walls and stoking the fire that never seemed to die.

His face buried deep in the crook of your neck, hot breath fanning over your damp skin as he inhaled your scent like a man starved.

He kissed the tender flesh there, lips soft at first, then parting to graze his teeth along the sensitive curve, nipping lightly before sinking in with a sharp bite that made you gasp. The pain bloomed into heat, radiating down your spine as he moved to your shoulders, his mouth exploring every inch – sucking at the salty sweat beading on your collarbone, biting down on the muscle until red marks bloomed like badges of his possession.

Your body responded instinctively, arching into his touch, craving the rough edge of his hunger that the pollen had unleashed, turning the unbreakable soldier into a beast who couldn't get enough.

“Steve,” you moaned his name again and again, the syllables a broken chant that rose and fell with each punishing stroke of his cock inside you.

“Steve, oh fuck, Steve,” it poured out unfiltered, your fingers tangling in his sweat-matted blond hair, pulling him closer as if you could fuse your bodies together. The word became your anchor in the storm of sensation, grounding you even as your mind spun from the overload, every nerve alight with the electric pull between you.

Then his hand slipped between your sweat-slicked bodies, calloused fingers parting the slick folds where he stretched you open, finding your swollen clit with unerring precision.

He circled it slowly at first, the pad of his thumb pressing firm and insistent, rubbing in tight, deliberate strokes that sent jolts of pure fire straight to your core. The added stimulation was devastating, your clit throbbing under his touch, hypersensitive from the orgasms that had already wracked you. You bucked against him, your back bowing off the rumpled sheets, toes curling into the cool floor tiles beyond the bed's edge as the pressure built unbearably fast.

Your pussy clamped down around his invading cock like a vice, the muscles contracting in fierce, rhythmic pulses that gripped him from base to tip, refusing to let go. The sensation milked him mercilessly, your inner walls fluttering and squeezing in waves that drew a guttural groan from deep in his chest.

He thrust harder, chasing the edge you'd pushed him toward, his fingers never ceasing their assault on your clit – pinching lightly, then stroking faster, the dual invasion overwhelming you both. The coil snapped inside you first, your body seizing as another climax ripped through, your juices gushing around his length, soaking his groin and thighs in a fresh flood of arousal.

That was all it took for him. Steve's rhythm faltered, his hips slamming forward one final time as his cock swelled impossibly thicker inside your spasming channel. He came with a roar muffled against your shoulder, hot spurts of cum erupting from his tip, flooding your pussy in thick, endless ropes that painted your depths white.

He filled you like a reservoir overflowing, each pulse of his release pumping more of his seed deep into your womb, the warmth spreading through your core as excess leaked out around his shaft, trickling down your ass crack to pool on the sheets.

His body shuddered against yours, muscles rippling under sweat-glistened skin, the super-soldier's enhanced stamina ensuring he gave everything, yet the pollen's grip kept him hard, twitching inside you even as the aftershocks faded.

You clung to him, nails raking down his broad back, leaving red trails that only spurred him on. The fullness of him, combined with the sticky heat of his cum sloshing inside you with every subtle shift, made your head spin. He lifted his head slightly, blue eyes locking onto yours, pupils blown wide with that insatiable need, a smirk tugging at his cum-smeared lips.

“Not done yet,” he rasped, voice gravelly from exertion, as he began to move again.

Steve pulled back slightly, rising up onto his knees between your spread thighs, his cock still buried deep inside your drenched pussy, anchoring him to you like an unbreakable tether.

For a moment, he stilled his hips, the subtle pause allowing him to gaze down at the lewd sight where your bodies joined.

His thick shaft glistened with a filthy mix of his own cum and your slick arousal, the creamy evidence of his release oozing out around the base, trickling down your folds and pooling beneath your ass on the soaked sheets. He watched it drip, the pearly strands stretching and breaking as his cock throbbed faintly within you, and a low, satisfied growl rumbled from his chest, vibrating through his frame and into yours.

The sound sent a fresh shiver racing across your skin, your body still humming from the aftershocks of your shared climax.

Then, without warning, he resumed his thrusts, slow at first but building quickly into that relentless rhythm, his hips snapping forward to drive his length back into your clenching heat.

You whimpered again, the sound raw and needy, escaping your lips as the renewed friction reignited every sensitive nerve along your inner walls. His cock stretched you wide with each plunge, the veined ridges scraping deliciously against your g-spot, making your toes curl and your fingers clutch at the bedding.

He reached for one of your legs, his large hand wrapping firmly around your calf as he lifted it high, bringing your foot level with his face. His blue eyes locked onto yours for a beat, dark with hunger, before he pressed his lips to your ankle in a surprisingly tender kiss. The warmth of his mouth contrasted with the cool air, sending tingles up your leg.

Then his tongue darted out, flat and wet, licking along the delicate bone there, tracing the curve with deliberate strokes that made your breath hitch. The sensation was intimate, almost worshipful, amidst the brutality of his pounding cock.

With a firm grip, he hooked your leg over his shoulder, pressing your knee against his sweat-slicked chest to hold you open wider, exposing you completely to his gaze and his thrusts.

The new angle allowed him to sink even deeper, his balls slapping rhythmically against your ass with every forceful drive. His free hand moved to his mouth, and he spat into his palm, the wet glob landing with a soft sound before he reached down between your bodies. Those calloused fingers found your swollen clit once more, slicked now with his saliva, and he began circling it in rapid, tight motions – rubbing hard and fast, the pressure building an unbearable tension that had you gasping and writhing beneath him.

The combined assault was overwhelming: his cock pistoning in and out of your cum-filled pussy, the wet squelch of their mingled fluids filling the room, and his fingers mercilessly teasing your clit until it pulsed under his touch. Your walls fluttered around him, squeezing his invading length as pleasure coiled tighter in your belly, threatening to shatter you all over again.

Steve's breaths came in harsh pants against your ankle, his teeth grazing the skin there as he lost himself in the rhythm, fucking you with a possession that bordered on feral, the pollen's fire still burning hot in his veins.

“Steve," you whimpered his name again, in a plaintive cry, the sound breaking from your throat like a desperate plea amid the haze of overwhelming sensation.

Your body teetered on the edge of its limits, every muscle quivering from the relentless onslaught, your pussy stretched and throbbing around his unyielding cock as he drove into you without mercy.

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, hot and stinging, blurring your vision as the intensity built to a breaking point – pleasure twisting into something almost painful, your nerves raw and overstimulated from the endless waves crashing through you.

But Steve didn't stop; he couldn't, the pollen's curse fueling his primal hunger, turning him into a force of nature that claimed you over and over. His hips snapped forward with brutal precision, his thick cock plunging deep into your slick, cum-soaked depths, the lewd slap of skin on skin echoing in the dim room.

"S'okay, baby," he murmured roughly, his voice a gravelly reassurance laced with possession, blue eyes locking onto yours with fierce intensity.

"I know you can take it. My good girl." The words washed over you like a balm, even as his thrusts battered your core, his free hand abandoning your clit to brace against the mattress, giving him leverage to fuck you harder.

He leaned down then, his broad chest pressing against your raised leg, the heat of his body enveloping you as he reached up with gentle fingers to brush away the tears streaking your cheeks. His touch was tender there, calloused pads tracing softly over your damp skin, a stark contrast to the savage rhythm of his pounding cock that split you open with each drive.

The care in his eyes, the way he wiped your tears so carefully, only heightened the storm inside you, pushing you closer to the brink.

The new orgasm hit you like a tidal wave, submerging you completely in white-hot ecstasy that ripped through your limbs. Your body convulsed beneath him, uncontrollable tremors shaking your frame as your pussy clamped down hard around his invading length, milking him with rhythmic spasms.

A sob tore from your lips, raw and broken, mingling with the gasps and moans that filled the air, your back arching off the bed as pleasure exploded from your core, radiating outward in shuddering pulses that left you gasping for breath.

Steve groaned at the feel of your climax gripping him, the tight vise of your walls urging him toward his own release. He pistoned into you with renewed ferocity, his thrusts turning erratic and deep, balls tightening as he chased the edge. With a guttural roar, he came for the nth time, flooding your already overflowing pussy with hot spurts of cum, his cock pulsing wildly inside you, painting your insides with thick ropes that mixed with the mess from before.

You felt every twitch, every jet of his seed filling you up, the warmth spreading through your belly as he ground against your cervix, prolonging the bliss for both of you.

Yet even as he emptied himself, his pollen-affected stamina kept him rock-hard, his shaft throbbing insistently within your fluttering heat, showing no signs of softening. He lingered there for a moment, breaths heaving, sweat dripping from his brow onto your skin, before finally pulling out with a wet, obscene pop. A gush of his cum followed, spilling from your abused pussy in creamy rivulets that trailed down your thighs and soaked into the sheets.

Gently, he lowered your leg back to the bed, his hand massaging your calf soothingly as he settled over you, his weight a comforting press while his eyes searched yours, dark with lingering need and something deeper, more vulnerable.

Steve straightened up slowly, his massive frame casting a shadow over you in the dim light of his quarters, muscles glistening with sweat that traced rivulets down his chiseled abs. He shifted onto his knees, positioning himself astride your chest, one thick thigh bracketing each side of your ribcage, the heat radiating from his skin like a furnace against your flushed body.

His cock, still rigid and slick with the mingled evidence of your releases – your juices and his thick cum coating the veined length – jutted upward, throbbing with insistent need, the tip flushed dark red and beading with fresh precum.

His blue eyes burned with unchecked lust, pupils blown wide from the pollen's relentless grip, scanning your flushed, tear-streaked face and heaving chest like a predator savoring its conquest.

He gripped the base of his throbbing cock – still rigid and veined, glistening with a mix of your juices and his own cum – and guided it downward, nestling the heavy length into the valley between your breasts. The heat of him seared against your sensitive skin, the broad head nudging insistently as he positioned himself.

With both large hands, he cupped your breasts, fingers sinking into the soft flesh, thumbs brushing over your hardened nipples before he squeezed them together firmly around his shaft. The pressure was exquisite, molding your tits into a tight, warm channel that enveloped him completely, the undersides of your mounds compressing against the sides of his cock while the tips nearly met above.

A low, animalistic rumble built in his chest as he began to thrust, hips rocking forward in a steady, deliberate rhythm. His cock slid through the plush grip of your pressed-together breasts, the friction sending sparks of pleasure up his spine, the slick remnants from your pussy easing the glide.

He watched, mesmerized, as the flushed purple head of his dick emerged from between your cleavage with each forward push, peeking out like a promise of more to come, only to vanish again as he pulled back. The sight transfixed him – the way your skin flushed deeper under his hold, the subtle jiggle of your flesh with every motion, the obscene way his length claimed this new territory on your body.

"Fuck," he groaned, the word tearing from his throat in a guttural rasp, raw with the edge of desperation that the curse amplified.

His pace quickened, thrusts turning sharper, more insistent, his balls drawing up tight as they brushed against your sternum with each snap of his hips. The super-soldier serum kept him unyielding, his stamina turning what should have been exhaustion into an endless cycle of need, his cock pulsing hotly between your tits as pre-cum beaded at the tip and smeared across your skin, marking you further.

You closed your eyes for those fleeting seconds, the world narrowing to the pounding of your heart and the ragged pull of air into your lungs.

Your mind reeled, trying to catch fragments of coherence after the brutal claiming of your pussy – how he'd stretched you wide, pounded you raw until your walls fluttered and clenched in endless surrender, leaving you sore and dripping, every nerve ending singing with overstimulation. The ache throbbed deep inside, a delicious burn that mingled with the aftershocks of your orgasms, your clit still tingling from his earlier touches.

But even in this brief respite, the press of his body, the rhythmic slide of his cock against your chest, pulled you back into the haze, your nipples peaking harder under the incidental graze of his thumbs as he squeezed tighter.

Steve's breaths came in harsh pants above you, his abs contracting with each thrust, sweat trickling down the defined ridges to drip onto your collarbone. He leaned forward slightly, one hand releasing your breast to brace on the headboard, giving him better leverage to fuck your tits with abandon. The change in angle made his cock drag more firmly through the cleft, the head bumping against your chin on the upstroke, leaving a sticky trail of pre-cum on your skin.

"So fucking perfect," he muttered through gritted teeth, voice thick with possession, his free hand returning to pinch and roll one nipple between his fingers, twisting just enough to draw a gasp from your lips.

The pollen surged through him again, heightening every sensation – the velvet squeeze of your breasts, the visual feast of his shaft disappearing and reappearing, the way your body yielded to him without question.

Your eyes fluttered open at the sharp tug on your nipple, meeting his gaze – wild, intense, a storm of blue that held you captive. The vulnerability flickered there too, beneath the dominance, a silent plea for you to anchor him in this torment.

But the curse won out, driving his hips faster, the wet sounds of his cock sliding through your cleavage filling the room alongside his deepening groans. Pressure built in his core, coiling tight as he chased another peak, his thighs tensing around you, ready to spill across your chest and neck in hot, claiming ropes.

Steve's thrusts grew erratic, his cock swelling impossibly thicker between the tight squeeze of your breasts, the veins pulsing against your skin as the pressure in his balls reached its breaking point.

With a final, savage buck of his hips, he pulled back just enough, freeing the flushed head from your cleavage, and gripped his shaft in one massive hand. Thick ropes of cum erupted from him in forceful spurts, the first jet arcing high to splatter across your collarbone and up into the hollow of your neck, warm and sticky as it began to trickle downward in lazy rivulets over your throat.

Subsequent bursts painted your chest in heavy streaks – white and viscous, landing on the swells of your tits, pooling in the valley between them, and dripping onto your sternum. The sheer volume of it, enhanced by the pollen's curse, coated you thoroughly, the scent musky and potent in the dim air of his quarters.

His blue eyes locked onto the sight, devouring every inch of your marked body with a passion that bordered on feral, flames of unquenchable need licking through his veins as if the super-soldier serum warred with the pollen for dominance in his blood.

Sweat beaded on his forehead, his chest heaving with labored breaths, but his gaze held yours captive, raw hunger etched into every line of his face – a man consumed, body and soul, by the fire raging inside him.

He released his cock, letting the last dribbles fall onto your skin, and dipped his fingers into the mess, spreading it deliberately across your breasts and down your sternum. His touch was possessive, calloused palms gliding over the slick warmth, rubbing the cum into your flesh like a claim he needed to etch deeper.

Your oversensitive skin prickled under the attention, nerves firing in sharp, almost painful bursts that drew a low, throaty moan from your lips – half pleasure, half ache from the relentless stimulation, your body trembling as the heat of his hands reignited sparks low in your belly.

Steve's control frayed at the edges, the pollen whispering urgencies he couldn't ignore, turning him into a force of nature that bent everything to his will. He grasped your hips with unyielding strength, flipping you onto your stomach in one fluid motion, your body yielding like clay under his command – limp and pliant from the exhaustion of prior peaks, yet thrumming with residual need.

The sheets pressed against your cheek as he maneuvered you, his weight shifting the mattress. He reached for the pillows scattered nearby, sliding one beneath your pelvis first, then a second, stacking them to hoist your ass upward, presenting you in a vulnerable arch that exposed the slick, swollen lips of your pussy and the tight ring of your asshole to the room's dim light.

The elevation tilted your hips just right, your thighs parting instinctively, the ache in your core pulsing anew at the promise of what came next.

“Last one, baby,” he whispered, his voice a husky rasp against your ear, laced with a tenderness that clashed against the desperation driving him.

He leaned over you, his broad chest brushing your back, and dragged his tongue along the curve of your spine – starting at the nape of your neck, where fine hairs stood on end from the ghost of his breath. The wet heat of his mouth traced downward in a slow, deliberate path, lapping at the salty sheen of sweat on your skin, following the knobs of your vertebrae with languid strokes that made your muscles quiver.

He paused at the small of your back, nipping lightly with his teeth before continuing to the swell of your ass, his tongue dipping into the dimples there, savoring the taste of you. The sensation sent shivers racing through you, your fingers clutching the sheets as his hands kneaded your elevated cheeks, spreading them slightly to expose more of you to his exploring mouth, your swollen pussy lips parting slightly to reveal the creamy mess he'd left inside, dripping down your inner thighs.

His cock, still rock hard despite the recent release, nudged against your thigh, hot and insistent, the pollen ensuring his body betrayed no fatigue – only endless, tormenting want.

You arched into the touch, a whimper escaping as his tongue circled lower, teasing the cleft of your ass before flattening against your dripping folds from behind. The position amplified everything – the pillows forcing your hips up, making your clit brush the fabric beneath with every subtle shift, while Steve's breath ghosted hot over your skin.

His fingers joined the assault, one hand sliding between your thighs to part your labia, exposing the sensitive inner flesh to the cool air before his thumb circled your entrance, dipping in shallowly to gather your arousal.

The emotional undercurrent surged too – his vulnerability peeking through in the way he murmured your name against your back, a plea buried in the dominance, as if this final round might finally sate the curse or break him entirely.

Steve sensed the pollen's grip loosening at last, a subtle ebb in the feverish blaze that had scorched through his veins for hours, leaving behind a lingering heat rather than an all-consuming inferno. His body still thrummed with residual need, his cock rigid and unyielding, thick and veined like a bull's, jutting insistently from his groin despite the exhaustion etching lines into his sweat-slicked muscles.

He hovered over you on the bed, his broad chest rising and falling in heavy breaths, the dim light of his quarters casting shadows across the powerful lines of his abdomen and the trail of blond hair leading down to where his arousal refused to wane.

His gaze dropped to the intimate evidence of your union, watching as his thick cum continued to seep from your swollen pussy, a creamy rivulet tracing down the cleft of your ass and pooling against the stacked pillows propping you up.

The sight stirred something primal in him, a final possessive urge before the curse fully receded. With deliberate care, he dipped his index and middle fingers into the slick mess leaking from your folds, gathering the warm, viscous strands of his release mingled with your own juices. He brought them up, pressing the tips against the tight ring of your asshole, the muscle clenching instinctively at the intrusion.

Slowly, he pushed inside, the lubricant of his cum easing the way as his fingers sank knuckle-deep, stretching you with a burn that bordered on exquisite.

Your body jerked sharply at the sudden penetration, a full-body shudder rippling through your limbs as the unexpected fullness ignited fresh nerves.

"Shit!" you gasped, the word bursting from your lips in a breathless curse, your eyes squeezing shut against the overwhelming sensation, lashes fluttering as your face pressed deeper into the pillow.

The jolt sent a tremor up your spine, your inner walls fluttering around the invading digits, every inch of you hypersensitive from the marathon of pleasure and pain they'd endured.

The sound of your swear drew a low, satisfied smile to Steve's lips, his blue eyes darkening with a mix of amusement and hunger as he savored your reaction.

He shifted his weight, his free hand gripping one cheek of your ass firmly, pulling it aside to expose you completely to his view – the way your hole gripped his fingers, the pale skin stretching taut around them, the faint sheen of his cum coating everything in a glossy sheen. He twisted his wrist slightly, sliding his fingers deeper, pumping them in shallow thrusts to watch the obscene display, the muscles of your ass clenching and releasing in rhythmic pulses.

All the while, his cock dragged heavily against the soft flesh of your thigh, the hot length smearing pre-cum along your skin in lazy strokes, the friction keeping him achingly hard, a promise of more if his body demanded it.

You let out a soft, needy mewl of his name – "Steve" – the sound high and breathy, vibrating from your throat as it escaped into the rumpled sheets. The vulnerability in your voice only fueled him, his fingers curling inside you with expert precision, hooking against the sensitive inner walls to press and rub at that hidden spot that made stars burst behind your closed eyelids.

He felt the immediate response, your ass contracting tightly around his digits, squeezing with a vise-like grip that pulled a rough groan from his chest, the sensation sending a fresh throb through his cock where it rested against your leg.

"God, I could watch you come on my fingers or my cock all day," he murmured, his voice a gravelly rumble thick with awe and lingering desperation, his breath hot against the curve of your back as he leaned closer, his free hand kneading the flesh of your hip to steady you.

You managed a soft laugh through the haze of sensation, the sound light and ragged, your body still quivering from the curl of his fingers.

"Not sure my body could take it," you replied, the words tumbling out in a whisper, laced with exhausted humor and the raw edge of overstimulation, even as your hips shifted subtly, chasing the pressure building deep inside you once more.

Steve's fingers kept their relentless rhythm inside your ass, plunging deeper with each twist, the slick glide of his cum easing the stretch while the burn radiated through your core, making your thighs quiver uncontrollably. The fullness pressed against nerves still raw from hours of unrelenting use, every curl of his digits sending jolts of electric pleasure-pain that arched your back and drew ragged breaths from your lungs.

He leaned forward over your prone form, his massive frame casting a warm shadow across your skin, the heat of his body enveloping you like a blanket of pure dominance.

"You've been so good for me, darlin'," he rasped, the words laced with a husky reverence that vibrated through his chest and into yours, his Brooklyn drawl slipping out in the haze of fading pollen.

His lips crashed against yours in the next instant, the kiss sloppy and desperate, mouths parting wide as tongues tangled in a wet, frantic dance. Saliva mingled between you, slick and messy, as moans escaped in unison – yours a high, keening whimper muffled against his invading tongue, his a deep, guttural rumble that echoed the pounding of his heart against your side. He devoured you like a man starved, sucking on your lower lip before plunging back in, the taste of salt and sweat sharp on his breath, his free hand cradling the back of your head to hold you steady amid the storm.

As the kiss broke, strings of saliva connecting your lips for a lingering second, Steve reached up with his thumb, gently sweeping a damp strand of hair from your flushed, sweat-slicked face. His touch was tender there, a stark contrast to the abuse his fingers delivered below, tracing the curve of your cheek with calloused reverence.

"So fucking pretty like that," he murmured, his voice thick with awe, blue eyes locking onto yours, pupils blown wide from the remnants of lust that still simmered in his veins.

The sight of you – disheveled, marked with red bites along your neck and shoulders, body trembling from overstimulation – stirred something fierce and protective in him, even as his cock throbbed insistently against your thigh.

You exhaled a soft sigh, the sound breathy and content, your body melting further into the mattress under his gaze, every muscle lax yet humming with aftershocks. The vulnerability in that simple noise pulled at him, urging him onward. Steve straightened behind you then, his fingers never ceasing their deep, probing thrusts into your ass, the wet sounds obscene in the quiet room as he spread your cheeks wider with his other hand for better leverage.

The cool air kissed your exposed skin, heightening the sensitivity, while his cock – still rock-hard, veins pulsing with unspent need – bobbed heavily as he guided it toward your pussy with deliberate slowness.

He positioned the blunt head at your entrance, the thick crown nudging against your swollen folds, already slick with the remnants of his earlier releases and your own arousal.

With a gentle push of his hips, he watched in mesmerized silence as your pussy enveloped him, the lips parting greedily around his girth, sucking him inward inch by veined inch like a velvet vice. The obscene stretch was visible even in the dim light, your inner walls fluttering and clenching to draw him deeper, the creamy mix of cum and juices coating his shaft as it disappeared inside you, filling you to the hilt until his balls pressed flush against your clit. A low growl tore from his throat, primal and possessive, his fingers digging into your hip to anchor himself.

"It's like you were made for my cock," he groaned, the words rough and reverent, his body shuddering as the heat of your core gripped him tight, milking every ridge and pulse with rhythmic contractions that threatened to unravel him all over again.

Steve's fingers curved inside your ass with deliberate precision, hooking upward to press firmly against the thin, sensitive membrane that divided your body. The pressure allowed him to feel every throb and pulse of his cock as it drove deep into your pussy, the vibrations transmitting through that fragile barrier like a shared heartbeat, intensifying the fullness until it bordered on overwhelming.

Each plunge of his shaft sent ripples that his digits could sense, a dual invasion that made your inner walls clench and flutter in response, the slick heat of your arousal coating him while his cum from before lubricated the tight ring around his knuckles. The sensation was electric, a feedback loop of pleasure that had your toes curling against the sheets, your breath hitching as the dual stimulation ignited fresh sparks along every nerve.

You moaned loudly, the sound raw and broken, spilling from your lips as he rammed both holes with meticulous thoroughness – his cock slamming home in your pussy with wet, slapping impacts that jolted your hips forward, while his fingers twisted and thrust in your ass, matching the rhythm to stretch and probe without mercy. The overstimulation built like a storm, your body a live wire under his control, every withdrawal and re-entry drawing out whimpers that escalated into chants.

“Steve... Steve... oh God, Steve,” you recited his name like a fervent prayer, the words tumbling out in desperate gasps, a litany of surrender that echoed off the walls of his dimly lit quarters. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes from the intensity, your voice cracking with each syllable, but the plea only fueled his drive, binding you closer in this haze of primal need.

With his free hand, Steve gripped your hip ferociously, his calloused fingers digging into the soft flesh hard enough to leave bruises, anchoring you in place as his body surged forward. The hold was unyielding, possessive, pulling you back onto him with each punishing thrust that bordered on violence, his hips snapping against your ass with bruising force to combat the creeping fatigue weighing down his super-soldier frame.

He'd cum so many times already – from his hand, deep inside you, across your skin, in your mouth – that his muscles trembled with exhaustion, the pollen's curse still lingering to keep him hard and aching despite the drain. Sweat beaded on his brow, dripping onto your back as he pushed through the overstimulation, his cock hypersensitive yet refusing to soften, every slide into your clenching pussy sending shudders through him that he masked with raw power.

The slaps of skin on skin filled the room, mingled with the squelch of his fingers working your ass, the air thick with the musky scent of sex and exertion.

He moaned your name then, the sound a guttural plea that vibrated through his chest, “Fuck, darlin'... you're perfect,” as his thrusts grew erratic, chasing the edge once more.

Praises poured from him in a torrent of husky groans, his voice roughened by strain and desire.

“This ass... so tight, takin' my fingers like it was made for it... grippin' me so good.”

His digits curled again, rubbing against the bulge of his cock through your walls, drawing a fresh wave of moans from you both.

“And your pussy– God, it's milkin' me dry, suckin' me in deeper every time... so wet, so hot for me.”

He leaned over you slightly, his breath hot against your ear, free hand sliding up to squeeze your hip harder before trailing to your waist, holding you steady as he pounded relentlessly.

“Your body's a fuckin' dream– curves I can't get enough of, skin so soft under my hands... you're mine, all mine, takin' everything I give.”

The words washed over you like a caress amid the brutality, his blue eyes half-lidded with overwhelmed lust, body glistening with sweat as he drove you both toward another shattering peak, the fatigue only sharpening the urgency of his claims.

Steve's voice rasped out the words, low and commanding, his breath hot against the nape of your neck as he leaned over you, his body still buried deep.

“Gonna be good, baby? Gonna give me a last one?” The question hung in the air, laced with that desperate edge, his cock twitching inside your pussy while his fingers remained hooked in your ass, pressing insistently against the thin wall that separated them, feeling every quiver of your exhausted muscles.

You nodded weakly, your head lolling forward against the mattress, strands of hair sticking to your sweat-dampened face.

Strength had long fled your limbs; you couldn't muster the energy to rock your hips back against his thrusts or clench around his invading digits.

All you could do was endure the onslaught, your body a vessel for the exquisite torment he inflicted – waves of pleasure crashing through you without mercy, your senses overwhelmed by the stretch of his thick shaft filling your pussy, the burn of his fingers scissoring in your ass, the slap of his balls against your clit with each forceful drive.

Your breaths came in shallow pants, every nerve ending raw and firing, leaving you limp and pliant beneath his weight.

The orgasm hit you like a thunderclap, sudden and ferocious, ripping through your core without warning.

Your mouth fell open in a silent O, no sound escaping at first as the contractions seized you – your pussy clamping down hard on his cock, milking it in rhythmic spasms, while your ass tightened around his knuckles, the dual grip sending shockwaves up your spine.

Tears streamed down your cheeks unchecked, hot trails marking the flush of your skin, born from the sheer overload of sensations: the relentless friction igniting your walls, the pressure building until it shattered you, leaving your vision blurring and your body convulsing in helpless tremors.

You gasped then, a broken sob tearing free as the peak crested, your thighs quaking, toes digging into the sheets, every inch of you alight with that blinding ecstasy that bordered on pain.

Steve groaned in approval, his free hand stroking down your side in a rare moment of tenderness amid the frenzy.

“That's it, sweetheart... so fuckin' good for me, comin' like that on my cock and fingers.” His praise washed over you, rough and sincere, vibrating through his chest as he felt your release pulse around him, your juices flooding out to slick his length even more.

But he didn't stop – couldn't stop – the pollen's grip still urging him on despite the exhaustion etching lines into his face. He withdrew his fingers from your ass with a wet pop, the sudden emptiness making you whimper, only to replace the sensation with the grind of his hips, his cock plunging deeper into your spasming pussy.

He resumed that infernal rhythm, hips snapping forward with punishing force, each thrust dragging his shaft along your sensitive walls, the head bumping your cervix as he chased his own end. Sweat poured off him, dripping onto your back, his muscles straining under the super-soldier endurance that kept him going even as fatigue clawed at him.

“Fuck... takin' it all, baby... gonna fill you up one last time,” he muttered through gritted teeth, his grip on your hip tightening to bruising levels, pulling you back onto him as his pace stuttered. The overstimulation made his cock throb painfully inside you, every slide hypersensitive, but the curse demanded release.

With a final, guttural roar of your name, Steve came hard, his body locking against yours as ropes of hot cum erupted from his tip, flooding your pussy in thick spurts that overflowed, trickling down your thighs. He ground into you through it, prolonging the jets until he was spent, his chest heaving as he collapsed forward slightly, still sheathed deep.

The room fell quiet save for your mingled pants, the air heavy with the scent of sex, his seed marking you from within as the pollen's haze finally began to lift, leaving only the raw ache of satisfaction in its wake.

After a few minutes passed in the hazy aftermath, both of you gasping for air and piecing together the fragments of your shattered composure, Steve finally eased himself out of you.

The withdrawal drew a sharp grimace across his face, his brows knitting together as the oversensitive head of his cock – still slick with your combined releases – brushed against your swollen folds. It throbbed with residual ache, deflating at last under the weight of exhaustion, the pollen's relentless fire dimming to embers in his veins. A low hiss escaped his lips, his body shuddering from the raw tenderness, every nerve ending protesting the sudden emptiness after hours of unyielding connection.

His blue eyes, softened now from the feral intensity, roamed over you as you lay there, spent and vulnerable on the rumpled sheets. Tear tracks carved glistening paths down your flushed cheeks, your eyelids sealed shut in weary surrender, lashes clumped with moisture.

The sight twisted something deep in his chest – a pang of concern cutting through the lingering haze of lust.

“Shit... You okay, baby?” he murmured, his voice roughened by exertion but laced with genuine worry, one large hand hovering uncertainly near your hip, afraid to touch and reignite the storm.

You mumbled something incoherent in response, the words slurring into a soft, breathless hum that barely formed against your parted lips. Your body felt like lead, every muscle liquefied from the marathon of pleasure and overstimulation, but instinct drew you toward him.

With a feeble effort, you lifted one trembling hand backward, fingers questing blindly through the air until they grazed the warmth of his skin. He caught it immediately, his calloused palm enveloping yours, fingers intertwining in a firm, reassuring grip that grounded you both. You tugged gently, a silent plea pulling him closer, and he yielded without hesitation, shifting his weight to slide onto the bed beside you.

Steve gathered you against his chest in one fluid motion, his arm wrapping around your waist to draw your back flush to his front, enveloping you in the solid heat of his body. The steady thrum of his heartbeat against your spine was a soothing anchor, his breath ruffling the damp strands of hair at your nape. Despite the super-soldier's frame – broad shoulders and corded muscles still humming with faint aftershocks – he held you with deliberate care, as if you were fragile porcelain in the wake of his storm.

“Fucked you good?” he asked, a hint of playful pride threading through the gravel in his tone, his free hand tracing lazy circles along your side to ease the lingering tremors.

A tired smile tugged at your lips, even as your eyes remained heavy-lidded.

“Damn right, Rogers. Don't think I'll be able to walk tomorrow,” you replied, your voice a hoarse whisper, laced with wry satisfaction and the dull throb echoing through your core – your pussy still fluttering faintly, tender and full from his repeated claims, a warm trickle of his cum seeping between your thighs as a sticky reminder.

He chuckled softly, the sound rumbling deep in his chest like distant thunder, vibrating through you and drawing a contented sigh from your lips. His lips brushed your shoulder in a feather-light kiss, affectionate and unhurried now that the curse's grip had loosened.

“Want me to help you shower?” he offered, his thumb stroking the back of your hand in slow, comforting strokes, already mentally mapping the path to the bathroom in his quarters.

You cracked open one eye, peering at him through the haze of fatigue, the simple act feeling monumental in your drained state.

“Steve, at this point, you're going to have to carry me to the shower,” you admitted, half-teasing, half-serious, your body limp and boneless against him, every joint protesting at the mere thought of movement.

The air between you hung thick with the scent of sweat and sex, but in that quiet intimacy, the vulnerability bloomed into something tender, his presence a balm against the exquisite wreckage he'd wrought.

Steve leaned in, his lips brushing yours in a soft, lingering kiss that carried the weight of unspoken gratitude and affection. The touch was gentle, a stark contrast to the raw ferocity that had consumed him earlier, his mouth warm and unhurried against your parted lips, tasting faintly of salt from the sweat beading on his skin.

He pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, his blue eyes clear now, the pollen's haze fully lifted, replaced by a quiet tenderness that made your chest ache in the best way.

“Okay... Let's wash up first,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through his chest, already shifting into motion as he scooped you up into his powerful arms with effortless strength.

Your body molded against his, limp and trusting, your head resting on his broad shoulder as he cradled you like something precious. The cool air of the room kissed your overheated skin, raising faint goosebumps where his body heat didn't reach, but his embrace chased away the chill, enveloping you in the familiar scent of him – musk and clean sweat, now mingled with the sticky remnants of your shared release.

Both of you were a mess, slick layers of perspiration clinging to every curve and contour, your skin glistening under the dim light. Trails of his cum streaked your thighs and belly, drying in tacky patches that pulled slightly with each subtle shift, while his own body bore the evidence too – smudges on his abdomen and hips, his softening cock nestled against your hip, still sensitive and twitching faintly from the ordeal. The room reeked of it all, the air heavy with the earthy tang of sex and exertion, sheets twisted and damp beneath where you'd lain.

In his mind, Steve ran through a quick mental checklist, his usual focus sharpening even in this intimate haze: first, he'd carry you to the shower, letting the hot water cascade over you both to rinse away the grime and soothe your aching muscles; then, he'd strip the bed of its soiled linens, replacing them with fresh ones from the closet to create a clean sanctuary; and through the night, he'd stay vigilant, coaxing you into deep sleep with gentle touches, fetching water to keep you hydrated, his hand perhaps resting on your back to monitor your breathing.

It was the bare minimum he owed you after the way you'd anchored him through the pollen's torment, your body a lifeline when his control had shattered into primal need.

He carried you toward the bathroom door, his steps steady and sure, the weight of you negligible in his arms, each footfall a promise of care in the quiet that followed the storm.

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[stormcedar]

Quarantined - steve rogers - 18+

after a mission to infiltrate a HYDRA base, you and Steve both get covered by a strange plant's pollen burst making you exceedingly horny. pairing: steve rogers x f!reader words: 5k warnings: unprotected sex, p in v, mentions of dom!steve, captain kink, minor vouyerism, yall are being monitored but you dont care, accidental creampie, pretty unedited

You nearly choke on your breath with only the strip of forehead pressed to the wall to ground you. The metal panel was cooling - a welcome feeling considering how your body seems closer to boiling itself from the inside than normal human temperatures. Even mutant temperatures, considering the sweat gathering in every bend of your body. It is difficult to focus on the room around you, but there wasn’t much to gather anyway with its use being a quarantine room.

An entire greenhouse had accosted you and Steve. This attack was a surprise to both of you, with your HYDRA target having put something in the soil. The roots tripping you and the haze of shimmering pollen that clung to everything and coated your nose and mouth was inescapable despite your best efforts. Regardless you were not prepared for biological warfare of this kind, and it cost you. You’d been showered off in a decidedly undignified way (more of a hose down in truth) just in time for the onset of symptoms. Your increased body temperature, for one.

Taking chances wasn't an option - even if Steve hadn't presented symptoms yet he needed to be cleared lest he infect someone else. So here you both were, stuck in a box of a room barely able to hold six cots with half a foot on either side. It could've been minutes, it could've been hours; you didn't know. What you did know was that your body was overheating and there wasn't room left in your mind to think about decency.

The cold metal frame of the cot barely cuts through the hot skin of your hands. Everything feels so extreme that for a moment you worry you’ll be stuck to the freezing surface, but you know better. The sweat leaving a visible shine on your skin was a helpful reminder of your reality. It isn’t enough to just press open skin to slightly cool metal. The fabric of your SHIELD branded sweatshirt and sweatpants was only useful in soaking up your sweat. If only you could focus long enough to tell if sweat really was excessive enough to start pooling in the crevices of elbows and knees. None of that matters because you aren’t cooling down and you are acting with the only barest grip on control.

“I need it off of me,” You groan, “-‘S too hot in here.” Your tone was nearly a whine and your cheeks flushed with embarrassment. It felt like Steve was watching you. Hardly a stretch, considering the lack of any real entertainment in the quarantine room. When you look up your suspicions are confirmed; complete with pale eyes swimming with worry. There’s something else beneath it though, but there’s no time for you to try to decipher it. Seeing the hard angles of his face and normally well kept hair slightly mussed from the earlier events ignited a wave of warmth from deep in your core. He had also changed into the SHIELD provided gray sweatpants and shirt, leaving the white undershirt's sleeves clinging to his biceps for your viewing. He must be so hot too. You’d certainly describe him that way; big shoulders and harsh light casting shadows, only enhancing each contour. Maybe his searching gaze was the same kind as yours. Clearly you’re getting delusional with the heat flash.

“Try to breathe slowly. Stress is only going to make you feel hotter.” Steve’s trying to be soothing. His voice is smooth, low, and seems to miss your ears and go straight to your pussy. There he goes, always trying to help. It would be better if you weren’t using your clenched teeth as an air filter and hadn't just bent halfway over to put your forehead to a cool spot of a cot’s metal frame. In fact, his advice does the opposite of what he wants when your grip falters and the wave of warmth from your core returns. His eyes are still on you and there’s nothing left over to brace you for the feeling of his gaze. His seriousness made you stand. Even now the want to follow his orders felt like more of a need. Only because he is less affected.

He’s so far from you in his spot across the room. Steve’s posture is markedly stiffer than usual. The waves of warmth refused to let up but gave you room to take in his own state. Steve was sweating too, his own sheen of sweat covering wherever wasn’t covered by clothing. There seemed to be some spots of his shirt where you could see it too, but his hand gripping a cot’s frame holds your focus. You’re both gripping something to cool you, but you can see the flex of his hands. Hands spread across the metal bar with finger spacing like he could wield it if necessary. His knuckles are pale, and the vein running along the top of his hand was pronounced as it led to a taut forearm. It wasn’t even about thinking anymore, as a new wave of warmth overtook you and destroyed your defenses.

Your hands fly to the collar at your chin. The downside of your comfortable clothes was how heavy and warm they stayed. With reckless fervor you tugged at your sweatshirt.

"Hey, we can call for something to change into-" Steve's voice was tight and rushed, "Hold on."

"It's sticking to me," You don't stop. "Need it off-"

The sleeves of your sweatshirt are pushed up. Cool air soothes your flushed skin, drawing a sigh of relief. It felt so nice. You needed more skin to feel the air... Maybe when there isn't fabric clinging to each inch of your body you'd be able to cool down. In the sweatsuit it was impossible to stay cool. Each moment made you burn hotter. Feverishly you start to pull the bottom of the garment up to your chest, halfway to removing the sweatshirt as a whole. Now, the chill of the quarantine room brushed along your waist. It makes you shiver.

What stops you is Steve clearing his throat. When you turn your focus him his face turns pink and he makes eye contact more tentative than you'd ever seen from him. Steve can't seem to look at you half undressed and focuses on anything else instead. When he looks at the cot behind him you catch a glimpse of Steve clenching his jaw and a flash of the vein running down his neck. You were drowning in heat all over again. Looking elsewhere didn't help much. The next spot your eyes found to focus on was his adamantine grip on the cot frame. If the vein along his neck was enough to make you pause, the ones stretching up his forearms and around the flexed muscles made your jaw slack. He was white knuckling his grip. Would he bruise you with that grip? Would you like it?

"Uhm, go ahead and take it off," Steve sounded nearly pained, "Just let me turn around."

"Okay."

You didn't want him to turn around. In fact, you wanted him to see you. To have him take in the sight of you stripping from your clothes, the reflection of the light in the layer of sweat coating your skin. The sweatshirt was pulled up to your bust before Steve could fully pivot, your hands moving of their own accord. It might've been your imagination, but it seemed like he caught a glimpse of you by the way his ears were tinged with pink.

Steve turned quickly, but you still caught his growing blush. Realistically you were bright red as well. With how flushed you felt, there was no doubt. The cool air wrapped around your exposed skin in a sweet salve that almost made you feel better. Peeling the sweatshirt all the way off left your bra exposed. The realization stirred another wave of warmth in your core. Does he not feel any of this? Your thoughts are incredulous as you try to study Steve's posture.

He's turned away from you, each hand gripping the end of a cot's frame. His ears are red and his chest rises and falls in a deliberate slowness. The tension in his arms leaves every muscle defined. The thought of his muscled hands on you stirs another wave of that evil, delicious warmth pooling through your waist and thighs. It was still way too hot. How would his fingers feel as they parted your folds? Would he slowly slide them in, or maybe spread your wetness to your thighs before giving you the digit?

"Do you not feel-" You stopped yourself, jarred at how you sounded so desperate. After trying to level your voice, you tried again. "Do you not feel anything?"

"Do you have anything on under the sweatshirt?" His voice is strained. Still, it was a sort of answer. He seemed to be feeling something.

"My bra..." Steve's head twitched as if to look back at you, but his whole torso locks into place to keep him facing away. He wanted to look at you too, then. Maybe you could get him to.

"Steve," There was no attempt to even your voice, "What are you feeling?" Because you were feeling an ever present need to strip Steve; to lick the sweat on his neck and roll your hips into his while-

"For your sake I can't turn around." Steve's voice was shaky. There was something to it, though. An almost raw quality that scratched the back of your brain and washed over you in a hot wave from head to toe. Your suspicion was correct, and only more clearly so with each tensed muscle of his you could see from his place facing away from you. For a moment you can't tell if you imagined the wet spot forming on your pants but decided against checking.

"I hadn't asked you to," There wasn't enough of you to feel ashamed at your breathless tone. Steve bit back a mmph and his knuckles went white. If that was how he sounded trying to hold back, what would he sound like beneath you? When he let it all out? "But you can." Your hands absently trailed your body. Fingers trailed soft circles on the skin of your breasts, dipped beneath the bra, and tickled your own skin slightly as you couldn't surmount the growing urge to be touched. Steve seemed resolved to stay put, silent. A man of stone, ghosts of veins along strained muscles. You paused to listen for his breathing to be happily greeted by his shallow hasty breaths. If he was going to resist, fine, but your resolve was crumbling quickly.

The cot behind you was cool to the touch; its crisp sheets only touched by the air conditioning until then. It was nearly a relief when you laid down. Just enough comfort to let you slip your hand beneath your waistband and feel just how wet you were. If you needed to take care of your drenched pussy yourself, so be it.

Before you could part your lips your slick was on your fingers. Oh. So that wet spot was very real. A burn of humiliation nearly took hold, only to be swallowed by the clench of a needy core. You let a finger slide along your clit in a tentative stroke. The sensation jolted to your toes and all the way to your scalp. Holding back the whine it drew felt torturous. Being that sensitive was new, and hiding your sounds from someone who could so easily make you moan seemed like such a waste.

His arm twitched. Steve let out a shaky exhale, daring to move in an attempt to shake off whatever he was thinking. So he planned to just let you touch yourself quietly behind him? Not fair.

Each circle you made on your clit made your hole clench, and you were nearly drawing blood from your bottom lip from letting your noises bubble up inside.

To pretend you were silent would be a lie. Pathetic whimpers left your lips despite your efforts, and however quiet you felt didn't matter. Steve heard. He heard enough that his head turns just so to make it easier for him to hear you. Whether you were in his peripheral vision was a gamble (and not knowing how much his super serum enhanced it) but this confirmed he was listening. Now to make him turn more.

You rubbed your clit more fiercely, getting a weak moan from yourself. The heat in your core flared. You needed more and had no will to tease yourself. Two fingers circled your hole, collecting wetness before sliding in. You curved them inside yourself as you plunged them in. You didn't feel full enough. Steve's fingers like this would probably give the stretch you were craving.

Touching yourself got to him; you could barely see him watching through his peripherals and his mouth was gently hung open. His continued ragged breathing only spurred you on. What he thinking about the way you'd take his fingers, too? The flex of his forearm as he tightened his grip on the cot's frame sent you spinning. The thought of his muscled hands rubbing circles on your clit, replacing your own inside you and getting to feel him brush against that spot you are just shy of from your position.

That, and not having your toys. You were going old school and it was not cutting it. Each stroke from your fingers added fuel to the fire growing within you. Now the small moans leaving your lips were mixed with pleasure and frustration. You've hit the wall.

“Shit,” You hiss.

Steve's chest heaved and his head turned to look before he could stop himself. In the second before he snapped his head forward, he got a full view of you shirtless; spread on the cot with one hand down your pants and the other cupping your breast in your bra.

"Fuck," Steve groaned, then a harsh breath in, "What are you thinking about?"

The question had to be a taunt. Couldn't he tell by your sounds? His words triggered a warm pulse around your fingers as you imagined his face between your thighs while speaking them. The heat was overwhelming. With how your own strokes only made the need to orgasm intensify there was no hope in trying to tease yourself. You couldn't cum if you tried - which you were. Very much so. Except, the only issue was that your fingers weren't enough. Grinding your clit on the heel of your palm did nothing to quell the fire. It was kerosene. If he would just help you. Please.

"You-" There was no point trying to finish the sentence. You were incapable of answering without moaning whatever word it would be. But he needed to know the answer, didn't he? "Your fingers in me..." Holy fuck, he was looking now. Steve's eyes were fixed on you, still gripping the cot but turned to face you.

"My hands?" There's no smile on his face, but the low rumble only makes you quiver around your own fingers. His tone makes you whine, nodding your head to swallow the flush of embarrassment trying to overtake you. Here you were, rutting against yourself and moaning for him to touch you. Luckily, there was too much need to care. “-Just my hands?“

No. Not just his hands. His mouth, his thighs, pulling down his pants and taking him in your mouth. Except, Steve still isn’t touching you. “No-” Your fingers are circling your clit with as much speed as you can muster.

He wasn’t touching you. He was watching you. Steve’s mouth fell open as you dipped a finger back into yourself, sinking deep and drawing a frustrated whine. Pupils dilated beyond memory, his gaze was fixed on you. The way he dragged his thumb along the cot rail in time with your thrusts made you test a forming theory.

A few slow, edging drags on your fingers made his thumb’s pace slow. Oh?

You gave yourself a few distinct pumps, his thumb nearly twitching in time with your speed. Two instances was enough proof. Steve was transfixed. The knowledge made you throb. He had to be toying with you.

“What else?” Steve’s voice was more breath than sound. Now that just felt mean. Didn't he know? With how his eyes stayed fixed on you he had to be able to see into your mind. Couldn't he tell that you were wishing your fingers were his, that his face was between your thighs and his stubble would scratch your soft skin? That you wanted his hands on your hips while he fucked you without pause?

“Please,” You said, any use of language gone when you wanted to tell him to get over there and fuck you already.

“I won’t know what you want unless you tell me,” He sounded reasonable, but the low rumble in his tone was telling. This wasn’t just restraint for him, he was enjoying this. Seeing you writhe on the bed nearly begging for him was what he wanted.

“I can’t - I need you Steve,” You were whining now, and there was no ounce of you to stop yourself, “Fuck me, please.” Was anyone watching you two? Did the thought even matter at that point? Questions that you would take seriously if your brain weren’t so fuzzy and your body wasn’t on fire.

“Yeah?” Steve moved closer, “You need me? Not just someone to fill you?” His tone was nearly mocking, and there was nothing in you to answer except to shake your head.

Rough hands slid up your legs with feather light touches. His fingertips hovered on your thighs. You could only nod, mad you didn’t take your pants off completely in your rush moments ago. He hooked his fingers in the waistband of your sweats and pulled them down, then off your feet, and laid them on the cot a foot away. You pulled your fingers from yourself, almost complaining again at how empty you felt.

Steve looked hungry if there was ever a time for him to seem that way. His eyes were dark and head low as he kneeled by the bed. The feeling of his warm breath on your thighs made you shiver. You were so exposed, and he was fully clothed with sweat marks on his clothes. He was feeling it too, but seemed to take pride in denying himself a little release.

Your legs spread a bit wider, a hand coming to grab his hair and push him towards your cunt. He stiffened, something flashing in his eyes before he said, “You want my mouth too, doll?”

You nearly broke. How could you be such a mess and he has barely touched you?

“Please.” You seemed to be saying that a lot.

His mouth was on you. Sucking your clit, flicking his tongue, and one finger circling your entrance but never going in. His stubble was scratching your thighs - just how you imagined. You reach down and grab him by his hair. Steve groans, pushing his face into you even more and wrapping his arms around your legs, pulling you into him and keeping the previously mentioned legs on his shoulders. He was eating you like he was starving, and the moments he sucks in any breath sound more like groans than him trying to breathe.

“You taste so good, baby.” Steve buries his face in you again, and burying a finger deep in you too.

His fingers were thicker than yours, as one is closely followed by a second. A delicious stretch came from his fingers as he pumped slowly, sucking on your clit and curling his fingers inside to draw a pornographic moan from you.

The sight of him was enough to make you cum right there. He had moved from kneeling to being on the cot with you, stomach down on the cot with your legs in the air as he devoured you. When he curled his fingers again, making you rut into his mouth, Steve ground into the sheet beneath him, something in his hips seemingly desperate to be buried in you. Getting your words together to ask for more was hard when he slipped a third finger into you and pumped with a pace that ripped any thoughts away. There was no time to think, not when he was filling you like that. Steve’s resolve seems unshakable as you got closer to your peak.

“Steve I’m-“

“Captain.” Fuck.

“Capt- I’m gonna cum,” You whine, the stars creeping up on you. Calling him ‘Captain’, his figners deep inside you, his mouth on your clit, and arm holding you in his grip so you couldn’t get away even if you wanted. You were writhing on him, trying to get his fingers deeper and more of you in his mouth at any moment. So close. Steve’s fingers sped up, and he buried his face in your pussy with such fervor that there was only enough time for a mental note of how fucking hot it was before you came with nothing more than a pleasured “Captian!”

When Steve pulls away, his mouth sheens with your wetness, and your mouth falls open at the sight. He put his fingers in your mouth, and you can taste yourself on his skin. His eyes are fixed on your lips as you close them around his digit. Steve's over you now, hip to hip. As you circle him with your tongue his breath falters and he starts to lean down before stopping himself. Instead he slips his fingers from your mouth and grabs your chin to drag you in for a kiss. Steve tastes like you. You’re on his lips, and as yours part to explore his mouth you taste yourself on his tongue. It’s still not enough. He’s got just enough stubble to lightly scratch your skin as his kiss moves from your mouth to your jaw, then your neck. The feeling of his warm breath just below your ear made you shiver. You needed to touch him, to do something. With frantic hands you pulled the hem of Steve’s shirt upwards, He huffs out something resembling a laugh, lifting himself off you to take his shirt off fully.

You weren’t the only one covered in a layer of sweat. There isn’t even time to bask in the sight of him above you because your legs are around his waist and he’s pressing his erection into you. Even through the thick cotton you could feel his size, and your pussy pulsed around nothing. It was torture to have him so close but still not where you wanted him.

“You sound so pretty,” Steve’s eyes were hooded, voice low as he ran his hands up your waist. “Tell me how you want it.”

His words were so fucking filthy and you ground your hips against his. Instead of turning a thought into words, you just whined. You wanted him to keep talking. Each of his words made you throb.

"I need you to fuck me, please," Finally you were able to vocalize your craving, "I need to feel you." Steve ground his hips into you as a response, his eyes flickering as your breath hitched.

His pants were off before you registered the idea to help. Steve's cock was standing at attention, vein on the underside made your mouth water. Maybe you wanted to suck him off instead. He was big, too. Steve's erection was long enough to reach past your pubes and closer to your belly button. Would it all fit? The idea that maybe it wouldn't, that he'd sink into you and still have more to give, made you wetter.

"Please," You whined. It was hard to think with your pulsing need. How Steve was restraining himself seemed impossible to you. Pupils blown, hands running along your thighs, mouth slightly open. It's like he was swimming in the sight of you. If he looked like this now, how would he look fucking you?

"You're being so polite now," His lips twitched to hide a smirk, "You usually have no problem telling me what to do."

He was making fun of you, drawing out a warm flash of embarrassment soaked in want. Steve took his dick in his hand and rubbed his tip up along your slit, lining himself up with your entrance to slide into you.

"Fucking finally," You moaned as the head of his cock moved past your folds and entered your vagina. Steve was stretching you deliciously and there was still more to go.

"Yeah? You wanted me that bad, doll?" Steve's voice shakes as he sinks further before pulling out a bit, "Can you even take all of me?"

"Yes," You wanted all of him. "Fuck, more, please."

Steve slid in slowly. A low moan spilled from him as you took more of his length, your walls stretching around him and inviting him deeper. His hands took the back of your thighs to put your legs over his shoulders. Then he pushed even deeper, sinking nearly all of his length into your cunt. Steve has one hand on you hip, and the other trails up your stomach to your mouth. How he slips his fingers into your mouth is just so posessive you are rolling your hips on him to try to take him deeper and he's moaning.

"Shit," Steve grits his teeth as he watches you drool on his fingers and try your best to fuck him. Your cunt is pulsing on his cock as he just sits inside you, unmoving. "You feel so good, sweetheart."

Only then does Steve slowly pull out of you. As he admires how much of his cock you took his hips twitch, and his grip on your hip tightens as he tries to fuck you slowly. Watching him tense his muscles to hold himself back makes you throb, wanting to feel just how rough he really wanted to fuck into you. Even your whine was muffled by his fingers in your mouth. They still tasted like you, just barely, and your hips twitched in Steve's grip. Steve sunk into you with force as the feeling of you whimper into his hand, and the moan made him growl. His fingers slipped from your mouth to hold you by the jaw.

Steve's eye looked so dark with pupils blown as you moaned with each of his thrusts. Each sound you made seemed to break his resolve further until the hand on your hip moved to rub circles on your clit. If you were egging him on before, the moans erupting from you spurred each forceful thrust into you. Sure, you'd be sore tomorrow but did it really matter? How he was fucking into you block any other real thought from forming.

Each of your moans drew one from Steve above you. His mouth hung open, eyebrows furrowing with each thrust as his eyes scanned your face. Your orgasm was approaching. Could he tell?

"Gonna cum, Steve, I-" Steves grip on your jaw tightened and he roughly turned your face to the side before making you face him again. Fuck, I called him 'Steve'.

"Steve?" He pounded into you, sending your eyes rolling back into your head. "Try again." Steve's pace didn't slow and he gave you no break to try to gather your thoughts. You had a hard time even forming them since getting into the room. Now there was no hope. Steve was thrusting into you with a power that pushed the cot into the wall behind you with each one, hand holding your face to look him in the eyes, and now you had to remember things?

"Captain," You were barely able to form the word as your hands wandered his back and into his hair to get any grip on Steve. Your fingers found purchase and he groaned at your hold on him. "Want all of you." Even if you tried there was no way to hide the pleading from your voice. He was fucking you so well but you didn't feel all of him yet. You needed to feel totally full.

And you did.

Steve sunk fully into your wet cunt, hips pressing into you as he ground into you with his full length practically stuffed inside.

"Since-" Steve interrupted himself with a moan, "Since you used your manners." He pulls out just to thrust all of his length into you again before adding, "You take me so well, doll."

You were melting at his words, at his hands still working your clit, his thumb rubbing along your bottom lip and denying the pleasure of it between your lips. Each thrust you rocked into him, chasing the orgasm you felt building. Steve turned your face to the side to give him space to dip his head to your neck and leave sloppy kisses below your ear. His hot breath fanned over your skin as he licked down your neck to nibble where it meets your shoulder.

Steve's kisses muffled his moans into your skin as his pace quickened. He was practically rutting into you with how sloppy he became. Each kiss on your neck became rougher until Steve tore his face away to bury it in the cot. You couldn't muffle you moans, however. The grip he held on your jaw, face turned away as your vision blurred, did nothing to stop you from openly whining for Steve. His name tumbling from you lips like a prayer, the heat and need meeting in a crescendo as you finally came. Steve's fingers kept circling your clit as he pumped into you, your orgasm coming in waves. Yours spurred Steve into his, and he came with a wrecked moan before he was able to pull out.

"Shit, sorry." Steve's face had gone red, but he still stared at you. The heat from before seeped from your body, but you still weren't satisfied. You needed more Steve. Once wasn't enough.

"What if I still want more?" Your question made a grin flash across Steve's face. He wasn't done with you yet, either.

[epiphanyrogers]

a fever he can't sweat out

steve rogers x roommate!fem!reader

summary: the HYDRA mission was successful. steve's a little off, sure, but medical cleared him forty minutes ago. it's just exhaustion. except his heart won't stop pounding, heat's crawling under his skin, and his jeans suddenly feel far too tight. and every cell in his body is screaming that the only cure is you. warnings/tags: SMUT, sex pollen (dubcon-ish elements), masturbation (m), oral sex (f receiving), p in v, multiple orgasms, creampies, overstimulation, hyperspermia, mating press, standing sex, aftercare, manhandling, size kink/size difference (reader is smaller than steve, but it's steve he's massive), praise kink, dacryphilia if you squint, sweat kink if you squint, roommates to lovers, guilty!pervy!steve who apologizes but can't stop, PWP but lowkey with plot?, sprinkle of yearning, no use of y/n, 18+ MDNI word count: 14.4k (wtf) from maddie: official, diagnosed, terminal case of the yapperitis for this one. i got stressed writing pt. 2 of ocayf, and so decided to take a "little break" from it, and accidentally wrote this instead. it's sort of inspired by this post by @blobfishlol (hope you don't mind the tag!) and it was meant to be a quick, filthy little pwp but apparently my brain said no 🤍 it’s been a hot minute since i’ve posted anything this long and i feel like i forgot how to write halfway through, so pls be gentle with me!! (pls don’t be mad this isn’t ocayf pt2, it’s coming 🥹) dt: my bb @love-stucky for letting me yap her ear off about this fic, and also for the edit of the steve pic <33

masterlist

Steve's still running through the debrief in his head when he pulls up outside his apartment block. 

The bike's engine cuts out with a rumble, but Steve still feels a deep thrumming vibration in his chest that won't quit. His heart's pounding - has been pounding since he left the compound, he realises - and that doesn't make sense for someone whose resting heart rate is forty-five. Frowning, Steve rolls his shoulders like he can physically shake off whatever this is. Adrenaline, probably. Leftover cortisol. 

Plus, the mission ran long, the debrief even longer, and he's been running on fumes for the better part of eighteen hours. Maybe this is his body reminding him that he's not actually invincible even if the serum makes it feel that way sometimes. He's tired. That's all this is.

Medical cleared him forty minutes ago. Routine checkup, vitals normal, no injuries to note. Mission success. Another HYDRA facility taken out, mostly inactive but still operational enough to need clearing. A handful of guards, computers full of encrypted files for Nat to sort through, and more dust than seemed reasonable for a place that was supposedly still in use. 

It was a weird amount of dust, actually. Steve keeps snagging on that. Active facilities don't accumulate dust like that, yet the lab was covered with the thick powdery kind that coats every surface and blooms up in pale clouds when you move through it wrong.

And move through it wrong Steve had. 

When he'd taken down three guards in the main lab, the force of the fight had sent up a particularly thick puff of it. Enough that his throat constricted and his chest went tight. A too familiar tightness, low and stubborn, like he was twelve again when every breath was a negotiation. The kind that used to plant itself behind his sternum on cold Brooklyn mornings and refuse to shift.

He'd actually coughed. Hard enough that he had to step out of the room, hand braced against the doorframe while he caught his breath like some rookie who couldn't handle a little particulate in the air. But medical had checked his oxygen levels, listened to his lungs, found nothing wrong. Probably just particulate irritation, they'd said. The serum would clear it. And they'd been right - his breathing's fine now. Everything's fine.

Steve shakes his head, swinging a leg over his bike, and heads into the building. He's overthinking. Natasha told him he looked like shit and should go home and sleep for once. He'd laughed, told her she was projecting.

But now Steve's starting to think she might've been onto something.

The building's stairwell is mercifully cool and quiet, and Steve takes the stairs two at a time like always. Five flights is nothing. He's done it a thousand times, usually without thinking, but tonight by the second floor he's warm - too warm for the mild evening. The leather jacket that felt fine on the ride home now feels stifling, clinging to his shoulders and back.

By the third floor, he starts pulling at his collar. By the fourth, he's unzipped the jacket entirely. And when he hits the fifth floor, there's a thin sheen of sweat on his neck and his breath is coming harder than it should.

Steve pauses, hand on the door to your shared apartment, and for a second he considers turning around. Going back to the compound, making medical run more comprehensive tests.

But the thought of another hour in that sterile medical bay instead of being home - instead of seeing you, sinking into that easy warmth you always seem to carry with you - stirs something wrong in his chest. Makes something tighten uncomfortably. He needs to be home. Needs the particular brand of domesticity that only exists in your shared space, where he gets to be Steve and not Captain America.

Yes. He just needs to get inside, see you, shower, and maybe eat something if you've made dinner. Then sleep for ten hours. Simple.

He pushes through the door before he can second-guess it, and the apartment wraps around him immediately - warmth, music drifting from the kitchen, the smell of garlic and pancetta that means you’re making his favorite pasta. Dropping his duffle by the door, Steve heads to the kitchen, drawn by the sounds of you humming off-key, moving around, the comfortable domestic soundtrack that usually settles something in his chest.

Some of the tension in his shoulders starts to ease. This is good. Normal. Exactly what he needs.

Until he rounds the corner and his brain stutters to a halt.

You're wearing his hoodie. Stood at the stove with your back to him, intently focused on cooking, and you're wearing his hoodie. It practically swamps your frame. The sleeves are pushed up past your elbows because otherwise they'd swallow your hands, shoulders so broad they slip off one of yours, exposing a lacy bralette strap and the curve of bare skin that Steve wants his mouth on.

And shorts. Tiny black shorts that barely qualify as clothing, just peeking out from under the hem of his hoodie, leaving your legs completely bare from where the hoodie ends. 

You're swimming in the hoodie. In something of his. The size difference so obvious it makes his hands itch at this sudden, visceral urge to grab you and see how you’d disappear under him. To see how easy it would be to cage you in, crowd you back against the counter. To get his hands under his hoodie and find out if you're wearing his scent on your skin the way you're wearing his clothes, if you smell like him now, if you thought about him when you put it on, if—

"Oh my god, Steve, you startled me!" 

The sound of your voice catches him mid thought, and his brain slams back to room. You've spun around, wooden spoon in hand, and despite the startled words your whole face lights up. There’s genuine relief there, happiness that seems disproportionate to him just walking through the door. "How was the mission? You look exhausted, are you—"

"Is that my hoodie?"

The words come out rough, almost accusatory, cutting across your concern. Steve doesn't even know why that's the first thing out of his mouth, why out of everything he could say - something normal like hello, mission was fine, dinner smells good - that's what his brain latched onto.

You blink, clearly surprised by the abruptness, then glance down at yourself like you'd forgotten. 

"Oh. Yeah." When you look back up there's mischief in your eyes. "It's way comfier than all of mine. You don't mind, do you?"

Mind. Right. 

Does he mind that you're standing in his kitchen wearing his clothes, drowning in fabric that smells like him, looking so at home and domestic and pretty that something in his chest is pulling tight enough to hurt? Does he mind that this is somehow more intimate than it has any right to be? That the sight of you in his hoodie is doing things to him that he absolutely cannot examine right now?

"No, it's fine." His mouth is dry. When did his mouth get dry? "Keep it."

"Good," you reply, grin widening. "'Cause I wasn't giving it back anyway."

There’s a teasing lilt to it that Steve feels low in his gut. Or lower than his gut. Somewhere he’s definitely not supposed to be feeling things about his roommate, his friend, the person who should feel safe and comfortable in her own home without him losing his mind over a fucking hoodie.

But God, you turn back to the stove and Steve can’t stop watching. Even as you start chattering to him about dinner, about your day, something that would normally have him leaning against the counter asking questions, he's not hearing your words anymore. Instead, Steve's gaze drops without permission, returning to the way the hoodie shifts when you move, how it rides up when you reach for the spice cabinet and shows more of how those shorts cling to your ass.

He takes a step closer without meaning to. Then another. Close enough now that your scent hits him properly and floods his senses - that particular sweetness he associates with you, but underneath it, woven through, is him. His scent. 

You smell like you've wrapped yourself in him, like you're marked with it, and the possessive bolt of heat that shoots through Steve nearly buckles his knees. His fingers curl into fists at his sides, jaw clenching as his body responds with alarming intensity to something as simple as you wearing his clothes.

The kitchen feels too small suddenly - too hot, the air too thick, and Steve can't seem to get enough oxygen to his brain. No prizes for guessing where else it's heading.

And the heat under his skin, that constant low simmer since he left the compound, suddenly cranks up to something that makes him lightheaded. His jeans are getting tight, his cock beginning to harden. And there's this clawing need building in his chest that he doesn't know what to do with, doesn't know how to control.

Of course, it's not new, the attraction.

He's been attracted to you since you moved in six months ago. Since Sam had shoved your number at him and told him his apartment was depressing and lonely and that he needed a roommate. Since you'd shown up with boxes stacked in your arms and made some joke about not being a serial killer that surprised a laugh out of him. 

Living with you has been comfortable in a way he hadn't expected, all casual dinners and movie nights and inside jokes. And yes, maybe he's spent more time than he'd like to admit thinking about what it might be like to close that distance, to make this more than friendly, to kiss you. 

But Steve's not stupid. Asking you out could ruin everything. Could make you uncomfortable in your own home, make you feel like you had to say yes because of who he is, or worse, make you feel like you had to leave if you said no. The risk of destroying this easy, comfortable thing you've built together isn't worth it, no matter how many times Sam and Bucky tell him he's being an idiot and should just ask you to dinner already.

And yet, now his body doesn't seem to care. It's like every nerve ending in his body has suddenly rewired itself to point at you like a compass finding north. Something that's making his hands shake and his brain offer up increasingly detailed images of what he could do if he just closed the distance between you, if he just reached out and—

"Steve? Are you even listening to me?"

Your voice cuts through the spiral once again and he realizes you've been talking. You've turned back to look at him, and your eyebrows are doing that thing where they draw together with worry. 

"You look really flushed." You're studying him now, concern sharpening in your eyes, and then you're moving toward him. "And you're kind of just... standing there like something's wrong."

Your hand comes up, and the second your fingers make contact with his forearm, Steve jerks back like you've burned him. Nearly trips over his own feet putting distance between you. The brief touch sends electricity straight through him, and his cock responds immediately, twitching and thickening in his jeans until they feel obscenely tight. He shifts his stance, angles his body slightly away, desperately trying to hide what's becoming impossible to conceal.

This is insane. He's going insane.

Your eyes are darting over his face now, head tilted in that way you do when you're trying to figure him out, and there's genuine worry written across your features. Everything about it - you being this close, smelling like him, looking up at him with those big, concerned eyes - is making everything exponentially worse. The ache low in his gut intensifies, spreading outward until his whole body feels like a live wire.

"Steve, are you okay?" you ask, and he makes the mistake of watching your lips form the words. "You're really worrying me."

"Yeah." His voice comes out wrecked, barely recognizable. He clears his throat, trying again. "Fine. Just tired."

"Are you sure?" You take another step closer and Steve's back hits the doorframe. "You're sweating. Like, a lot. And you're breathing hard."

He is. He can feel it now, a bead of it running down his temple. And his t-shirt is sticking to his spine despite the fact that the apartment isn't remotely warm. What the fuck was happening to him? His skin feels wrong. Too tight. Prickling with something that's not quite pain but certainly is more than uncomfortable. Every nerve ending feels raw and oversensitive.

His jacket is still on and it's unbearable, too tight across his shoulders and trapping heat against his skin. He needs it off. 

"I'm fine," he lies, and even he can hear how strained it sounds. "Just—I need a shower."

"A shower?" Your frown deepens. "Steve, maybe we should call Bruce or someone, you're clearly not—"

"I'm fine." It comes out harsher than he meant it to, and he watches you flinch. Fuck. Fuck, he's making this so much worse. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I just—it's just muscle tension. From the mission. My muscles are sore and the serum makes me run hot sometimes, you know that, and I just need—a cold shower will help, it'll help cool me down and—"

He's babbling. He knows he's babbling, throwing out excuse after excuse while you stared at him like you'd never seen him before, like he's a stranger wearing Steve Rogers' face, but he can't seem to stop.

"The mission was intense," he continues frantically, needing you to believe him, needing you to stop looking so worried. "Lots of close combat and I'm just—I'm tense. All my muscles are tense. A shower will help. Just need to cool down and relax."

He turns and practically flees down the hallway, before he can say what he really needs - you, spread out beneath him, wrapped around him, making sounds he's only let himself imagine in his weakest, most shameful moments when his hand is on his cock in the dark and he pretends it's you touching him instead.

Steve stumbles into his bedroom and straight through to the en-suite, shutting the door and leaning against it like something's chasing him. His reflection in the mirror looks frantic. Face flushed dark, pupils blown so wide, chest heaving. His lips look fuller somehow, plumper and pinker, like he's been biting them without realizing.

Guilt churns in his gut alongside the relentless heat. He'd scared you. Snapped at you when all you'd done was try to help. Made you worry. Been completely fucking weird and now you probably think he's losing his mind.

Maybe he is.

Because he's so hard it actually hurts. His cock is straining against his jeans, thick and aching, pressing against the zipper unbearably. He can feel his pulse in it, each throb sending a jolt of sensation through him that was equal parts pleasure and agony. When he shifts his weight, the friction of denim against sensitive skin makes him bite back a groan.

He's never felt like this. This desperate, all-consuming need that won't quit no matter how much he tries to think it away, logic it away, force it down with sheer willpower.

Sweat runs down his temple, his neck. The leather jacket is still on and Steve tears it off with shaking hands, letting it drop to the floor. It doesn't help. Everything still feels too hot, too tight, like his skin has shrunk two sizes and doesn't fit his body anymore.

Steve's fingers fumble with his belt, clumsy in a way they never are. They're shaking now, struggling with the simple mechanics of a belt buckle while his cock throbs insistently behind the zipper.

He gets it open finally, pops the button on his jeans, and the relief of pressure is so immediate and intense that he has to brace one hand against the sink. But it's not enough. Not even close. He shoves the jeans down his hips and they catch on his thighs - still damp with sweat, fabric clinging - and Steve has to peel them off with more force than should be necessary.

His boxer briefs are tented obscenely, a wet patch of precum already visible at the tip, and Steve can't even meet his own reflection in the mirror.

The shirt comes off next, pulled over his head and discarded without ceremony. His dog tags clink against his chest, metal warm from his overheated skin. Every piece of clothing that comes off should make him feel better, cooler, but it doesn't. If anything, being bare makes him more aware of how wrong everything feels. The hypersensitivity of his skin, the way even air movement feels like too much stimulus.

Steve hooks his thumbs in the waistband of his boxer briefs, and just the brush of fabric as he moves pulls a sound from his throat he doesn't recognize. When he shoves them down, his cock springs free, completely erect and already leaking.

This isn't normal. Even for him, even with the serum's effect on his libido, this is excessive. Steve looks down at himself and feels something close to shame. 

Turning away from the mirror, Steve reaches into the shower, cranking the cold tap as far as it will go. He steps in the moment the water starts flowing and the cold hits him like a physical shock. For a blessed moment, it cuts through everything else. His overheated skin welcomes the icy spray like a mercy, the temperature difference sharp enough to make him gasp in relief. Steve braces his hands against the tile, head hanging under the stream, and tries to breathe through it. 

Tries to think about anything other than you. Anything other than your scent and your touch and the sight of you in those shorts and his hoodie.

The water runs over his shoulders, down his spine, plastering his hair to his forehead. It should help. But his cock is still hard. Still throbbing. And as the initial shock of cold fades, the heat comes creeping back. That insistent burning under his skin that the water isn't touching.

Steve squeezes his eyes shut and immediately regrets it.

Because his mind is flooded with images of you leaning over the counter in those tight little shorts, making dinner. And his traitorous brain doesn't stop there, it keeps going, imagining you in that same position but for different reasons, imagining him behind you, imagining his hands shoving that fabric out of the way to find you wet and needy for him.

"Fuck," he hisses through clenched teeth.

His cock throbs in response, another bead of precum forming at the tip despite the freezing water, despite the fact that he's actively trying not to think about you. He looks down at himself - still achingly hard, heavy between his legs - and feels another wave of confused arousal crash through him that makes his knees weak.

Maybe it's just because it's been so long?

Steve tries to think back to the last time he actually took care of himself. Weeks? No, longer than that. A month at least, maybe two. He's been so focused on missions, on taking down HYDRA bases, on being Captain America, that he hasn't exactly had time for anything "extracurricular."

This is probably the longest he's gone without any kind of release since waking up from the ice.

The serum amplified everything about him, including ramping up his sex drive to levels that had taken some getting used to. Back in the forties, right after the transformation, he'd been blindsided by it. Suddenly he'd gone from Steve Rogers who could barely keep a girl's attention to someone who had urges that were damn near overwhelming.

He'd had to learn to manage it, to deal with needs that were sharper and more insistent than anything a normal man experienced. So he'd figured out his body's rhythms, what it needed, how often. Learned to take care of himself efficiently and move on. 

Except now he's apparently pushed too far, gone too long, and his enhanced biology is making its displeasure violently known.

That has to be it. Has to be why he's reacting like this. Not because something's wrong, but because he's pent up and his body is responding to deprivation the way the serum makes it respond to everything: excessively.

And you. God, you in those shorts, in his hoodie, being so sweet and domestic, had just been the trigger. The match to kindling that had been building for weeks.

It's not pervy. It's just biology. Enhanced biology, biology nonetheless. So if he just takes care of it, he'll be fine. The need will ease, his head will clear, and he can go back out there and have dinner like a normal person instead of someone who can barely look at his roommate without getting hard.

Steve's hand drifts down his stomach almost without conscious thought, and when his fingers wrap around his cock he can't stop the groan that rumbles from his chest. The touch sends electricity up his spine, pleasure so intense it's almost painful after being hard and neglected for so long. 

He strokes slowly at first, testing, and his head falls back against the tile with a dull thunk. The cold water streams over his chest but he doesn't feel it anymore. All his focus narrows to the heat building in his core, the slick slide of his fist over sensitized skin, the way his cock throbs with every stroke like it's been waiting for this. 

And in his thoughts, you're there. 

Steve's grip tightens involuntarily and he strokes faster, chasing friction, telling himself to think about something else, anything else. But his mind won't cooperate. It just keeps offering up increasingly vivid fantasies: what you'd look like without his hoodie, whether you were wearing anything under those shorts, if you'd be wet if he checked, if you ever touched yourself in your room late at night thinking about— 

"Shit—," he curses, the sound echoing off the shower tiles. 

God, what would you sound like? The question burrows into his brain and won't let go. Would you whimper? Moan his name? Would you be loud or would you try to stay quiet, biting your lip the way you do when you're concentrating? Would you beg? He thinks you might. Thinks you might say his name all breathy and desperate while he slowly thrusts into you, feeling you stretch around his cock inch by inch. 

A low groan builds in his chest and Steve has to bite down on his lip so hard that he tastes copper. You're just in the kitchen. The walls aren't that thick. And the thought of you hearing him like this should horrify him but instead it sends another bolt of heat straight through his gut.

Steve's free hand slaps against the tile, bracing himself as his knees threaten to give out.

His cock is leaking steadily now, precum making the slide slick and easy, as his hand speeds up, rhythm getting rougher, chasing the sensation. And Steve can't stop imagining it's your hand instead of his. Your smaller fingers wrapped around him, struggling to fit around his girth, looking up at him with those eyes while you learn exactly how he likes to be touched.

Or better yet, your mouth. Fuck, your mouth. Those pretty lips he'd caught himself staring at stretched around his cock, your tongue sliding along the underside, taking him deeper while he threads his fingers through your hair, guiding you, feeling your moans vibrate around him.

A strangled sound escapes his throat before he can stop it, and Steve has to sink his teeth into his shoulder to muffle it. He's so wound up, weeks of neglect and pent-up need making him hair-trigger sensitive. His hips thrust forward into his fist, searching for more friction, more pressure, chasing the orgasm building at the base of his spine with alarming speed. 

This is wrong. This is so fucking wrong. You're his friend, his roommate, someone who trusts him enough to live with him and wear his clothes and worry when he seems off. And here he is jerking off to fantasies of fucking your face. While you wait for him to come back for dinner.

But he can't stop. Can't make his mind go blank or think of anything else.

"Fuck—" His forearm isn't enough to muffle it and Steve bites down on his own arm as his orgasm slams through him. "Oh god, fuck—"

His cock pulses in his grip, and your name tears from his throat. Thick ropes of cum paint the shower wall, more than seems possible. The serum already makes him produce more than normal, but this is excessive even for him. It's almost painful in its intensity, pleasure so sharp it makes his legs shake, and he has to brace both hands against the wall to stay upright while it works through him.

For a few blissful seconds, pleasure drowns out every other sensation in his body

Then reality crashes back in, and with it comes the guilt.

Steve stares at the evidence of his release being washed away by the spray, chest heaving, and feels the shame burn through him hotter than the need had been.

"Jesus Christ," he mutters, scrubbing both hands over his face. "What the fuck is wrong with me?"

But even as guilt churns heavy in his gut, even as he tells himself he's disgusting and inappropriate and a terrible friend, he looks down and his stomach drops. He's still hard. Not just half-hard, not softening. Fully, achingly erect like he hadn't just had one of the most intense orgasms of his life. The relief he'd expected, the clarity that should have come, was nowhere to be found.

Steve stares in disbelief. The serum gives him a faster refractory period than normal, sure, but this? This isn't normal. Even for him.

He wraps a hand around himself experimentally and has to bite back a groan. The touch sends sparks through his overloaded nerves, pleasure bordering on unbearable, but underneath it the need is still there. Still clawing at his insides, unsatisfied and demanding more.

If anything, the ache in his gut feels worse now. More insistent. Like his body is genuinely angry that he came and it wasn't inside you, that it was his hand and not your body taking it, not your pussy clenching around him and milking him dry.

"No," Steve says out loud, voice hard like he's ordering a subordinate. Like he can command his own body back into line through sheer force of will. "Stop it."

This can't be just pent-up sexual frustration. Something else is happening. Something must've happened at that Hydra base. It has to that - the dust. The way it had hung in the air, gotten in his lungs, made him cough like his body was rejecting it. What if it wasn't just particulate irritation? What if HYDRA had something in that lab, some kind of bioweapon that got into his system?

Steve's jaw clenches. He should call Bruce. Should've called him an hour ago instead of convincing himself this was normal. Bruce would run tests, figure out what he'd been exposed to, synthesize a counter-agent if needed. Or Tony. Tony has access to SHIELD's entire database on HYDRA weapons, might recognize the symptoms.

But the thought of making that call, of trying to explain, "Hey, I can't stop thinking about fucking my roommate, I'm hard enough to cut diamond, and I just jerked off in the shower while moaning her name," makes him want to die. Tony would never let him live it down, would make jokes about it for the rest of Steve's natural life. 

He'd probably tell Natasha, who would tell Clint, and then the entire team would know that Captain America got dosed with some kind of HYDRA sex drug and spent the evening jerking off to thoughts of his roomate. 

Maybe it'll pass on its own. The serum processes toxins faster than a normal metabolism; whatever this is might just need time to work through his system. He can get through dinner, make some excuse about not feeling well, go to bed early. Wake up tomorrow back to normal.

Turning off the water with more force than necessary, Steve reaches for a towel. Even the act of drying off feels like too much. The terry cloth dragging across his oversensitized skin makes him grit his teeth. He manages his chest and arms with rough, perfunctory swipes, but when the towel brushes his cock he actually hisses, the sensation sharp enough to make his vision blur.

He abandons the towel halfway through, still damp, and pulls his boxers back on, hissing at the friction of fabric against sensitive skin. The compression just makes him more aware of his situation. He's tenting the boxers obscenely, the outline of his erection impossible to miss, a damp spot already forming again where he's leaking. There's no hiding this. No way to pretend everything's fine when his body is advertising exactly how not-fine he is.

And the thought of putting anything else on makes his overheated skin crawl. Maybe he could manage sweatpants. Loose ones that won't cling. And then he'll return to the kitchen, try and act normal for dinner.

Steve takes a breath that doesn't quite fill his lungs, braces himself, and opens the bathroom door.

You're in his bedroom.

Standing there with frozen peas in one hand, and a pill bottle and bottle of water in the other. The shock of it - you, here, in his space when he's barely holding himself together, when he's standing here in nothing but his boxers with his cock still straining obscenely against the fabric - roots him to the spot. Your head snaps up at the sound of the door, eyes going wide.

"Oh! Sorry, you'd been a while and you were so weird earlier and I got worried..."

The words trail off. Steve watches it happen, the way your gaze catches on his bare, dripping chest. You're trying to be subtle, he thinks, trying to make it look clinical, concerned, but there's nothing clinical about the way your focus catches on the water beaded across his chest.

Your lips part slightly as you track a single droplet running down his sternum, over the defined ridges of his abs, following its path like you're memorizing it until it disappears into the waistband of his boxers.

And then your gaze drops lower.

Steve watches your pupils dilate the moment you see what’s impossible to miss, impossible to misinterpret. Time stretches. Your breath hitches just loud enough for him to hear, and neither of you moves.

"I thought—" Your voice comes out different. Breathier. You swallow so hard he can see your throat work. "I thought these might help. For your muscles."

You hold up the peas and pills like they explain why you're in his bedroom, but your gaze hasn't moved back to his face. It's still tracking over him - shoulders, chest, the V of muscle at his hips - and Steve can see the flush creeping up your neck in real time. 

He should grab something to cover himself, should apologize, should do literally anything other than just stand there letting you look at him like that.

You start rambling now, that nervous spillover of words you do when you're flustered. "Frozen peas for the soreness, and Bruce made these painkillers specifically for your metabolism, remember? For when—"

"You didn't have to do that." His voice sounds like gravel.

"Sorry," you say quietly, and your eyes finally drag back up to his face. "I'm just… you really scared me earlier. I've never seen you like that."

The concern in your voice is palpable. But then you shift your weight and he catches the way your gaze dips again, just for a second. Your tongue darts out to wet your lips - unconscious, he's sure, but it doesn't matter because the sight of it sends heat straight through him so fast it makes his head spin.

Did you hear him? In the shower? Is that why you came to his room? Because you heard your name, heard what he was doing? The thought should mortify him. Should make him want to disappear through the floor. Instead, his cock gives an interested twitch that he knows you can see.

"Steve?" 

Your voice pulls him back. You've moved closer. When did that happen? The peas and water are on his nightstand now and you're right there, close enough that when Steve pulls in his next breath, your scent floods his senses again. But there's something else now. Something sweeter, headier, that makes his enhanced senses lock onto you like a target.

Arousal.

You're aroused. The realization slams into him with physical force. He can smell it on you, subtle but unmistakable, and every instinct in his body that's been screaming at him all evening suddenly focuses with laser precision on that single fact.

"You're still really flushed," you say, and your voice has gone soft. Worried. "And you're breathing so hard. Are you sure nothing's wrong?"

Everything's wrong. You're too close and you smell too good and he can see your pulse fluttering in your throat and all he can think about is closing that last foot of distance and finding out if you taste as good as you smell.

"I'm fine," Steve lies, and it might be the most blatant one yet.

You turn to face him fully, and the genuine worry etched in your features makes his chest tight for different reasons.

"You do so much, Stevie," you probe, and the nickname lands like a caress. "You hold so much in. You've been working so hard lately, mission after mission." You step closer and Steve's breath catches, every muscle in his body going rigid with the effort of staying still. "I'm worried about you. If there's anything I can do to help, anything at all, please tell me. I'll do it."

Anything at all.

Steve's mind immediately offers up about a dozen graphic answers to that - vivid, explicit images of exactly what you could do to help, each one more detailed than the last. He has to close his eyes against the onslaught, has to physically fight back the thoughts of your mouth on him, your body under his, the sounds you'd make if he just gave in and took what his body is screaming for. 

You don't mean it like that. You're just being kind, being a good friend, offering comfort the way you always do. You have no idea what's running through his head right now, how close he is to snapping.

"You don't—" His voice cracks and he has to clear his throat, has to force the words out. "You don't need to worry about me."

But you're not listening, or maybe you're just too concerned to care about his protests, because your hand comes up toward his face and Steve's reflexes take over before his brain can catch up. His hand shoots out and catches your wrist mid-air, and the second skin touches skin everything goes white-hot.

The touch sears through him like lightning. He can feel your pulse under his fingertips, quick and fluttering, can feel the softness of your skin, and it takes every ounce of willpower he possesses not to yank you against him right then and there.

"Let me see," you protest, and before Steve can process the words you're pulling your wrist free of his grip. A determined tug that his lust-addled brain doesn't think to resist. Both of your palms come up to cup his face, cool against his burning skin.

Steve's lungs stop working. Your hands on his jaw, your thumbs at his temples, the way you're studying him with those worried eyes while standing close enough that he can see the individual flecks of colour in your iris is obliterating what's left of his control. "Oh my god, you're burning up. Steve, you're literally…"

He can't hear the rest. Can't process words when your hands are on his face and your arousal is flooding his senses and the coil of need in his gut has pulled so tight he thinks it might actually snap him in half. All he can think about is grabbing your wrists, pulling you flush against him, finding out if your mouth tastes as good as he's imagined when he finally stops being careful and takes what he wants.

Your fingers move to his neck - checking his pulse - and Steve stops breathing entirely. His cock throbs so hard it's painful and he can feel his control dissolving like sugar in water, going from solid to nothing in seconds.

He needs. God, he needs. Needs to touch you, taste you, needs to rip those tiny shorts off and find out if you're as wet as you smell, needs to bury himself inside you until this relentless burning finally stops, needs to pin you to his bed and fuck you until you're screaming his name and all of a sudden he can't remember why he was fighting this in the first place.

"I'm calling Bruce—"

"No!"

The word comes out too loud, too violent, and Steve watches you jump. He's scaring you again and he hates it but he can't stop, can't make himself be gentle when his whole body is screaming.

"You need to leave." The words sound strangled, barely human. His control is hanging by a thread and that thread is unravelling fast. "Please. You need to go. Right now."

"What? No, Stevie, I'm not leaving when you're clearly—"

"Please." It comes out like a whine, and some distant part of Steve registers that he's begging but he's too far gone to care about pride or dignity anymore.

He takes a step back, needing distance before he does something unforgivable. "You don't—you don't understand. You need to go back to your room. Lock the door. Don't come near me."

Your expression shifts to hurt and confusion, brow furrowing in that way that makes his chest ache even through the haze of need. "Why? Steve, I just want to help!"

"You can't help with this!" Too sharp, too harsh, and he watches you flinch like he's struck you. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, just—please just go. Please."

"You're scaring me." Your voice comes out small and it kills him, absolutely kills him. "Just tell me what's wrong. Whatever it is, we can figure it out togeth—"

"I can't stop thinking about you." The confession tears out of him before he can stop it, raw and desperate and too honest. "I can't—fuck, I've been trying, I've been trying so hard to hold it together but I can't think straight and all I want—all I can think about is—"

He cuts himself off with a harsh breath but it's too late. The truth is out there now, hanging in the air between you like something physical.

You stare at him with your eyes wide, and Steve can see your chest rising and falling rapidly. Can see the exact moment his words register. The shock flickering across your face, then understanding, then something that looks dangerously close to want. Your scent spikes so sharply it makes his knees weak, that sweet arousal flooding his senses until he can barely think through it.

"Steve," you breathe, and there's something in your voice he's never heard before. Something breathless and urgent.

You take a step closer. Then another. Your hand comes up to rest against his chest, right over his hammering heart, and Steve's breath stops entirely. He can feel the tremble in your fingers, can see the way your eyes flick to his lips, and he knows with sudden, devastating certainty what you're about to do.

You push up on your toes, tilting your face toward his, close enough that he can feel your breath ghost across his lips, and Steve's last thread of control frays to nothing.

Lunging that last inch, he captures your mouth in a kiss that tries, briefly, to be gentle - some buried instinct trying for something tender, wanting to do this right. But the moment your lips part under his, a deep rumbling growl tears up from his throat and his hands are suddenly everywhere. One hand fists in your hair, gripping tight to angle your head exactly where he needs it, while the other clamps onto your waist. Tight enough that you know you'll feel the imprint of his fingers tomorrow.

God, you want to feel it tomorrow.

He yanks you flush to his body and you stumble into him with a gasp that's his undoing. Your mouth opens for him and Steve takes immediate advantage, greedy for it, greedy for every breath you'll give him, tilting his head to seal his mouth over yours properly.

His tongue sweeps past your lips to finally taste you properly, and you're even sweeter than every fantasy promised. Better than anything he imagined in that shower with his hand on his cock and your name in his throat.

When he sucks your bottom lip between his teeth and releases it slowly, you make this small wounded sound that goes straight to his cock. You feel it twitch against your stomach through the thin cotton of his boxers, and he's so big, so overwhelming, radiating heat and the salt musk smell of his sweat that makes your head spin and your thighs clench.

Heat floods his system at the knowledge that you can feel how hard he is, how much he wants you. And he knows he can't satisfy the clawing need in his gut through your mouth alone.

Steve tears himself away from your mouth and every cell in his body revolts violently like he's ripping off his own skin. A needy little protest escapes you as you chase after him without thought, lips wet and swollen and so devastatingly pretty he almost stops caring. 

"You don't," The words come out between ragged pants, his voice wrecked, barely recognizable as his own. "You don't understand." His chest heaves against yours, breath coming hard and fast as he presses his forehead to yours, hand still fisted tight in your hair because letting go simply isn't something his body knows how to do anymore. "I'm not in control right now. I don't know if I can be gentle. Don't know if I can stop once I start—"

"Then don't stop," you whisper against his lips, and your hand slides up his chest to curl around the back of his neck. "Take what you need, Steve."

And there’s no universe, no timeline where Steve Rogers could survive hearing that from your mouth, not even if he were perfectly himself. 

His last thread of restraint frays to nothing.

Steve's mouth crashes back into yours with bruising intensity, all desperate hunger and zero control. You open for him instantly, no hesitation, just pure wanting, and the primal satisfaction that rolls through his chest is almost violent in its intensity.

Then his arms slide down to grip your thighs, fingers digging into soft flesh as he hauls you up against him like you weigh nothing. You're so light in his grip, so easy to position exactly where he wants you, and the rush of it - the physical proof of how easily he can manhandle you - sends a dark thrill surging through him. Your legs wrap around his waist instinctively and your body moulds to his perfectly, soft curves yielding to hard muscle, and he can feel everything.

The frantic beat of your heart hammering against his chest. The clench of your thighs around his hips. The damp heat between your legs settling right against his cock through the layers separating you, and it makes him throb so hard he groans into your mouth.

But still, it's not enough. He needs you impossibly closer, needs to consume every inch of space between you. One hand shifts to palm your ass with a possessive squeeze that makes you whimper and roll your hips against him. It's an instinctive, needy grind that drags your core along the length of his still covered cock. 

"Steve, please," you whine against his mouth. "I need—"

Your desperation makes Steve's pupils blow completely black, swallowing the blue entirely. He turns and presses you against the wall, pinning you there with the weight of his hips, using the solid surface to hold you exactly where he wants you.

"God, I know, sweetheart. I know you do," he rasps against your neck, teeth scraping your pulse point. "Tried to be good. Tried not to think about this. But so damn sweet I can’t think straight." His hands tighten on you possessively, fingers digging into flesh. "'m gonna take care of you now, I promise. Gonna make you feel perfect. Gonna stretch you open on my cock and fill you up until you can't take anymore. Fill you up so good you'll feel me for days."

Heat curls low and tight in your belly at his filthy promise, and your body reacts instinctively, clenching around nothing so sharply that a needy little moan slips out before you can stop it. Your fingers clutch at his bare shoulders, desperate for something to anchor yourself against the overwhelming reality of finally having him like this. 

All that heated muscles under your palms, slick with sweat. He’s so much bigger like this, crowding every inch of space you have, caging you in, and your head swims with the sheer physicality of him.

But it’s the heavy, hard length of his cock grinding against you through thin cotton that nearly undoes you. Thick and insistent, pressed exactly where you’re throbbing for him, dragging against you with every subtle shift of his hips. The friction makes your breath stutter, your thighs tightening helplessly around him, trying to draw him even closer, to get more of that impossible, intoxicating pressure.

Steve moves with urgency that borders on frantic, carrying you the few steps to his bed and laying you down with slightly more care than the desperation vibrating through his body would suggest. But the second you're on the mattress, that restraint evaporates. He follows you down like he's magnetised, covering your body with his.

Heat radiates off him in waves, overwhelming, consuming. His breath fans over your cheek, uneven and ragged, and when his hips slot between yours, you feel just how hard he is. Thick, straining against the thin cotton of his boxers like he’s seconds from losing his mind entirely.

"Jesus," he groans, almost a choke, forehead dropping to your shoulder as if the contact alone might save him. "I need—sweetheart, I need you, I need you so bad."

He kisses you again, harder this time, nothing gentle left in him. His mouth is hot, frantic, stealing your breath as his hands slide over you in frantic sweeps, already pulling at your clothes. It's rougher than he intends - though he’s trying, god he’s trying - but whatever is burning through him is stronger than his control.

His hoodie is the first causality, tugged over your head and tossed aside without care for where it lands. Immediately his mouth is on your bare skin, lips and teeth working down your throat to your collarbone while his hands slide up to cup your breasts through the thin bralet. 

The delicate fabric does nothing to hide your peaked nipples straining against it, and the sight combined with the feel of them hard beneath his palms makes him groan low and desperate against your skin. His fingers hook under the elastic, pulling it up with greedy, impatient hands before it can register that he should probably slow down, be more careful with you. 

But he can't. His mouth trails lower, hot and demanding as he sucks one nipple between his lips, tongue circling the sensitive peak before his teeth graze it lightly, teasing. Your fingers thread into his hair, tugging. He groans at the sting of it and sucks harder, alternating between your breasts with ravenous attention. Licking, sucking, nipping until both nipples are peaked and glistening with his spit, until you're squirming beneath him and making those breathy little sounds that drive him insane.

His hand palms and kneads the soft flesh while his mouth works, and every arch of your back, every tug on his hair, every whining plea that falls from your lips just winds him tighter. Normally could spend hours here, mapping every response, learning exactly what makes you fall apart.

But it's not enough right now. None of it is enough.

The need burning through Steve's veins is almost painful now, an ache so deep and consuming he can barely think past it. He needs more. Needs all of you. Needs to be inside you with an urgency that's rapidly shredding what little control he has left. 

His mouth trails down your stomach, open-mouthed kisses that quickly become bites, small sucks that leave wet heat on your skin. He’s losing the thread of gentleness entirely, hands already at your shorts, fumbling with the waistband for half a second before impatience overrides coordination entirely.

He doesn't mean to - or maybe he does, he can't think straight enough to know - but his enhanced strength rips through the fabric like tissue paper, taking your panties with it. The startled sound you make is half protest, half arousal, because the ease of it, the sheer strength, makes heat pulse between your legs.

"Steve—!"

"I'm sorry, sweetheart," he rasps into your skin as he chucks the ruined scraps aside. "I'm sorry, I'll replace them, I promise, I just—" His hands grip your thighs, spreading them wider for him. "I need—I can't—"

But the words die in his throat completely because the sight of your pussy, slick and glistening for him, combined with your scent flooding his heightened senses, makes something in Steve's brain simply stop working. Every coherent thought evaporates, consumed by primal need. He's gone. Completely lost to whatever's burning through his veins. 

All that exists is the need to taste you, claim you, bury himself so deep inside you that he forgets where he ends and you begin.

"Look at you," Steve breathes, tongue flicking out to wet his bottom lip absently, like he can already taste you. "So fucking pretty and wet for me." 

His biceps flex as he drags you down the bed effortlessly, hauling you closer with enough strength that a startled gasp tears from your throat. Your thighs end up over those broad shoulders and he settles between your legs like he's exactly where he's meant to be. His breath ghosts hot over where you're aching for him and you arch involuntarily, seeking and retreating all at once.

He's staring at your exposed pussy with an intensity that borders on feral, like you're something he wants to devour. Like's he's been starving for you longer than he'll admit.

Your cheeks burn. Heat pools low in your stomach as you try to squirm away under the intensity of his gaze, suddenly hyperaware of how exposed you are despite how desperately you want this.

"Don't," he growls against your folds, the word a dark, commanding rasp in a tone you've never heard from him before but makes heat flash down your spine.

His arms clamp tighter around your thighs, spreading you wider, pinning you in place easily. Utterly at his mercy. The possessive dominance of his grip steals what little breath you have left.

Then his mouth seals over you and any coherent thought you have dissolves into nothing. There's no teasing; whatever's burning through Steve's veins has burned away every shred of patience. He buries his face between your thighs and devours you like a man who'll die without his mouth on every inch of you. 

His tongue drags through your folds in one long, devastating stroke that punches a broken cry from your chest that you barely recognize as your own voice. Steve's answering moan is one of pure relief, rumbling from deep in his chest and vibrating against your cunt. Your hips buck helplessly in his arms as he licks and sucks with focused, consuming desperation, and within seconds you're gasping his name. 

Broad strokes of his tongue work through your slick folds, greedy in his pursuit of your pleasure and you're writhing against him, biceps flexing to keep you where he wants you. He finds your clit and sucks it between his lips with perfect pressure, circling the swollen bud with his tongue, and you grind against him shamelessly, fingers twisted so tight in his hair it has to hurt.

But Steve just groans his encouragement and you feel it everywhere, feel the way he's grinding against the mattress below seeking his own friction, aching for a bit of relief from the pressure, while he loses himself completely in the taste of you.

God, the sight of him. All flushed skin and flexing muscle, sweat making his broad shoulders gleam, chin glistening obscenely with your arousal. And those perfect plush lips are pink and swollen now, parted around another appreciative moan that makes you clench around nothing. His eyes are closed like he's savouring you, and when they flutter open to meet yours they're so dark and blown wide with need it sends another pulse of heat straight through you.

The flat of his tongue drags up again, licking up through your folds before spearing inside, and the obscene wet sounds of it mix with your gasping moans and his rough growls. One of his hands shifts from your thigh to spread you wider with his thumb, opening you up so he can fuck you with his tongue properly while his nose grinds against your clit.

The combination makes your back arch violently, pleasure spiking so sharp and quickly it's overwhelming.

"Steve—fuck—Steve, oh my god—" The words tumble out incoherent, your brain shorting out under the onslaught.

But he doesn't slow down. If anything, your babbling spurs him on. Two thick fingers slide into you, curling immediately to stroke that devastating spot while his tongue works in tight, merciless circles.You're shaking now, thighs trembling uncontrollably in his bruising grip, that coil winding tighter and tighter until you think you'll actually break apart from it.

"Need you to come," he rasps against you, and there's desperation in his voice that matches the frantic grinding of his hips against the bed, like making you come is the only thing keeping him tethered to sanity. "Please, sweet girl, need to have it."

The raw pleading in his voice is what does it. That broken desperation, the way he's begging you like he needs this more than air, sends you over the edge so hard and fast you don't even have time to warn him.

Your orgasm crashes through you like a tidal wave, violent and all-consuming. Your back arches clean off the bed, thighs clamping around Steve's head as you cry out his name - or try to, the sound coming out more like a broken sob. White-hot pleasure explodes through your nerve endings, radiating out from where his mouth is still working you relentlessly, and you can't breathe, can't think, can't do anything except shake apart in his grip.

But Steve doesn't let up. He keeps his mouth sealed over you, licking and sucking like he wants to devour every aftershock, like he's trying to pull more from you even as you're already flying apart. It's too much, bordering on overwhelming, but when you try to squirm away his arms lock you down harder.

"Stevie—'s too much—I can't—"

He finally pulls back just enough to press open-mouthed kisses to your inner thighs, your hipbones, working his way up your body as you try to remember how to breathe. His hands roam restlessly over your skin and when he reaches your face his lips are glistening, hair dishevelled from your grip, face flushed and chest heaving.

"Perfect, you're so fucking perfect," he rasps against your mouth, kissing you deeply enough that you taste yourself on his tongue. "But I need to be in you, need it more than I've ever needed anything." His hips grind against you unconsciously, the hard length of him pressing insistently through his boxers, now soaked through. "Need it so bad I can't think, can't breathe. Please, pretty girl, need you so bad I'm losing my mind—"

He's already moving, pushing himself up just enough to shove his boxers down with shaking hands. The elastic catches on his cock and he makes a frustrated sound, yanking the fabric down his thighs and kicking them off entirely. When he springs free, your breath catches.

He's big. Thick and flushed dark, curving up toward his stomach with prominent veins running along the length. The head is already leaking, a bead of precum glistening at the tip, and he's so hard it looks almost painful. Your eyes widen involuntarily as your brain tries to process how that's supposed to fit inside you.

Steve notices your stare, follows your gaze down, and a sound rumbles from his chest that's pure male satisfaction. The visual does something to him, you can see it in the way his pupils dilate even further, the way his jaw clenches, the way the muscle ticks. How much bigger he is than you, how easily he could manhandle you, how small and vulnerable you look pinned beneath all that muscle and raw strength.

"It'll fit," he promises, voice rough and absolutely certain despite the tremor in his hands. He settles between your thighs, caging you in completely with his body, surrounding you with heat and want. "I know I'm big, sweetheart, but you can take me, 'm gonna make sure you do."

One hand drops between your bodies and the thick head of his cock drags through your folds, gathering your slick, and the sensation punches a desperate sound from both of you. Each time he rocks forward your hips chase the friction instinctively.

His mouth finds your neck, lips and tongue working over your pulse before he sucks with an impatience that you know will bruise. You gasp and tilt your head without thinking, offering more, and Steve groans his approval against your skin. Teeth scrape over the sensitive tendon before biting down hard enough to make you whimper, and he soothes the sting with his tongue only to move lower and do it again. Marking you deliberately. Claiming you.

He keeps talking in between - words tumbling out of him like he’s not even talking to you anymore, just spilling whatever delirious need is consuming him.

“Fuck…'m gonna stretch this pretty little pussy open on my cock,” he babbles, almost dazed, eyes locked on where he’s lining himself up with you. “Fill you up so good… so fucking full. You'll feel me for days, sweetheart. Days. Gonna make sure you never forget what it feels like to have me inside you."

He's so hot and hard against you, and when he notches himself at your entrance - just the tip of him pressing in - and even that has you whimpering at the stretch. Your arms fly up to wrap around his neck, nails digging into his shoulders as you try to anchor yourself against the overwhelming sensation.

Oh god—Steve—" It comes out high and shaky, almost a whine. "Please—"

The plea tears from your throat but you don't even know what you're begging for. For him to go slower? For more? For relief from the burning stretch that's somehow perfect and too much all at once?

"I know, baby, I know," Steve coos against your throat, pressing kisses between words, and there's that desperation threading through his voice again. "Shh, I've got you, pretty girl. Just breathe for me."

But even as he's soothing you his hips press forward incrementally, working himself deeper, and you can feel every thick inch as he pushes in and your body struggles to accommodate him. The stretch burns and you bury your face against his neck with a sound that's embarrassingly close to a sob.

"Wait—Steve, you're too big, I can't—"

"You can," he pants, his voice is strained, shaking with the monumental effort of going slow when everything in him is screaming to just thrust home, to bury himself completely in your wet heat. "You're doing so good f'me. So fucking good. Just a little more—fuck—just need you to take a little more."

His hands grip your hips tight enough to bruise, holding you still while he rocks forward another inch. You're so full already and he's not even halfway in yet, your body struggling to accommodate the sheer size of him, and the whine that tears from your throat makes him groan and press his forehead to yours.

"That's it, that's it," Steve breathes, kissing your jaw, your cheek, your temple - anywhere he can reach. "I know it's a lot, baby. But you're taking me so perfect. Look how good you're opening up for me." Another shallow thrust and you whimper against his mouth, nails raking down his back. "You're doing so perfect. Gonna make you feel so good, I promise. Just let me in, baby. Let me fill this tight little pussy up like you need."

The combination of his words and the relentless stretch is overwhelming in a way that makes your head spin and your nerve endings spark. Your body reacts instinctively, walls clenching tight around the thick length of him already inside you.

Feeling your wet cunt constrict around hi breaks whatever fragile restraint Steve had left. With a low, guttural sound he slams the rest of the way in, burying himself to the hilt in one brutal thrust that punches the air from your lungs.

The cry that rips from you is sharp and broken - pain and pleasure so intense they're indistinguishable, blurring together into something that has you arching violently against him. You're so full you can barely breathe, stretched impossibly wide around him, and the sensation is so overwhelming you almost come from that alone. 

Your walls flutter and clench around his length, desperately trying to adjust to the sheer size of him. Tears spring to your eyes, spilling over to track down your cheeks.

"Fuck—I'm sorry, I'm sorry—" Steve's voice cracks as he kisses frantically at your tears, lips pressing to your cheeks, your eyelids, the corner of your mouth. "I'm so sorry, pretty girl, I didn't mean to—you just felt so good, I couldn't—"

But even as he's apologizing his hips are already moving, pulling back and rocking into you with needy thrusts. He's not giving you time to adjust, can't seem to stop himself, his body operating on pure need now.

"So tight," he gasps against your skin. "So fucking perfect around me. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I just need—" Another thrust, deeper this time, and you sob against his shoulder. "Need you so bad. Can't stop. Please tell me you're okay, please."

You try to speak. Try to form words through the overwhelming sensation of being so impossibly full but your brain can't form coherent words. All that escapes is a pathetic, whimpering "Stevie." 

It's all you can manage before he shifts his hips slightly, angling deeper, and on the very next thrust the blunt head of his cock grinds right against your g-spot.

Pleasure detonates through you so suddenly you can't even cry out, mouth falling open on a silent gasp as he thrusts into you again. Your eyes fly wide, a shocked gasp tearing from your throat as white-hot sensation explodes through every nerve ending.

You're coming before your brain can even register it's happening. Two thrusts, maybe three, and your orgasm rips through you like lightning.

Your whole body seizes, cunt clamping down violently around his cock as you gush around him, soaking his length and making the slide obscenely wet. The sounds falling from your lips are helpless and incoherent, your back arching clean off the bed as wave after wave of pleasure shorts out your brain completely.

"Fuck—oh fuck, that's it, that's it—" Steve's voice breaks on a groan as your walls spasm around him. "Good girl, such a good fucking girl, coming all over my cock—"

You can't breathe, can't think, can't do anything except convulse in his arms while your pussy milks his cock with desperate, rhythmic pulses that has Steve following you over the edge. With a guttural snarl he buries himself as deep as he can go as his cock throbs inside you, pulsing violently as the first rope of cum floods your pussy. Then another. And another. And it doesn't stop.

"Fuck—oh fuck!" Steve's voice breaks on a groan, hips grinding into you as he empties himself, and there's so much. Too much. Your walls are coated, flooded, completely painted white with his release, and he just keeps coming. Spurt after thick spurt filling you beyond capacity until you can actually feel it. Hot and excessive and so overwhelming your body can't contain it all.

"Steve—Steve—oh god." You try to squirm away instinctively, whimpering at the overwhelming sensation of being pumped so full. "I can't—there's too much, I can't—"

But Steve's hands lock onto your hips like a vice, fingers digging in bruisingly as he holds you in place and grinds you down harder onto his cock, forcing you to take more.

"Shh, shh, you can," he hushes against your neck, pushes you down harder onto him, forcing himself impossibly deeper even as his cock continues pulsing, and more cum floods into you. "You can take it, sweetheart. Take all of it. Every fucking drop, just a little more."

Cum starts leaking out around the thick base of him, even though he's still buried deep, still pulsing, still pumping more into you. It spills out of you despite how tightly your pussy is stretched around his length, dripping down your ass and pooling on the sheets beneath you.

"Please," You're babbling now, tears flowing freely as you shake your head helplessly. "Steve, please, 's so much, I'm so full." 

"Fuck, you're dripping with it," Steve pants against your neck, hips still rocking through the aftershocks, trying to fuck his cum further into your already overflowing pussy. "Taking all of it. Every drop. Knew you could. Knew this sweet pussy was made for me, pretty girl." 

His cock gives another violent pulse and you whimper helplessly, completely stuffed, cum sloshing inside you with every tiny shift of his hips.

Your limbs feel boneless, trembling with aftershocks, and you expect him to soften now, to give you both a moment to recover. But Steve doesn't slow down. Doesn't even pause. His cock is still rock-hard inside you and his hips keep moving - pulling back and thrusting in with the same urgent intensity, maybe even more now that you're slick with both your release and his excessive cum.

A broken whimper falls from your lips as oversensitized nerves spark with each thrust. You're so full, so overwhelmed, you can barely process that he's still going, still hard, still needing.

"I know, baby, I know—I'm sorry," He sounds almost pained, teeth scraping over your pulse point before biting down. "I'm sorry, I can't—fuck, just need one more from you—just one more, yeah? Need to feel this perfect pussy clench around me again. Can you do that for me? Please, baby, just one more."

His rhythm picks up, hips snapping forward with primal desperation. You can barely nod, can barely do anything except take it as he pounds into you, the wet obscene sounds of his cum squelching with every thrust filling the room alongside your breathless whimpers and his desperate groans.

But it's still not enough for him. With a frustrated snarl Steve pulls back, and before you can even whine at the loss of him, he's grabbing your legs, pushing them up and back. Your knees press to your chest as he folds you completely in half, and when he sinks back in this new angle has you seeing stars.

"Oh god—" The broken cry tears from your throat as he sinks back in, and he's so much deeper like this. Impossibly deeper.

"That's it—yes," Steve's voice is guttural as he starts moving again. "Need to get deeper, need to—fuck, you feel that? Feel how deep I am?"

You're completely pinned beneath him, folded in half and utterly helpless, unable to do anything but take the brutal pace he sets. The new position has gravity working against you too, his weight pressing you into the mattress, and you're babbling - words tumbling out that don't even make sense.

"Can't—oh god, Stevie, you're—'s too deep, I can't—fuck—s'good—please."

Your hands scrabble frantically at his back, nails digging in and dragging down, leaving angry red crescents that make him hiss and thrust harder.

Sweat drips from his temples onto your chest, your neck, and he leans down to lick it off with a groan, tongue dragging over your heated skin. His hips never stop that relentless grinding, working himself as deep as physics will allow. Driven by something beyond his control to keep fucking into your used, dripping pussy like his life depends on it.

"Taking me so well," he pants into your neck between messy kisses. "Look at you, so good for me. Letting me use this perfect cunt."

One of Steve's hands snakes down between your bodies, finding your clit, and the second his thumb makes contact you cry out - sharp and broken - because you're so oversensitive, swollen and puffy from two orgasms already

"Steve—no, I can't—can't again, 's too much."

"You can," he insists, and his fingers start circling that abused bundle of nerves with just enough pressure. "Can feel you getting tighter already. You're gonna come for me again, pretty girl. Need to feel you squeeze my cock one more time, please."

The stimulation is so intense you need to escape it. Every muscle in your body wants to flee the overwhelming sensation, but pinned beneath him like this there's nowhere to go, no way to twist away. You're utterly trapped, unable to do anything but take it. Take his cock pounding into you and his thumb working mercilessly over your puffy clit until pleasure starts building again despite your body's protests.

"Oh god, oh my god—Steve please." You're sobbing now, tears streaming as sensation builds too fast, too intense.

But your body betrays you. The combination of his fingers and his cock and being trapped beneath him with nowhere to go builds faster than should be possible when you're this wrung out. Your pussy flutters around him, clenching weakly, and Steve groans like it's the best thing he's ever felt.

"That's it, come on, give it to me."

And you do. Your third orgasm rips through you with less intensity than the others but somehow more devastating because you're so oversensitive every nerve ending feels raw. You clench around him with a broken sob, thighs shaking violently where they're pressed to your chest.

But this time when you come down, gasping and trembling, Steve doesn't stop. Doesn't even slow down. If anything he gets more frantic, more desperate, like your orgasm just made the need worse instead of better. 

His rhythm gets more erratic, more brutal, like he's chasing something just out of reach and it's driving him insane.

"Not deep enough," he mutters, almost to himself, and there's genuine frustration in his voice. "Still not—fuck—need more, need—"

Without warning he pulls out completely, ignoring your confused whimper, and his hands are on you - gripping, lifting. You barely process what's happening before you're airborne, completely off the bed, and Steve is standing with you in his arms like you weigh nothing.

"Wrap your legs around me," he orders, voice rough, and you obey on complete instinct, the words not even processing in your brain. The moment you do he's lining himself up and pulling back you down onto his cock with brutal force.

The angle is devastating. Gravity works against you, impaling you on his full length, and the depth has you choking on a scream. You can feel him everywhere, so deep and stretching you in ways that shouldn't be possible.

"There—fuck yes, there." Steve's head falls back on a guttural moan as he starts using you, biceps bulging as he fucks you on his cock like you're a toy made for his pleasure. Lifting you up and pulling you back down with ease that should be terrifying but instead has you clenching around him.

You're completely helpless, just a ragdoll as he manhandles you exactly how he needs. Your hands scrabble desperately at his shoulders for any kind of stability. Every time he pulls you down gravity does half the work, driving him impossibly deeper, and all you can do is take it. You can't form words anymore, just needy little sounds as he uses your body. 

Your brain is completely gone, drunk on the feeling of him, on being so full, on the obscene wet sounds of his cum leaking out with every brutal thrust and dripping down both of you to splatter on the floor.

"Look at you," Steve rasps, eyes wild as they lock onto where you're joined, watching himself disappear into you over and over. "Fucking look at you taking my cock. So small I can just—" He emphasizes with a particularly brutal drop that has you wailing. "Use you however I want."

Your thighs are shaking violently, muscles screaming, but it doesn't matter because Steve's holding you up effortlessly. Using his strength to fuck you on him at whatever pace he wants, and right now he wants it hard and fast and deep.

"Steve—fuck—oh god, oh god." You're babbling, tears streaming, completely cock-drunk and overwhelmed.

"Shh, I know, I know," he coos even as he doesn't slow down at all. "But you're doing so good f'me. My perfect girl, letting me use this tight little cunt. Can feel myself in your stomach, can you feel it? Feel how deep I am?"

You can only whine in response, completely overwhelmed, pleasure bordering on too much but your body keeps responding, keeps clenching around him like it can't help itself.

The last of your strength gives out entirely. Your head lolls against his shoulder, too heavy to hold up anymore, and you're just gone. Completely boneless in his grip, every muscle turned to liquid, unable to do anything except let him use you exactly how he needs. Arms hanging limply around his neck, your legs barely maintain their grip around his waist; if it weren't for Steve's hands on you, you'd slide right off him.

"Can't—can't—Stevie I can't." The words slur together, muffled against the sweat-slick skin of his neck, your brain too fried to form anything coherent.

"I know, baby, I know, almost there." Steve assures, his rhythm getting choppier as he gets closer. "Just a little more, need—fuck—need to fill you up one more time."

His muscles flex and strain as he bounces you faster, using you like you're weightless, like you're nothing but a warm sleeve for his cock. The wet sounds are obscene - cum and slick squelching with every brutal thrust.

You're not even moaning anymore, just making these small broken sounds with every impact, completely and utterly spent. But your body still responds, still clenches weakly around him when he hits that spot deep inside.

"That's it, that's—fuck—" Steve's breath hitches and his grip on you turns almost painful. "Gonna—fuck, I'm gonna—"

His hips slam up one final time, burying himself as deep as gravity and anatomy allow, and then he's coming with a snarl, sinking his teeth into your shoulder. His cock pulses violently inside you and somehow - somehow - there's still more. 

Hot thick ropes of cum flooding into your already overfull pussy, and you can actually feel this time, the way it has nowhere left to go, just gushing back out around his length to run down your thighs, down his, pooling on the floor. It's insane. He's already filled you once and yet he's still pumping more into you, his body shuddering with the force of it, and you can only mewl meakly against his throat as he empties himself completely.

His hips slow gradually, the frantic rhythm finally easing as his cock gives one last weak pulse inside you. Steve's breathing is ragged against your hair, chest heaving, but something shifts - you can feel it in the way his grip on you gentles, the way the manic edge bleeds out of his muscles.

The burning under his skin that's been driving him insane for hours finally starts to fade. His temperature drops, the desperate clawing need loosening its grip on his chest, and for the first time since he walked through that door he can actually think.

His cock softens inside you, and the relief that floods through him is so intense it's almost dizzying.

"Shit," he breathes, and his voice sounds like his own again. Clearer. "Oh god, sweetheart, I—"

You make a weak, mewling sound against his neck and Steve's heart clenches with immediate guilt. You're completely limp in his arms, trembling, and guilt crashes through him so hard it nearly takes him to his knees.

"Hey, hey, I've got you," he murmurs, voice going soft and gentle as he carefully lowers himself to sit on the edge of the bed with you still in his lap. His hands, which had been bruising just minutes ago, turn tender as they stroke up and down your back. "You're okay. I've got you now, baby."

He's still buried inside you and he knows pulling out is going to be uncomfortable, so he takes his time. One hand comes up to cradle the back of your head, fingers threading gently through your sweat-damp hair, while the other supports your back.

"Gonna pull out now, okay?" He waits for some sign you've heard him - a tiny nod against his shoulder - before carefully lifting you just enough to slip free. You mewl at the loss, at the feeling of his cum immediately starting to leak out of you, and Steve makes a soothing sound. "I know, I know. I'm sorry, baby. Just let me take care of you now."

He shifts you in his arms, cradling you against his chest like you're something precious, and presses a kiss to your temple. His heart is still racing but it's slowing now, the frantic edge gone, replaced with bone-deep exhaustion and worry.

"You still with me?" he asks softly, pulling back just enough to look at your face.

With gentle fingers, Steve brushes the strands of hair plastered to your sweat-damp forehead, tucking them behind your ear with a tenderness that's almost painful after the brutality of moments before. Your head lolls without the support, too heavy for your exhausted muscles, so his hand slides down to cup your chin, thumb stroking your jaw as he carefully tilts your face up to meet his gaze.

"Look at me, sweetheart," he murmurs, voice barely above a whisper. "Need to see those pretty eyes."

Your lashes flutter, and when you finally manage to focus on him, Steve's chest constricts painfully. Your eyes are glassy, still wet with tears that cling to your lashes, pupils blown wide and unfocused in a way that speaks to exactly how far gone you are. The cloudiness there, the fucked-out haze, it's beautiful and devastating all at once.

Another wave of guilt crashes through him so hard he has to close his eyes briefly against it.

Keeping one hand cupped under your jaw to support your head, he reaches blindly for the nightstand with the other, fingers finding the water bottle you'd brought for him earlier - back when you'd been worried about him, before he'd lost complete control. The thoughtfulness of that gesture, the care you'd shown him, makes his throat tight.

"Gonna get you some water, okay?" He uncaps the bottle one handed, bringing it carefully to your lips. "Small sips, sweetheart. Just a little."

You make a small sound of protest, like even that is too much effort, but he persists gently.

"I know you're tired. But you need it, pretty girl." He tips the bottle carefully, supporting your head with his other hand, and relief floods through him when you part your lips and take a small sip.

The cool water touches your lips and you drink instinctively, slow and uncoordinated, and Steve watches with laser focus to make sure you don't choke. Some of it spills down your chin and he wipes it away with his thumb, murmuring praise the entire time.

"That's it. Good girl. Just a little more."

He coaxes a few more sips into you, before setting the bottle aside. And then his hands start hovering over you like he's not quite sure where to touch, if he should touch. The contrast between how he'd been manhandling you minutes ago and this careful hesitation would be almost funny if the guilt wasn't eating him alive.

"What do you need?" he asks quietly, and there's an edge of desperation to it. "I can—do you want food? A bath? I should probably get you cleaned up." His thumb strokes almost absently along your jaw, the only point of contact he seems to allow himself. "Just tell me what you need, sweetheart. Anything. I'll give you anything."

There's an edge of desperation in the offer, like he's trying to make up for everything, trying to fix what he broke.

With what little strength you have left, you burrow closer into his chest, nose finding the warm curve of his neck, and the small movement seems to surprise him. Your breath ghosts over his skin as you mumble, words slurred with exhaustion but unmistakable. 

"Jus' want you," you mumble against his throat, words slurring together. "Don' go."

Steve goes very still. Then something in him seems to unlock, the tension bleeding out of his shoulders, the frantic worry in his eyes softening into something almost reverent. His arms finally wrap around you properly. Securely. Like he's allowed to hold you now.

"Okay," he murmurs, voice rough with emotion. "Okay, baby, I've got you."

Carefully, like you're something infinitely precious, he shifts you both down onto the bed. He rolls onto his side and gathers you against him, pulling you flush to his chest with one arm wrapped securely around your waist and the other sliding up to cradle your head. You immediately melt into him with a soft, appreciative sound that's almost a purr, and Steve feels some of the horrible tension finally start to ease.

"That's it," Steve whispers, pressing a gentle kiss to your temple. "I've got you, pretty girl. Not going anywhere."

His hand trails down from your hair to stroke along your thigh with soothing, repetitive motions. Soft and steady, like he's trying to ground you both. Another kiss to your forehead, then your closed eyelids, his lips lingering there as you start to drift.

"Sleep, sweetheart," he murmurs against your skin. "I'll be right here when you wake up. Promise."

You make another small sound, already halfway gone, and Steve tightens his arms around you. As your breathing evens out and your body goes completely slack against him, Steve presses his face into your hair and tries not to think too hard about what happens when you wake up. Tries not to wonder if you'll regret this, regret him. 

He should probably be planning how to explain what happened. How to apologize for losing control. How to convince you this wasn't just whatever got into his system, that he's wanted you for months, that this meant something.

But exhaustion is pulling at him too, and you're so warm in his arms, and he's too tired to fight the way his body wants to curl around yours like he can keep the world out if he just holds on tight enough.

He'll figure it out in the morning.

For now, he just holds you closer and lets himself have this - your warmth, your weight, your trust - even if it's the only time he gets it.

more mads: thank you so much for reading this absolute filth fest (like… 7k of it is smut. i’m unwell.). i hope you loved it!! if you did, please hit like or, even better, please consider leaving a comment/reblog bc it would genuinely make me grin like an idiot. my leo moon means i will literally perish without external validation. i’m tinkerbell coded. love u <33 p.s. i hope someone got the panic! at the disco reference in the title 🙂‍↕️

taglist: @juniebjonesin @heldbybarnes @/love-stucky @badbitchsincebirth05 @phoenix-in-writing @tw1sters @blowingbarnes @sassandscribbles @alpinebarnesworld @sheriff-bodecker @buckybsdoll - if you’d like to be added to my taglist, please leave comment here!

[bkchron]

SIDELINES

Pairing Bucky Barnes x Reader

Word Count 2.2 k

Note I love jealous Bucky. Gives me life. Gives me serotonin.

Bucky gets shot on a mission he insists was nothing.

It’s not nothing.

The bullet tears through his thigh during an extraction gone sideways—bad intel, too many hostiles, one second of distraction because he clocked you behind him and thought, stupidly, I’ve got her. The pain barely registers until his leg buckles mid-step and suddenly the ground is coming up too fast.

He still finishes the mission. Of course he does. He always does.

But by the time you’re back at the compound, he’s bleeding through the tactical wrap and trying way too hard to look fine. You notice immediately. You always do.

“Bucky,” you say, already moving toward him, hand hovering near his arm like you’re not sure you’re allowed to touch him when he's in pain because you've never seen him this way, “You’re limping.”

“I’m not.” he lies, jaw tight.

Steve doesn’t even argue. One look at the blood and it’s over. Medical. No discussion. Bucky protests just long enough to make it obvious how much it scares him to be benched—how much it scares him to be away from you.

The verdict is brutal in its simplicity. Someone took their time fabricating bullets to injure him and Steve, resulting in fractured femur, muscle damage, weeks of recovery. No fieldwork.

Bucky takes it silently, staring at the floor like he’s already calculating how useless he’s about to feel.

You stay with him until med forces you out.

“You’ll be fine,” you tell him softly, squeezing his hand once before you leave. “I’ll check on you.”

He nods, but there’s something in his eyes then—something unsettled, like he’s already imagining all the things that could happen while he’s not there to see them.

Two days later, Steve calls you into the briefing room.

“Temporary reassignment,” he says, too casual. “Until Buck is cleared.”

Your stomach drops. “Reassignment with who?”

The door opens like it’s timed for maximum damage.

Agent Jameson Cole.

Tall. Dark hair. That stupid, easy grin that says I know I’m charming and I’m going to use it. He looks you up and down openly, not even pretending otherwise.

“Well,” he says, extending a hand. “Guess I hit the jackpot.” He smiles at you with something you clearly see can be his flirty smile. “You can call me James or Jamie.” He says.

You shake it, polite but guarded. “Yeah, no. I’ll call you Cole, I already have my James, my Jamie.” You say, polite smile on your face. “I’m sure Bucky is gonna be thrilled.”

Steve grimaces. You don’t miss it.

Bucky finds out by accident.

He’s halfway down the hall with a cane when he hears your laugh—lighter than it’s been since the mission. It stops him cold. He follows the sound like it physically pulls at him, and then he sees you.

You’re in the gym. Sparring mat. Cole is standing way too close, adjusting your stance, his hands lingering at your hips longer than necessary. He says something low, something that makes you roll your eyes but smile anyway.

Bucky’s chest tightens so fast it almost hurts worse than his leg.

He knows, rationally, that you’re allowed to have other partners. Friends. Coworkers. That he never said anything—never claimed anything.

But watching another man’s hands on you makes something ugly and possessive coil in his stomach.

Cole glances up and spots him.

“Oh,” he says, grin widening. “You must be Bucky. Heard a lot about you.”

Bucky doesn’t offer his hand. Doesn’t smile. Just nods once.

“You call me Barnes and just try not to get her killed.” Bucky says flatly.

You freeze. “Bucky.”

Cole laughs like it’s a joke. “Relax, man. I’ll take real good care of her.”

The way he says it—easy, suggestive—makes Bucky’s jaw clench so hard it aches.

You come back bruised, adrenaline high, talking about close calls and perfect teamwork. Cole always has a comment. A wink. A hand brushing your arm when he passes you a bottle of water.

The missions are torture.

Bucky watches it all from the sidelines, helpless and burning.

He starts skipping physical therapy. Starts pushing himself too hard, too fast, until med yells at him and Steve gives him that look—the disappointed captain one.

“What’s going on with you?” Steve asks quietly one night.

Bucky doesn’t answer right away. Just stares out the window, jaw tight.

“You didn’t have to assign him.” he mutters.

Steve exhales. “You don’t get to choose your replacement.”

Bucky turns then, eyes sharp. “I didn’t need a replacement.”

Steve softens. “You needed to heal.”

“And she needed—what?” His voice cracks despite his effort. “Someone else?”

Steve says nothing. That silence says everything.

You knock on Bucky’s door, still in mission gear, hair damp from the rain outside. He opens it shirtless, a faint grimace crossing his face when he shifts his weight.

The breaking point comes late.

“Hey,” you say softly. “You okay?”

He steps aside to let you in without a word.

You talk. About the mission. About Cole almost blowing your cover and how annoying his flirting is getting. You don’t notice how Bucky’s hands clench at his sides.

“He’s harmless,” you shrug. “Just… a lot.”

Bucky laughs, humorless. “Doesn’t seem harmless to me.”

You look at him then—really look at him. The tension. The jealousy he’s been pretending not to feel.

“What’s going on?” you ask quietly.

He exhales, runs a hand through his hair. “I don’t like seeing him with you.”

Your heart stutters. “Jamie—”

“I know,” he interrupts. “We’re friends. That’s it. I don’t get a say.”

You step closer. “Is that really what you think this is?”

He swallows. “It’s what it has to be. Because if I start wanting more—” His voice drops. “I don’t know how to stop.”

Silence stretches between you, thick and electric.

You close the distance.

“Then don’t.” you whisper.

His breath hitches. His hand comes up like he’s not sure he’s allowed to touch you—and then you’re kissing him, slow at first, then desperate, months of tension collapsing into heat.

It’s messy. It’s hungry. It’s in the way that comes from too much restraint finally snapping. His hands grip you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish, his mouth rough against yours as if he needs to prove something—to himself, to the world.

When he finally pulls back, forehead resting against yours, his voice is wrecked.

“I lost my damn mind,” he admits. “Thinking about you with him.”

You smile softly, thumb brushing his jaw. “Good. Because I was losing mine watching you pretend you didn’t care.”

He laughs, breathless, then kisses you again—this time slower, deeper, like he finally understands what he’s been holding back.

Cole notices immediately. The way Bucky’s hand rests at your lower back. The way you don’t pull away.

The next day, you walk into the briefing room together.

“Well,” Cole says, raising his hands. “Guess I missed something.”

Bucky doesn’t even look at him. Just squeezes you closer.

“Yeah,” he says calmly. “You did.”

Steve watches from the table, pretending not to smile.

The physical therapy room smells like antiseptic and rubber mats, and every stretch reminds him of how fragile he still is. His leg aches in that deep, maddening way that says not yet. The therapists are patient. He is not.

Bucky’s recovery is hell—not because of the pain, but because of the waiting.

What makes it worse is that you’re busy.

You stop by, yeah. You always do. Coffee in hand, leaning against the doorframe, filling him in on missions in a way that’s careful—not too detailed, like you’re afraid of reminding him he’s not there. He notices the way you’re glowing with adrenaline when you come straight from the field. Notices the faint bruises. Notices how often you say Cole’s name without meaning to.

“He almost blew our cover today,” you say once, rolling your eyes as you sit on the edge of his bed. “Too cocky. A big idiot.”

Bucky hums noncommittally, fingers tightening in the sheets.

“You should’ve seen his face when I corrected him.” you add, smiling.

Bucky smiles back. It doesn’t reach his eyes.

At night, alone, he replays images he wishes he hadn’t seen: Cole’s hand on the middle of your back. The way Cole leans in when he talks to you. The way you don’t shove him away—because why would you? You’re professional. Friendly. You’ve always been like that.

But now Bucky knows what it feels like to have you in his arms. To kiss you like he’s starving. To fall asleep with your weight against his chest and wake up calmer than he’s been in decades.

Knowing makes it worse.

It’s subtle. He’s not stupid.

Cole makes his move two weeks later.

You’re in the common room, late evening, post-mission exhaustion heavy in your bones. You’re alone, scrolling through your phone, waiting for Bucky to finish PT so you can walk him back to his room like you’ve started doing—your quiet little routine.

Cole drops onto the couch beside you, close enough that his thigh presses into yours.

“You always this tense after a mission?” he asks, voice low, easy.

You sigh. “I’m always this tense, that's it.”

He chuckles. “Could help with that.”

You finally look at him, brows raised. “Cole.”

“What?” He lifts his hands innocently. “Just saying. You deserve someone who’s actually here. Not stuck on the sidelines.”

Something in your chest hardens. “You don't get to—”

“You don’t have to explain,” he interrupts gently. “I see the way you look at him. I’m just saying… people get hurt. Sometimes they don’t come back the same.”

You stand so fast the couch creaks. “That’s enough.” You say, your voice cold and firm.

He looks surprised. Actually surprised. “Hey, I didn’t mean—”

“I know what you meant,” you snap. “And you don’t get to talk about him like that.”

You turn away before he can say anything else—and nearly collide with Bucky in the doorway.

He heard everything.

His face is unreadable, jaw clenched, eyes dark with something dangerously close to rage. Cole freezes, suddenly aware that he’s miscalculated.

Bucky steps fully into the room, cane tapping softly against the floor.

“She already said no.” Bucky says calmly. Too calmly.

Cole clears his throat, standing. “I was just—”

“Yeah,” Bucky cuts in, gaze never leaving him. “You were.”

The air is thick. Charged. You can feel Bucky holding himself back—not physically, but emotionally, like if he lets go even a little he might do something reckless.

Cole lifts his hands again. “Didn’t realize she was taken.”

Bucky’s eyes flick to you for half a second.

“She is.” he says.

Cole nods, mutters something about grabbing a drink, and leaves.

The door closes. Silence crashes down.

You turn to Bucky, heart racing. “Bucky—”

He exhales sharply, runs a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry you had to deal with that.”

You step closer. “I don’t care about him.”

“I know,” he says, softer now. “I just… hate not being the one there with you.”

You reach for his face, thumb brushing his cheek. “You are. Even when you’re not.”

That night, he kisses you like he needs reassurance—slow, deep, intense. It’s not about urgency; it’s about grounding. About reminding himself he hasn’t lost his place.

Limited duty. One mission. Evaluation pending.

The clearance comes sooner than expected.

Bucky doesn’t sleep the night before.

When you gear up together for the first time since his injury, the familiarity hits him hard—the weight of the vest, the quiet efficiency between you, the way you check each other’s straps without speaking.

Steve watches from across the room, arms crossed. “You sure about this?”

Bucky nods. “I’m sure.”

You squeeze his hand once. “I’ve got you.”

The mission is messy. Close quarters. Exactly the kind of thing Bucky’s leg shouldn’t be tested on—but he adapts, compensates, moves with a precision that reminds everyone why he’s the Winter Soldier and why he survived long enough to become something more.

At one point, a hostile comes up behind you.

Bucky reacts on instinct, pulling you back against his chest, shielding you, taking the brunt of the impact. His leg screams in protest—but he doesn’t falter.

After, when it’s over and the adrenaline is still buzzing, he looks at you like he’s just proven something vital.

Back at the compound, he doesn’t let go of your hand.

Not in the hallway. Not when Cole passes by and pointedly looks away. Not when Steve clears his throat and pretends not to notice.

Later, alone, Bucky presses his forehead to yours, breathing you in.

“I’m not sitting on the sidelines anymore,” he murmurs. “Not with you.”

You smile, heart full. “Good. Because I don’t want anyone else watching my back.”

He kisses you then—confident, sure, like a man who’s reclaimed something that was never really gone.

And for the first time since the injury, the tight coil in his chest finally loosens.

masterlist ֶָ֢

[planetbucky-deactivated20260321]

VIBE CHECK

18+ | MDNI

pairing: best friend!bucky barnes x female!reader

summary: your best friend has been in love with you since you were kids. he makes sure you don't skip meals, shows up at your dorm during late-night study sessions, scowls at campus idiots trying to get your attention... and apparently now he even offers to fuck you to give your brain a break.

warnings: she/her pronouns for reader; set in college; best friends to lovers; best friend!bucky; whipped!bucky; protective!bucky; reader has hair; size difference; light angst; unrequited love (according to bucky); mutual pining; jealousy & slight possessiveness; swearing; fluff; he uses A LOT of pet names & basically behaves like a boyfriend?; smut; (soft)dom!bucky & sub!reader; praise kink; sex toys; guided masturbation; slight degradation; crying (bc reader feels too good 👅); pussy slapping; orgasm delay/control; edging; oral (f receiving); fingering; nipple play; unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it pls); multiple orgasms; overstimulation; messy & rough sex; squirting; creampie.

word count: 15.8k

a/n: helloo! today it's my birthday 🎈that's why this story is extremely self-indulgent, sorry 🥲 I think this is porn without plot? well, there’s a bit of plot I guess, lmao. I apologize but the smut part might be a little all over the place because l wrote it while studying for an exam and getting ready for a little trip (I’m not going to be very active for a while). I was too exhausted to write/edit something more plot-driven, so I hope you’ll enjoy this anyway 💛

Bucky is halfway through a problem set in the library, equations spread out in messy sheets all over the desk and coffee going cold at his elbow, when he checks the time on his phone and feels that familiar tug in his chest. He’s not even close to being tired, could easily grind through another two chapters, but his focus has thinned to a thread. So he closes his notebook a little too decisively and mutters something about calling it a night, about being exhausted. 

Steve looks up slowly, deeply unimpressed. His eyes scream do you think I was born yesterday? but Bucky refuses to meet them. He shrugs, trying to appear casual, and shoves his laptop into his backpack like he’s annoyed at the implication.

Steve’s mouth twitches knowingly. His friend's body has been betraying him for a while— knee bouncing incessantly, jaw tight, eyes landing back to his phone every few minutes.

Bucky has been pulling this move for years and usually Steve would drag it out by raising a brow, asking if he should send flowers already. Sometimes he’d start humming a wedding march under his breath until Bucky’s ears burn red and he threatens to blacklist him from future study sessions. But tonight, his friend just watches him for a second longer than necessary, taking in the barely concealed anticipation in the way Bucky adjusts his puffer jacket, then checks his phone twice in the span of two minutes, clearly hoping for a text.

Steve just nods once and Bucky perceives the mercy like a gift.

The walk back to the dorm is automatic at this point; his feet know the path too well, from the shortcut through the nearby park— technically closed at night but still accessible thanks to the worn patch in the bushes— to the way the lights flicker near the humanities building every fifteen seconds. And the exact amount of steps it takes to reach your floor.

The rhythm of his footsteps carries just enough weight that they draw a satisfying echo from the tile. Although Bucky thought about surprising you after not seeing each other for almost a week, he wants you to notice the noise. You hate unexpected knocks, always have. He remembers you mentioning it to him once, shrugging like it was no big deal, but he is too observant when it comes to you. Something simple like a knock rattling the silence never fails to make your shoulders tense up and your heartbeat accelerate, eyes widening just slightly. That’s why he ensures each footfall is firm, deliberate, loud enough for you to acknowledge a presence in the hallway but soft enough not to hurl your brain into panic.

When he finally reaches your door, Bucky lets his hand linger on the frame. He knows you’re inside from the quiet tapping of a keyboard and the occasional muttered curse over some paper you’re clearly taking too seriously.

The knock is gentle, barely there. “Open up, doll. Campus security’s doing a wellness check.”

“Bucky?” Your voice comes soft, but cautious. Once the door is opened, he takes a step forward and tugs you into a hug, your arms wrapping around him without thought. 

“Hi, sweetheart. Hi, angel. Hi, my little overachiever.” He murmurs into your hair, pressing a kiss there, then another to your temple.

Your surprised laugh is half-muffled by his chest. “What are you doing here?”

“Rescue mission.” He promptly exclaims, pulling back just enough to study your tired features. With his hands cupping your cheeks, he looks into your eyes with a feigned frown. “I could feel you stressing from the library, baby. It was like a disturbance in the stratosphere." 

You roll your eyes. “I’m not—”

He narrows his eyes, and you hesitate just for a second.

“... That stressed.” Your voice fades into a whisper.

“Hm-hm.” He leans down and presses a long kiss on your forehead. “Keep telling yourself that, doll.”

Bucky nudges the door shut behind him with his foot while guiding you backward into the room, as if he’s lived here with you his whole life. His backpack drops to the floor, forgotten, only for him to engulf you back in his arms.

“You’re freezing, doll.” He murmurs. “Why is your dorm always a sauna in the summer and an arctic tundra in winter?”

You giggle quietly, pulling back just enough to brush a little bit of snow off his shoulders. “It’s just particularly cold these days.” 

“Just these days?” He scoffs. “It’s inhumane. I’m having a very serious conversation with your RA about this.”

You grab his sleeve reflexively. “Please don’t.”

He blinks down at you, an eyebrow suspiciously raised. “Why not?”

“Because she already scowls at me every time we pass in the hallway after you cornered her about the radiator in the bathroom.” You mumble. “I told you it wasn’t that big of a deal.”

“It clanked in the middle of the night, and then you would jolt awake and never fall back asleep.” Bucky defends instantly.

“Still... She looks at me like I personally filed a lawsuit against her.” You argue weakly.

“Good. Maybe she’ll think twice before ignoring the pipe orchestra in your bathroom at three in the morning.”

“Bucky.” You reprimand him jokingly, squeezing his torso once.

“Shh.” He whispers, his gaze alert as it scans the room. He immediately spots your laptop and a pile of books and binders stacked like some kind of intellectual barricade on your bed. “You’re really going to bury yourself in all this tonight?”

“I have a paper due next week.” You admit, sitting on the edge of the mattress. Bucky doesn't miss the way your shoulders suddenly slump, as if resigned. “I… Just wanted to get a head start.”

He crouches in front of you after carelessly throwing his jacket on your desk chair, his hands blanketing yours perfectly. “Sweetheart, look at me.”

You peer at him through your eyelashes, noticing the exact moment his expression melts into something softer, something only you are allowed to witness. Cupping your face gently, his thumbs brush your cheeks with such tenderness you almost tear up. “When was the last time you took a break?”

You sigh. “Buck—”

“Not a ‘I-scrolled-on-my-phone-for-five-minutes’ break. I’m talking about a real one.”

You look away, suddenly feeling a scorching heat taking over your neck. You know how much he hates when you overwork yourself to the bone, and the thought of disappointing him of all people makes your stomach churn with shame.

Bucky exhales dramatically, pulling you back into his chest with a swift move that makes you yelp. “You’re working too hard, baby. Way too hard. You’re gonna burn yourself out if I don’t intervene.”

You are always three steps ahead, always prepared for some invisible emergency no one else has even considered yet. And not just on an academic level. He’s watched you fix things for others for years. You dig through your bag without looking and somehow produce exactly what is needed. Band-aids in three different sizes– yes, three. A little pouch of medicine: painkillers, allergy tablets, something for stomach aches because “campus food is unpredictable”. Extra pads tucked into the side pocket; two packs of tissues; hand sanitizer clipped to the zipper. A tiny sewing kit because one time someone’s button popped off and you decided that would never happen again. Mints. Lip gloss. Hair ties. Bobby pins. A small comb. A portable charger that’s always somehow fully charged. A granola bar “in case someone forgets to eat”. Bucky literally recoiled when some tomato sauce fell on Kate’s jeans last month and you were handing her a stain remover pen before she could even acknowledge the stain.

He’s seen you pull each of those things out at least once, along the relief on people’s faces when you quietly fix their problem before it becomes embarrassing. You never make a big deal out of it, always ready to reassure them with a smile. 

You also remember everything, from birthdays to when your friends have their exams. 

Natasha gets migraines when she’s stressed, so you make sure to always carry that specific brand of painkillers that works for her. You keep peppermint gum too, because you once read online it helps, and you don’t even like peppermint.

Steve forgets to eat when he’s buried in his art projects, so you text him reminders and shove protein bars into his hands without ceremony. You’ve memorized his deadlines better than he has, and you once stayed up proofreading his paper even though you had your own due the next morning.

Sam swears he never gets sick, yet you still bring extra throat lozenges when he starts losing his voice– the consequence of him being president of several clubs and giving one motivational speech after another.

Kate is very confident in herself, but she panics before every presentation. You sit in the front row each time, smiling and nodding at her like a proud mom. You never dwell on the mistakes or the stumbles; instead, you point out the strongest parts of her speech– the clever phrasing, the insights she came up with on the spot when the professor started asking questions, the arguments that actually landed. You always highlight the good things, the moments that matter, and she leaves the room feeling lighter, even when she doubts the quality of her work.

Wanda pretends she doesn’t get cold, but you pack an extra scarf in your bag anyway. You walk slower when she’s overwhelmed, checking in quietly, never pushing, just hovering gently in case she needs you.

Yelena acts all fearless, but you always suggest ordering something sweet at the end of a meal, because you know she won’t unless someone tags along. 

Every preference. Every weakness. Every tiny crack people try to hide… You smooth them over without them even noticing. And you do it without expecting anything in return, like it’s nothing.

Your brain is constantly scanning, ready to cushion the fall before it happens. You’ve somehow made yourself responsible for the comfort of everyone around you, and Bucky loves how capable you are, how steady your presence is to the point everyone gravitates toward you without even realizing. You’re the calm center, the one people trust, the one who fixes things.

But sometimes… Sometimes it makes his chest hurt, because he sees the cost. You don’t sit down until everyone else has, nor you relax unless someone forces you to. You’re always the one refilling glasses before your own is empty, the one staying behind to stack chairs or wipe down tables even when it isn’t your responsibility. In study groups, you’re the last to pack up, double-checking that everyone understands the material before you even glance at your own notes. You answer texts at two in the morning because someone’s panicking about something, and somehow their anxiety becomes yours, sitting heavy in your chest until you’re sure they’re okay. If a friend is upset, you carry it with you for the rest of the day, replaying their words, wondering what else you could’ve said, what more you could’ve done. You have this way of absorbing other people’s burdens and slipping them into your own pockets as if they belong there.

And Bucky wants— selfishly, desperately— to be the one place where you don’t have to take care of anything.

With him, you don’t need your emergency kit.

With him, you don’t need to think ahead.

He carries the snacks; he argues with the professor; he deals with the guys who don’t stop staring. He drives, fixes, calls, confronts, handles. You are free to flop dramatically across his lap, and steal his fries. You can let your eyes squeeze in frustration and complain about your professors without trying to solve anything, or fall asleep mid-movie, because you know he’ll carry you to bed.

You trust him to handle the world so you don’t have to. He wants to take the weight off your shoulders so permanently that you forget it was ever there, because his affection does not sit politely in his chest. It bleeds. It calls for you. It moves through him like something alive and restless that needs to breath.

Bucky has loved you for so long that he can’t remember what it felt like before. He tries, sometimes, to pinpoint the exact moment it shifted from childhood attachment to a blade pressed under his ribs, not deep enough to kill him, but the wound pulses every time he breathes, as a reminder.

Maybe it was the day you grabbed his hand on the playground and refused to let go when another kid tried to tease him for the scar on his left arm, the one he got trying to prove he wasn’t scared of the ramp behind the old basketball court. Maybe it was during your first ever movie night in middle school, when he sat completely still for three hours after you fell asleep on his shoulder to not wake you up. 

Or maybe it was gradual. Like erosion. Like water carving into stone until there’s no version of the rock that ever existed without the river running through it.

He only knows there’s never been an end.

Bucky often reflects on the fact that he’s the safest place you’ve ever known. You trust him in a way that is almost sacred. You curl into him without hesitation. You change in front of him without thinking twice. You press your cold hands under his shirt because you know he’ll yelp and then immediately tug you into his chest to warm you. Bucky finds himself more often than not lying in his own bed and thinking about this, about the way you trust him with your entire body, with your happiness, your quiet and your sadness. But not with your heart. At least, not in the way he wants.

You look at him like he’s home, like he’s already yours. Like there’s no risk of losing him– and he would never give you a reason to think otherwise. That’s the cruelest part. Bucky would stay even if you never loved him back. He’s been staying since he was fourteen and realized that the reason he wanted to punch that boy at the school dance wasn’t because the kid stepped on your shoes, but because he made you laugh too hard. He’s been staying since you cried over your first breakup and let him hold you as he tried to ignore the way his jaw clenched every time you said your ex’s name.

Taking care of you comes so easy to him, maybe too easy. Sam once told him it borders on ridiculousness. But you have no idea what it costs him. You sit in his lap and kiss the corner of his mouth by accident, giggling, looking away too fast to notice how he freezes for a second too long.

You have never kissed him on the lips, though.

Bucky thinks about that more than he should.

He’s prepared for everything: skipped meals that make you dizzy in the middle of a lecture; all-nighters where your eyes get glassy and you insist you’re “fine” as your fingers tremble around a pen; the way you grind yourself down for grades like your worth depends on them. He’s prepared to sit at the kitchen table while you bake and pretend not to want to smooth the wrinkle between your brows when you frown in concentration; or to kiss your lips after you feed him a dollop of custard, because you trust him enough to tell you if it sucks.

He’s also prepared for every guy who thinks your softness means easy access. For every hand that lingers too long and every flirtatious grin thrown your way.

He is not prepared for the possibility that one day, you might actually want one of them.

Bucky watched it happen more often than not. Smiling politely while some guy leans a little too close, and pretending he’s not tracking every movement, cataloging whether the guy’s hand drifts lower than it should.

He never interrupts. He simply waits. Because if you step back even half an inch, he’s already beside you. If your smile falters, he’s glaring at the idiot. If you look even slightly uncomfortable, he’s casually sliding an arm around your waist.

Possessive enough to send a message, but not enough to claim you.

And sometimes... It’s just unbearable.

You call him dramatic when he scowls, laughing as you remind him that you can handle yourself just fine. And he knows you can. He was the one who taught you self-defense in high school, for fuck’s sake. It's just that Bucky wants to be the only one who gets to see that soft little smile of yours when you’re on the brink of sleep, to hear your muttered curses when your fingers fumble through a tangle of yarn. Or watch you get genuinely angry over a dumb misunderstanding while reading one of those romance novels of yours that leave you sighing dreamily at the end.

The territorial edge of these thoughts leaves a bitter taste in his mouth, but the shame dissipates as soon as one of those guys smiles at you, making room for something ugly and hot that crawls through his chest and makes his jaw ache.

Bucky has imagined telling you.

It never gets far.

In his head, the words sound steady, confident. 

But you’d blink, go quiet… Look guilty. And he would rather cut his own heart out than see you blame yourself for his own feelings.

So he keeps quiet, and pours his love into other things, like gently drying your hair after you shower, and giving you little forehead kisses– Bucky knows you adore those because you unconsciously shiver each time. But also calling you sweetheart and angel and doll, and all those other pet names Natasha deems ‘corny’ with a grimace. Like they don’t mean anything deeper. He touches you, constantly. Not because he’s careless, but because he’s greedy. The contact reassures him that you’re still here, that you’re still choosing to be by his side, even if it’s not in the way he yearns for.

From time to time, when you fall asleep in the crook of his neck, Bucky presses his mouth to your hair and breathes you in like it’s something he could survive on, his arms tightening around you just how you like. It’s become his favorite thing to do ever since you told him how safe and cocooned you feel in his embrace.

Because when you’re awake, you might see the way his breathing changes when your fingers trace absentminded patterns on his chest, or the way he shivers when you call him Jamie– you are the only one allowed to do that. 

You might finally understand that every innocent kiss is just him restraining himself.

So Bucky lets himself slip only in the dark, when no one can see the awe twinkling in his eyes whenever you are around. He’s balancing on a thin line as it is; one wrong move and the entire “best friends” foundation cracks. And he swallows it all. The jealousy, the hunger, those three treacherous words that rise too close to the surface every time you look up at him with those pretty eyes of yours.

But loving you is perpetual. It hums under his skin when you let yourself melt into his hugs; it sits heavy in his stomach when your lips brush his forehead with a quick kiss before you run to class; it blooms sharp and hot every time someone asks for your number.

He wonders if he ruined himself by loving you that young, because no one else has ever fit right by his side. Yet, he would rather have you like this than risk losing you by asking for more. Even if sometimes it feels like his heart is stretched too tight in his chest. Even if when you look at him, tired and soft and wrapped in his comforter, he has to glance away and breathe through the urge to kiss you until you're both left wheezing. With Bucky, you just get to exist. And if this is the only role he ever gets to play in your life, he’ll take it.

He has always thought of himself as the equivalent of an oversized hoodie that’s been worn too long.

Comfortable, warm, easy to grab when you’re cold.

But not the thing you pick when you want to feel special.

Bucky presses a kiss to your cheek, then your jaw. When he reaches the side of your neck, his lips linger just enough to receive a squirm in return and a giggle that softens his smile impossibly more, the most tender thing you’ve ever seen.

“Bucky.” You whisper, half-scolding, half-laughing.

“What?” He asks innocently. “I’m just appreciating my favorite person.”

“You’re distracting me.”

“Good.” He hums, preening inside. “That’s the point, baby.”

Moving onto your bed, his hands tug you gently until you stumble back. “C’mere. Sit with me.” Lying down, he looks at you expectantly, blue eyes prettily begging you to follow him.

“James seriously, I have to finish—”

“Nope.” He grabs your wrists and pulls you forward so you’re kneeling right between his thighs. His hands settle on your hips like they’ve always belonged there, and you shiver, hoping he’ll blame it on the heating not working properly in the middle of winter. “You need to breathe, angel. And you breathe better when you’re not spiraling over footnotes. Look at you, you chewed on that pen like a stressed little squirrel.” He teases, guiding you until you’re reluctantly lying on your front. “You’re too precious to suffer like this. Not on my watch.”

You huff softly, but you don’t dare move away. The knowledge that you trust him to this extent, that you allow yourself to bend your strict study routines for him, floods him with a quiet, overwhelming happiness that makes his heart ache in the best way.

“You know,” Bucky starts softly, brushing his nose against your temple. “You don’t have to be in charge with me.”

Your shoulders drop just a fraction, and he takes that in with a hint of a satisfied smile.

“I’ve got it, okay? I’ve got you.” He continues with a lower voice. You finally go completely slack in his hold, the curve of your body molding against his chest as your ear presses on his left pec.

And God, he would stay like this forever if you’d let him.

Bucky kisses the top of your head again, tracing a path with his lips that ends on the apple of your cheek. “See? There’s my girl.” He murmurs. “You’re adorable, angel. Did you know that? Ridiculously, impossibly adorable.”

“And you’re impossible.” You mumble, eyelids threatening to close under his soft attention.

“I know. I know, bunny.” He murmurs, pretending to pout. “I can’t help it. It’s a curse, really. You’re just… Irresistible when you let yourself go.”

“But you adore me.” He quickly adds.

You don’t answer that, yet he pretends to ignore the way his heart skips when you squeeze your arms once around his torso. A hand comes up to run up and down your back slowly. Protective. Possessive in the quietest way. 

“If anyone bothered you today,” he mentions casually, jaw tightening just slightly. “I’d like names.”

You burst out laughing and Bucky tightens his hold just a little at that, a fuzzy feeling tingling in the back of his head as his ears are blessed with his favorite melody. “Calm down, stud. No one bothered me today.”

“Good.” His thumb brushes absent circles on your lower back. “Because I don’t feel like scowling at freshmen tonight.”

“You always scowl at freshmen.” You peek up at him, impossibly cute with your cheek smushed against his chest. The urge to kiss you is so strong he almost shortens the distance between you.

“They look at you.”

“They look at everyone.”

“Not like they look at you, baby.”

There’s a small silence after that, but Bucky fills it quickly.

“Anyway,” He glides over the topic, his voice suddenly too high to sound nonchalant, so he clears his throat. “You’re done for the next hour. Doctor’s orders.”

“You’re not a doctor.”

“I’m a concerned citizen.”

You lift your head just enough to squint at him.

“Chronic overworking, severe lack of cuddling, and acute stubbornness are very serious conditions.” His fingers walk up your spine as he lists your “symptoms”.

You snort, letting your head fall back to its previous resting place. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Mm. Tragic, really.” Bucky shifts, scooting back against the headboard to settle against the myriad of pillows you accumulated throughout the years, tugging you with him. “Prescription says: cuddles, a movie, and you,” he pats his chest, wiggling his eyebrows. “Right here.” 

You laugh again, softer now that you have given up. “Alright, alright, Dr. Barnes.” You know he hates when you roll your eyes, but you do it anyway, sighing. 

“Ha! Victory!” He whispers triumphantly.

You shake your head, the corners of your mouth betraying you as they lift just slightly when you reach for your laptop. Once you settle back down, you automatically curl into his side, like it’s muscle memory. It’s always been that simple between the two of you.

He shifts immediately to accommodate you, one arm sliding around your waist as the other tucks behind his head. 

“You know I’m proud of you, right?” Bucky mentions casually, low like a secret you are only meant to know. “You always work so hard. You’re so good– too good.”

Your fingers tighten slightly in his shirt, but you only nod, pressing closer. You’ve never known what to do with praise. It slides off you most of the time, makes you fidget, causes your eyes to drop to the floor like you’re being accused of something you don’t quite believe. And it’s not as if Bucky’s new at this— he’s been telling you how brilliant you are, how capable, how kind, and pretty since you were small enough to swing your legs off a playground bench. He’s never once missed a chance to compliment you.

Still, every time he does that, your shoulders go tight for a second before you remember it’s just him. Just Bucky. Not judging, not measuring, not expecting you to live up to the compliment. You never thank him with words, just burrow closer, like you’re doing now, hiding your face against his chest as if you can tuck the warmth of his words somewhere safe. They feel so fragile, so precious, and you are still learning how to hold them properly.

“What are we in the mood for, sweetheart, hm?” His words are gentle near your ear. “Something brainless? Something with explosions so I can complain about the physics and you can pretend to be impressed?”

You shift slightly, tucking your leg over his thigh. He adjusts immediately, never failing to make space for you, hand tightening just a little at your waist to keep you steady.

“Blanket?” A small shiver and a nod are enough for Bucky to lean sideways awkwardly, reaching for the fluffy lilac fabric lying on your second desk chair, nearly falling over in the process.

“Careful.” You snicker.

“I’m graceful.” Bucky insists, dragging the blanket back triumphantly. “Military precision.”

“You almost tripped over the air.”

“Well, the air started it.”

He drapes it over the both of you, smoothing it at your hip, before pressing a kiss to the crown of your head like it’s part of the ritual. 

“There,” he hums. “Contained.”

His chin settles then on the top of your head. “So? If you don’t choose in the next minute, I’m putting on Interstellar again.”

You go rigid at that. “James.”

“What?” He quips, entirely unapologetic.

“You made me watch that at two in the morning.”

“It’s a masterpiece.”

“It’s almost three hours long.”

“It’s cinema.”

“You paused it every five minutes,” you accuse, lifting your head to glare back at him. “You had diagrams, Bucky. You pulled out a fucking notebook.”

He grins, completely unashamed. “You said you wanted something educational.”

“I did not say I wanted a physics lecture in my pajamas.”

“You loved it.”

You raise an eyebrow. “I fell asleep during the wormhole explanation.”

He gasps softly. “How dare you!”

You burst out in an incredulous laugh. “You started calculating stuff on the back of a takeout receipt!”

At that point Bucky chuckles under his breath, the sound vibrating against your cheek when you drop your head back on his chest.

“You’re impossible.” You mutter, going back to scroll through movies you've already watched, and rated with your best friend. “I need something easy. My brain’s fried.”

“Easy,” he repeats thoughtfully. “So no space, no time paradoxes–”

“No academic lectures.” You add firmly.

“Fine, bunny.” He sighs. “But one day you’re going to sit through the docking scene without complaining.”

“You cried during the docking scene.”

“I did not.”

“You absolutely did.”

With a clear of his throat, he squirms awkwardly under you. “It’s an incredible scene.”

After finally picking a mindless sitcom you’ve both seen a hundred times, he sets the laptop on his thigh, adjusting the angle so it doesn’t dig into you, then shifts again so you’re draped more comfortably over him, leaving his free hand to lie on his chest. You reach forward absently and lace your fingers with his, causing Bucky to go still for half a second, before his fingers squeeze yours back. He presses another kiss into your hair, hoping you won’t hear his heart do something embarrassing in his ribcage.

“Comfy, pretty girl?” He asks softly.

“Hm.” You sigh. “You’re warm.”

“Good. Means I’m doing my job.”

Huffing a quiet laugh at that, you just curl closer.

Bucky pretends to focus on the show, but really he’s more aware of the slow sound of your breathing. His thumb keeps stroking your side, tracing slow, absent circles that leave goosebumps behind, even with the soft fabric of your sweater separating him from your skin. Every so often he presses a kiss into your hairline, or your temple... Just wherever he can reach without jostling you too much.

When you shiver again, Bucky perks up.

“Still cold?”

“No.”

He narrows his eyes playfully. “Liar.”

“I’m not cold.”

“You shivered.”

“I just—” You stop, realizing you have no explanation that you can give him.

You can feel his grin into his next words. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

You smack his chest lightly, and he laughs— soft and low— then catches your hand to press a quick peck on your knuckles.

“Careful,” he murmurs. “This is violence against your concerned citizen.”

Though the small crease in your eyebrows has finally smoothed out, your fingers keep twitching in his shirt, and your jaw ticks every few seconds like you’re biting back thoughts. The tightness in your shoulders is very much alive and burning under your skin, your breathing shaky at the edge each time you exhale. Bucky can't help but glance down at your leg shifting under the blanket every few seconds.

He lets it go on longer than he should.

His thumb traces the same slow path over your side, patient, grounding. Pressing his lips briefly to your forehead, he waits for you to melt into him the way you usually do. But instead, you sigh. It’s a little, quiet sound, but it carries too much weight.

“What is it?”

“Oh? Nothing, sorry.” Your reply is quick and rehearsed, and Bucky doesn’t like that one bit.

“Hey,” his arm squeezes your torso once. “None of that, sweetheart. You know you can tell me anything.”

At that point you shift onto your back with a slow exhale, staring up at the ceiling. “It’s just…” You hesitate for what seems like an endless amount of time to Bucky, like you’re deciding whether it’s worth saying out loud. “I keep thinking about that paper. I should finish it by tomorrow, because we haven’t made any progress with that group project I told you about last week. I’ve sent four messages on the group chat to ask when we should meet and no one has read them.” A small, frustrated laugh bursts out of your chest. “I feel so dumb for chasing them, but at this point I’ll have to finish it by myself.”

His jaw tightens.

“You know that’s what they want you to do, right? They’re gonna take all the credits while you try to finish the entire presentation by yourself on top of your own assignments. You’re not supposed to carry all of that, baby. It’s not fair.” He frowns. “You've already got enough on your plate and you need to rest.”

“I know.” You groan, momentarily closing your eyes. “But I hate not having any control over it.” Words pick up speed as your eyes flit over the surface of your white ceiling turned orange by the warm lamp on your nightstand. “Everything’s half-finished and sitting there waiting for me, and I can’t stop thinking about it long enough to breathe.”

Bucky lets you vent at your own pace, because he knows better than to rush you. You try to sound calm, reasonable, like this is just another thing to manage, but he can feel the pressure running through your veins, the strain that causes your voice to shake at the end.

“I can help you.”

The words leave him before he can fully consider them.

You immediately turn your head to give him a reproachful look. “James.”

“What?”

“No.”

“Why–”

“You have your own stuff to do–”

Bucky shakes his head, pushing himself up on one elbow so he can look at you properly. “That’s not what I meant.”

“It sounded like it.”

“You know I’d write all your papers if you’d let me, but you’re such a little spitfire, angel. You’ve got this ridiculous way of holding yourself to every rule, every detail... I love it, but damn, you’re stubborn as hell about doing things your own way.” A faint exhale of a laugh slips out the both of you despite the tension. “But I meant I can help you not think about it.”

You study him carefully, brows furrowed. “What do you mean? Aren’t we already taking a break?”

That question sits between you, innocent, and Bucky swears the room is starting to spin. 

His mind betrays him with an image so vivid it nearly steals the air from his lungs: you beneath him, pliant and hot, your fingers tangled in his shirt, and your mouth soft against his, muffling your sweet little pants and moans. Just that morning Bucky woke up from the most wicked of dreams. It was of you, of your mouth, of your skin. He was touching and kissing you everywhere. His sheets were drenched in sweat and his underwear embarrassingly sticky when the sunrays split through the curtains to hit him with a brutal dose of reality. He tried jerking off in the shower, but the ache is always there, challenging him.

His eyes close briefly.

This is not the time.

But the truth is sitting at the back of his tongue, heavy and impatient.

“Maybe,” he starts slowly, choosing each word like the world might explode. “You just need something that forces your brain to focus on one thing.”

“Like what?”

His heart is pounding so loudly he’s certain you can hear it. He can't believe he's really going to say it.

“I just–” He swallows. “Have you ever thought about… I don’t know… Sex?”

It feels as if someone snatched the word from his throat and let it fall between the two of you, like a sturdy stone being violently thrown into a still lake.

You don’t react immediately, but you recoil a little, taken aback. 

“I didn’t mean it like–” Bucky winces, suddenly aware of the very small distance between your bodies. So he stands up, cheeks flushed as your eyes follow him. “I mean, I did mean it, but not in a–” He exhales sharply. “God. That sounded worse.”

You blink at him, and Bucky runs a hand through his hair, pacing at the edge of the bed like he’s trying to outrun his own suggestion.

“I just meant,” he tries again, slower now. “Sometimes when your brain won’t shut up, you need something… Physical. Something that makes you focus on anything but your thoughts.” He gestures vaguely between you, not quite daring to point. “We’re– We’ve always been– I mean, there’s nothing we haven’t shared, so it doesn’t have to be weird. It could just be...”

You tilt your head. “What?”

“I…” His mouth opens and closes pathetically twice, the words dying in his throat as you adjust yourself, now sitting upright with your legs crossed. “It’d just be… Us.”

The room is plunged into a religious silence, broken solely by the low hum of the old fridge near the kitchenette and the faint sound of your labored breaths. It makes Bucky want to bury himself alive.

Your fingers keep fidgeting with the blanket.

“It’s been a long time.” You admit suddenly.

He stops abruptly in his quest of digging his own grave by walking up and down your room.

“What?”

You stubbornly stare at your hands, chin tucked down.

“Since... The last time I had sex.”

His stomach drops.

“How long?” Bucky croaks out, trying to sound nonchalant but he fails miserably as he almost chokes on his own saliva.

You hesitate for half a second, then mumble. “Since Chris.”

The name lands awkwardly between you, like a relic from another lifetime. Those five letters drag up memories Bucky thought he’d pushed down beneath the careful armor he’d worn around you for all these years. You wailing against his chest in his bedroom, the smug grin on Chris’ face every time he crossed you in the school hallways, and Bucky pretending he didn’t want to hunt that asshole down.

His throat suddenly goes very dry. “High school Chris?”

You nod, still too embarrassed to look him in the eye.

Bucky lets out a disbelieving breath. “That was... Years ago.”

You swallow. “I know.”

“You haven’t–” He can’t finish the sentence, but you understand.

You shake your head once, biting your bottom lip.

His brain struggles to process that. Bucky had convinced himself there had to be someone. Some random fling at one of the frat parties he couldn’t attend because of some last-minute visit to his family, or an assignment started too late. He spent nights lying awake waiting for your text reassuring him that you were home, safe and sound, telling himself he was being ridiculous, that of course you had allowed someone to touch you the way he wanted to.

But now this revelation feels like being shoved off a cliff, blindfolded in darkness.

“So,” you start softly, like you’re testing the word. “You believe… Sex would help.”

He swallows, nodding once. “It might.”

You glance at your best friend, then away again. “You’ve thought about it.”

It’s not a question.

Bucky huffs nervously. “I mean, I’m not blind.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

His right hand reaches up to rub the back of his neck. “Yeah. I’ve thought about it.”

There’s a moment of silence that makes Bucky wonder if being completely honest was the right choice.

“Recently?” You perk up.

He almost laughs at that. “Define recently.”

You try not to smile, and Bucky steps closer again, slower this time, like approaching a skittish wild animal.

“I’m not trying to make this weird.” He clarifies quickly. “I can go away, or– or we can pretend I never said anything and I’ll go back to being your emotional support distraction machine.”

Your head snaps up at that, a spark of hurt flashing in your eyes. “It’s not weird, and you’re not my emotional support distraction machine.” A frown settles on your features, and Bucky’s heart thuds at the adorable sight.

“I was joking, sweetheart.” He reassures you gently.

“I know, but I don’t like you calling yourself that. You know you are everything to me.”

“Yeah?” He strangles out, and you nod, chewing on your bottom lip.

“You are everything to me too.” 

The air feels different now. Thicker. You glance at his mouth, just for a fleeting moment, yet his blue eyes– too bright, too earnest, like they’d strip you bare if you let yourself crack the slightest bit– catch that instantly.

“Are you suggesting we try?” You ask, almost daring him.

Bucky hesitates— not because he doesn’t want to, but because he wants it so much he wouldn’t know what to do with himself if you were to accept his absurd offer.

“Only if you want to.” His voice cracks. “I don’t– I don’t want you to think I’m taking advantage of you, or something. We’re just–” He gestures between you helplessly. “We’re us.”

Your silence stretches just long enough for his chest to start caving in. Bucky examines your face carefully, searching for any sign of discomfort, annoyance… Anything he can work with. But you give him nothing.

Just a clean slate of neutrality.

The shift inside himself is dreadful, hope morphing into humiliation. Of course he pushed too far. You’re stressed, allowing yourself to be vulnerable around him and what does he decide to do? He suggests to have fucking sex with you.

Bucky takes a step back without meaning to, already bracing for the fallout. What would you do if he confessed right now? Telling you he’s loved you since scraped knees and shared headphones and walking you home because “it’s on my way anyway”. That every girl who approached him felt like a placeholder. That he’s swallowed the ache years ago, and locked the longing somewhere unreachable, so it would never hurt you.

“Forget I said anything,” he mutters, already stepping back from your bed. “That was out of line. You’re overwhelmed and I just made it worse. I’m so sorry, sweetheart.”

Even the pet name that has been lightning your eyes up since high school tastes bitter now. 

She’s trying to figure out how to let you down gently. She’s figuring out if this will change things between you two. She’s wondering if she’s been leading you on without realizing it. She’s suspecting you’ve been trying to get in her pants all along.

Bucky moves another step back, running a hand over his face. “I–”

“James.”

He looks up immediately, and you’re suddenly watching him like you’re going to cry.

“I haven’t done this in years.” You repeat softly. “So if I’m bad at it–”

His stomach drops. “You won’t be.” He rushes out.

You observe him with a rueful smile, shoulders dropping as if suddenly freed from an unbearable weight. “You don’t know that.”

“I do.” He frowns, blushing violently at how certain he sounds.

Your sigh sounds like it's been living in your chest for years, and after you clear your throat, attempting to pull yourself together. “What happens now?”

His heart is pounding so hard it almost drowns out the show still playing in the background.

“Now,” he says carefully, stepping closer. “I ask if I can kiss you.”

You hold his gaze. “And then?”

“And then, if you say yes,” he continues, fighting to keep his voice steady. “I’m going to do it. Just once. And if you hate it, we pretend it never happened.”

You don’t hesitate, your body unconsciously leaning forward as he kneels in front of you.

“I won’t hate it.”

That confidence nearly unravels him.

“So… Can I?” Bucky’s voice is barely above a whisper, rough around the edges, his hunger leaking out after holding it back for years.

At your tiny, shy nod, that carries more weight than anything he’s ever felt, his chest tightens, almost forgetting how to breathe. His hand lifts slowly, almost reverently, and cups the side of your face, his gaze focusing on the action. His thumb brushes along your jaw, gentle, before his eyes flutter close for a fraction of a second, enough to carve this moment in his soul. When he opens them, his breath hitches at what he sees: your pretty, trusting eyes fixed on him, openly giving him permission.

You don’t pull back. Instead, you tilt your head just slightly, leaning into the touch, and that tiny motion nearly stops his heart.

Bucky exhales softly and bravely leans in, lips brushing yours in a featherlike, tentative contact– a question posed in motion. It's the gentlest of kisses that is meant to taste the waters, to ask if you want this as much as he does. You respond immediately, pressing against him, and in that moment, a spark ignites in his chest.

Every sensation is magnified. The softness of your lips against his, your eyelashes brushing his cheek as you close your eyes, your quiet, pleased sigh… Each one sends shockwaves through him.

His other hand reaches your waist, tentative at first, just enough to anchor you against him. He doesn’t pull, allowing your body to find his to its own volition. The pressure is grounding, careful, and each subtle shift of your weight beneath his palm leaves him more certain, more addicted to the feeling of you.

Your hands slide to his chest, light at first, then press more firmly as if to claim the space that’s always been yours to take. His fingers twitch instinctively, tracing lines along your sides, feeling the curve of your ribcage, memorizing the rhythm of you in his arms. That’s when he deepens the kiss, careful not to overwhelm. Your lips part just a bit, yielding, allowing him to savor the sweetness, the trust, the closeness. And your hair is caught under his fingers as he tilts your head slightly to explore without breaking the fragile balance. The clean, floral scent of the body lotion you recently bought mixes with something inherently yours, filling his senses, grounding him while simultaneously setting his nerves ablaze. You make a high, almost imperceptible mewl that sends heat straight to his crotch, prompting Buck to lean into you just a little more, confirming that this– this closeness, this softness, this moment– is real.

Time stretches, the show hums unnoticed, the bed creaks faintly beneath the weight of you both, and your breathing mingles with his, shallow and intoxicating. Every tremor of yours is loaded with anticipation, your heart racing in tandem with his.

Finally, Bucky pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, the tips of your noses brushing.

“You’re incredible.” He whispers, voice raw and breathy, as if saying it louder would shatter this dream he never wants to wake up from. “Just… Gorgeous.”

Your smile is just short of shy as you press once more into him. He tilts his head, capturing the soft warmth of your lips again. Your sternums touch, and one of your hands grasps the hair on his nape, eliciting a low groan out of him. This time, Bucky kisses you as if he wants it to bruise, his mouth heavy against yours like he is trying so desperately to burn himself into you. You’re trembling in his tight hold, yes, but Bucky is barely holding together the pieces of a lifetime spent loving you in secret. His teeth graze your bottom lip in the middle of it all, leaving behind a surprisingly nice sting that makes you shiver. He wants to kiss you forever, even against the merciless ache in his lungs.

His hands finally gather the courage to move, like you belong to each other. His fingers dig into the meat of your hips, slipping under the cotton of your oversized sweater to graze your bare skin, a moan shamelessly falling into your mouth.

“Bucky.” You whimper as his lips trace an unmapped path along your jaw. 

“Yeah, sweetheart?” He gently nibbles a sensitive spot just under your ear that you didn’t even know existed. You shiver again, feeling the curve of his grin against your bare throat. “What is it, doll? Talk to me.” He presses an open-mouthed, heated kiss on the crook of your collarbone, suckling until you squeak.

“I’m–” You gasp. “It’s hard.” You blurt out. “To... To come these days.” Your voice fades into a whisper. “Too much stress. I can’t focus.”

Bucky stills at your timid confession. He presses your foreheads together to quietly stare at you, all blown pupils and this dazed, adoring expression that makes your heartbeat jump. “That’s okay, angel.” He stops your anxious blabbering. “What do you usually do?”

“What?” You gape at him, not expecting that question. 

“What do you do when you’re alone, baby girl?”

“I have… Toys.” Your cheeks feel so hot you start sweating.

“Show me.” 

“You–You want to watch me while I… ?” You squeak, eyebrows shooting up.

His jaw clenches at the thought, cock already half-hard since your lips touched for the first time, before he nods. “Will you let me, darling?”

“But–”

Bucky calls your name, steady and serious. “Do you trust me?”

“Of course!” The way those words fall from your lips, offended that he would even hint you don’t trust him, elicits a boyish laugh out of him.

“Then let me help you.”

There’s a beat. A long, awful, charged beat.

“Okay.” You whisper.

“Yeah?” He perks up a little too enthusiastically.

“Yes, yes Bucky.” You bite your bottom lip, trying to hide your amusement.

“Where are they?”

“Uhm, second drawer of the nightstand.”

Once the box is opened, Bucky's mouth goes completely dry, so much that it almost hurts to swallow.

His brain stops. Just… Fully refuses to work.

It’s ridiculous how fast heat climbs up his neck, spreads across his chest and then drops straight into his stomach. 

A shockingly realistic dildo, a bullet vibrator, a suction vibrator connected to the curled end of a dildo, another dildo, and it vibrates too... 

Pull yourself together, it’s just silicone for fuck’s sake.

But it’s yours.

And suddenly his mind, traitorous and vivid, supplies images he has spent years trying not to picture too clearly. You, laughing. You, stretching in one of his large hoodies. You, soft and sleepy in his arms. You, riding one of these fucking toys. You, spread on his bed with that thing stretching your pussy just enough to burn deliciously. You, moaning and whining and calling his name, begging to make it better with his–

And under the mortification, something else coils low in his crotch. Crude, shameful… Disrespectful.

“They’re just toys.” You mumble, promptly looking away. “Right?”

“Yes!” Bucky rushes out, hating the way you seem to make yourself a little smaller, as if ashamed. “Yes, sweetheart. I'm sorry. It’s just… I never knew you…” He trails off absentmindedly, exhaling harshly as his blue eyes trace your curves. His hands slide slowly to your waist, thumbs brushing small strokes over your hipbones as if he’s reacquainting himself with something he’s known forever but is allowed to touch differently now.

“Let me make you feel good. Can I?” Bucky murmurs, momentarily forgetting about the protagonists of his future dreams. He guides you back until he has you propped against your plush pillows by the headboard, their fuzziness and the soft plaid comforter under you easing your nerves.

You nod, certain but coyly.

Bucky then leans in carefully, planting a kiss on the corner of your mouth first, gently.

“Does this feel good? Here?” Half-lidded eyes burn into yours, your breath catching in your throat at the tenderness, and you nod again, quickly.

He smiles against your skin and shifts slightly, lips brushing along your jaw. Slower, lingering.

“What about here, hm?”

You bite down on your lower lip, the smallest sound trying to escape your throat before you swallow it back. Another nod.

His hand slides up to cradle the side of your neck, thumb warm beneath your ear as he presses a kiss just under it. He feels the way your pulse jumps, feels the way your shoulders tense before melting again.

“Oh,” Bucky hums quietly. “Definitely here.”

Your fingers curl into his shirt as a reflex, grounding yourself and him both.

Moving lower, his lips set over the spot where your neck meets your shoulder, charting your skin like an astronomer tracing a constellation he’s spent a lifetime hoping to find.

“Here?”

You nod too fast this time, and Bucky pulls back just enough to look at you, all twinkling eyes and clenched jaw.

“You don’t have to be so quiet,” he murmurs, thumb pressing against your lip to free it from your teeth. “I wanna hear you.”

That only makes it worse.

You shake your head slightly, embarrassed, and he chuckles under his breath, so terribly fond.

“No?” He whispers, leaning back in. “You don’t want to let me hear your sweet sounds?”

He kisses your mouth this time, taking your chin between his fingers and making sure your tongues touch in a slow dance. And you don’t disappoint, rewarding him with the most precious of moans.

“Good job, sweetheart.” Your next breath is shaky, gaze avoiding his as Bucky reaches lower to brush his mouth on the sliver of belly exposed by the raised hem of your sweater.

Another nod, and Bucky smiles against your skin, teasing.

“Hm, still nodding at me?” There’s no bite to it. “Cute, but I know you can give me more.” Your hand slides then into his hair as a response, tugging lightly, yet Bucky almost breaks his composure. He exhales sharply, forehead dropping briefly to your stomach like he is the one being unraveled.

“You like that, huh?” He sighs, voice low. “Making me lose my mind over you?” The corners of your mouth lift mischievously, and Bucky has to grit his teeth to not smile at the adorable sight.

“Careful, sweetheart.” His thumbs slide along your hips, adjusting himself so he can go even lower. “I might just return the favor… In a way you won’t forget.”

Your breath hitches, and his lips return patient, learning you like a sacred treasure.

“Here?” His mouth lands on your hipbone, and you nod, pressing your lips together.

“And here?”

A kiss on your thigh that again gives him a nod in return.

“And what about here, angel?”

Your breath stutters, and this time you can’t stop the high whimper that slips free.

His lips... Kissing your clothed pussy.

Bucky stills for half a second to make sure he heard right, before a smug grin brightens his features.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Thought so.”

Once he’s climbed back up, hands back at the curve of your waist, he squeezes the flesh, relishing in your startled squeak. “How often do you use them?” He glances between your cloudy eyes and your tantalizing lips as you cling to his broad shoulders.

“What?” You mumble dizzily, blinking as if waking up from a soft dream.

“The toys.”

“It–It depends if–” A gasp interrupts you as he starts mouthing down your jaw and neck. “If I’m in the mood– Bucky.” You sigh, tossing your head back when his fingers dig into your sides.

“Hm?” He barely acknowledges you.

“Tickles.” Your fingers tighten in the fabric of his shirt. His grip eases a little, stroking the skin as if to apologize. He goes back to your lips just in time to swallow your wanton whine. Meanwhile, his right hand grabs the box.

“What’s your favorite, sweetheart?” He asks, planting a kiss on your cheek that feels too pure compared to what you are about to do. Gulping, you sit more upright to examine your secret stash as he holds it between you two. Your lips purse in contemplation, and Bucky can’t resist leaning forward for another quick peck, his left hand gently splaying over your thigh to comfort you.

Your hand snatches the purple dildo that vibrates, your cheeks heating up as Bucky leans back over you with a satisfied smile lingering on his lips to kiss you with more love than hunger. His tongue runs along your lower lip, and when granted permission, he meets your tongue in an eager tangle.

“This okay?” He pants in your mouth, his fingers having traveled to the waistband of your sweats without you even noticing it. His lips have you so dizzy your brain has been turned to complete mush, so you can only nod, already tugging him back to you as he lowers your bottoms, tossing them somewhere on the floor. You whimper in protest when Bucky doesn’t move, taking a moment to examine your panties, something that you were entirely unprepared for. 

“You’ve been this wet the whole time, baby?”

Oh.

You feel your eyes widen, jaw going sack as you notice exactly what he was referring to. Glancing away in embarrassment, your hands shoot up to cover your face. You knew you were aroused, but hearing your best friend declaring it so crudely just makes you want to hide under your sheets. Your core throbs just a little, hot and aching under the uncomfortable fabric and his intense attention. Your fingers part shyly just in time to see Bucky reach for your centre, flinching as two fingers start a slow rubbing motion with just enough pressure, and an occasional pinch of your bundle of nerves. Your slick seeps through and turns the cotton to a darker color, and Bucky groans as his digits get sticky with your arousal, his other hand undoing the belt and then unbuttoning his jeans for some room for his erection.

Your stomach churns as you bravely tuck your palms under your chin, finding him still staring at that stain. It’s really happening, you realize at once, particularly vulnerable now that your best friend looms between your spread thighs. 

“Your shirt, can you…?” You croak out softly, and that’s when Bucky shoots his head up, clumsily going for the hem of his sweater. You wrap one hand around his neck to bring him back into a kiss as you let the other wrap around the dildo, slipping it between your legs. Still devouring your lips, his fingers focus now on your panties, holding them from both sides until an abrupt rip echoes in the silent bedroom.

You gasp, eyes snapping wide open just in time to see his hand carelessly toss your ruined underwear over his shoulders. Unbothered by the fact that he literally just tore the fabric in two, his whole body tenses at a faint click, followed by a low buzzing noise. The toy comes to life in your hand, tingling your palm, and you give the sensation a short moment of consideration before pressing the button again. 

“Fuck.” He exhales harshly, his forehead falling on your shoulder to brace himself as he feels your body tense beneath his, a soft whimper getting caught in your throat when you press the tip of the toy firmly against your clit. “Can I–” He clears his throat, voice so rough you can hear restrain bleed through. “Can I look, princess?” He could bust right now, completely untouched, but your comfort comes first. Always. 

“Ah– yes, yes please!” You shiver, eyes falling shut.

“So fucking pretty.” Swallowing back a growl, his hips shift impatiently. His palms land on your thighs, thumbs stroking the skin at a calming pace. “The prettiest pussy I’ve ever seen.” He murmurs, dark eyes glancing up at your scrunched-up features.

“Open your eyes, baby. C’mon.”

The reminder is gentle but you obey instantly, eager to show Bucky just how good you can be for him. 

“That's it. Good girl.” That proud look takes over his face again, the praise eliciting a whimper out of you before you can stop it. Your urge to please him definitely goes beyond eating reminders and proper breaks between your study sessions.

It just feels so right.

Your hips jolt up unconsciously when you start grinding the toy against your clit after pressing the small button once to let it vibrate faster. Your free hand scrambles to grasp Bucky’s wrist to find some sort of comfort while you let yourself fall blindfolded into the pleasure. 

“Bet that feels so good, right?”

Your eyes drift over him, half-lidded, drinking in the stubble darkening his jaw, the line of his nose, the sweep of his shoulders, each contour and shadow marking him as impossibly real. Scorching heat hums between you, and you feel it not just in your skin but deep in your chest, pressing against your ribs like it could tear you open. The subtle tension in his hands as they hold you, claim you, memorize you, are a wordless testament of the raw intensity that runs through his veins, leaving your body taut and starving for more. Every brush of his lips, every press of his palm, every quiet sigh that slips from him drives you closer to breaking, like stepping through your front door after the world has worn you down, and the pull in your chest finally bursts, and you can only surrender to its force.

“Bucky.” You call out to him absently, panting at the sensations traveling from your core and spreading through your veins like electricity.

“Say it again. My name.” His voice is commanding though you can see his throat bobbing shakily.

“Bucky.” You moan, raw and clear this time, even if your face feels like it just bursted in flames. 

“Good girl. Good fucking girl.” He notices the exact moment you register the words, a shiver shaking your body as your eyes close again in pure bliss.

You want to be his good girl. You want him to be proud of you. You want him.

Your pussy clenches and aches for release, the vibrations are cruel, causing your mind to go rogue and indulging in fantasies of Bucky ordering you to come rather than just watch it happen passively. 

“Why don’t you take it off your clit for me and fuck that sweet pussy now?”

You twitch, aching desperately with the need to put the toy back, to force yourself over the edge against his order, yet your body complies without hesitation, sliding the dildo inside your soaking core.

This is what you need. To be full, to be fucked. The stretch feels perfect, almost as though it belongs inside you.

“Shit, look at you taking it so good.”

You draw the dildo back out again, relishing the drag, setting a slow and steady pace with your wrist as a wanton moan falls from your parted lips. “Oh Bucky.” 

“Love when you say my name like that.” He grits out almost to himself, exhaling harshly. “Faster, baby, c’mon.” 

You follow his order, thrusting harder, faster, your eyes rolling back as your pussy clenches tightly around the toy in its desperation. 

“Good girl.”

You are a good girl. His good girl.

Just as you’re in the midst of exploring and pleasuring your own body, you experience the added sensation of Bucky’s hands– vast, warm, so familiar yet new as they explore your sides. They glide under your sweater, up and up, until your chest is exposed to the chilly air of your bedroom.

“That’s it, baby. Keep that pretty hole stretched for me.” He encourages, his tongue licking his bottom lip as his gaze locks with your hazy eyes, before slowly leaning down. 

His breath is hot on your skin, that’s the first thing your brain registers. You close your eyes in anticipation as he tenderly kisses you, teasing his way down your body, leaving soft pecks that send shivers down your spine. His thumbs expertly brush your nipples, taking his time, indulging in every little moan and restrained gasp. Bucky plants two kisses on the swell of your breasts, then focuses on your already hard peaks. Both nipples receive the softest of nibbles and sweet suckles, the tip of his tongue playfully flicking them only to suck harder. 

“Such pretty tits. Why were you hiding them from me, doll hm?” His eyes glance up, slyly grinning when his teeth bite down a little harder and your back jerks up. 

“You’re drooling, baby. Can’t imagine what’ll happen when I split you on my fat cock.” The needy, desperate whine is out of your mouth the second the thought enters your mind. He licks his way up, from the side of your breast to your damp cheek, before firmly grabbing your jaw to spit on your tongue. “Swallow.”

Gasping, you quickly follow his instruction, a hint of humiliation swirling chaotically in your belly. “Beautiful.”

“Bucky please.”

His answers is instant, attentive. “Please what? Talk to me baby, what do you want?”

It takes you a few tries to let the words out, arousal and embarrassment making it difficult to string a proper sentence together. “I want– fuck– I want you.” You eventually stammer. 

The deep groan rumbling in his ribcage goes straight to your core. “Good girl, sweetheart. I’m proud of you. Fuck that pretty pussy nice and hard for me and you’ll have me.”

You nod eagerly, whimpering as you pick up the pace, pushing the dildo as deep as you can, and it’s not long before you’re floating again, light like a fuzzy cloud of pink cotton candy. This is the best torture you’ve ever experienced, bare to his whims and exposed to his adoring eyes, but you really need more. You need him to fuck you like an animal, to have his strong hands that until now have only handled you with care to ruin you to tears and hold you down as his cock carves its shape inside you. 

Bucky coos, observing your reaction meticulously, your legs spreading impossibly wider as you let your head hit the headboard. “That's it. Does it feel good to fill that pussy for me?”

For him. He has such a filthy mouth and it spurs you on even more. Covered in a sheen of sweat, you manage to answer him through the fog in your brain. “So good.” 

His grin is something dirtily mocking. “It's been a long time since anyone has fucked you like you deserve, and now my baby needs my cock to take care of her, isn’t that right sweet girl?”

Overwhelmed, something breaks inside of you and you’re unable to hold anything back. With a raw moan you almost sob in frustration. “Please. Bucky please fuck me, need it so bad!”

His shaky exhale gives his anticipation away. “I will, baby. I will.” His eyes lock on your trembling form, steady and safe, as you clench and ache and yearn. “Fucking hell, doll, you’re perfect.” His lips are again all over your face, your lust-glazed eyes unable to do anything but flutter shut with desire. “My pretty girl, all mine.”

It’s all too much and not enough at the same time.

“You ready to come for me, sweetheart?”

Yes, yes! That’s what you need!

Nodding enthusiastically, you chase the climax that you’ve been greedily anticipating, only to realize it’s not going to happen like this. You love being stuffed and pounded, but having an orgasm just from it? It’s not something that comes easy to you. All at once, the pleasurable torture feels more like a cruel punishment, and you can’t help the dejected whimper that escapes your throat. You need more, but pleasing Bucky is necessary, something stronger than the urge to rub your clit.

“Bucky.” You wail, his voice is not enough anymore.

He gently soothes his palms along your thighs and the effect is immediate. You melt into the mattress, the warmth of his skin on yours settling your rapidly unravelling nerves. “What is it? I’m right here, sweetheart. You’re doing so good for me”

“I need– can I touch it, please?”

Bucky sits back on his heels with a playful smirk. “You can’t come if you don’t touch your pretty little clit, can you?”

“No.” You shake your head, a thrill of excitement racing under your hot skin. “I–I hit it sometimes too.” You reveal quietly, the words spilling out before you can stop them.

His eyes widen, Adam's apple bobbing, and his whole body goes still, stripped of every shred of cockiness. “What?”

You quickly swat your hand against yourself, glancing up at him to find him frozen, staring at your bare pussy, wet and shiny. You repeat the action, squeaking. “Like this.” 

His nostrils flare, tongue licking his lips like a wolf ready to sink his fangs into his coveted prey. “Sweet girl, you like getting your little pussy slapped?”

At your eager nod, your best friend swears every ounce of oxygen has vanished from the room.

“Then slap it for me, princess.”

Fiercely determined to show him and thankful for finally getting some stimulation on your clit, you swiftly pull the toy out just enough to bring your hand down with a sharp slap. The shock of the impact makes your body lurch, the sensation recoiling through your core as the wet sound resounds lewdly in his ears.

“Fuck!” Your pussy is so hot and tender with the amount of attention it has been receiving from both you and Bucky, but the slap is a welcome change in sensation, spurring you closer to that final edge. Sliding the dildo back inside, you feel delirious with lust.

“Again.” 

You strike your flesh harder this time, gasping at the delicious sting. The friction on your clit brings you dangerously close to your climax as you keep alternating a few thrusts of the dildo to the little spanks. You’re not so sure you’d be able to wait for his permission to come if Bucky keeps ordering you to do it. 

Humming thoughtfully, his cock hot and throbbing, still trapped in the confines of his wet underwear, Bucky takes a deep breath, trying to regain at least a fraction of self-control before coming untouched just by witnessing the girl he yearned so long for losing herself to this debauchery. 

“Maybe one day I’ll make you come just by slapping your pretty pussy.” Your reaction is immediate, hips twitching up and mouth forming a lovely circle around a loud whine. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? My dirty, little girl.” His hand squish your cheeks together with a cocky smirk. “You want another one, doll?”

“Please.” Maybe if he let you, you could come from slapping your pussy now. The thought of orgasming from something so depraved renews that spark of embarrassment, only serving to drive you deeper into this maddening lust.

“So fucking polite.” He growls. “Again.”

Your body jerks violently as the pain ricochets through your whole being. It feels so overwhelmingly good, every nerve alive and sore, tortured by this endless, pulsing arousal.

Tears start running down your cheeks unprompted. “Bucky please! ’M so close.”

Nuzzling your jaw, he cups your face with such tenderness, appealing directly to that part of you that would do anything for him. “I know, princess. I know. One more thing and then I’ll let you come, okay?” You nod weakly, sniffling. “You’re doing so well for me, sweetheart.”

You sob then, so broken and sensitive you aren’t sure how much more you can take.

His velvety voice rumbles against your neck. “Take the dildo out and turn it off for me.”

“But–” Bucky wants to punch himself in the nose at the look of pure misery on your face.

“Do you trust me, darling?” Humming dejected, your hand trembles as you whine at the loss, your hole clenching around nothing. 

“Good girl. Breathe with me.”

You pull in some deep breaths, his hand flattening yours against his chest to follow his lead. Of course he wouldn’t leave you like this, and trying to fight off the fog clouding your brain, you wonder if he’s going to fuck you finally.

“Show me the toy.”

You balk at his request, somehow more self-conscious about this than the fact that you’ve been masturbating in front of your best friend for God knows how long.

Hesitant, you lift the damp dildo, and Bucky leans forward to inspect it.

“It’s soaked with your sweet pussy juice, doll.”

A surge of arousal boils in your veins at his words, prompting you to cover your face with your free hand, but Bucky promptly catches your wrist, gently bringing it back to its previous place.

“No need to be embarrassed, sweetheart. Take a look, you did so good for me.”

It’s not much of a surprise to you to find the dildo glistening, yet you bite your bottom lip out of mortification. The thing is, seeing the proof of your raging arousal standing proudly between you two shouldn’t make you leak so much. 

Bucky smiles, before guiding you into an open-mouth kiss with a hand on your nape. “Look at you. You're so fucking gone, aren’t you?” He blabbers against your lips. “Beautiful… So, so beautiful. Wanna come for me, baby?”

As you nod enthusiastically, still completely spaced out, he nods along with you. “Yeah, I know you do. C’mon then, put that stupid toy to use.”

Turning the dildo back on, you notice that your wrist is a little sore, but you’ll be damned if you’re going to stop now.

“Oh my God.” Your eyes roll in the back of your head as you start rubbing the toy around your nub, the sensation taking you higher and higher as the room is soon being filled with your lewd sounds. At this point you’re far too close to what you’ve been craving to care about your neighbors. 

Bucky diverts your attention before you can get carried away, still cupping your cheeks and hovering over your lips. “Don’t you dare come without my permission, baby girl. I want to know when you’re close, alright?”

While your initial thought is to complain about having to wait a little longer, you bite your tongue and decide to not challenge his patience. The thought of being so obedient for him is too tantalizing to resist, so you do your best to hold back as each vibration hurls you towards your imminent climax.

“Fuck! I’m so close– Bucky please make me come. I can't– fuck.”

“Let go, doll. C’mon, you have been such a good girl for me. Soak it for me, make me proud, and I’ll reward you by licking your pussy clean after, okay?”

The tight knot in your lower belly finally snaps, his words forcing you over the edge and into pure oblivion. Electricity courses through your veins and your poor, abused pussy throbs and clenches, your whole body shuddering uncontrollably. You are on your knees, at your pleasure’s mercy, from your trembling thighs to the noises shamelessly falling from your parted lips. You’re barely able to register Bucky talking you through it, with you every step of the way. 

“There you go. You’re so fucking perfect. Fuck, I want to keep you. Please let me keep you, angel. Love you so damn much.”

You have never had such an intense orgasm in your entire life, its power taking the breath from your lungs and leaving you floundering for some kind of stability.

“Deep breaths, honey, c’mon.”

Feeling entirely too sensitive now, you quickly yank the vibrator away, throwing it somewhere on the bed. You try to focus on your breathing as your head flops back to look at the ceiling, utterly exhausted and still quivering from the leftover pleasure.

“That’s it, good girl.”

Without wasting a minute, Bucky is already kissing his way down your body, gently and attentively, as if trying to leave little pieces of himself along your skin. Until he stops between your legs, resting his head against your inner thigh, two fingers run from your clit down to your entrance. You flinch, body lighting up.

“Bucky–”

He softly parts your glistening folds with his thumbs, inviting your pussy to his hungry gaze. 

“Haven’t finished with you yet, sweetheart. Look at this pretty mess.” He whispers directly into your pussy, his words sending shivers down your spine, his hot breath tickling your most intimate area. He lightly flicks your clit with the tip of his tongue, teasing you with delicate and precise touches that burn so deliciously.

You feel like your body is going to implode as his fingers slide back and forth between your lower lips, and without warning, he slips one inside, eliciting a strangled moan out of you. Almost immediately, he finds that spongy spot as he leans in to tease around your puffy lips with his teeth, grazing the meat until your hips twitch up with need. He thoroughly licks up the slickness from your inner thighs, savoring every drop of arousal from your previous release. Your body is slowly melting under his unhurried actions, until Bucky decides to attack your clit with his mouth and you flinch, feet digging into the bed as a yelp leaves your throat.

“Ah! Bucky!” You choke out, a hand coming to grasp his wrist while the other fists a handful of your bed sheets.

He knows you are especially sensitive, after all that relentless teasing and prolonged edging, but it only makes it better. “‘S okay, I've got you, sweet girl. Just let it happen.” With a mumble, he leaves a sweet kiss on your inner thigh, then slips another finger alongside the first one, making you cry out as he overstimulates your sweet spot.

“Fuck fuck fuck!” You almost scream, thighs snapping close around his head.

Bucky growls at the pressure, hungrily licking a long, slow strip from your clenching entrance all the way up to your pulsating clit, your natural scent making him dizzy as he literally buries his face in your core. His saliva drips down his chin when his lips eagerly suckle on your sensitive nub, coaxing out desperate moans from your quivering lips. His need to please you is insatiable, and you can feel its intensity from the way his starved tongue laps at you, every flick sending jolts of pleasure through your spine. You are completely lost in this wild lust, so feverishly intense, that you are left trembling with pleasure, on the verge of transcending into another state of being. His actions are an overwhelming assault on your senses, your mind and body both spiraling out of control, thoroughly consumed by the exquisite sensation of his fingers thrusting so precisely inside your poor walls. 

Bucky cannot escape the pleasure, his addiction to your unique flavor driving him to new heights of bliss. His eyes stay fixed on your crumpled features, his hand imprinting its shape on the soft flesh of your thigh to stop himself from humping your bed like an animal, so close to his own release that he could come right there with a single touch of his cock.

At some point, he pulls away with a wet pop, groaning in delight at the intoxicating taste. “C’mon, make a stupid mess on my face, beautiful.” He growls, voice husky with urgent arousal. His mouth latches back onto your clit, sucking on it with a steady rhythm, producing such humiliating, sloppy sounds as he eagerly consumes you, his soft groans adding to the melody of pleasure filling the bedroom.

His fingers curl up, massaging that sweet, sweet spot of yours, so lost in the euphoria of it all that his arms shake with pent-up desire, his actions leaving you both teetering on the edge of sublime release.

“I’m gonna– fuck , please don’t stop!” You cry out, fisting his hair and he grunts. He’s a fucking beast as he devours you whole.

“That’s it, doll, give it to me. Grind on my tongue, just use my mouth.” 

You obey, literally humping his face, convulsing under a thin layer of sweat. “‘M gonna come.” You sob. “Jamie– fuck!” His tongue abuses the poor bundle of nerves while quickly pumping his fingers even as your walls clamp, your slick pouring into his eager mouth and down his chin, soaking his stubble. He loves when you go limp in his hold, your whole body quivering under his palms.

“Shh-shh, you're okay, pretty.” He slowly retracts his fingers while keeping his eyes locked on your face, still dragging his lower face between your puffy folds, rubbing you raw with his facial hair to gather every bit of your orgasm. He brings his fingers to his mouth once he sits back on his heels, making a show of licking them clean before he crawls forward to hover over you again, his bulge now impatiently pressing against the fabric for your attention.

“Holy shit.” You huff, on the brink of passing out.

“One more.” Bucky kisses you, like an apology for being so needy.

“What?” You squeak, still dazed yet blinking at him, more awake than ever. 

“One more, baby.” He pleads, his hand soothing along your hips and waist as you faintly catch the rustling of fabric. “You were crying so prettily for my cock before, don’t you want it anymore?”

Before you can beg to give it to you, a weight settles on your soppy core, hot and solid, sliding between your folds. Your eyes shoot down as Bucky thrusts forward, the underside of his length grinding along your heat, coating him in your slick. 

“Shit.” He grits out.

Gaping, your hand slowly reaches down to grasp him. He’s so thick and heavy in your palm, throbbing with desire as precum dribbles from the bulbous tip and over your knuckles. 

“Yeah, touch me like that, baby.” He rasps out, panting. “You’re so sweet to me. Letting me play with your pussy until you’re dumb and drooling and all pretty and relaxed for me.” He wraps his fingers around yours on his girth, tightening and squeezing the base. “There we go.” He grunts, bending down until there isn’t a sliver of air between you both. 

You mewl pathetically, garbling nonsense. He’s deliciously mean as he lovingly bullies your clit with his cock. Your raw nerves burn with every thrust, your juices spilling down your ass. “Oh, you like that, don’t you, sweet girl? Wanna be my pretty slut, baby? Spend every day being stuffed full of my cock? You won’t have to think about anything, just be nice and wet for me. I’ll put it in your mouth, and then get you on your hands and knees just to spank your pretty ass until you’re begging for me to fuck you.” He chuckles darkly as your eyes glaze over and your breaths go thin and shaky, every cell in your body buzzing as you cling to his forearms.

“You feel me on your pretty button, baby?” He grinds again. “Poor little clit must feel so sensitive. Is that why you’re crying?”

Above you, Bucky curses, mouth watering at the sight of the creamy mess you made on his cock, soaking the bed and his thighs as well. 

“Are you going to let me inside, baby girl? Fill you up with my seed, and watch it leak out because it’s too much for you to keep inside?”

“Please, please, Bucky.” You beg, nails digging into his skin. “‘M ready, so ready for you.” A pulse of agony beats through you.

He shushes your blabbering softly, cupping your cheek. “Alright, pretty girl. I'm here, just a little more patience.” The reverence in his blue eyes pours into your heart, unraveling in a delicious storm. “Thank you for letting me have you like this. Thank you for giving me the honor.”

You’ve been yearning for his touch for what seemed like a never-ending lifetime. Every fiber of your being has ached for him, and now that you have him like this, warm and gentle and incredibly gorgeous, staring down at you with his blue eyes so full of fondness, you can’t ignore it anymore.

“I love you, Bucky.” You blurt out, tremblingly grabbing his face with both of your hands, bringing him down into another kiss– hard, and desperate, and filthy, your heart beating so fast you’re convinced it’s going to escape your chest anytime now.

With flushed cheeks, Bucky pants, tip of the nose brushing yours. “Sweetheart,” he soothes dotingly, an ache to his voice that creeps through the tenderness as he buries his face into the crook of your neck. He breathes you in reverently, brought to his knees by three simple words. “You don’t know how many times I’ve dreamed about this. Of you. And now I’ve got you in my arms, and you’re mine– you are mine, right?”

“Wanna be yours, always have.” You whine, and with a broken groan, he caresses your hips, mapping out every inch of your body with his strong hands, kissing any part he can reach like this. He trails from your neck to your collarbones and then your breasts, capturing a nipple between his lips. Your arms hook over his shoulders to keep him close, softly moaning as he switches between your tits, his warm tongue taking care of both nubs thoroughly. 

“You’re so beautiful, you know that?” He murmurs, forcing himself to stay still as you adjust to his length teasing your entrance. “You’re gonna take it for me like a good girl, right?”

“Your good girl.”

That earns you a feral kiss that you break with a sharp cry when your hole starts stretching wide, welcoming the leaking tip with some resistance. Bucky initially distracts you with sweet pecks, but as he sinks into your warmth maintaining a clear head becomes tricky, his forehead dropping to your shoulder as a choked groan leaves his throat.

“So deep.” You squeal, thighs trembling around his hips as his base finally meets your core.

“I know.” Bucky kisses your cheek, shuddering. “I know, but you’re taking it so good. Jesus, look at you.” He swallows as his hips ease back slowly, until you can feel only the head inside. You squeak out a pathetic whimper, hands coming to cling onto his shoulders. Then he bottoms out again, quicker this time. You gasp, back arching.

“Fuck!” You almost scream, your insides feeling more sensitive than before.

Bucky finds a temporary steady pace, letting you melt beneath him, then shifts your legs back, until they almost touch your chest, and thrusts harder as soon as you respond with a sob of pleasure, the new angle sending your eyes back in your head.

“Oh shit! Bucky!” You reach around and dig your nails into his shoulders, toes curling.

He can’t take his eyes off you, drinking carefully in your little details as he fights the urge to squeeze his eyes shut every time your pussy pulses with a new sensation. At some point his wet mouth is on your breasts again, flicking your nipple some more just to listen to your pathetic whimpers and feel you arch back into him. His hips are picking up their pace, slamming against that deep spot at an almost desperate speed. When his fingers momentarily leave your hip to pinch and rub your sensitive clit, your lips open in a silent scream as you clamp involuntarily around him.

“That’s it, baby, there you go.” He coos, bullying your nub some more before he traps you completely under him on the rocking bed. His pecs press against your bouncing breasts, your sensitive nipples rubbed raw. 

“I love you so much, sweetheart.” His tongue drags up your cheek, your bitter tears fueling his primal side as he stifles your wanton noises with his tongue, your lips and teeth clashing in a filthy kiss. 

“Can feel you clench so hard, are you gonna squirt and make a stupid mess all over my cock?” His arms slide under your back, keeping you firmly against him with every rough thrust. “I’m gonna make a mess on your pussy and fill you up with all my love.”

The shameless sound of your flesh slapping against his is so loud but you can’t hear it, too dizzy and lost in the feeling of his dick hitting your sweet spot with a new kind of precision and his muscled arms keeping you safe and still for him to play with you.

“Fuck, wish you could see yourself right now.” He growls, pounding into you earnestly, panting like a feral beast. “This is my pussy now. Gotta keep you marked up, show everyone that you're my girl– shit.” His voice breaks when you clench, choking him. “Wanna be mine forever, sweetheart?”

It’s too much– his fierce, insistent thrusts, his pubic hair stimulating your clit, the way he talks to you as if he’s losing his mind, just blabbering whatever pops into his head.

And you? You just take it. You take it and you scream his name, eyes rolling back and mouth unable to close. You whine and your toes curl with each thrust, your hips trying to rock back onto his, unsuccessfully. Until your climax unravels violently and you ascend to heaven. Your body erupts in flames, and you squirt as Bucky marvels with gritted teeth at the broken fountain making a mess of his lower abdomen and cock, still fucking you through it to prolong your pleasure as much as he can. He needs to ruin you for anyone else, the only thought in your mind each time your fingers plunge into your pussy being him and only him.

You shake uncontrollably in his hold, but he keeps you firmly locked on his cock, balls deep against your quivering, gushing hole. 

He growls against your tear-stained cheek, every muscle contracting. “Gonna come, baby. Gonna come so fucking hard for you.” He repeats, his voice bordering on a snarl. “You are my girl now.” He pants, digging his fingers in the flesh of your ass. “Love fucking you, love watching you come, love you–”

Your vision is blurry, yet you don’t need it to know Bucky is completely surrounding you, from the heavy panting of his chest against yours to his damp skin sticking to your body. You decide to not acknowledge the creamy mess where you’re connected though, too embarrassed by what you have done. It’s intense, the way you’re so wet, warm and tight around him.

Bucky groans gutturally, harshly pressing his lips to yours, his face scrunched up tightly as he pins you down, not a sliver of space between you. “Fucking take it, fuck– take it, please–” His hot cum floods your ruined hole, spurting along your stretched walls to claim you fully. There’s so much that it spills out and down his pulsating length to his tense balls, joining your mess everywhere. 

Bucky ends up collapsing against you, forearms firmly planted on the mattress to keep himself from completely crushing you, mindful of your well-being even as he feels like he is going to pass out after this powerful release, fueled by having restrained himself for who knows how long.

You’re still shaking in his hold, exhausted and sated, but definitely more alert now that you have both freed yourselves of years of longing and pent-up sexual frustration. He’s reluctant to let you go just yet– and you couldn’t be more grateful for that, your body feeling like it’s going to crumble after your last climax– so he opts to pepper the slope of your neck in lazy kisses, indulging in your soft mewl when he finally reaches your mouth. Bucky shifts just enough to brush a thumb over your cheek, watching your eyes flutter close and then back open, as though checking if he’s still there.

“Hey,” He clears his throat, voice still hoarse. “Are you okay?”

Your lips part, words sticking somewhere between your throat and the tips of your tongue. You try, but only a breathless hum escapes, and it’s enough. Bucky leans closer, resting his nose against yours, inhaling, grounding himself in the reality of you.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he whispers more to himself, worry threading through his awe. “I just… I just want to know if you’re okay.”

You manage a weak nod, letting your fingers curl around his wrists. His eyes, wide and unguarded, observe you like you’re the only thing he’s ever wanted to understand.

“You’re perfect,” he says finally, the words spilling urgently, reverently. “Every damn bit of you. You’re—” He swallows, shaking his head slightly, as if even language feels too clumsy for this. “You’re everything I’ve ever needed.”

A small, exhausted laugh catches in your throat, and you bury your face into the crook of his neck, letting him feel your trembling, the last threads of overstimulated energy slowly unraveling. He holds you tighter, hums a low, almost inaudible note against your hair, and for a long while, neither of you speaks.

When he cradles your face in his hands, Bucky looks more lucid. “We can talk after. But you need to know, doll, you are my whole world.” His forehead presses to yours, like he needs the contact to stay upright, as if pulling away means the gravity of the moment would swallow him whole. 

“You have no idea,” he murmurs, voice breaking at the edges. “How long I tried to hold this in. But I can’t anymore, not after tonight, not after having a taste of what it feels like to be completely and utterly yours.” His thumb traces the curve of your jaw.

“I think I’ve loved you,” his breath hitches, because he can’t believe he’s finally saying it out loud for you to hear. No moans, no bed creaking to drown the words. Just the quiet stillness of the night, as if the moon itself is holding its breath with him. “Since I was too young to even understand what that meant.”

Your hand flattens against the rapid drum of his chest, perceiving every thrum, every irregular skip, every fierce, insistent beat that has somehow always belonged to you. For a moment it feels as if the rest of the world has fallen away, leaving only the two of you suspended in this fragile, trembling bubble. Your eyes glisten with tears you haven’t let fall, tiny, fragile sparks that catch the dim light like stars reflected in dark water, and your chest tightens with the ache of everything you’ve held in silence for so long. All the unspoken words between you, the years of stolen glances, quiet worry, and secret yearning suddenly all converge in this single moment. His shoulders shift, leaning ever so slightly toward you, and your fingers press more firmly, almost desperate, into the heat of his chest.

“Jamie,” your voice quivers. “It’s always been you.”

And when you glance up at him, so radiant and so inevitably his, Bucky finally looks at you without any restraint, staying like he always has, and always will.

ending notes: I don’t do taglists anymore, sorry. thank you for reading!

[barnesdreamcatcher]

All the bad dreams that you hide

bucky barnes x f!reader

cw / tw: angst, also fluff, very soft smut (18+ / mdni), aftermath of an abusive relationship (emotional, physical & sexual abuse), related injuries, trauma recovery, discussions of consent, PTSD (flashbacks, vivid nightmares, panic/anxiety attacks, hypervigilance), self-harm (scratching), depression & anxiety, medical trauma / hospitalization, tobacco & alcohol use, insecurities (reader & bucky), codependency, not the healthiest relationship dynamic (but they’re trying), bucky’s trauma (loss of autonomy, brainwashing), afab!reader (she/her), mutual pining / yearning, friends to lovers, shy!reader, sometimes unreliable narrator

a/n: i’m starting this on july 30th, i still have an exam i’m supposed to study for but wtv so, obv this is very angsty and sad, but it’s also full of hope and fluff!!

now playing: Savior Complex – Phoebe Bridgers

show me yours, I’ll show you mine

September 25th, 2025

A constant cloud of rain had been hanging over New York for the last two weeks. In a rare moment when no precipitation bullied the streets of Brooklyn, Bucky walked through a heavy veil of fog, mist settling on his cheekbones and the tip of his nose. 

He tried something new that day: pumpkin spice latte. It tasted awful, a bit stale but sweet at the same time, with too much cinnamon sticking to the roof of his mouth. But he smiled as the liquid slid down his throat and left a strangely warm, lingering feeling his stomach – because you sat opposite him. 

The coffee shop was not too full. A girl with a frizzy hair and glasses big enough to cover half her face sat in one corner, hunched over her laptop and shuffling flashcards while the condensation of her iced Frappuccino left watery rings on the table.  One of the window seats was occupied by a couple and their dog, two cups of coffee and a piece of apple pie shared between them while the fog outside thickened and the clouds moved. 

A faint throbbing in his left shoulder let Bucky know that the rain would pick up again in the next twenty minutes. His gaze darted between the window, the couple sitting there and then to you, as he tried to guess how long it would take to convince you of his plan.

To his surprise, you hadn’t chosen one of those godawful drinks you called coffee today. Instead your hands curled around a hand-painted mug, the kind the coffee shop only reserved for their homemade lavender-lemongrass tea. 

Sunday brunch had been a longstanding tradition, carried out weekly ever since you met on last New Year’s Eve, huddled up together in the basement of Sarah Wilson’s house – by accident.  The bonding moment had happened at 11:53 p.m., when you started crying – a mix of anxiousness about the upcoming fireworks and one too many glasses of white wine. He had seen the way you had darted to the stairs and followed you, even though he couldn’t even recall your name from when Sarah had introduced you briefly. 

He’d made a clumsy attempt at flirting, coaxed you out of a panic attack and — very chivalrously — offered to stay until the fireworks died down. Then, as midnight approached, you realized he was even more jumpy about them than you. Call it fate, call it trauma bonding – since that night, a friendship you had never expected but more than welcomed. Sunday had become your favorite day of the week now.

Not today though – because Bucky was worried and you knew exactly why. The whole way here, you had considered turning on your heels and walking back home but the only thing worse than his sad puppy eyes was the hole in the wall waiting at your apartment.  

Apparently, you had left your ability to talk like a normal person right next to said hole because except for a small “hi” and “one lavender-lemongrass tea, please”, no words had left your lips so far. Instead, you eyed the couple’s dog. It was white, small and crusty-eyed, its head lifting every time someone walked past the shop’s entrance. The couple was arguing – not in the way you knew. There was no yelling, no name calling, no raised hands or let alone a closed fist. No, they sounded half amused, as the woman scolded her boyfriend for paying even a single cent at the dog’s groomer.

You had to admit, the dog looked a little funny. Most of the white fur was clipped down to its skin except for the neck and head, which made it look like a very strangely colored miniature lion.  With every word exchanged by the couple, you grew more fascinated. She kept dragging on about the dog’s haircut, not letting the man opposite her live it down, while one manicured finger pointed at him, then at the dog and then back at him.  Frankly, you were envious. 

Bucky cleared his throat and your eyes snapped up. His hair was a little longer than usual and today he wore it neatly tied back, one of your scrunchies holding it in place. A single strand kept falling into his face when he brought his mouth down to his cup instead of doing it the other way around. You had to keep your hand glued around your own beverage to hold yourself back from pushing it out of his face.  Part of you doubted you’d even be able to.

The metal of his vibranium arm caught the light when he shifted in his seat and for a second, just a second, you wondered how bad it would hurt if he struck you with it. Then you met his eyes.

“You’re quiet today,” he remarked. Not a question, not even a bit of hesitation as the words left his mouth, just an assessment. But the unspoken implication behind it wasn’t lost on you.  You’re not talking to me.

“Sorry,” you mumbled and sat up a little straighter. He raised his eyebrows, then drank a sip of his latte, which he visibly hated.  “You don’t have to apologize to me, you know that.”

You knew that but ‘sorry’ was your most used word these days.  A strange quiet settled over the table as both of you sipped on your drinks. It wasn’t awkward but filled, heavy.  It hurt your soul like a papercut – barely visible but distracting enough that you wished for someone to kiss it better.

Bucky looked at you the way he always did. A slight furrow between his brows as his eyes fixated on yours, his lips pressed together and a soft crease on the dimple in his chin.  You were often subjected to this stare but it had never felt so… intense. Not in this way at least.

Your blood froze as Bucky spoke up again. “Have you found a place yet?” 

“No,” you admitted and played with the corner of your napkin. It fell apart under your touch like a dandelion, white frilly bits decorating your side of the table.

“But you do still wanna move out, right?” His eyes no longer lingered on your face but rather on the anxious movements as you picked and picked at the paper towel.

You folded the napkin so that the frayed edge was tucked under and dropped it onto the table, then met Bucky’s eyes. “Yes.”

“Move in with me, then,” he said.

It was not the first time he offered it. The day everything had went down, just a minute after the paramedics had declared your head injury as ‘non-problematic’, he had crouched down in front of you and taken your hands into his.  Move in with me. I’ll take care of you. You had turned him down and he had looked like a kicked puppy, even though you were the one with the visible print of a boot on your ribs.  His fingers on yours had felt like a prison. 

“I can’t accept that,” you said now.  Bucky’s face didn’t falter. “Yes, you can,” he answered and reached out. He stopped himself just a hand breadth away from making contact and searched your eyes. You knew what he was looking for and it made you feel sick. 

“I can’t move in with you. It’s... I shouldn’t. I just need to get my shit together.” You gave him a brief smile, one that physically hurt to put on. “No, you don’t. You don’t gotta do anything. I’ll help you, I’ll do whatever you need me to do. Just… move in with me. Doesn’t have to be forever.” He said it so sincerely that you wondered how his heart wasn’t beating on his sleeve in front of you.

“Buck…,” you started but drifted off.  If you were honest with yourself for once, you would have to admit that you had entertained the idea a few times.  Overdue bills from your insurance company, your lawyer and your landlord were overflowing on the kitchen counter right next to the hole in the wall. Your neighbors whispered when they saw you, some with pity, others with judgment or worse – disbelief. 

“How would that even work?” You asked.  And he knew he had you.  Bucky’s eyes lit up just a tiny bit as he began to explain. “We can go to your place right now and start packing. I’ll ask Sam to help us get your stuff over to my p-,” “No,” you interrupted him, “Please- please don’t ask Sam.”

“Okay,” he answered and took another sip of his latte. This time he shuddered as the liquid dripped down his throat. “Then we’ll do it. Just us.”

・・・・・

Boxes started piling around the entire apartment while you packed up your life as you knew it. You ignored your shaky hands, the way your chest felt a little too tight, your skin a little too clammy.  Bucky avoided looking at the damaged wall the entire time as he sorted plates, cutlery and mugs into labelled containers. His jaw was set tight, teeth grinding down onto each other while he moved into the living room. 

For a few seconds he leaned against the door frame and watched you. Something in his eyes softened when he saw how you passed a sweater from one hand to the other. It had been your ex’s; deep maroon threads were flawlessly woven into each other, but if you looked a little closer, you could still make out the single crimson spot where your blood had soaked the sleeve. You should have thrown it out weeks ago but no matter how hard you tried, you just couldn’t put it in the trash.

“Anything you don’t wanna keep, you should leave here,” he mumbled.  Your posture changed, a little more rigid, as his voice sounded through the room. “I’ll come back and put everything up for donation if that’s what you want,” he offered then. 

“I-I don’t know,” you muttered quietly. Part of you wished that you could just freeze your apartment, keeping everything exactly as it is, until you got rid of the brain fog clouding your judgment. Until you felt just a little more like yourself. Your old self.  “I don’t wanna throw away anything I might miss.”

Bucky nodded slowly and you instantly knew that he didn’t understand. How would he? There was no rationality in keeping anything that belonged to a man who wrecked your life, who had drawn your blood. Still, you couldn’t stand the idea of losing the things that connected him to you, even though you never wanted to see him again. 

“I could… I could clear out some storage space for you,” Bucky proposed, “For the stuff you’re, uh, unsure about.”

The first drag of your nails across your arm, just below your elbow, was unconscious. The second not so much. You slowly scratched at the skin, closing your eyes and breathing in deeply while Bucky rummaged through one of your shelves.  Dry flakes collected under your nails but just before you could draw blood, he spoke up again. 

“What do you think?”

Shit. “Um, about what?” you asked, looking up. Bucky’s eyes were already cast on you. “About my storage space.”

You nodded wordlessly, blinking through the heavy veil that spun across your vision.  He sighed and walked up to you. 

“You know,” he began, “We don’t have to do this today. I can take you to my place and come back here tomorrow on my own, we just grab whatever you need now.” You were already shaking your head before he finished.  “I don’t want you to be here by yourself,” you admitted quietly.

Hurt flashed across his face and you realized just how it had sounded. He took a deep breath to compose himself before he answered. “I’m not gonna throw anything away, you don’t have to worry about that. I would never do that to you.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” you replied, “I’m sorry. I just meant that I don’t want you to be here without me, not because I don’t trust you with my things, but because I know… I know how you feel about this place.” He rubbed his jaw before he crouched down in front of you. His hands laid on his knees while he tilted his head in order to catch your eyes. 

“Listen to me,” he said firmly but not unkind, “You don’t have to worry about my feelings, especially not my feelings about your apartment.”  Still, his gaze jumped to the wall, the one separating kitchen and living room before he continued talking. “What happened here affected you much more than me. Much more, you hear me? If it were up to me, which it isn’t, I would have made sure you’d never set another foot in this place.” He once again tried to make you look at him but it might as well have been an Olympian discipline which is why you kept staring at the floor. “But it’s your choice and I hope you know I’ll respect whatever decision you make.”

The words hung heavy in the air. Your choice. His respect. Two things that felt like foreign concepts, so strange that they barely made sense to you. 

Finally, you raised your chin and met his eyes.  “I… I think I’ll take that storage space then,” you concluded quietly, “And if it’s alright, I’d give you the key so that you… so that you can come here without me.”

His smile – so full of relief – warmed your bones and he nodded instantly.  “Yeah, yeah, of course that’s alright. Let’s get your things and get the hell out of here.”

・・・・・

The car made strange noises. Not strange as in it was about to blow up but much rather like it was fighting the street beneath it. The wheels groaned with every turn, a soft sputter accompanying the engine’s roar.  Your suitcases – two of them, filled with clothes, hygiene products and books – rattled in the trunk as Bucky swerved through the streets to miss potholes. It might have been a gentler journey if he just allowed the car to hit them instead of driving like a maniac but you didn’t speak up once, even as your seatbelt caught you in a particularly rough curve. 

His fingers tapped against the wheel every time you stood at a traffic light, a nervous tremor he couldn’t shake. You weren’t sure what caused his uneasiness but it triggered your own, leading you to fidget in your seat. Once you noticed the constant movements of your hands, rolling into fists and relaxing again, you pushed them under your thighs to keep yourself still. 

You forced your breath to slow, keeping it even and direct. Once you started thinking about it too much, your lungs started to hurt and you worried you would forget how to breathe. Just as the first bit of panic began to boil in your stomach, Bucky pulled into his driveway. 

This was far from the first time you were here but it had been weeks since the last. Of course, not a lot had changed on the exterior of his brownstone; it just sat there, perched between others looking exactly the same while rain pearled off the windows. 

Bucky turned in his seat and looked at you, his favorite thing to do apparently. “You ready?” he asked. His hand hovered across your shoulder for a brief second until he redecided and dropped it on your head rest instead. You inhaled deeply and nodded.  “Yeah, I’m ready.”

It was out of the question for him to allow you to carry even one of the suitcases up the stairs to his apartment. Instead, he grabbed them both after entrusting you with his keys. “I’ll get you your own set,” he informed you as you ascended the steps together, “I think Sam has my spare but you should have your own. I’ll get it to you as soon as possible.”

You didn’t really know what to say and hated yourself a little for it. Anyone else might have thanked him or asked him literally anything to keep the conversation going but there was no space in your throat for words, no matter how much you fought to think of any.  Instead, you just nodded. Bucky didn’t seem to mind that much but maybe he just pitied you. Or maybe, and that might be worse, he was used to your silence and didn’t expect anything else from you. 

The only thing that came to your mind was the reminder that you weren’t planning on staying here long enough to require your own key but you were not going to say that to him.

His apartment was a little cold. It had always felt that way to you, both when it came to his furnishings and the literal temperature. Lots of white, tons of grey and even more black mixed throughout his space, broken up occasionally by pictures and books, seemingly the only colorful things he owned. 

You advanced into the living room while Bucky put your suitcases down in the guest bedroom. Your own face smiled back at you from multiple corners of the room. There was a picture of you on his bookshelf, photo-you beaming into the camera while photo-Bucky had his hand sheepishly resting on your shoulder. The two of you had barely known each other for a month when Sam had taken the picture but you had simply grabbed Bucky’s arm and almost forced him to be a little braver when it came to physical touch.

Now you could barely recall the experience of his skin against yours, how the weight of him pressed against you had made you feel loved, safe, taken care of. All you knew now was that you wouldn’t be able to handle as much as a hug today. Even though you really craved one.

Usually, Bucky’s steps were soft and silent as a cat’s, years of training and missions still buried in his bones. But you suspected he made them heavier for you, in order not to spook you as he rounded the corner once he returned. 

“So,” he breathed, “Um… you’re welcome to whatever’s in the fridge, you don’t gotta ask, what’s mine is yours. Towels- towels are in the linen closet, just over there.” He pointed somewhere to the hallway and you nodded even though you couldn’t actually see what he indicated. 

“Thanks,” you muttered. To your own ears, you sounded terribly ungrateful so you cleared your throat and tried again.  “Thank you, Bucky.”

He glanced at you and nodded softly. “You’re welcome.” For once, he allowed you to escape his stare as he continued, “I’ll let you get settled then. You know where everything else is, right?”

The question stung a little. He was your best friend, your only friend, and he wasn’t sure if you knew your way around his apartment. That was hardly his fault, considering you hadn’t visited him in almost five months, but your heart ached nonetheless.

・・・・・

You caught Bucky smoking. It surprised you because last time you had checked in, he had quit for good. 

He really had tried to be sneaky, the kitchen window propped open with him almost leaning out of it. Additionally, he had waited until you were in the shower that evening until he lit a cigarette. But one turned into two and before he knew it, you were dressed in pajamas and trotting into the room while he still inhaled the smoke.

“Buck?” 

He flinched, then froze like a deer in headlights before he slowly turned to face you. An apologetic expression was etched into his face and he sighed softly. 

“Thought you were still in the bathroom,” he remarked and flicked off some ash, aiming out onto the street. 

You couldn’t help the tender chuckle that made it past your lips as he guiltily shifted his weight from one foot onto the other, like a teenager caught red handed.  “When did you start again?” you asked, walking up to him. He brought the cigarette up to his lips again before he answered. “A couple weeks ago.”

You leaned against the wall, the window large enough that both of you could look out of it at the same time without touching each other. 

“A couple weeks ago,” you echoed, your eyebrows knitting together as you mentally calculated the time frame.  “Don’t tell me you started again because of… because of what happened with me.” He shook his head but he was an awful liar. His eyes focused on the night sky, avoiding yours completely.  “Buck,” you nagged softly and he sighed. 

“It’s not… it wasn’t on purpose. And it definitely isn’t your fault, I can see that head of yours twisting it and making it yours. But it isn’t,” he insisted. Another deep inhale followed his words, giving you time to think.  It certainly felt like you were responsible, stressing him out to the point that he had to go back to nicotine. 

“It’s not your fault,” he repeated, a lot quieter, “If anything, it’s on him.”

You visibly recoiled and Bucky winced guiltily.  “Sorry,” he added quickly, “Shouldn’t… shouldn’t have said that.”

You knew he meant it but that didn’t help the way your hands started trembling instantly. Of course Bucky saw; he held back from reaching out as would have been his instinct. Instead he sighed – not annoyed with you but himself. 

He muttered your name and you glanced up at him, then your eyes dropped to his cigarette.

“Can I?” you asked shakily before he could continue apologizing.  Bucky was reluctant to agree, his fingers hesitating before he passed it to you. “You gonna call me out on my double standards if I say that I don’t want you to smoke?”

“Maybe not so directly but I’ll definitely think it,” you answered, giving him a small smile, and took a drag. The nicotine rush hit almost instantly as you inhaled, a soft burn settling in your lungs that soothed you gently. You closed your eyes for a few moments, keeping the smoke in your chest before you exhaled. 

When you opened them again, Bucky was looking at you. There was something in his expression that you couldn’t quite read, a faint furrow between his brows and a much softer gap between his lips. 

“I’m really glad you’re here,” he spoke so low you barely heard him, “I couldn’t stand the thought of you in that apartment all by yourself.” Emotion swung in his voice so heavily that it made your stomach turn. You couldn’t talk about this, not now. It wasn’t the right time – you weren’t sure if there ever would be one but it certainly wasn’t today.

You met his eyes and ever so faintly shook your head. Bucky understood. Instead, he just stretched out his hand, pointer and middle finger expanded, and you passed the cigarette back to him. 

The pack was almost empty by the time you said ‘goodnight’; a thin layer of tar stuck to the inside of your lungs. 

“You should be all set,” he stated softly as he brought the third extra blanket and hovered next to your bed, “If you need anything, and I mean anything, you can wake me up. I’m a light sleeper.”

Of course you knew that. You were the one who used to guard Bucky’s nights, fighting off nightmares and panic attacks at three a.m., but those ‘sleepovers’ felt so long ago, they almost resembled more a dream than a memory. Sometimes you wondered whether he had forgotten just how close you used to be, how no one had been able to come up with a better duo than him and you. To his credit, it wasn’t Bucky who had caused this distance – you were the one who had put up all those walls. Maybe not voluntarily, but you had set down the first brick. 

“Yeah, I remember,” you answered after a long-stretched silence.

He nodded silently, rubbing his jaw. You wished he would go and simultaneously prayed that he would never leave your side again.  Already, you dreaded the night to come, the nightmares, the panic once the light was out. 

Logically, you knew you were safe. Bucky wouldn’t let anything happen to you, and he sure as hell wouldn’t doanything to you. Still, you anticipated the terror that was waiting for you once you closed your eyes nonetheless. 

“Well, uh, goodnight then,” he muttered, “Like I said, I’m just down the hall if you need anything.” His fingers twitched as he faced you, finally letting go of that last blanket he had brought you. You used to hug. You used to pinch his cheeks and let him do the same to you. Every time you slept over, he would kiss the top of your head; and if a nightmare did catch up to him, he used to find solace in your arms.

Now, he awkwardly shuffled towards the door, a step of your shared routine missing. He didn’t know just how far he could go and you couldn’t tell either. The last time you had felt his skin upon yours, it had sent you into a state of utter distress until the nurses had to give you sedatives to calm you down. 

“Goodnight, Bucky,” you murmured and he glanced up to meet your eyes. “Sweet dreams,” he replied quietly before he finally closed the door.

・・・・・

After the last time your ex-boyfriend put his hands on you, you had assumed you’d dream of the violence. The broken glasses, the battered furniture, bruises on your wrists or sore thighs – any of these were the expected cast of your nightmares. 

But you always dreamed the same thing: you were in the hospital, a thin mattress holding you up while the heart monitor on your right beeped steadily.  Your arms and head were covered in bandages, the smell of antiseptic hung in the air while the faint buzz of nurses talking lowly reached your ears. 

Up to this part, the dream stayed pretty close to how it all had gone down after you had been kept in the hospital for observation – a concussion was not to be taken lightly after all. Same went for your other injuries.  You should have been able to tell that it was dream when the door opened unannounced. That had not happened once; every visitor, nurse and doctor had always knocked.

Bucky stepped inside the room, his eyes drifting over your body to take in the state of your injuries.

“You’re awake,” he stated, much colder than you were used to.

“Yeah,” you rasped, vocal cords still rough from the hands that had wrapped themselves around your throat just hours ago. 

He nodded quietly and sat down in the chair next to you, leaning forward a little.  Bucky didn’t say a word until you physically felt the tension in the air; you could have tasted it if you had opened your mouth.

“You really shouldn’t have upset him like that,” he declared then and your heart dropped. 

“What?” you squeaked weakly, hoping to have misheard him.

“Oh, c’mon, don’t act like that. You must have done something to deserve that, didn’t you?” he asked, a cruel smile etched into his face as he pointed to the fingerprints painting your neck purplish blue. 

“I-I…,” you stammered hopelessly, “Wha- no, I- I didn’t, I swear.” Tears welled up in your eyes, a hot, heavy lump in your throat as you tried to swallow them down. How could he say something like that?

Bucky hummed softly, as if he was contemplating whether to believe you. At the same time, his hand came to rest on your thigh, a tight, borderline painful grip that had you gasping. 

“Maybe… maybe he just likes your tears then,” he suggested, and your stomach flipped, “I certainly do.”

His hold on your thigh became even firmer, sure to leave his own set of bruises behind, as he slowly leaned forward, capturing your chin with his other hand.  “Don’t scream.”

You woke wheezing for air, cold sweat drenching the entirety of your body. There was no oxygen left in the world if your brain was to be believed, and your chest refused to expand even more so when you felt large, clammy palms holding you down. 

“No, no, please!” you screeched, flailing blindly, “Please don’t! Don’t hurt me!” You hit something, someone, feeling soft flesh give away and heard a soft grunt. The distinct signs of a person, a man, in your room worsened your panic. All you could do was thrash and cry, drowning out the words that he begged you to hear:

“Sweetheart, please, it’s just me.” “It was a dream, you gotta calm down, baby.” “Look at me, please!”

Only once the hands stopped pressing you down and the light suddenly came on, could you see. Truly see. 

Bucky’s chest was heaving as he stood before you, his hands raised slightly as if to signify that he bore no threat to you. Wide eyes, messy clothes and three pale pink scratches along the side of his neck – that was how he slowly lowered himself down to your level. Cold shock washed through you as you followed the bloody lines on his skin. The ones you must have caused.

“You with me?” he asked cautiously, “You’re safe, you hear me? It was just a dream.”

You could only nod, eyes glued to the shallow injury just below his jaw. 

“I’m- I am so sorry,” you whispered, shakily reaching out to touch him but just before you could make contact, you stopped yourself. 

“What? What are you sorry for?” he murmured, brows drawn tight. 

“I hurt you,” you answered.

Bucky’s hands came up to his jaw, then his neck, only now sensing what must have been quite the sting. “It’s nothing,” he stated quickly, “Don’t worry about it.”

With your entire body trembling, you shook your head. “No, no- I’m, fuck, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s just a scratch,” he objected. His eyes met yours before they wandered across your face.  “Are you alright?”

It was a stupid question, you both knew that. He immediately followed it up with a wince. “I mean – obviously not, but, um, can I- can I do something? Do you wanna talk about it?”

“No,” the answer came faster than lightning but Bucky didn’t press. Instead he just nodded. “Can I sit with you?”

A few seconds passed in which neither of you said anything. You were caught between the definite need to reach out, wanting to feel his skin against yours, and the shock of the nightmare still sitting in your bones. 

It was Bucky. Just Bucky. There was no reason to be afraid – you knew that. He had saved your life, knowingly and unknowingly. He was your best friend. Your only friend. 

The dream hadn’t been real but he was.  You clung to that truth when you breathed out, “Yes.”

・・・・・

turn me on and turn me down

October 25th, 2025

Thirty nights – that’s how many you had spent at Bucky’s apartment so far. Most of them had been cruel, the unforgiving fingers of your nightmares keeping ahold of you. But so did Bucky. He was there, at first only at the foot of your mattress. But the more sunrises you saw together, the closer he inched. You never straight up slept in the same bed but he laid next to you, anticipating your bad dreams with a demeanor so fearless, you couldn’t help but trust him to watch over you.

He’d be gone in the mornings and you were glad for it – you needed that time to watch the soft early light bleeding through the curtains, the muffled sounds of the city ringing through the windows. It grounded you, reminding you that there were millions of people out there, all of them with problems of their own – and yet life still went on.

On some days you worried that you were too caught up in this bubble Bucky had created for you: shared cigarettes, homecooked meals and whispered promises that things would get better. It almost seemed too beautiful to be true, having him around at all times, easing your fears and teaching you how to live your life again. 

You couldn’t help but wonder if you even deserved it, this tenderness and gentle words. Too long, your life had been made up of broken promises, hurtful comments and violent blows. Doubts crept through your veins every time Bucky’s hand inflicted comfort instead of hurt.  Were you even fit to be loved like this?

Loved. 

It felt impossible to put a label on the relationship between Bucky and you. It was more than a friendship but neither one of you ever called it something else – it was too delicate, too easily brought to fall.  He guarded you like you were something precious, tender hands holding you up instead of dragging you down. 

And the guilt sat deep in your heart, turning your stomach at the oddest of times: a brush of hands while you cooked together, the pass of a cigarette at late nights. You didn’t recoil anymore, didn’t flinch away. Of course, you wanted to trust him – you already did – but there was a voice in your head that berated you for it. 

Was it foolish of you to put your life into his hands? Would he change in front of your eyes, quiet but steadily? And most importantly, were you a bad person for moving on so easily?

Then again, nothing about it actually felt easy and you found a little comfort in your struggle.  Long showers, silent walks, all of them filled with your endless doubts and worries, stuck between wanting him and hating yourself for feeling that way. 

That pattern repeated today as well. You were sitting on the window sill, one leg pulled to your chest while a cigarette sat between your forefingers.  Bucky was out, getting groceries. If you had been a little braver, you would have joined him.

You watched the people passing by outside, a wave of heads blurring together while cool wind blew in through the open window. Goosebumps erupted across your skin but you didn’t move.  The slow drag of your nails across your forearm escaped your notice, even when it should have hurt. Red lines were left in the wake of your fingers’ descent over your skin. You were so caught up in your thoughts that you didn’t even hear the front door open or the steps that made their way up to you. 

“Hey.” You almost jumped out of your skin, close to losing your balance as you snapped your head to Bucky. He reached out instinctively and kept you from falling off the window sill, his warm palm pressing into your upper arm. 

The second you were stable enough on your own, he let go. His eyes didn’t meet yours; instead they followed the scratches on your arm.

“Sorry,” he apologized, “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

Even as he talked, his gaze stayed focused on your raw skin, a slight crease between his brows.  You pulled your sleeve down and slowly eased back onto the floor. The paper bag in his arms rustled when he set it down on the kitchen counter before he turned his attention back on you.

“Why… why do you do that?” he asked quietly. Not angrily, not even accusatory – it was pure concern as Bucky crouched down in front of you, catching your eyes. 

The resistance rung heavy in your voice when you shot back, “Do what?”

Bucky tilted his head, his fingers twitching at his sides as he moved towards you – not to crowd you but simply to be closer. 

“You know what I’m talking about,” he muttered, “You hurt yourself.” The way he said it felt like a simple observation. There was no judgment to it, only worry.

“It’s-“ You took a deep breath to steady your voice, “It’s not like that.”

“Then what is it like?”

He didn’t release you from the piercing stare of his eyes.  When you didn’t answer, he stretched out his hand, palm open, and waited. “Talk to me,” he encouraged softly, “Please.”

“I don’t know,” you admitted, and a faint thumping built behind your eyes. Tears pricked on your waterline but you blinked heavily so that they wouldn’t spill. 

His hand still lingered in front of you, an open invitation. You knew you didn’t have to accept it but you wanted to. Slowly you reached out and interlaced your fingers with his. Bucky’s breath caught but other than that, he stayed quiet and simply started smoothing his thumb over the back of your hand. 

The silence hung heavily between the two of you until you broke it, “It just happens sometimes.” He nodded softly, tilting his head a little to catch your eye.

“Does it- does it make you feel better?” He posed the question like he was afraid of the answer, a soft tremble accompanying his words. 

It took you a few moments to reply, “Not- not exactly. It’s hard to describe but… at first, yeah, it makes… it makes stuff easier. But then- I just end up feeling guilty. I don’t know but I- I can’t really control it.”

It was terribly silent for way too long, just raw, unfiltered quiet seeping into your ears until it settled there. You thought Bucky might pull away, that he might rip his hand from your grip, disgust written all over his face. Or, and that would almost be worse, that pity would distort his features, and once again, you would just be the girl who always needed his help. 

He took a deep breath before he began to speak.

“Thank you for telling me.”

・・・・・

The onions sizzled softly in the pan, the aroma of browned butter and garlic wafting through the kitchen. You sat at the dinner table, once again with a cigarette dangling between your pointer and middle finger, while Bucky chopped vegetables with steady hands. He murmured something under his breath, none of which reached your ears. Every now and then, he glanced back at you, a tender smile lifting the corners of his mouth. 

“You just gonna sit there and smoke my cigarettes?” he called out to you without looking up from the cutting board.

 A small grin grew on your face. “I might just do that,” you replied, leaning a little further into your seat. 

Bucky shook his head fondly and set the knife down. After wiping his hands on a dish towel, he made his way towards you. His hand stretched out in quiet expectation, and without a word you passed him the cigarette.

The orange ember glowed as he inhaled, soft shadows flickering across the sharp line of his jaw. His eyes stayed on yours when he exhaled slowly, the smoke curling between you.

Bucky was one of the last few people that still owned a physical calendar. It hung in the kitchen, different colored tabs signifying appointments and holidays. All your meetings with your lawyer were written on yellow post-its, his old-school handwriting noting down the date and time.

October was nearly gone, passed in a blur of shared cigarettes, slightly burnt dinner and nights spent under Bucky’s watch. Your nightmares had eased up a little over the last week, and it put you in a good mood. It almost felt foolish to you, to trust yourself so much but it was a more than welcome change for once. It almost felt like breathing had become a little easier. 

“You wanna watch a movie tonight?” Bucky offered and tapped off some ash.  “As long as it’s not a romcom,” you replied, pulling a sour face.

He chuckled softly and flicked the tip of your nose. Your heart beat a little faster but you didn’t pull away.

“You know I’m gonna let you choose anyway,” he answered before he returned the cigarette to you again. A satisfied smile stole itself onto your face before you took a drag and nodded. “Fine,” you declared, pretending to be a lot less eager than you were, “I guess I could be persuaded.”

After eating dinner together, you did the dishes. It had become routine – Bucky cooked, you pretended to help, then you cleaned up afterwards. Relief spread through your body with every sparkling plate that you dried off; it made you feel less like a burden and more like an actual friend. When you had agreed to move in with Bucky, you had counted on finding your own place within a couple of weeks. 

Those were long gone but if you were honest with yourself, you hadn’t checked for free apartments in a few days. You would never admit it out loud but you didn’t want to move out. And as long as Bucky didn’t bring it up, you weren’t going to either. 

He made popcorn while you browsed through various streaming catalogues before you picked out a movie. Through the thin walls you heard the soft popping sounds and the beeping of the microwave. When he returned and glanced at the preview on screen, he chuckled rather worriedly.

“You’re kidding, right?” he probed, eyes darting between you and ‘The Others’, “A horror movie?” “It’s almost Halloween,” you reminded him eagerly. “You’re gonna have… nightmares-“ Halfway through the sentence, Bucky realized the ridiculousness of his words, “I mean- you know what I mean.”

You let him squirm a few more seconds, frowning up at him before you broke out into a smile.

“You’re gonna have nightmares,” you shot back and pulled him onto the couch, spilling a couple kernels of popcorn in the process.  His thighs touched yours as he scooted into place. His metal arm stretched out over the back rest while you shifted on the sofa, your shoulder brushing against his chest.  No one would call it cuddling; much rather, it was being in each other’s presence and space. It allowed you to feel his lungs expand every time he breathed in. 

The movie started playing and both of you pretended not to be afraid. Bucky’s fingers clenched into a fist when a sound effect startled him early on but he didn’t say a word. As the movie went on, your bravery dwindled a little. Despite doing your best to stay relaxed, you felt your heartbeat in your ears.

The first real jump scare made you flinch so hard that Bucky reached out. His hand landed on your thigh, steady and calming. Even through the fabric of your sweatpants, you felt his warmth seep into your skin.

When you breathed out audibly, his eyes darted to his hand. “Is that alright?” he asked quietly.

Swallowing all your fears, you nodded. “Yeah, it’s fine,” you answered. It was more than fine. It felt comforting and grounding. The ease that settled over you disturbed you more than any gory scene. 

You hadn’t felt at peace like this in a long, long time. And like clockwork, the guilt made itself known deep in your stomach. 

Whether it was the progression of the movie – scenes getting darker and scarier – or the tension between Bucky and you as his hand stayed in place, he took notice of your uneasiness.

“You want a blanket?” he offered. 

God, you wanted so much more.

“Yeah, that’d be great,” you murmured.

He draped a soft throw over your legs, then pulled it up to your shoulders. “The movie’s not even that scary,” he stated humorously while he slipped under the blanket with you. 

You didn’t dignify that with an answer and just huffed instead.  Bucky chuckled softly but his eyes strayed from the screen. You didn’t notice immediately, too consumed by the movie playing while he just watched you. 

 A loud scream sounding from the TV caused you to grab Bucky’s arm, the flesh one, without thinking. The muscles rippled under your touch, tensing up before he relaxed again. 

“Sorry,” you muttered but he shook his head.  “Don’t worry ‘bout it,” he replied, almost sounding a little breathless.  You turned to face him, your eyes jumping between his glossy ones and the soft plumpness of his lips. 

He leaned a little closer and for a second, you held your breath in anticipation and fear alike. But he just fluffed out a pillow and pulled you in so that your head rested on his shoulder. His smell enveloped you instantly, like a second blanket. “’m not gonna let anything get to you,” Bucky declared quietly. Both of you knew that he was no longer talking about the movie. 

Once the credits rolled you expected him to pull away. To get up and see you off to bed. Maybe offer a little midnight snack before that. He didn’t. 

Your eyes found his, the pupils so blown out that you could barely make out the blue of his iris.  “Wasn’t that scary, hm?” he inquired lowly. 

You parted your lips, some smart quip on the tip of your tongue but your vocal cords seemed to have forgotten how to function. Ever so slowly, as if he was approaching a wounded animal, Bucky raised his hand. You followed the movement but didn’t pull away, not even when he began to trace your cheekbone.

His breath fanned across your face while you gazed up at him. 

“Would it-,” he began, then cleared his throat, “Would it be alright if I kissed you?”

Yes. Yes. A thousand times, yes. You wanted to feel his lips against yours so badly, wanted to breathe in and only taste him. You wanted to rake your hands through his hair, mess up his curls until he had to beg you to stop. 

“Please,” you whispered and he indulged you instantly. 

The kiss was tender, soft. He held back and god, you were grateful for it. His mouth carefully met yours, no tongue, no wild hands. He dropped his to his lap, fingers tightening around the blanket while he slowly moved his lips against yours. 

It lasted maybe six seconds but time stretched like bubblegum. Every shaky inhale allowed you to savor him. Faint traces of popcorn and the dinner from earlier filled your tastebuds.

When you pulled away, his gaze followed you like he was memorizing every line of your face. You tried to look away, a single thought rooting itself in your heart: if you lost this, lost him, you wouldn’t survive it. 

・・・・・

Over the next few days, neither one of you dared to pop the bubble you had built for yourselves. Nothing but soft kisses, tender like the wings of a butterfly, were exchanged. At night, Bucky still only stayed until you were asleep, allowing you to let your thoughts run freely in the mornings.

You lay in bed, sleep still in the corners of your eyes, and stared at the ceiling. Timidly, you followed the line of your lips with one finger.  You could still feel him, his warm mouth gently dancing across yours like you were something to be worshipped instead of claimed. 

“Mornin’, sweetheart.” His voice came from the door, making you jump in surprise. Quickly, you dropped your fingers and sat up to look at him.  “Hi,” you squeaked a little high-pitched, like a toddler caught with their hand in the cookie jar. Bucky chuckled deeply, leftover-sleep tinting his voice. 

“Sleep well?” he asked as he walked over to you. 

You nodded in reply as the mattress dipped under his weight. He sat at the edge of the bed while you pulled one knee to your chest and propped your chin on it. 

Reaching for each other came more naturally to both of you by now. You didn’t pull away when his hand ghosted across your jaw. Instead, you leaned into his touch, craving it like it might be the only thing that could keep you going. 

Bucky cupped your cheek and you met his eyes timidly. He already anticipated yours. 

After taking a deep breath, you leaned forward and captured his lips. His soft stubble, peppered across his chin and cheeks, lightly grazed your skin, making you giggle into the kiss. 

“What’s so funny?” he asked mock-offended. 

“Your beard’s all scratchy,” you responded, rubbing your thumb over the prickly hairs. 

“Want me to shave?”

You shook your head quickly, your smile widening as you held his face between your hands. 

“No, I like it,” you clarified, “Makes you look very handsome.”

With a sheepish grin he pressed his lips against yours again, the tip of his nose squishing slightly into yours.  A soft sigh tumbled from you, right into his mouth. Without allowing your lips to leave his, you straightened up a little and crawled closer to him. Not knowing what to do with your hands, you grabbed a fistful of his shirt. 

His chest expanded under your touch, rising and falling quicker than before. Uncertainty bubbled in your stomach but you pushed it down, letting your instincts take over. 

Cautiously, you let your tongue wander, pressing it against the plush of his lips until he parted them with a soft grunt of surprise.  Bucky’s fingers twitched in his lap like he was uncertain where to rest them. 

He was the one to pull back. 

“Sweetheart,” he whispered, “Maybe we should slow down.”

The words hit you like a bucket of  ice-cold water. Your gaze snapped up to his before you leaned back. With all your might you tried not to let his words feel like a rejection. 

But then again, he knew everything. All the things your ex had done to you; Bucky had seen the blood, the bruises and the nightmares that followed. You’d understand if he didn’t want to look closer.

“Okay,” you mumbled, forcing a smile. 

He watched you for a few seconds before he gently took your hands into his.

“Hey,” he said gently, “Look at me for a sec, okay?”

His thumb started drawing soft, comforting circles on the back of your hand as he tilted his head to catch your eyes.  You dragged up your gaze hesitantly, finding his piercing blue stare waiting for you. 

“I didn’t mean it that way,” he began, “I just… I thought you might wanna take things… one at a time.”

“That’s not really our style, is it?” you replied, “I moved in with you, then we kissed. I think it’s kinda our thing to do things out of order.”

That earned you a gruff chuckle, spilling deep from his chest.  “I guess so,” he grinned, “But I… I wouldn’t wanna do anything you don’t feel ready to do. I… I would wait for you… as long as you need. Even if it’s forever.”

The sentiment was so sweet that it brought tears to your eyes.  “Buck,” you muttered, looking away, “I don’t wanna wait forever. I don’t wanna wait… period.”

His audible inhale echoed through the room. 

“There’s no rush,” he ensured but you saw the way his pupils expanded, his body betraying his words. 

“I know,” you responded, “I’m not rushing.”

Your hand came up to his cheek and stayed there.  “Bucky,” you started, “I… I trust you.”

A shiver rocked his body. 

“Are you- are you sure about this?” he probed, “You don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for.”

“I’m telling you,” you insisted, “I’m ready for it. I wanna do it. With you.”

You inched closer, the bedsheets rustling softly under you, as you lifted your fingers to rake them through his hair, brushing an unruly curl from his forehead.  Bucky almost melted into your touch, his eyes closing while he grabbed the comforter like it might keep him grounded. 

“Let’s lay down some ground rules,” he decided, and you stopped your administrations. 

“Like what?” you questioned, eyebrows knitting together tightly. 

“I think both of us should come up with… with a safe word. Something to let the other know that they’re done for good.”

You couldn’t help but wonder where he had learned all of this. He spoke like a professional, coming up with strategies and clear boundaries.  You cleared your throat before you asked him.

“How do you know all of this?”

His eyes darkened considerably and he rubbed his jaw, delaying his answer a little.

“I… I talked to Sam, after we kissed.”

Your stomach dropped, flashes of anxiety coursing through your body.

“No, baby, I-,” he raised his hands calmingly as he registered your reaction, “I didn’t specify anything. I just asked him about PTSD. You know, he worked with veterans who came home with pockets full of trauma. I get it’s not the same as it is for you but he said that structure helps. And definite restrictions. Hell, he probably thought I was asking for myself.”

The rise of your chest eased a little as he reassured you. 

“Okay,” you agreed hesitantly, “So… like, do we have to make a list? Or a contract, or whatever?”

Bucky chuckled softly.  “Don’t think that’s necessary. Talkin’ might just do it for us, don’t you think? But if you want, we can write it down.”

You shook your head.  “So, I just tell you what I like and what I don’t?”

“That’s the idea,” he confirmed. 

It was a lot harder than you expected.  Sure, you theoretically knew your preferences, the things that you wanted or needed to feel satisfied but you weren’t sure if all these things still applied after what you had gone through. 

“I, uh,” you stuttered a little but Bucky’s warm gaze eased the awkwardness and tension of the topic a little, “I guess a hard no for me would be anything with choking.”

You didn’t elaborate further and it wasn’t necessary. Bucky just nodded.

“Anything else?” he prompted. 

While chewing on your lip, you went on, “No… degrading comments. No holding down. I… um, I’d rather you didn’t touch my wrists at all if that’s okay.”

“Yeah, absolutely.”

Warmth spread through your cheeks and you cleared your throat. “What about you? Any hard no’s?”

He thought about it for a second before he nodded.  “Yeah,” he admitted, “I don’t want my hair getting pulled. Or have my mouth held shut in any way. And I definitely don’t wanna hurt you.”

Bucky and you tackled some other stuff, clarifying what you wanted and expected.  The conversation went on, heavy and difficult, but by the end of it you both felt like a huge weight had been lifted off of your chests. 

・・・・・

You didn’t rip each other’s clothes off immediately. No, it came in waves: throughout the next few days, you danced around each other. You lingered in his presence while he sought you out. This promise – not quite unspoken – of what was to come, hovered between you two. 

Neither one of you forced it. Instead, you let it come to you. Gentle kisses turning into more. Hands wandering, exploring places they’ve only briefly visited. Soft murmurs, asking for reassurance, inviting consent. 

“Are you sure?” “Can I…?” “There’s no rush, sweetheart.”

Bucky’s deep voice sounded right next to your ear, his warm breath tickling the skin on your neck. 

“May I?” he whispered as his lips hovered over your collarbone. 

You nodded, a shaky breath stuck in your throat. 

“Remember your word?” he asked before continuing. 

“Yeah,” you answered quietly. 

“Tell me.”

“Pumpkin.”

He nodded proudly, rubbing the tip of his nose along your jawline.  “Good job, baby,” he murmured, “It’s your word. You choose if and when you want to use it. Then we stop. I stop. I promise.”

“I know you will,” you replied, “I trust you, Bucky.”

Those four words made his heart beat faster. You felt it under your fingertips, the soft thumping, fluttering in his ribcage as your hands rested on his chest. 

“I won’t break that trust.”

“Tell me yours,” you then instructed. Tenderly so, with your lips kissing his knuckles. Knuckles, that had never drawn blood from you. They had wiped your tears, had brushed gently over your cheek. He’d only ever been good to you. 

“You know my word,” he mumbled, smiling. 

“I do. But I wanna hear you say it.” The corners of your mouth lifted slightly as he huffed. 

“Do you?” he teased. “Should’ve figured.” He sighed softly, then locked eyes with you. “It’s plum.”

You scrunched your nose softly and chuckled. 

“Silly.”

“Not sillier than pumpkin.”

“Maybe I’m calling you silly.”

He chuckled, then shook his head. “I know you’re not.”

His fingers traced the lace strap of your top, just along your shoulder. He didn’t dip below it but kept watching you. 

Your breath quickened. 

“Still okay?” he questioned, letting his hand come to a stop. 

“Yeah, please… keep going.”

Bucky leaned in slowly, giving you time to pull away. You didn’t.  His mouth met yours, just the faintest taste of heat behind it. The taste of him bloomed across your tongue, filling your senses. You could smell him too; lingering nicotine, leather and pine. 

The plushness of his lips gave away when you pressed yourself closer to him. Your arms found their way around his shoulders, pulling him in. If you could, you’d bury yourself in those arms until the sun exploded. You were still learning how to be your own person, but sometimes you’d rather be a part of him. 

A soft hum tumbled from his chest as your hands found their way to the base of his neck. No hair-pulling. You remembered that.

“Sorry,” you whispered against his mouth.  “No, don’t apologize,” he protested quietly, “Feels good. Just not any higher, okay?”

The nod came to you easily. You couldn’t bear the thought of crossing a line he had drawn. Not when he gave you all the space you needed. You wanted to mirror it, the kindness, the respect.  You were afraid it was all you had to give. But with the way he looked at you, your fears dissipated. He saw something else when he looked at you, and maybe one day you’d see it too. 

“We can stop at any point,” he reminded you, “No matter how far we’ve gone.”

“I know,” you responded. This time you leaned in and kissed him first.  You cupped his cheek with one hand and he practically melted into it.

As you parted your lips, the heat between you grew. It expanded and sank into your skin where it settled, keeping you warm. And wanting. 

You leaned back and looked at Bucky. It felt strange to ask the question, but you still did, “Can I take off my shirt?”

Bucky chuckled softly. “Do you want to take off your shirt?” he countered. 

“Yes, I do.” 

“Do you want my help?”

You nodded, slower but not any less sure. He let his fingers dance across your arm first, tracing every inch of skin from the bone of your wrist to your shoulder. Then his fingers traveled down. He didn’t quite let them touch you as he wandered across your chest and abdomen, still separated by a layer of fabric.

The cotton of your top offered little secrecy. The peaks of your nipples stiffened underneath, visible in the dim light. Still, he didn’t stare. He looked as if you were painting. Waiting to be appreciated instead of ogled. As your shirt hit the floor, he allowed himself to give in and let his eyes drag over you. For maybe one of the first times in your live, you didn’t feel scrutinized or appraised like a cow for sale. You felt appreciated. 

He exhaled, eyes shining with awe.

“You’re beautiful.”

Beautiful. Not hot. Not pretty. You were something prized. 

The words got stuck in your throat but he didn’t seem to await any kind of response. Bucky was fine with your silence. As long as your eyes stayed clear, he’d wait for you to tell him your boundaries. And god, he’d stick to them. 

Your fingers found themselves at the hem of his shirt. You looked up at him, met with his blue eyes. He waited. Nodded. You wondered if he could read your mind, and only a small part of you would have been surprised if he actually could. 

His shirt met yours on the ground, pools of fabric decorating the hardwood.  Every layer shed felt like a new softness revealed. A secret, a breathtaking discovery. 

Scars littered Bucky’s body – scars that you had forgotten about. You might have caught a glimpse of them in the past, seen them in between showers and watching him train, but up close they looked different. Like thin slivers of moonlight spread across his torso, painting the skin of his shoulder and down his chest. 

“Can I touch them?” you asked, fingers pausing in hesitation. 

“Yeah,” he breathed. His muscles tensed under your fingers but he didn’t pull away. You realized that he was trembling, too – just slightly. His eyes followed every single one of your movements, his lips slightly parted like an exhale he had forgotten about. 

At some point he caught your hand, threading his fingers into yours. 

“Too much?”

He shook his head.   “No, it just tickles.”

Both of you grinned as you fondly squeezed three times.  You knew what it meant. He did too. Neither one of you said it. Not now. 

The rustle of the bedsheets pulled you back into reality.  Bucky reached out to push a few strands of hair from your eyes. He let his fingers linger beneath your ear. 

“You wanna take the lead?” he asked. 

Uncertainty clouded your face. 

“Hey,” he mumbled softly, “I’m still right here with you. You just get to make the decisions. You choose when and what and how. But we’re in this together. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Okay,” you replied, a little more convinced.

And he kept his word. 

Every sound in the room, whether it was a shaky breath, a soft glide of skin on skin or a whispered reassurance, was shared between you too. Bucky moved when you did. He met your body, sprawled across you without caging you in. His hands enveloped yours when your heartbeat fluttered too fast, grounding you in the now. 

“Remember your safe word?”

“Yeah.”

“You need it?”

“No.”

You allowed yourself to fall, trusted him to catch you. Every breathy moan, every sound you had been too scared to form – he drew it from you with encouragement. With soft praise and gentle steadiness. His tender hands worked your thighs apart in a way that didn’t make you feel like you were losing something. No, you were offering. Giving. Contributing. 

As waves of desire crashed over you, Bucky cheered you on for every step you took, every inch of yourself you allowed him to see. Allowed him to feel. Allowed him to love. 

He gave you every second you needed. Tears had built in the corner of your eyes but they didn’t stem from sadness. It was gratification. Maybe even pride. Because you allowed him into yourself, giving him the most intimate part of yourself and not once did you feel regret. It was scary – no terrifying. But most of all, it was freeing. 

And once satisfaction washed over you both, the room quieted. The silence didn’t feel oppressing. There were no fingerprints left on you, no blood or nausea. As the high faded and the sinking sun bathed you in its warmth, Bucky was still there. He held you in his arms like you were made of glass and he trusted himself not to break you.

・・・・・

The warmth of Bucky’s apartment greeted you like a heavenly escape from the biting November wind. His metal arm wrapped around your waist as you both stumbled into the living room, soft giggles spilling from your lips. 

Even though he couldn’t get drunk, Bucky’s cheeks were flushed – maybe because of the faint rain fizzling outside.  He held you close, bringing you down onto the couch with him. 

It had felt good to go out tonight, his hand a steadying force on top of your thigh while he chatted with Sam and Joaquin. You had climbed your way out of your shyness, adding to the conversation until your cheeks hurt from smiling so much. 

Surrounded by friends, good music and a few glasses of wine, you hadn’t felt this carefree in months. And Bucky never left your side. You had danced, laughed and kissed while the live band played until you returned home.

His arms wrapped around your waist as he buried his face in your hair, inhaling deeply.

“Had fun tonight?” he asked, rubbing the tip of his nose against your cheek. “Very much,” you confirmed, turning to face him.

His big, blue eyes met yours, pupils blown and smile wide. “Yeah? Me, too.”

He pressed his lips to your cheek and never pulled away until you laughed. 

“What’s so funny?” he questioned, a small mock-frown distorting his expression. “Nothing,” you answered even though you still couldn’t stop laughing, “You’re just so adorable, like a big teddy bear.”

Bucky huffed his chest out and pulled you closer. 

“Hmm,” he muttered, “Only for you.”

Your heart fluttered, like a butterfly was caged between your ribs, and you bit your lip to fight a smile. 

Neither one of you meant to fall asleep. You still had mascara coating your lashes, glittery eyeshadow set in the creases of your eyes. Bucky’s arm had gone numb and his back was going to give him hell in the morning but curled up with you like that, sleep caught up to you both in seconds. 

Maybe it was the alcohol. Or the unfamiliar position. Or maybe it just happened. 

But Bucky shifted in the night, one leg swung over you while his hand came to rest on your chest, fingertips brushing your throat ever so slightly. 

You woke because of it, already disoriented and dehydrated. Your body had been trained to be on hypervigilance, ready to break out into fight or flight at the smallest warning sign.

It was quiet. It was dark. And something held you down. 

The couch under you wasn’t Bucky’s. The fingers at your throat weren’t either. Not a single one of your muscles cooperated with your commands, limbs flailing weakly while you gasped for air.

You tried to move, tried to shove him off of you. As the panic began to set in, your movements became uncoordinated, broken whimpers falling from your lips.  Tears burned in your eyes and you couldn’t breathe. 

Only once you managed to cry out did Bucky wake. Sleep ridden and confused, he tensed up. He expected a break in. An intruder, standing over you with a knife. His muscles went taut as he searched for a reason, something or someone to fight off. 

“W-what?” he rasped, voice still thick with sleep. His head whipped around, ready to punch or even break someone’s neck if necessary. 

But then his eyes found yours, and he was met with fear. 

His gaze raked over you, trying to locate the source of your distress, and only found his own fingers. They rested at the base of your throat, just above your collarbones. 

He almost fell from the couch as he scrambled away from you.

“Fuck, i’m- I’m so sorry,” he whispered, “It’s just me. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to-“

His words barely reached you, a thick veil of pure agony blinding you. It threatened to pull you under. Your ears rang as your breaths came in quick, short bursts.

The second he stopped touching you, you fled. The throw blanket tangled around your feet as you darted from the couch, trying to gain as much distance from him as possible.

Down the hall, straight to the bathroom. 

You slammed the door shut while your chest heaved, pitiful wheezes filling the room. 

You were dying. You must have been. He was back and you were right there with him, just one wall separating the two of you. He was going to hurt you and there was nothing you could do about it.

Your thoughts were spiraling, blood running cold. There was no escape, no place to run to. 

For a minute, it was quiet – just you and the nausea turning your stomach.

Then the sound of his footsteps, falling quietly against the floorboards, chased goosebumps up your spine. They stopped right in front of the door. 

“Sweetheart? Please… I’m so fucking sorry.”

That… that wasn’t him. That was not his voice. 

“I didn’t mean to... it was an accident.”

It was Bucky. Your Bucky. A tentative knock followed.

“Sweetheart? Please, just- just say something. Anything. I just need to know you’re okay.” His voice was thin, so painfully broken. “Listen to me. I’m… I’m here, okay? I’m not gonna hurt you. And I’ll stay if you want me to. You don’t even gotta let me in, I can just sit here. Or I can leave. Whatever you want. It’s your choice. Just… just know that I’m sorry.”

You didn’t know how much time had passed before the feeling in your limbs returned. Your breathing slowed. Your mind went a little clearer. And your fingers wrapped themselves around the doorknob. 

Bucky sat at the end of the hallway; he looked so small, legs bent and arms crossed, like he was trying to melt himself into the floor.  He raised his head as the door creaked open, slowly, inch by inch. You took the first step, the tiles under your feet replaced by wooden planks. 

He stayed on the ground but hope lit up in his eyes as you gradually made your way towards him.

You stopped a couple feet away from him and sank down to his level, your back against the wall.  Bucky watched quietly. He didn’t press for explanations or begged for your forgiveness. He waited for you to make the first move. And you did.

You reached for him. His hand felt cold and clammy under yours, a mix of sweat and tears. 

Quietly, you tilted your head until you met his eyes and squeezed softly. 

For a few minutes the two of you sat in silence, holding hands. Then you spoke up.

“I didn’t mean to freak out like that,” you muttered. Bucky shook his head immediately. “Don’t do that,” he replied, “Don’t blame yourself. I’m the one who’s sorry. It really- my hand- I never meant to touch you like that. It wasn’t on purpose.”

“I know that,” you insisted, “And I know nothing happened. But I… I couldn’t see… everything was really… really blurry and- and confusing. I…”

He shushed you gently.  “It’s okay, baby,” he mumbled, “I get it- I mean, in a way, I get it.”

And you believed him. Bucky had his own share of trauma, stored away behind a wall he had kept up for too long. 

“Can I?” he asked, his eyes darting between yours and your hand. When you nodded, he brought it up to his lips and pressed a soft kiss to your knuckles, whispering, “It’ll be okay, I promise.”

・・・・・

Golden hues began to color the night sky by the time you fell asleep again.  Bucky had moved you to your bed instead of the cold floor just shortly before your dreamlands claimed you. 

He spent the next hours wrecking his brain in an attempt to figure out just how you two were supposed to go on. Self-blame came to him easily – he sat in the quiet of your room while his anxieties washed over him like a flood. It threatened to drown him, pulling him under until he couldn’t pull himself out anymore.

The bright screen of the laptop illuminated his face as he started typing clumsily. 

Bucky didn’t despise technology – he was fascinated by the inventions and progress made in the last few decades. He had always loved novelties, and one might have called him a little bit of nerd back when he was younger. 

Absorbed in the glow of his laptop, he didn’t feel you stir until you sat up. 

“Buck?” you mumbled, rubbing your eyes. They were swollen and red-rimmed, your hair a little tousled. The night had left its tracks on you. His heart fluttered at the sight of you awake but the tight iron ring of fear around his lungs made it hard to focus on any of that.

“Hey,” he answered. His voice was rough due to lack of use. Your eyebrows scrunched together as you tried to peer into his screen, which he quickly shut. “How did you sleep?” he asked. 

“What are you doing?” you inquired, straight up ignoring his question. 

Bucky rubbed his jaw sheepishly before he shook his head. “Let’s talk about it later,” he declared. “How are you feeling?”

You shrugged softly. “I’m… I’m okay, I think. A little… off, I guess.”

When you reached for him, resting your hand just inches away from his, he tensed up. He regretted it instantly when hurt washed over your face. 

“Buck? What- what’s going on with you?” you muttered. The traitorous stinging in your eyes took you by surprise – apparently you were still a little delicate after what had happened last night.

“Nothin’,” he answered, “Don’t worry ‘bout it.”

“Buck-“

He shook his head, automatically reaching for the laptop as he got up from the bed. “Everything’s fine,” he insisted. 

You sat up and leaned back on your heels.  “Bucky,” you began, “Please… please talk to me. Show me what you were doing.”

“No, you’re- you’re gonna misunderstand,” he argued, “It’s-“

The thing you did next didn’t align with your morals at all. Usually, you were big on boundaries, other people’s and your own, so reaching for Bucky’s laptop came so unnaturally to you that it took him by surprise.  He looked like a deer in headlights, staring at you like he had been caught red-handed. 

You managed to get ahold of the laptop, simply because he didn’t expect you to go as far as to pry it from his hands.  The screen lit up faster than he could react and your stomach dropped the second you looked at it. 

The first few words on the pages brought tears to your eyes: apartments for rent in Brooklyn, NY.

“What the hell is that?” Your voice cracked as you spoke, looking up at him. 

“It’s… it’s… goddammit, I told you to leave it alone,” he blurted. His hands tousled his hair as he ran them through it. 

“Are you- are you kicking me out?” Formulating words felt impossible as a thick, hot lump in your throat built. 

“What? No, of course not,” Bucky protested but he didn’t elaborate further.  The fear coursing through your veins was quickly joined by anger.

“What the fuck? Just tell me the damn truth!” He flinched as you raised your tone.  With your chest heaving raggedly, you stared at him, waiting. Hoping. Begging the universe this was all a big misunderstanding. 

“Baby, please, it’s just… it’s better for you if you don’t stay with me,” he muttered. 

He might as well have slapped you. Maybe you would have preferred that.  You could physically feel how the crack in your heart, that Bucky had begun to fix not long ago, teared back open.

“What?” you squeaked, “No- no, it’s not.”

“Yes, it is. I… I give you panic attacks and I-I scared you last night and the way you looked at me – I can’t stand to… to make you feel that way. When you flinched… when you cried- I thought it’d kill me,” he confessed.  “I don’t ever wanna be the reason you’re scared.”

A part of you wanted to scratch his eyes out for being such a fool. Another part wanted to kiss him until he ran out of breath. Bucky Barnes, your sweet, stupid man, had the most senseless ideas, especially when it came to how you perceived him. 

“Bucky,” you whispered his name like it might give you the power you needed to keep yourself from screaming at him. “You’re such a goddamn idiot. You didn’t scare me. It was not your fault. What happened last night, happens all the damn time and you know that. You’re the one who made me feel safe again.”

He peered at you through heavy lashes, a mix of hope and uncertainty swimming in them. Just as he tried to protest, you shut him up with a raise of your hand.

“Listen to me,” you enunciated every word that followed, “I trust you. It’s my own brain that I don’t trust. You are the reason why I don’t have daily panic attacks anymore- and I know, I know, it’s not fair to put this all on you. But I… I can’t imagine going on without you. I don’t know how to get better without you.”

You waited for an answer that didn’t come, so you scooted closer to him.  “Bucky,” you pleaded, “Don’t kick me out. Please. I… I know I’m not an easy person to… to take care of but I’ll do better, okay? I’ll try.”

The silence that followed was charged but short-lived.

“You’re not difficult,” he declared quietly, “Not by a long shot. It’s not hard to take care of you. I just… I wanted to do what was best for you, and I don’t think that’s me.”

“I disagree,” you stated, “I think you’re the best thing that’s happened to me in a long time.”

・・・・・

I’m a bad liar with a savior complex

November 25th, 2025

“You are aware that I can’t treat you in the long run, right? James mentioned that?”

Dr. Raynor sat opposite you, her stern brows furrowed and lips pursed. It’s not like she made you feel unwelcome but her piercing stare rivaled Bucky’s and the crossed arms weren’t exactly screaming ‘tell me all your most vulnerable secrets’. 

“Since you two are… in a… how exactly would you describe your relationship with him?” she questioned while peering down at her notes. 

“We’re friends,” you mumbled. It wasn’t a lie. Not really. 

Dr. Raynor made some kind of noncommittal sound as she looked back up at you. It was clear she didn’t buy that.

“Well, whatever you two are, it’s a conflict of interest. I treated him, therefore I can’t treat someone he’s… close to,” she explained, “There are too many risk factors: potential bias, boundary issues, confidentiality… it might end up being a disservice to the two of you.”

You nodded. You knew all of that, hadn’t expected any differently. 

“Also, I’m a military therapist. I usually treat soldiers with PTSD, not civilians. I can still offer some expertise that might be useful to you and then recommend you to someone more cut out for your needs.”

You nodded again – you were still unsure about the whole thing in general. It was not a definite dislike for therapy as a concept, you thought it useful. Beneficial, even.

Bucky had asked you to try it, had offered to drive and pick you up, too. Right now, he was sitting outside in his car, waiting for you. 

You knew it was wrong that you did it for him, not for yourself. 

Frankly, you had only agreed to try it because you were eager to convince him of your progress. Barely a month had passed since he had wanted you to move out and it had taken plenty of convincing for him to let you stay. You knew you were better off with him by your side but you felt like you had to earn it now. 

“So,” Dr Raynor continued, “What would you like to talk about?”

A few seconds passed before you lifted your head to look at her.

What did you wanna talk about? Ideally, nothing. 

“I, um-“ your leg began to bounce as you searched for the right words, “I guess Bucky told you a little bit about what happened?”

The therapist nodded. Behind the thick layer of professionalism carved into her face was a flicker of something more, something that didn’t quite look like pity but rather understanding. 

“Is that something you’d like to discuss? Your past relationship?”

You shook your head.  “No, not really,” you mumbled. 

Surprisingly, she didn’t press. She waited for you to continue.

“I mean, I… the things that happened with my ex-boyfriend, they still affect me, um,… I get nightmares a lot. And panic attacks,” you replied hesitantly. 

“And how have you been dealing with those?” 

“Bucky helps- he helps me when I wake up. He’s good at… at grounding me.”

Your heart sped up when her papers rustled as she wrote something down. 

“And we-,” you continued, “We do things together, things that I can’t do on my own.”

“Such as?” she prompted.

“I guess big crowds and stuff like that.”

“And what do you do?”

Your leg stopped moving. You looked up at her, tilting your head. “What do you mean?” you asked.

“I mean,” she answered, “What do you do in order to help yourself when you experience those moments of anxiety? Or if you wake up from a nightmare and James isn’t there?”

“That… that hasn’t really happened yet,” you admitted. 

Your hands felt awfully clammy as the sweat pooled in your palms, so you wiped them on your jeans.  Dr. Raynor adjusted her posture, the papers in her lap crackling as she straightened her legs. Even though she only sat a couple feet away from you, everything sounded echoey and far away. 

When you looked at the clock hanging on the wall behind her, you saw that barely ten minutes had passed. All you wanted to do was leave. Go back home, sit with Bucky at the kitchen window and smoke until your heart beat slowed down to normal again.

Dr. Raynor wasn’t rude. She was direct and she was honest, but she made you feel like an idiot for the rest of the hour. Her advice ranged from trying to get out more and being on your own for a while.  By the end of the session you worried that your hands were going to leave permanent sweat stains on your pant legs. 

She offered you multiple referral cards and a pamphlet on anxiety calming methods that you put into your bag with the knowledge that you were most likely going to use it as a bookmark.

The moment she stood up, you mirrored her movements, already prepared to shake her hand and never see her again, when she spoke up.

“What you went through is more than anyone should ever have to carry. But in the end, and as harsh as it sounds, it is you who has to carry it. Not James.”

The racing rhythm of your heart faltered, now skipping beats instead.

“He wants to help,” you snapped. The defensiveness in your voice made you cringe at yourself. 

“I’m sure he does,” she nodded, “But you’re not living your life. You’re not moving on. You’re allowing yourself to get stuck in this safe space with him where he lets you lean on him too heavily.”

All protests died down before they made it to your tongue. 

“Support is great. But leaning too hard on him isn’t strength. That has to come from you,” she clarified, then stretched out her hand. You shook it robotically.

“It was very brave of you to take that first step of coming here today. Don’t stop there.”

“Thank you,” you murmured, “Bye.”

・・・・・

Once you had left the building, Bucky looked up. His face was distorted behind the car’s window but you saw his smile. It eased the lingering fear in your stomach. 

He opened the door and stepped out, holding up a hand. 

“Hey,” he called out.

You walked over to him and went straight into his arms. Leather, cigarettes and the soft smell of pine enveloped you as you buried your face in his chest. 

God, you thought, you were proving Dr. Raynor right immediately. 

When you pulled away, Bucky met your gaze, worry reflecting in his eyes. 

“That bad?” he asked, pushing a strand of hair out of your eyes. 

“No,” you replied, “Or… maybe yes, I don’t know. She’s… she’s not exactly…” You drifted off helplessly but he seemed to understand.

“Yeah, no, she isn’t. But she’s good at what she does, I promise.”

That didn’t make you feel any better.  Still, you looked up at him and nodded. 

“I’m sure she is. Can we go home now?”

For just a split-second Bucky’s face dropped in surprise. Though a soft smile returned to his face almost instantly, you caught the concern in his expression. 

“Yeah- yeah, sure, let’s go home.”

The unease coursing through your veins stayed even as you entered his apartment together. Bucky watched as you put down your bag and took off your coat, still half caught in the door frame. 

“Do you… do you wanna talk about how it went?” he asked cautiously. 

“Maybe later,” you decided. You knew you weren’t going to be the one to bring it up again.

He nodded slowly, then shrugged. “Alright. Um… are you hungry? I could cook something.”

“No,” you blurted. Bucky’s eyebrows knitted together.

“What?”

“I mean,” you began, “I am hungry. But I would like to cook- if that’s okay.”

He leaned back against the kitchen counter, uncertainty written all over his face. “I mean… yeah, if you want to, sure.” A brief moment of hesitation quieted the room before he continued, “Can I ask what brought this on?”

“It’s just something I wanna do for you,” you explained.  Not a lie. It’s not a lie.

Bucky hovered around you as you cooked, muttering to himself and to you while the food sizzled in the pans. He tried to help with chopping the vegetables, then pouted as you sent him to set the table instead. 

“Be careful with the knife,” he called out as you diced onions. It took everything in you not to roll your eyes. He trusted you, you knew that. He knew you were capable. But the grains of doubts that Dr. Raynor had sowed in your mind began to grow.  What if Bucky was too afraid to tell you that you had grown to inconvenience him?

By the time lunch was ready, you were fighting tears. 

You took out a serving spoon and walked over to the table, where Bucky sat, looking a little distraught.  He watched you as you laid down the spoon, avoiding eye contact at all costs while your eyes watered traitorously. 

“Sweetheart?” he asked, leaning forward, “Can you please just talk to me?”

You shook your head, pressing your lips together tightly. If you were to make a single noise, you’d break. 

“Baby,” Bucky tried again and reached out. His fingers closed around your wrist – not tightly so. You could have pulled away if you wanted to.  But you didn’t. You craved him, his touch, his warmth.  And you felt utterly stupid for it. Two months ago, you would have begged him to let you go, would have fled and choked on sobs. Now you thought he was the only one who could stop you from breaking down. 

“Is it something Dr. Raynor said?” Bucky whispered, running his thumb along the inside of your wrist.

A soft whimper made it past your tightly sealed lips. And then it was over. Tears streamed over your cheeks before you could stop them. 

“Oh, baby,” Bucky murmured and pulled you closer. He situated you on his lap, allowing you to melt into his body. Like a protective shield, he wrapped himself around you, his strong arms, one cold, one warm, holding you tight. 

He let you cry until you ran out, left with a scratchy voice and swollen eyes. His fingers ran over your back in soft circles while he whispered soft assurances. 

Every single one of his words was like a new stab to your heart because you allowed for them to make you feel better almost instantly. 

What do you do?

Dr. Raynor’s words echoed through your mind nonstop. 

You did nothing. You let yourself to be held, to be soothed. You knew how to handle a panic attack, had read a million tips on how to deal with them, listened to ted talks and read through the damn pamphlets, too. But it felt so much easier to let Bucky take care of you, let him be the one to carry the hard parts. 

And, god, you lied. 

“I guess it was just a little bit much today,” you answered when Bucky asked what was wrong.  “Dr. Raynor’s… great, I’m sure, but I think… maybe… I just need more time before I do the whole therapy thing.”

“Okay, baby,” he agreed softly, “That’s alright. You can take all the time you need.” He placed a gentle kiss on the crown of your head and rubbed your back again.  “I didn’t mean to push you, you know that, right? I just thought it might help you if you talked to a professional.”

You nodded dutifully. The guilt in his eyes made your stomach turn.

“It was a good idea, I think I-I just wasn’t ready for it. It kinda… it kinda made me think about some things and I don’t know… I don’t know if I’m ready for all that.”

・・・・・

Bucky stood next to you in the bathroom, toothpaste dribbling all over his chin while you two got ready for the night.  He watched you through the mirror as you took off your makeup and washed your face with cold water. 

You shrank under his gaze. No warm smiles exchanged between your reflections, no squeeze of hands. Without wanting to, you pulled away. Normally, you would wait for him, then walk to your room together.

But when you finished your nightly routine, you gave him a small wave and said, “I think I’d like to try sleeping on my own tonight.”

Bucky didn’t reply instantly. He just kind of froze, his gaze darting between your face and the sink. He examined your expression like he was trying to figure out if you were joking. 

Then he leaned back as his eyebrows drew together. 

“You wanna sleep without me?” he asked. 

You swallowed hard before you nodded.  “Just, um, wanna give it a try. I… I wanna see if I can do it,” you explained. 

Bucky stayed quiet. You almost thought you could hear his brain working. The silence stretched uncomfortably, making the bathroom feel colder. 

“It’s not a ‘you’ thing,” you remarked when he didn’t reply. 

“Isn’t it?” he asked. There was more bite to the question than you had expected. 

“No,” you stated, “It’s not. It’s a ‘me’ thing.”

You crossed your arms, then regretted it instantly. God, you didn’t want to argue. 

He exhaled audibly before he pushed off the counter.  “Okay,” he muttered.

Bucky left the room without looking back at you and the uncomfortable pit in your stomach spread.  This wasn’t going the way you had intended at all. 

The bang of his door slamming shut made you jump, the thumping of your heart increasing. 

“Shit,” you whispered to yourself.  You had never meant to upset him. 

You were torn between standing your ground and following him, smoothing it all over. 

But you didn’t. You quietly walked to your bedroom. The bedding felt colder without Bucky in it, warming it for you with gentle toastiness. 

You pulled the blanket up to your chin while you kept the night light on. 

A familiar sensation of panic bubbled in your stomach as you laid there, the fabric of the comforter much rougher against your skin than usual. Only this time, the fear didn’t just stem from the nightmares you anticipated. Bucky’s reaction was burned into your mind, the sadness in his eyes, the quick burst of anger. 

You found yourself thanking him for not taking it out on you which only made you feel more foolish.  You came here, moved in with Bucky to escape a man’s rage, not to fear another one’s. 

But the idea of comparing him with your ex made you feel even worse. The two were nothing – nothing – alike, and thinking that way spread guilt through your veins. 

The bed creaked as you shifted, trying to find a more comfortable position. You missed him so much more than you had expected, wanted to get up and knock on his door only to beg him to let you in.  You doubted that you would find much rest tonight. Not without him, and not with this non-argument resting between you two. 

Just as you actually considered giving in, allowing Dr. Raynor to be right, your phone lit up and Bucky’s profile picture filled your screen.

Sorry for slamming the door. I’m an immature idiot. Of course you can sleep on your own.

Once again, you wondered if he could read your mind sometimes. The relief that flooded your veins was impalpable. Your fingers trembled as you typed out a response. 

it’s okay. thank you for understanding. good night. 

An arrangement of emojis blinked back at you but in the end, you sent the message without one. 

With your phone shut off, you sank into the pillows and breathed in deeply. You could do this. You would prove to yourself, to Bucky, to that damn therapist that you weren’t dependent on him. 

So many nights you had found your rest. It shouldn’t be any different tonight. 

And surprisingly, you did actually fall asleep. Hours passed before it happened, spent looking at the ceiling while you tried to keep your mind focused on the truth. 

You were safe. Nothing was going to happen to you. Dreams are just dreams. 

But the nightmare, that jolted you awake, made you wish you had stayed awake. 

The details were blurry but you remembered the hospital bed. You remembered Bucky. You remembered blood. 

Your throat felt raw as you opened your eyes, anxiously gasping for air.  Thick, hazy clouds made their way across your vision, threatening to pull you under. Your heartbeat sounded in your ears along with a faint ringing that almost rendered you deaf. 

At least, until the door opened. Bucky stood there, one hand on the door knob, the other already reaching out. His eyes were bloodshot like he himself hadn’t found any sleep that night. 

“Buck-“ you whimpered. Your voice came out small and broken, a breathless sound barely loud enough to be heard. But he caught it. 

Bucky was by your side in an instant, his hand stretching out towards you like a lighthouse in the dark sea. You threw yourself into his embrace as tears ran down your cheeks. 

“Shh,” he soothed, “It’s okay, it’s okay. I’m here. You’re alright.”

His fingers ran through your hair while he whispered softly into your ear. 

“You’re at home in bed. Nobody can get to you. I’m right here, I promise. There’s nothing to be scared of.”

Once the fear had passed and your breathing had regulated, disappointment settled deep inside your bones.  A single night alone – and you hadn’t even managed that. 

Bucky sat on the bed, still half curled around you as he watched you.  He had barely said a word, just simply evaluated you with his deep, piercing stare. 

You wiped the remnants of your tears from your cheeks and met his eyes.  “I need to talk to you about something,” you whispered. 

His eyebrows shot up, his whole body tensing up. 

“Okay,” he murmured. The apprehension in his voice echoed sharp.

“I think,” you began, “we have a problem.”

“We?” he echoed, “What- what do you mean?”

Your hands began to sweat as you fidgeted. “Maybe it’s not… not an ‘us’ problem, but a ‘me’ problem. I… I need you too much.”

He cocked his head and leaned in closer. 

“What? What do you- what do you mean? What makes you say that?”

The eye contact was too much for you so you looked away, instead focusing on the bedsheets. You counted the interwoven threads, the sight of them much easier to bear than Bucky’s worried face. 

“I- Dr. Raynor, she and I talked about… about us. And she said something about how I’m… I’m not doing enough to get better,” you explained hesitantly.

“What?” The volume of his voice increased. “She said that?”

Bucky cut you off as you were about to reply.  “Fuck, sweetheart, you know that’s not true. Goddammit, I thought I was doing you a favor by sending you to her. But she doesn’t know what the fuck she’s talking about.”

He tilted his head to catch your eyes. When you still refused to meet his gaze, he gently angled you chin so that you were forced to look up. 

“It’s not true. You’re doing enough.”

“Am I though? Bucky, I haven’t been at work for three months. I don’t go out unless it’s with you, I can’t sleep through the night unless you’re holding me. Every panic attack I’ve had, every nightmare, every anxious moment – you’ve been by my side.”

“I’m here to help you – I wanna help you,” he argued, “I do, I-“

“I know,” you interrupted him. “And I’m so grateful for it, believe me, I am. But I’m not doing anything. I need to know how to help myself but I can’t… I can’t do it if I keep letting myself fall back on you.”

“You went through something traumatic only three months ago,” he declared, “You can’t be expected to just pick up your life again immediately.”

“But I’m not recovering! I’m not getting better. I’m just letting my life drift by and I haven’t made a single effort to go back to it.”

His hand dropped to his lap and the self-blame instantly flared up in his eyes. You could almost see the inner workings of his brain, somehow twisting this to be his fault. 

“I never meant to hold you back,” he mumbled, “I just tried to help.”

You reached out and looped your fingers through his. “You did help me,” you murmured, “Every day. Every step that I managed to take.”

Gently, you squeezed his hand. 

“Without you, I would have never ended up here. Being able to… to touch you and let you touch me.”

Tears built on his waterline as he looked at you.

“Tell me you’re not doing this because you think… because you think you’re some kind of burden to me. Because you’re not. Not by a long shot,” he urged.

“I’m doing this because I want to be better,” you answered, “I wanna be okay on my own. So that I can be okay with you. And without you.”

・・・・・

Epilogue

December 25th, 2025

A constant cloud of snow had been hanging over New York for the last two weeks. You watched the white dust settle from your living room window, soft flakes hugging each roof like a blanket. 

The papers on your desk were flowing over, rising high in crooked towers. Your new job was demanding –  but god, it felt good to be back at work. Routine had settled over you, lulling you into a warmth of distraction and balance you hadn’t known in much too long. 

The nightmares stayed. So did the panic attacks. But you learned to move through them. The first nights were painful. Your hands had clutched your phone, dialing Bucky’s number only to never press ‘call’. 

You knew he’d answer in an instant and come fight your dragons for you. But you wanted to conquer them yourself, so you worked out strategies. The referral cards Dr. Raynor had given you curled in on the edges from the stress sweat on your hands as you had phoned around.  Finding a therapist in such a short time hadn’t worked yet. But the new year was just a few days shy of starting and you trusted it to present you with some good news. 

While nights were far from pleasurable, especially at the beginning, your days felt all the more better.  You grew with your struggles, took your setbacks as motivation. It was far from easy but the reward of achieving new things, even ones as simple as an independent grocery run, felt like the victory of a lifetime. And while you were beyond proud of yourself, you never let yourself forget who had laid the foundation for you.

The doorbell rang. 

Anticipation pumped through your body as you jumped from the couch and ran to the door. You ripped it open and Bucky stood in front of you. 

Snowflakes dusted his hair, caught in the curls and on top of his coat. He smiled sheepishly, a gift bag and a baking dish in his hands. 

“Hi,” you greeted him excitedly, “Merry Christmas!”

“Merry Christmas, sweetheart,” he replied, stepping inside. 

It had been a couple days since you’d seen him last, but the waiting made the reunion much sweeter. 

After he had set down his stuff, you hugged him tight, not caring about the snow soaking through your clothes. He chuckled softly as he wrapped his arms around you, lifting you off the ground a little. 

“I missed you,” he murmured softly, burying his face in your hair. 

“I missed you, too,” you answered.

When you leaned back, you made sure to get ahold of his hand.  “Santa was here, you know? Left a couple presents for you under my tree.”

Bucky smiled that boyish grin that made your heart flutter. 

“Yeah?” he asked, “I think he left a couple of yours at my place, too. I brought them with me to be safe.”

“Oh, yeah, he must have known they were in good hands with you,” you declared, bringing his knuckles up to your lips so you could press a kiss to them. 

Back in your living room, a modest sized tree stood in the corner. A couple days ago Bucky had helped you decorate it with colorful ornaments and twinkling lights that now greeted you cheerfully as you dragged him into the room. 

Bathed in the soft glow and gentle calm of the day, you breathed in deeply. Wrapping paper, ribbons and sparkly Christmas cards littered your floor as Bucky and you exchanged gifts. 

You enjoyed watching him unpack his new watch that you had bought him, the childlike wonder in his eyes sparkling. When he set it down, his gaze found yours. 

“Thank you,” he breathed out softly. 

“You’re very welcome,” you replied fondly. 

Scooting closer on the floor, you leaned in.  “Do you know what day it is in a week?” you asked, wriggling your eyebrows. 

“Well, yeah, New Year’s Eve,” he answered, a soft crease of confusion appearing on his forehead.

“Yeah, duh,” you grinned, “But in seven days, we’ll have known each other for an entire year.”

Bucky nodded slowly, the corners of his mouth lifting until the skin around his eyes crinkled. 

“You’re right,” he muttered, “I can’t believe it. Guess time kinda does fly.”

“Yeah,” you responded, “Guess it does. I just… I just wanted to say that I’m really… really happy that you decided to follow me into the basement.”

“Me, too,” he declared quietly, “I think that’s the best decision I ever made.”

“Really?” you asked gently.

He nodded. 

“Absolutely,” he said, “I met my best friend that night. And…”

“And…?” you prompted, your heart beating faster. 

Bucky inhaled deeply before he continued. 

“And the strongest woman I’ve ever met.” He hesitated, eyes searching yours. “The woman I am in love with.” 

The world outside disappeared into white. Bucky’s words warmed your heart and for the first time, you believed it would keep beating just fine – even when it ached and stumbled.

You closed your eyes, smiled, and whispered, “I love you, too.”

wc: 17k

❤︎ just a quick reminder that the best way to support authors on here is to comment and reblog ❤︎ ☆ find my masterlist here ☆

[superbassbuck]

so, this is love? 𝓹𝓽.2

pairing: king!bucky barnes x commoner!reader, cinderella au

warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, dilf bucky, age gap, a man who yearns is a man who earns, jealousy, possessive behavior, daddy issues, physical violence and parental abuse, arguments, sexual tension, banter, semi-public sex, power dynamic, oral f!receiving, fingering, breeding kink, size difference, pet names: "my dear" "sweetheart" "my love"

word count: 16.3k masterlist || 𝓹𝓽. 1

a/n: due to popular demand + the new bridgerton season inspiring me. fic playlist

synopsis: After fleeing the palace, you are now the most wanted woman in the kingdom—caught between Prince Jamie, who won't let go, and his father, King Barnes, who refuses to lose.

After your discreet exit from the palace, you hadn’t expected your step-family to return so soon. You had hoped for a few hours of solitude to bask in the memory of the King’s touch—to hold onto the feeling of his lips against your skin before reality reclaimed you.

But Beatrice wouldn’t even spare you that small courtesy.

When you had tentatively mentioned your surprise at their early arrival last night, Beatrice had ripped her gloves off with a look of pure agitation—already in a bad mood.

“The King cleared the entire ballroom,” Beatrice snapped, her voice trembling with indignant rage. “Apparently, some woman he was seeking went missing without his notice, and he turned into a madman. He ended the festivities right then and there, nearly throwing the delegates out of the palace in his haste to find her. The Prince had to deliver the King’s order because of how upset he was.”

She narrowed her eyes at you, unaware of the way your heart quickened anxiously at her words.

“A complete waste of a perfectly good gown. All because of some nameless little tramp who didn’t know how to stay put.”

Beatrice paused, her tirade dying in her throat as she noticed your hesitation.

She took a slow step toward you, the sharp clack of her heels against the floors made you snap back to a reality you weren’t ready to face.

“I’m surprised you’re still awake,” she pointed out suspiciously. Her eyes trailed over you, scanning from your head to your toes as if searching for a single hair out of place.

You blinked, forcing your spine to straighten despite the ache in your muscles.

“I—I had only just finished the kitchen,” you stammered. “I was about to climb into bed when the door opened.”

Her eyes narrowed into thin, venomous slits, and you swore you saw her eyebrow twitch as if she realized something. She stepped closer, invading your personal space until you could smell the expensive perfume. For a terrifying heartbeat, you were certain she would call you out, strip you of your dignity, and banish you from your own home and onto the streets to fend for yourself.

But she didn’t.

Instead, a cruel, satisfied smirk curled her lips.

“Good girl,” she said, the praise sounding more like she was addressing a well-trained hound than a human being.

And now, with the morning sun rising over the large windows, you find yourself on your hands and knees again, the soaked sponge scrubbing against the marble floors. You were scrubbing a surface that should have already been polished—had Agnes not stomped across the foyer in her muddy riding boots without a care in the world.

“And don’t forget to polish the shoes right after! I’m going riding again later.” Agnes called out, kicking her boots off haphazardly.

They tossed in your direction, hitting the floor with a heavy thud that splattered even more fresh droplets of muck across the area you had just cleaned.

You winced at the sound, your shoulders aching with a deep, bone weary exhaustion. Your body was utterly spent, and your mind was miles away, still lingering in a dark study filled with the scent of ink, papers, and sex.

You remembered the way the King’s body had pressed into yours, the feel of his salt and pepper beard tickling your chin just before his lips collided with your own. He was a King who never knew what it was like to be hungry, yet he took you and made love to you like a man starving.

Agnes let out a tired groan, dragging her feet to meet her sister Margaret on the couch. She slumped down next to her, tossing her head back against the cushions with a weary sigh, acting as if she even knew what a truly hard day felt like.

“I can’t believe it,” Agnes whined, her voice high and grating. “Such gorgeous dresses wasted on a night that lasted a mere—what? Three, four hours? Ugh, I just can’t believe it!”

“Tell me about it, sister,” Margaret sighed, flipping the page of a book she was hardly reading. “Prince Jamie throws the most beautiful ball—and then his father comes in with a snap of his fingers and ruins it all.”

“I didn’t see much of King Barnes last night either,” Agnes added, leaning in closer like she’s sharing a secret. “He appeared for the toast and then vanished like a ghost. He didn’t even acknowledge the receiving line!”

Margaret let out a sharp, cynical laugh. “King Barnes is always out and about, hardly ever present at his own balls, much less his son’s. Makes you wonder why he ended it early in the first place. You know, I hear His Majesty has been messing around with several women behind closed doors.”

You felt your body go rigid.

“Margaret! You mustn’t speak of the King that way!” Agnes giggled, though she didn’t look the least bit offended.

“What? It is true! There are rumors,” Margaret insisted, smiling wide. She leaned in, using the book as ‘cover’, though her whispers were anything but quiet.

“They say he’s a coldhearted rake who keeps a string of nameless girls in the west wing just to pass the time. He probably found a new plaything in one of the corridors and decided the ball was no longer worth his attention.”

You squeezed the scrub brush until your knuckles turned white, the soapy water burning the small cuts on your hands. Every word out of their mouths made you feel sick—almost disgusted with yourself.

They were talking about the man who had held and kissed your hand with such kindness, the man who had looked at your burn marks and seen beauty instead of a blemish.

But to the world, he was just a predator who took what he wanted simply because he could—and you were nothing more than a nameless rumor to be laughed at over morning tea.

“Now, ladies,” Beatrice’s voice rang from the stairs, echoing off the high walls.

Her hands gripped the railing as she stared down at everyone from above, slowly making her descent. With each step, the sharp clicks of her heels sounded like a threat.

“That’s not the way to talk about our King,” she warned.

“It wasn’t fair!” Agnes continued anyway, picking at a loose thread on her sleeve. “The Prince didn’t even look our way. He spent the entire night dancing with that… that nobody.”

“A random woman,” Margaret scoffed, finally shutting her book with a sharp snap. “She wasn’t even that beautiful. Her hair was far too simple, and that dress? It looked like something from a past decade. Where was she from, anyway? Some… obscure foreign land?”

“She must have been,” Agnes added, her voice rising to a whine. “Did you see her? She could hardly even dance! The Prince asks you to dance and you can’t even deliver? Ridiculous.”

Margaret leaned forward, her eyes malicious. “And the Prince only had eyes for her. But that wasn’t even the scandalous part—she danced with the King, too! Right in front of the entire court.”

Agnes blinked, as if piecing something together. Then, she let out a sharp gasp that made you jump.

“What if Prince Jamie is no better than his father? What if they’re just alike? Perhaps they shared her in a corridor in the west wing before the night was through.”

They both broke into fits of snickers, their hands covering their mouths as they giggled at the mental image of your degradation.

You just wished the marble floors would open up and swallow you whole.

To them, the most beautiful and profound moment of your life was nothing more than a dirty joke.

Beatrice met them in the living room, crossing her arms over her chest. “Fret not, ladies. She was probably some impoverished Duchess from the North, trying to sink her claws into the crown before the night was up.”

You kept your head down, your fingers tightening around the damp handle of your scrub brush. Your skin crawled as they picked apart your appearance, your dancing, everything. They were completely unaware that the so called ‘impoverished’ woman they were mocking was currently kneeling in the dirt at their feet.

Every insult only felt like a splash of cold water, reminding you that in their world—and Bucky’s—you were merely an interloper who didn’t belong.

From the corner of her eye, Beatrice noticed the frown on your face. A slow, cruel smile tugged across her red lips. To her, your grimace was nothing more than bitter jealousy. She turned to you, smoothing her skirt as her eyes locked onto yours with a sympathy so forced she might as well not have bothered.

“It’s a shame you couldn’t have gone,” Beatrice said, her voice sweet and fake. “The palace was truly beautiful. The way the light hit the gold… it’s a world you can’t even begin to imagine, isn’t it, dear?”

You bit your tongue so hard you tasted copper. You wanted to tell her. You wanted to look her in the eye and tell her that not only had you shared a dance with the Prince they sought after, but the King had worshipped you.

He had called you his girl.

He hadn’t ‘ruined’ the ball—he had ended it because he couldn’t stand a single second of it without you by his side.

But you knew that arguing with the ignorant would get you nowhere, so you did what you did best, which was staying silent and unassuming.

“But then, someone has to stay behind and make sure the house doesn’t fall into ruin. We can’t all be Princesses for a night.” Beatrice let out a small, airy laugh—as if this was all just a joke to her.

“Anyway, back to work!” She suddenly commanded. “Agnes’ riding boots won’t clean themselves, and I expect the foyer to be spotless before afternoon tea.” She glanced at her daughters slouching on the couch. “Up, girls. It’s time for piano lessons.”

Agnes and Margaret pushed up from the couch, giving you glances they would as if it giving it to a insect—though, they’d probably look kinder than that.

You dipped your brush into the bucket, the cold water stinging the raw skin of your hands. You had dreamt of him in the few short hours of peace you’d found in your bed, and even now, amidst the dirt and cruel insults, your mind was still entirely consumed by him.

You could still feel the phantom sensation of his touch against your waist and the husky rasp of his voice calling you his.

His girl.

And even though you knew deep down that a maid had no chance of being with a King, a small, stubborn part of you couldn’t help but wonder.

You wondered if he was standing in that cold, empty study right now, staring at the empty space on the desk you’d left behind. You wondered if, despite the crown and the kingdom, he was still thinking about you all the same.

Back at the palace, the morning sun bled through the towering windows, but the light felt intrusive. Bucky stood eerily still, staring out over the kingdom that belonged to him, his tired gaze fixed on the town below.

He hadn’t changed his clothes. He hadn't slept.

In his hand, he held your white lace glove. He squeezed it so tightly his knuckles turned white, the delicate fabric bunching against his palm. He kept finding himself closing his eyes, bringing the lace to his face to inhale the fading scent of rosewater that still clung to the threads.

Every time he exhaled and opened his eyes, those icy blue orbs were filled with a dangerous mix of both yearning and fury.

How dare you leave him?

He had marked you. He had claimed you. And yet, you had slipped through his fingers like smoke, leaving him with nothing but a scrap of lace and a hollow, agonizing ache in his chest.

He knew he should sleep. He should take a hot bath, wash the scent of the night off his skin, and finally eat—but he couldn’t.

Not when you were still clawing your way into his mind, nearly driving him mad.

A set of footsteps approached him with caution. It was the same attendant from last night, looking pale and trembling.

Bucky knew he should have sent the man to the gallows the moment he realized the attendant had helped you escape. It would have been easy. But it also would have been unreasonable—the man was simply doing his job and doing what he was used to with… Bucky’s shameful previous moments before you.

“Sire,” the man stammered, bowing so low he nearly tipped over. “Regarding the girl... and the abrupt end to the ball.”

Bucky didn’t bother turning around. “Speak.”

“It seems Prince Jamie also ordered the ballroom to clear shortly after you left the dais,” the attendant whispered. “He told the guests it was by your direct command—that the King demanded the palace be emptied for a search. He spent the remainder of the night with the captain of the guard, scouring the lower gates for a ‘missing guest.’”

Bucky’s grip on the glove tightened until the lace threatened to tear.

Jamie.

His own son had used his name to chase after the same woman. Bucky’s jaw clenched so hard his molars ached. The boy gets one dance with a pretty woman and he forgets himself. He forgets who he is—and more importantly, who his father is.

“He did, did he?” Bucky’s rumbled.

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

The silence between them was so still and heavy, that the faint ticking of the clock across the room sounded like a hammer against an anvil. The attendant remained rooted to the spot, standing so rigidly perfect that his spine began to ache, his breath held in his chest as he waited for the King’s next move.

“Bring him to me,” Bucky finally ordered. He glanced at the attendant over his shoulder. “My son. Bring him to me. Now.”

“Y-yes, Your Majesty!”

The attendant gave one final, frantic bow before scrambling away to fetch Jamie. Left in the sudden quiet, Bucky turned his gaze back to the window, his mind a turbulent storm of a million different thoughts.

Bucky had always prided himself on being a good King. He was a man who ruled with a steady hand, treating his people with a fairness that was rare for his station. He gave everything to the land and asked for very little in return; he was hardly ever a selfish man.

He took that same pride in his role as a father. He had raised Jamie with meticulous care, shielding him from the hardness of his own past. He had taught the boy how to be a gentleman, how to be polite, and above all, how to treat a woman with kindness—all the virtues Bucky himself had lacked growing up.

But now, staring out at the kingdom he had built, Bucky realized that his own teachings had backfired.

He had taught his son how to recognize a woman of worth, and now, they were both hunting the same girl.

“Father,” Jamie panted, the words catching in his throat as he reached the top of the stairs. He came to a halt behind Bucky, maintaining a respectful distance between them—the gap between a Prince and his King.

“You called for me?”

Bucky turned slowly to face his son. He didn’t offer a greeting; rather, he simply watched, his eyes tracking the way Jamie’s shoulders rose and fell with every labored breath. He took note of the sheen of sweat on the boy’s forehead and the way he struggled to compose himself after the lengthy climb.

Bucky pursed his lips, a small pang of disappointment hitting his chest as he judged his son’s lack of stamina.

Perhaps he hadn’t been such a good father after all. Because as he stood there, watching Jamie stumble over his own exhaustion, the only thing Bucky could think was that the boy was outmatched.

Jamie was too soft, too unseasoned. He could never hope to catch up to a woman like you—and he certainly wouldn’t be able to catch up with you in bed.

“I hear that you cleared the guests out shortly after I performed the toast,” Bucky said, dangerously calm. “I couldn’t quite remember if the invitation mentioned the ball ending at midnight. I found myself wondering why the palace was being emptied with such… urgency.”

Jamie stayed quiet.

Bucky took a step closer.

“I was also told that you ordered every guest to leave under my command,” Bucky added, his tone dropping deeper and quieter. “Using my name to finish a party that you were so excited to host. Why is that, son?”

Jamie stood up straighter, his own blue eyes sparkling with an enthusiasm that made Bucky’s eyebrow twitch. He didn’t see the storm brewing in his father’s expression; he only saw an opportunity to confide in the man he looked up to.

“I had to, Father,” Jamie admitted, a small, sheepish smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “There was a woman. I’ve never seen anyone like her—she wasn’t like the usual court vultures. She was... magnetic. But she vanished the moment the clock struck twelve.”

Jamie took a deep breath, his chest puffing out slightly as he warmed to the subject, completely oblivious to the fact that his father was slowly losing his grip on his patience.

“I used your name because I knew the guards wouldn’t question it. I needed the halls clear so I could find her before she slipped past the gates. I just… I couldn’t let her go without knowing who she was. I think I might be in love with her, Father. I’ve never felt this way about anyone before.”

Every word out of Jamie’s mouth felt like a personal insult—a boy’s shallow infatuation trying to claim territory already conquered by a King.

A desperate part of him hoped, prayed, that the woman Jamie was describing wasn’t you. He wanted there to be a small, flickering chance that Jamie had met someone else, anyone else, who wasn’t the girl in the silver blue dress.

“In love?” Bucky repeated bitterly in disbelief. “You shared a single dance with a stranger, and you’ve decided it’s love?”

“It was more than a dance,” Jamie insisted, his voice rising with that same stubbornness Bucky had at his age. “There was a connection. I could tell she felt it, too. She was shy, hesitant, but there was a fire in her. Surely, you understand? You danced with her, too.”

Bucky felt like he wanted to punch a wall.

“You saw her up close. She was beautiful—even underneath the mask. Her eyes were so kind—”

Bucky couldn’t stand to hear another word.

“—and her laugh was hypnotizing. She didn’t even know how to dance, but she was the sweetest thing in the room—”

Bucky felt like he was going insane. He had never, ever hated anyone as much as he hated his own son in this very moment. Each compliment Jamie uttered felt like a hand reaching for a prize that Bucky had already locked away in his soul.

“Son—”

“—I want to marry her, Father,” Jamie interrupted, his voice suddenly stern and determined.

His blue eyes—so like Bucky’s own—met the King’s with a steady gaze, and Bucky felt a wave of nausea roll through him.

“I finally found her—my Princess. I want her to stand by my side at court as my wife. She would be the most perfect woman for it,” Jamie continued, a small, subtle blush creeping onto his cheeks at the mere thought. “Princess Barnes…”

Princess Barnes?

Bucky scoffed, a rude, incredulous sound that escaped his throat before he could stop it. Jamie’s head tilted, noticing the reaction, but Bucky was far beyond caring about appearances. Princess was a title for a girl playing at house. It was a secondary rank, a title that lived in the shadow of another.

No. That wasn’t right at all. You weren’t meant to be a Princess. You were meant to be a Queen. Queen Barnes. His Queen. His equal, his partner, his obsession. Not his son’s plaything.

Bucky forced himself to reel back, drawing a slow, heavy breath into his lungs. He was a father first, a King second. He needed to speak carefully, to dismantle this before it ruined them both.

“Do not be a fool, Jamie,” Bucky said. “You are talking about a woman you do not know. You are rushing into a fantasy. Marriage is about stability, about the crown—not about a girl who didn’t know how to waltz... or… or one who didn’t even have the decency to stay!”

It was cruelly ironic. He was lying through his teeth, and the taste of it was bitter. Every criticism he hurled at you felt like a sin, but he had to dissuade his son.

He had to make you sound small, sound insignificant, so that Jamie would stop looking for you.

“Wait for the reports,” Bucky continued, his voice biting and harsh. His hand tightened around the lace, his grip crushing the delicate fabric more with every word.

“Do not waste your time. Focus on your duties. Do not go chasing shadows in the—”

“Father,” Jamie interrupted suddenly.

“What?” Bucky snapped, his patience fraying.

Jamie took a step forward. The moment Bucky saw his son’s eyes lock onto the white fabric clenched between his fingers, his blood ran cold.

“That glove,” Jamie whispered, his eyes widening with shock. He looked back up at his father, his breath hitching. “I recognize it. It’s hers. I held that hand while we danced... I know the pattern of that lace by heart.”

Bucky pressed his lips together, his entire body coiling like a spring. He braced himself for the explosion. He expected Jamie to yell, to seethe in betrayal, to realize that his father had been hiding the woman he ‘loved’ just a room away last night.

But instead, a bright, hopeful smile tugged at Jamie’s lips. His eyes sparked with a pure, joyous relief.

“You found her,” Jamie breathed, letting out a small, huffing laugh of disbelief. “You found her for me, didn’t you? You saw how much I wanted her... and you went and found her.”

And now, Bucky wished Jamie would’ve just yelled at him instead.

Before he could even respond, Jamie was already beaming with glee. Any other father would relish seeing their own son happy, but for Bucky, he felt like he was suffocating.

“We must arrange a carriage for her at once!” Jamie exclaimed, already pacing the rug. “I need to have her here—in this palace. I have so much to say to her, I—”

Bucky shut his eyes tight, his mouth shuddering as he felt the delicate lace of your glove crushing against his palm. Right now, it felt like it was the only piece he had left of you.

“Son. Enough—”

“This is incredible! I… I never expected you to go out of your way for me like this, Father. I thought you were disappointed, but you were actually—”

Bucky’s heart was clawing its way out of his ribs. It was a frantic, taunting thud that made him feel like he was about to collapse under his own deceit.

“Jamie. Stop it—”

“Thank you, Father! Truly. Once we bring her back here—the moment she steps off that carriage—I’m going to propose. I’ll give her the world. I’ll—”

Propose?

Give you the world?

He wanted to give you the world?

Jamie didn’t even know your world. He didn’t know the way you tasted, or the way you trembled when a real man laid hands on you.

Bucky had given the order to the attendant the moment you vanished. He had planned to have his men quietly intercept you, to bring you back to his private chambers before your carriage could even take you past the palace gates. But Jamie’s ‘fake command’ had ruined everything. The sudden, chaotic crowd of hundreds of guests—the horses, the carriages, the shouting—had created a wall of bodies and steel that Bucky’s men couldn’t penetrate.

The guilt Bucky felt was suddenly swallowed by a surging, irrational wave of resentment. This was Jamie’s fault. All of it.

His son’s childish interference was the reason you were gone. His vanity was the reason Bucky was standing here with an empty heart and a stolen glove.

Bucky’s restraint vanished completely. His arm moved in a blur of pure, enraged adrenaline. His fist collided with Jamie’s jaw with a sickening crack, the force of the blow sending his son stumbling back in pain.

“Goddamnit, Jamie!” Bucky barked, his thunderous voice echoing off the high walls like a cannon firing away. “I said that is enough!”

Bucky’s chest heaved, his eyes widening with horror as dark crimson began to leak between Jamie’s fingers, staining his pristine white cuffs. The adrenaline that had fueled the punch evaporated instantly, leaving behind a cold, sickening hollow. He stared at his own knuckles, then back at the blood on his son’s face.

“Fuck,” Bucky cursed. He took a frantic step forward, his hand reaching out. “Jamie—”

“Don’t!” Jamie hissed, flinching away from the touch. He looked up, his eyes glassy with tears he refused to let fall. He wiped his nose with the back of his hand, but the blood only smeared across his cheek, making him look even more broken.

“I just wanted to make you proud, Father. That’s all I’ve ever tried to do,” Jamie muttered, his gaze dropping to his boots.

“Jamie, that isn’t—”

“I thought you’d be happy!” Jamie’s voice broke. “I thought you’d finally be glad to see me take a wife, to see me grow up. I thought this was my duty—to find a woman who could lead by my side. But… but I can never win with you, can I? No matter what I do, it’s never enough. I’m never enough!”

Bucky felt like his chest was being stepped on.

He had hit his own son.

In all the years of training and discipline, he had never once raised a hand to the boy in anger. The glove remained clenched in his palm—the very thing that had started this—and it suddenly felt as heavy as lead.

“Jamie, please,” Bucky’s voice grew quieter, shakier than it had ever been. “You have to understand. It’s… it’s not that simple. There are things you don’t know—”

“I understand plenty,” Jamie spat. He glared up at his father, a look of such pure resentment that Bucky had never seen before. He wanted to die right then and there.

His own son no longer looked at him like a hero, but like a villain—a tyrant guarding his hoard.

“You don’t want me to have her,” Jamie said, his voice turning to a cold, final whisper. “You don’t want me to have anything.”

“Son, I—”

Before Bucky could grab his arm, Jamie turned and bolted for the stairs. His footsteps thundered down the hall, each heavy stomp of his boot against the cold floor echoing like the heartbeat in Bucky’s aching chest.

“Jamie! Jamie, wait!” Bucky called out, his voice cracking.

He started to follow, but he only made it halfway before he stopped, watching his son disappear around the corner and out of his reach.

You were out in the town again, but the atmosphere felt different, and almost suffocating. As you moved through the market, you couldn’t help but notice the royal guards posted at every corner.

Usually, the guards were a lazy fixture of the town—slumped at tavern tables playing cards or nursing drinks, doing a halfhearted job at best. But today, they were different. There were far more of them than usual, all standing with rigid shoulders, their steel armor gleaming with a sharp, intimidating light against the dusty cobblestone walls.

At first, the way they scrutinized the passing crowd—specifically the women— seemed merely inappropriate. But as you stole a glance, a chill settled deep in your bones.

They weren’t just watching; they were searching.

You saw them whispering in low, urgent tones, gesturing toward various girls and pointing to the shade of a woman’s hair… or the curve of a jawline as if comparing them to a mental checklist.

They were looking for someone with very specific features.

They were looking for you.

You quickly averted your eyes, tucking your chin and clutching your wicker basket against your chest like a shield. You weaved through the morning crowd, trying to make yourself as small and unassuming as possible, desperate to melt into the shadows of the common folk.

You were just steps away from the safety of a produce shop when a commotion at a nearby bread stall caught your ear. Usually, you would have kept your head down, but the desperation in the young man’s voice made you pause.

A boy with a deep hood pulled low was caught in a heated argument with the stall keeper. Even from a distance, you could see his hands were shaking. A dark, ugly bruise was already blooming across the bridge of his nose, accompanied by a faint smear of dried blood.

“It’s just a loaf of bread and some cheese!” the young man argued, his voice surprisingly prideful for a man who’s supposed to be hungry. “You’re charging me five times the worth!”

The stall keeper let out a harsh, mocking laugh, leaning over his counter with a sneer.

“Well, when you’re wearin’ a brooch like that,” he pointed a greasy finger at the glimmering silver pin tucked under the boy’s cloak, “it means you’ve got money. Or you stole it. Either way, pay up or move on, fancy lad.”

“I told you, I don’t have the coin on me! I… I left in a hurry,” the boy muttered, his fingers instinctively clutching the brooch. “I won’t give you this. It’s a family heirloom.”

The keeper scoffed, pulling the tray of food back. “Then starve. I don’t run a charity for runaways.”

The boy looked so small in that moment, his shoulders slumping with a defeat that felt all too familiar to you. Despite the danger of the guards nearby, your heart ached for him. You knew exactly what it was like to be seen as insignificant, to be at the mercy of someone more powerful.

Before you could talk yourself out of it, you stepped forward. You pulled a few copper coins from the deep pocket of your skirt and dropped them onto the wooden counter.

“That should cover it,” you said. “And the change is for your trouble. Let the boy have the food.”

The keeper’s eyes didn’t even glance at you nor the copper. They remained glued on the glimmering silver pinned to the boy’s chest.

“I don’t want your coin, girl,” he grunted, his gaze narrowing with greed. “I want that brooch. That silver alone is worth more than my entire stall.”

The young man bristled, his hand tightening over the heirloom, but before he could snap back, you spoke first.

“Come on, Gary,” you said softly, a small, knowing smile playing on your lips. “Didn’t you used to pride yourself on making your craft affordable for the needy? You’ve helped me out plenty of times when the month was lean. Surely, you can lend a hand to someone else in need.”

Gary finally shifted his eyes away from the boy. When he realized it was you standing there, his harsh expression faltered just slightly. He took a long look at you, then back at the battered, hooded boy, and finally at the humble copper coins on the counter.

He knew you; he knew you worked hard and rarely asked for favors.

“Fine,” Gary grumbled, snatching the coins off the wood with a reluctant huff.

He wrapped a loaf of bread and a thick wedge of cheese in a rough cloth and shoved it roughly toward the boy. “You owe her one, spoiled brat. Don’t let me see you around here again.”

The boy lifted his hands hesitantly to grab the parcel. He swallowed hard, shifting his attention toward you. His face flushed, and you couldn’t tell if it was the humiliation of a common maid helping a man like him, or simply the throbbing pain of his injury.

“Thank you, miss—” he began.

As he tilted his head back to look at you, the sunlight caught the high curve of his cheekbones and the unmistakable cool shade of blue in his eyes.

The Barnes eyes.

Even with the dark, jagged bruise across his nose, there was no mistaking that it was him.

The blood drained from your face so fast, you felt your head spinning. You froze, your hands tightening on the wicker basket. Your heart, which had been steady just now in your confidence with Gary, now thrashed against your ribs like a trapped bird.

“I… I—” you stuttered. You took a step back, bumping into a frantic man who yelled, “Watch your step!” but you paid no mind. Your gaze darted to the guards huddled at the end of the street.

It was no wonder why there were so many of them posted today. They weren’t just looking for you. They were also looking for Bucky’s son.

If they saw you talking to him—if they realized who he was and who you were—it was over.

You braced yourself for Jamie’s face to light up, expecting him to seize your hands and declare he’d finally found you. But instead, his brows furrowed in confusion. He took in your messy hair, your trembling lip, and your simple, soot-stained maid’s uniform.

To him, you were just a kind girl of the working class—a far cry from the elegant vision of silver, blue, and lace he had held in the golden ballroom.

Jamie leaned in slightly, his gaze searching yours with a look of dawning and haunting familiarity.

“Are you quite alright?” he asked softly. He paused, his eyes narrowing as he studied the shape of your face—the curve of your jaw, the fullness of your lips, the depth of your eyes. “Wait…”

He trailed off, and you felt your stomach turn.

“Do I know you from somewhere? You look... strangely familiar.”

“I… no,” you stammered, forced a short, brittle laugh that sounded more like a gasp of air. “It’s a small town. You must have me confused with someone else. I—uh, have a good day, Your Highness—I mean, sir!”

Jamie’s face shifted, a flicker of recognition sparking in his eyes. You sucked in a sharp breath, mentally cursing yourself for that slip-up. Before he could voice the realization, you turned on your heel and bolted, weaving through the thicket of market-goers frantically.

“Ma’am, wait!” Jamie’s voice called out from behind you, sounding strained and breathless.

You didn’t look back. You kept your head down, convinced that every second spent in his presence brought you a second closer to a prison cell.

If the guards found you and dragged you back to the King, the rumors would devour you. You’d be branded a whore. Your step-family would throw you onto the streets without a second thought. The King would never provide for you; he was a King, and you were a maid, for God’s sake. And now, you weren’t just caught up with the King, but with the Prince as well.

“Please, wait!” Jamie’s voice grew more distant and more desperate the further you pulled away.

You rounded the corner into a narrow alleyway. Just as you were about to disappear around the far end to lose him for good, curiosity—or perhaps lingering empathy—made you glance over your shoulder.

Jamie wasn’t running anymore. He was halfway into the alley, his body swaying dangerously. His face, already pale, had turned a sickly shade of grey. He reached out a trembling hand, catching himself against the damp brick wall to keep from collapsing.

You stopped. You were ten feet away from freedom, but you couldn’t move. You watched as his knees buckled, his head dropping as he fought a losing battle to stay conscious.

You hissed a curse under your breath. You were a commoner, a maid who had no business meddling with anyone associated with a crown.

Yet, your feet were already moving back to him.

You hurried back to him, slipping into the shadows just as he began to slide down the wall. You caught him by the shoulders, your wicker basket dropping to the cobblestones as you struggled to stabilize his weight with yours.

“Sir? Sir, look at me,” you cooed, but Jamie didn’t answer.

He instinctively leaned into your touch, his head rolling forward until his forehead rested against your shoulder. He was bigger and far heavier than you expected. Realizing you couldn’t hold him up for long, you allowed him to slide down the wall, sinking to the ground with him to act as his support.

He smelled of expensive cedar wood and the sharp, metallic tang of blood. A soft, pained groan escaped his lips, and he weakly gripped your forearms, his fingers digging into the rough fabric of your sleeves.

“I... I have you,” you murmured, shifting your body to support him. “Just breathe. You’re alright.”

Jamie let out a jagged, shallow breath, his eyes squeezed shut as he leaned more heavily into you.

“God… this hurts like hell,” he rasped.

A small frown creased your brow. Despite the danger, the sight of him—so young and so clearly suffering—pulled at a maternal instinct you couldn’t suppress.

“Hush now,” you murmured.

Reaching up, you gently pushed back the heavy fabric of his hood. It fell back, revealing the full extent of the damage. The bruise was even worse up close. A deep, angry purple had swollen the bridge of his nose. You reached out, your fingers brushing his sweat dampened hair away from his forehead to get a better look at his face.

Up close, the resemblance to the King was haunting, but where Bucky’s features were hardened by duties and age, Jamie’s were still soft and pure.

You wanted to ask what happened—how a Prince who was always protected, who had likely never raised a hand in a real fight, had ended up looking like that in a place like this, so far from the safety of the palace.

“Stay here. Don’t move,” you commanded softly when he tried to shift.

You stood up and reached for the clean rag tucked into the waistband of your skirt—a bit of linen you used for work—and hurried to the small stone well tucked into a nook near the alley entrance. The pulley creaked as you splashed the fabric into the bucket, the water coming up icy and clear.

Wringing it out, you rushed back to his side and sank back down onto the cobblestones. Jamie’s head was lolling against the brick, his eyes half open and glazed.

“Here,” you whispered.

You pressed the cold, wet cloth gently against his nose and forehead. He hissed, flinching at the initial sharpness of the cold, but then his eyes fluttered shut as the chill began to numb the throbbing ache.

“Thank you,” he breathed, his hand coming up to weakly cover yours, holding the rag in place. He stayed like that for a long moment, leaning into the coolness and your presence.

Then, without opening his eyes, a small, pained smile touched his lips. “You have very kind hands, for a stranger.”

You swallowed hard, keeping your eyes on the damp cloth. “That’s just what we do in this town,” you spoke softly, your voice barely above a whisper. “We help each other. Even strangers.”

There was a soft, moment of silence in the damp alleyway. Gradually, Jamie’s ragged breathing began to steady into an even pace. He seemed stable enough now to be left on his own—you could leave, you should leave—but for some reason, your feet wouldn’t move. The way his shoulders had completely slumped was a sign that he felt safe.

Safe simply because of your presence.

“Yeah,” Jamie breathed, the word trailing off into the quiet air.

He didn’t open his eyes yet, but his head tilted slightly toward you, his skin appearing ghostly white against the dark, angry bloom of his bruise.

“But you’re not a stranger, are you?”

You froze, your hand still trapped beneath his on the wet linen rag. You didn’t dare look at him, terrified that the recognition in his voice would be reflected in his eyes.

“I… I don’t know what you mean, sir,” you managed to say, though your heart was beating so loudly, you were certain he could feel it through your hand and up your arm.

“Your hands,” he murmured, his thumb brushing over your knuckles, “they feel familiar. Hands I’ve held before. And your voice…” He sucked in a shallow, shaky breath, his eyelashes fluttering as he finally opened his eyes to look at you. “It’s soothing. Just like hers.”

You knew there was no point in playing dumb any longer. Prince Jamie was smart—and he had already seen right through you. Continuing the charade in front of an injured man—much less a Prince— felt less like a safety measure and more like rubbing salt into an open wound.

With a defeated sigh, you tried to pull your hand away, but his grip tightened to keep you there.

It seemed that being unyielding and possessive were simply the many traits of the Barnes bloodline.

“Your Highness—”

“Please,” Jamie interrupted, his voice weak and tired. “Just call me Jamie. I… I hardly look like a Prince at the moment, and I certainly haven’t been acting like one.”

Your frown deepened. You found yourself relaxing under his touch. He looked utterly defeated—lonely, exhausted, and stripped of the regal armor he usually wore so well. Your heart ached for him, and the question slipped past your lips before you could think to stop it.

“What happened, Jamie?”

Jamie’s shoulders tensed, and you regretted the question the second it left your lips. But before you could retract it, he surprised you by actually answering.

“I had an argument,” he began, his voice sounding hollow. “With the King—my father.” He paused, a flicker of pain crossing his features that had nothing to do with his physical injuries. Then, his eyes locked onto yours. “We had an argument about you, actually.”

You held your breath, not daring to speak.

“I wanted to find you,” Jamie continued. “I wanted to find you and make you—” he swallowed hard, a sudden flush of embarrassment creeping up his neck. “—I wanted to make you my wife. I thought you were the perfect woman to stand by my side on the throne. I assumed you were a noble woman in hiding.”

“Oh, dear…” you muttered before you could stop yourself.

Jamie caught the remark and huffed a dry, self-deprecating laugh. He seemed to realize in that moment just how naive his assumptions had been.

“I just wanted to make my father proud. I wanted to do my duty as his son—to finally choose a bride. But when I told him I had decided it would be you, he…”

Jamie’s jaw clenched as he remembered the look in his father’s eyes—the look of a man who had no intention of letting his son claim the woman he wanted for himself.

“I’ve never seen him act like this,” he continued. “He hasn’t slept, eaten, or even changed his clothes since the ball ended. When I told him I was adamant about finding you, he raised his hand to me. And… I left. I couldn't stay in that palace a moment longer.”

He tried to sit up a little straighter, groaning.'

“My father is usually a cold, composed man. To see him lash out like this… to see him unravel over you—it made me realize that I wasn’t the only one who wanted you. And who am I to compete against a King?”

He let out another laugh, though there was no humor in it. Only sadness.

“My father,” Jamie swallowed hard, his sad blue eyes meeting yours. “He loves you. And I can see why. You’re kind, gentle, and…” he looked down at your frayed, dirty dress before tracing back up to your face, “even though you’re a maid, you’ve captured my father’s heart. Terrifyingly so.”

“Jamie,” you sighed, forcing a reassuring smile. You reached up, your hand gently cupping his cheek to try and calm him. “The King doesn’t love me. He loves the woman he saw at the ball. Nothing more.”

Jamie tilted his head, his brows furrowing. The look he gave you was hauntingly similar to Bucky’s—that same piercing, knowing gaze, as if he were silently calling you out on your bullshit.

“He didn’t fall in love with the woman at the ball,” Jamie corrected softly, his eyes searching yours. “He fell in love with the woman he saw at Martha’s dress shop.”

You froze, blinking at him in sheer disbelief. “M-Martha? You know her?”

“Martha is a long-time family friend,” he explained, his voice finally steadying. “She was the first person I ran to after I fled the palace. She told me everything.” He let out a weary, ragged sigh. “Turns out there’s a lot I don’t know about my father these days—like how he often sneaks out of the palace alone just to linger around her shop as a commoner.”

You bit your lip, the memory of that day rushing back vividly. You remembered him acting as a commoner who had been so charming, stumbling over his words as he spoke to you.

To say you hadn’t fallen for him right then and there would have been a lie.

With a tired sigh of your own, you shifted closer, looking him directly in the eye with the firm authority like someone scolding a stubborn child.

“Jamie, you need to go home,” you lectured softly. “There are guards posted everywhere looking for you. Your father must be worried sick in that lonely palace of his.”

You watched his eyes carefully, noticing the deep well of hurt and loneliness they held. It made you want to stay, to protect him—because you knew exactly what it felt like to be cast aside and alone.

“Your injury would be healed much faster by proper medics at the palace, not by one of my cheap rags and cold well water,” you added, offering a small smile and a forced, lighthearted laugh to ease the mood.

But Jamie didn’t budge.

“Probably,” Jamie whispered, his voice so vulnerable that it made your heart ache. He shrugged so weakly that it looked more like a shudder. “But this feels far better. It feels like I’m being cared for by a mother I never had.”

For a moment, you felt as if the air had been knocked out of your lungs.

For a man who held such a prestigious title and a legendary bloodline, he looked so small—so utterly defeated. Every word that left his lips felt like a needle pulling at the strings of your heart.

With a soft, resigned sigh, you knelt back down in the dirt in front of him. You couldn’t leave him like this; you couldn’t send him back to a cold palace when he was clearly starving for even a shred of genuine warmth.

“I know that feeling all too well,” you said, your voice barely a whisper as a sad, knowing smile touched your lips.

“I live in a house that feels far too big for the little space I’m allowed to occupy. I live among people who look at me but never truly see me—who see a pair of hands to do their bidding rather than a heart that’s breaking. I know what it’s like to starve for a kind word in a home that’s supposed to provide shelter.”

You looked at the dark bruising on his face, your own chest aching with every breath he took. “But Jamie… your father isn’t like my family. He doesn’t look at you and see a servant. I saw the way he looked at you at the ball; I heard the speech he made in your honor. He doesn't just love you—he lives for you.”

“He struck me,” Jamie whispered, his lip trembling.

“And you should’ve struck him right back,” you added firmly. “And God knows, if I had been there, I would’ve struck him, too.”

Jamie couldn’t help but laugh—a genuine, breathy sound—at the absurdity of the image. “Strike the King? Do you truly wish for a death sentence for the both of us?”

You couldn’t help but giggle, and the sound seemed to make Jamie’s heavy shoulders ease just a little more. “He wouldn’t do that to you—he values you too much. Me, on the other hand? I’d be ‘off with my head’ before I could even blink.”

He rolled his eyes again, though his lips remained curved in a soft, lingering smile. “Don’t be ridiculous. He wouldn’t dare.”

“So, you understand how kind your father is, despite everything?”

Jamie chewed the inside of his cheek, his gaze dropping to the dirt wedged between the cobblestone. He knew the answer—but just like his father, his pride was a stubborn barrier, refusing to let him admit it aloud.

“I’ll return to the palace,” he said instead. “But only on one condition.” He reached out, taking your hand in his again. “I want you to come with me. My father… he’s been searching for you since the moment you left that ballroom. He’s going insane in there, and he needs you.”

“Jamie, I can’t,” you whispered, pulling back slightly. “I’m a commoner. A maid. I don’t belong in those halls.”

Jamie didn’t argue. He didn’t try to persuade you with logic this time, or even use his title to his advantage.

He simply slumped back against the damp brick wall and crossed his arms over his chest with the indignant, brooding pout of a stubborn child.

“Then I won’t go,” he declared flatly, that princely entitlement coming back into his tone. “I’ll stay right here in this alley. I’ll rot in the dirt and let the guards find me like this. And it will be all your fault.”

You blinked, stunned. “You can’t be serious—”

“Oh, but I am.”

You stared at him, realizing that for all their power and prestige, the Barnes men were impossibly, infuriatingly stubborn. You glanced toward the mouth of the alley where the guards were pacing.

You cared for him, but you had to put yourself first.

If Jamie returned, the hunt might end. The streets would clear. You could complete your chores without looking over your shoulder every five seconds.

You forced a smile and stood up, brushing the dirt from your skirt before grabbing your basket. You reached out a hand to him, and he looked up at you, his eyes wide and shimmering with sudden hope.

“Fine,” you nodded. “Let’s go back to the palace then. Together.”

Jamie blinked at you, his expression frozen for a second as if he couldn’t quite believe you’d actually agreed.

Then, a bright, genuine smile broke across his face. He gripped your hand, using it to hoist himself up—though he was clearly doing most of the heavy lifting—and began brushing the alley dust from his trousers.

“Okay,” he breathed. “Let’s go.”

You let go of his hand and motioned to the end of the alley, where the silhouettes of the guards were still visible against the sunlight. With the wicker basket tucked carefully into the crook of your arm, you gave him a playful bow.

“Lead the way, Prince Charming.”

Jamie couldn’t help but snicker, the sound light and boyish.

As he led you out of the alley, his chin held high and his hood pushed back, the market noise began to ripple and change. The chaotic noises of bartering died down, replaced by whispering as people realized exactly who was walking among them.

“Is that Prince Jamie?”

“Look at the bruises on his face!”

“What is Prince Jamie doing outside of the palace?”

“Is that why there are so many guards?”

One of the guards finally spotted him as the crowd parted like a sea of fish.

“Prince Jamie!” he shouted, stumbling forward as his eyes went wide. “Your Highness! The King has been worried sick—he’s nearly razed the palace to the ground—”

Jamie raised a hand, stopping the guard’s rambling. “I am here, and I am safe,” he said calmly. “Now, arrange a carriage immediately. For me and the maiden. We are going home.”

The guard blinked, visibly confused. “Y-your Highness?”

Jamie raised a brow, the Barnes temper flaring just slightly. “Well, don’t just stand there gaping! I said arrange a carriage for me and—” he turned halfway, gesturing to the space at his side where you had been standing just a second ago. “—the maiden.”

But as Jamie looked back, the space was empty.

You were nowhere to be seen.

You found yourself back on your knees in the living room, tending to the flickering flames of the fireplace.

Ever since you’d returned, Beatrice had been even snappier with you than usual. Your encounter with Prince Jamie had made you much later than intended, and for Beatrice, whose patience was already paper thin, this was the final straw.

“Hurry up with those flames,” Beatrice barked from behind her teacup. “And once you’re finished, we need a fresh pot. Make it quick—you’re already falling far behind schedule.”

“Yes, ma’am—”

You hissed as a stray spark leapt from the hearth and bit into your finger. You dropped the iron poker in pain, the metal clattering loudly against the stone.

“Incompetent girl,” Beatrice sneered in disdain. She set her saucer down on the side table with a sharp clack and swept out of the room, leaving you alone in the dim light of the rising fire.

It had been days since Jamie returned to the palace. You felt a twinge of guilt for breaking your promise to go back with him, but you told yourself it was necessary. He was a smart boy— surely, he would understand that a dirty maid couldn’t simply walk through the front gates of a large, pristine palace.

With Jamie home, the number of guards roaming the town had decreased significantly. It was exactly what you had hoped for, yet a small, desperate part of you realized something that hurt.

Bucky hadn’t been looking for you all this time.

He was looking for his son.

Your eyes pricked with tears, though you tried to hide it behind the pain stinging your fingers from the fireplace spark.

It was selfish.

It was sad.

It was pathetic for you to crave the feeling of being desired—of being wanted by the King—yet push away every advance both he and the Prince had given you.

As you pushed yourself up to start a new pot of tea, Beatrice’s voice rang out from the other room, shrill and demanding. “The floors are disgusting! Clean them this instant!”

You called out a quick, “Yes, ma’am!” and retreated outside to the well. After fetching a heavy bucket of water and mixing in some soap, you began to scrub. The water, which had been clear only seconds ago, was already turning a murky gray. You had just deep cleaned these floors yesterday—what could they have possibly done to make them this filthy again so quickly?

As you scrubbed, your body began to ache with every movement. You leaned back on your heels for just a small moment of respite, trying to catch your breath. The sudden sound of horses’ hooves clacking against the cobblestone made you instinctively look out the window.

Your eyes widened as you saw the carriages—fancy, polished, and several of them in a row.

The horses looked powerful and well fed, taken care of far better than you were.

Through the glass, you watched as the carriage door opened, and you felt your heart drop into the pit of your stomach.

King Bucky stepped out, looking every bit the sovereign in his dark, tailored suit. For a moment, you didn’t believe a word Jamie had said about his father lacking sleep or refusing to change his clothes. This was the exact man you had encountered in the garden the night of the ball—clean, determined, and terrifyingly intimidating.

But it wasn’t just his appearance that caught your breath.

It was the small, delicate flash of white tucked into his breast pocket. Peeking out from the dark fabric was a lace glove.

Your glove.

“What are you doing? Did I tell you to stop?” Beatrice’s voice shrieked from the hallway, sharp enough to shatter your moment.

You flinched, tearing your gaze away from the window. “Sorry, ma’am,” you murmured, your voice trembling as you gripped the scrub brush.

You forced your head down, focusing entirely on the floor as you tried to make yourself invisible. You couldn’t understand it—why was he here?

He had already retrieved his son, hadn’t he? What more could he possibly want?

Why couldn’t he just leave you alone?

Three solid knocks echoed through the house. Beatrice let out an agitated groan as she stomped toward the door, completely oblivious to the royalty standing just outside. “Who could be here, disrupting my peace?”

As she swung the door open, her annoyed scowl instantly collapsed into a jaw drop.

“Y-Your Majesty!” she stammered, her face turning red in shock.

At the sound of the title, your stepsisters came tumbling down the stairs, silk skirts rustling as they shoved one another for a better view. You didn’t even need to look back to know they were vibrating with glee.

“The King is here!” Agnes whisper yelled into her sister’s ear.

“What is he doing here?” Margaret stood on her tippy toes, straining for a better view. “My, he’s even more handsome in person!”

Agnes’s eyes widened, grabbing her sister’s arm and bouncing. “Do you think the Prince is here, too? Do you think he’s calling on us?”

“He must be!” Margaret beamed, her smile so wide it looked painful.

They both smoothed their hair, convinced the Prince had finally sent his father to claim them after the ball. You wanted to snort at how ridiculous they were. After your time with Jamie in the alleyway, you knew for a fact he would never look twice at those two.

Bucky stood just right outside the door, his presence so massive it seemed to suck all the air out of the foyer. He didn’t look at the daughters. He didn’t even acknowledge Beatrice’s low, trembling curtsy. His eyes were already scanning the interior of the house, sharp and predatory.

“I am looking for someone,” Bucky stated. “A lady who I believe lives in this household. May I come in?”

Beatrice blinked, her hands fluttering nervously at her throat.

She looked back at the living room, where the bucket of gray water sat and you were still huddled on the floor. “Oh, Your Majesty... please, the house is quite a mess. Our maid is currently cleaning the floors—it’s hardly fit for a King—”

Bucky’s eyes snapped to hers, cold and dangerous. “Are you denying your King entry?”

Beatrice’s breath hitched, and she let out a small, terrified squeak. “N-No! Never, Your Majesty! Please... forgive me.”

Reluctantly, with her hands shaking, she stepped aside. Bucky crossed the doorframe with a heavy, purposeful stride, the heels of his boots clicking against the very floors you had just been scrubbing. He stopped in the center of the room, his gaze landing directly on you.

His stare was so heavy, it felt suffocating. Yet you didn’t dare lift your head. Beatrice scurried to his side.

“Are you here for my daughters, Your Majesty?” she gestured toward Agnes and Margaret, who were still lingering by the staircase. “Agnes, Margaret, come here—”

Bucky raised a hand, silencing her instantly. “No.”

Beatrice’s gaze followed the King’s, and when she saw how intently he was watching you, she let out an awkward chuckle. “I apologize. My maid must be in your way.” Then, her voice sharpened, loud enough to make you flinch. “The floor needs scrubbing over here!”

“Y-yes, ma’am,” you muttered, keeping your head down as you dropped the sponge back into the bucket. You groaned, trying to heave the heavy wooden bucket to the other corner of the room. Bucky watched you, his expression pained as he saw the dirt on your skin and the exhaustion in your movements.

“Well?” Beatrice urged, her voice tight with a forced smile. “Be quick! Don’t get in the King’s way.”

As you hurried your footsteps, your shoe caught a wet spot on the floor. With your arms aching from the weight of the bucket, you lost your balance. You gasped as the bucket tilted, and a wave of dirty, murky water splashed directly over the King’s pristine, polished shoes.

“Oh… my… God—” Agnes gasped from behind, her hand flying to her mouth in horror.

“That imbecile!” Margaret hissed, her eyes wide with shock.

Terrified, you didn’t even dare glance at Beatrice. Your head tilted up instinctively, your gaze locking onto Bucky’s with worried, pleading eyes.

In that split second, you didn’t think about statuses or your station; your eyes gave away everything.

Please, don’t be mad at me.

She’s going to kill me.

Save me, Bucky.

His expression remained completely unreadable, a mask of stone that made you feel utterly alone. Out of all the mistakes you could have made, this was the worst. This was enough to get you thrown onto the streets. All the hiding, all the rejecting the Prince and King’s advances—it would all be for nothing because you were clumsy enough to spill murky water all over the King’s pristine shoes.

Weakly, your voice trembled, so quiet that only he could hear. “B-Bucky—”

But before you could say anything else, Beatrice’s voice barked out like a whip crack. “What the hell are you doing just standing there, girl!”

You finally turned to face her. Her features were scrunched into such an ugly grimace of rage, you felt like you could collapse.

“Clean his shoes!” she commanded, her finger trembling as she pointed at the mess.

“I…”

“Don’t be stupid! Polish the King’s shoes this instant!”

Bucky swallowed hard, his voice thick. “That won’t be necessary.”

But you were already too far gone in your panic. Tears pricked at your eyes, blurring your vision as you dropped frantically to your knees. Your heart was beating so hard it actually ached. All you could think about was the cold rage in Beatrice’s eyes and the threat of being cast out, leaving you with nothing but the clothes on your back.

You grabbed the hem of your apron, reaching out to scrub the murky water from his leather boots with trembling hands.

Bucky’s jaw clenched so tight, he felt a muscle leaped in his cheek. His heart throbbed with sharp, visceral pain. He had spent every waking moment since the ball dreaming of seeing you again—of finally finding you—and now, here you were.

You were finally right in front of him, but you were on your knees. In tears.

In any other context, the sight of you beneath him might have stirred a much darker and hungrier feeling in his blood. But seeing you like this—utterly broken, terrified, and humiliated—only made him want to burn the house down with everyone else inside it.

“Get up, my dear,” he murmured gently.

His voice was so soft, intended only for your ears.

It was so gentle it felt out of place in this cold room, but you didn’t even hear him. You let out a small, pathetic sniffle, wiping a stray tear away with the back of your palm before returning to the frantic scrubbing. You were a mess of desperation at his feet, and Bucky couldn’t bear it.

“Sweetheart, please,” he pleaded.

You ignored him again, your hands moving in a blur as you kept scrubbing and scrubbing.

Bucky didn’t care about his suit or his dignity anymore.

He dropped to one knee right there in the dirty scrub water, his massive frame casting a shadow over you. His large hand shot out, firm but incredibly gentle as he always was with you, and clamped around your wrist to force you to stop.

“Darling,” Bucky’s voice broke, his brows pulling together, pleading. He sounded like a man on the verge of crumbling himself. “Please. Enough.”

As your chin was tilted upward, the wall you’d built around yourself finally crumbled. Your face scrunched up, the effort to stay composed failing as the tears spilled over your cheeks.

You were so tired. Your body ached, and your heart yearned for the very man in front of you.

“I’m scared,” you whispered, the words broken and barely audible, a raw confession that you’ve been holding in for years now.

Bucky let out a ragged, shaky sigh—a sound of pure heartbreak—and pulled you forward. He didn’t care how dirty you were, or that the murky water was soaking into his expensive suit. He had never cared about that. All he cared about was you.

He gathered you into his arms, crushing you against his chest as if he could shield you from the very walls of this house.

“Oh, my dear,” he cooed, nuzzling his nose into your hair and breathing you in. “You have no reason to be afraid anymore. I have you.”

Beatrice watched the scene, her face contorting into a mask of absolute horror.

To her, this wasn’t a reunion; it was a scandal.

She saw her foolish stepdaughter throwing herself at the King, threatening the family’s entire existence.

“What do you think you’re doing to our King!” she shrieked, taking a frantic step forward. “Get up, girl! You’re making us look like a disgrace—Your Majesty, please, forgive her, she’s touched in the head—”

“Silence, you wretched harridan!” Bucky seethed. The insult was so sharp it made Beatrice’s eyes bulge out of her head. “The only thing that is a disgrace in this household is you.”

He stood up slowly, bringing you with him, his arm firm around your waist to keep you steady. He looked down at Beatrice and your sisters as if they were nothing more than insects beneath his boots—exactly the way they had always looked at you.

“You have treated this woman—the daughter of this house—as nothing more than a slave. In truth, you have treated her like trash,” he bit out harshly.

“I’ve read the family ledgers. Your husband—her father, may he rest in peace—was a nobleman of the highest order. This girl is a proper Lady of the house. She has noble blood in her veins, making her more significant than the whole lot of you. You, on the other hand, are nothing but a commoner who married into a title you don’t deserve.”

Beatrice gasped in disbelief, her hand flying to her heart as if she were the victim. “Y-Your Majesty!”

“Enough,” Bucky raised his hand, silencing her. “I don’t want to hear another syllable from you. I came here for one thing—and that was her. Now that I have her, we are leaving.”

He looked over his shoulder, beckoning to the line of attendants waiting by the door. “Collect her belongings. Every last item. Whatever she decides to keep, whether it be as large as a trunk or as small as a ribbon, package it into the carriages. We are returning to the palace immediately.”

All the attendants nodded, bowing low to their king. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

The attendants rushed into the house in a quick blur, you could barely process the shift in your reality.

Only minutes ago, you were on your knees in the dirty water. Now, the world was rearranging itself around you.

Bucky looked down at your sniffling face, his heart visibly breaking as he leaned down to bring himself eye to eye with you. His thumb, rough yet incredibly tender, brushed away the tears that traced your cheeks.

“You’re okay now, my dear.” Bucky cooed gently. “I’ve got you. I’m never letting you go again.”

You had spent so much time pushing him away, fearing the consequences or the class divide, but now, even under the scrutiny of your step-family, you no longer cared. You felt your heart pulling toward his, and being in his arms felt like the only sanctuary you had ever known.

Behind you, Agnes and Margaret crept forward, clutching at their mother’s sleeves, their faces pale and twisted with confusion.

“Mother, what is happening?” Agnes whimpered. “Why is His Majesty touching her like that?”

Beatrice ignored them, her eyes locked on the King in a state of pure denial. She shook her head, her voice rising to a shrill squeak.

“Y-You’ve fallen for her, Your Majesty? Truly? B-but she’s just a maid! She’s a servant who spends her days in the kitchen and the dirt! She is nothing!”

Bucky stood back up to his full height, keeping you tucked securely against his side.

“She was a Lady long before you even knew how to spell the word,” Bucky growled, his hand tightening protectively on your waist. “And as for her being a maid? That ended the moment I stepped through that door. From this breath forward, she is the woman who holds the heart of the King. From this moment on, she is your Queen—and you will treat her as such.”

The room suddenly went very quiet.

You looked just as surprised as Beatrice, your breath hitching in your throat. He was actually going to do it. He was making good on every promise he had made to you in the dark room of his study.

Before you could even find your voice to speak, Bucky’s hand found itself on your lower back, guiding you toward the door.

“Come, my dear,” he gestured, his tone leaving no room for argument. “We’re leaving.”

As he led you out of the house that had been your prison for so long, you couldn’t resist stealing one last glance over your shoulder. You weren’t looking to offer sympathy or a farewell, of course. You simply wanted to see if a fly might find its way into their mouths, given how far their jaws had hung.

Outside, a prestigious carriage awaited you. The doorman snapped to attention and pulled the door open as you and Bucky drew closer. Jamie was already waiting inside, seated comfortably on the plush velvet cushions.

Poking his head out, he beamed the moment he caught the sight of you. The bruises on his face already looked a million times better. It was clear that since returning to the palace, he had received the proper care and rest he so desperately needed.

Jamie scooted over, patting the velvet seat beside him with an enthusiastic grin. “I was going to step out to help, but I thought it’d be better if I stayed in here. Your stepsisters would’ve driven me up the wall the moment they saw my face.”

“Jamie,” Bucky interrupted. He stood at the carriage door, one hand on the frame as he leaned in, looking grumpier than ever.

“Out,” Bucky commanded, giving a sharp nod toward the slightly smaller—though still very fancy—carriage waiting behind them.

“What?” Jamie’s brows furrowed. “But we have plenty to talk about! I haven’t even told her about—”

“You can discuss it at dinner,” Bucky said, letting out a heavy, weary sigh. “Right now, I am tired. I want to sit with the woman I just spent three days hunting for without my son’s constant commentary. Move.”

“Oh, I see.” Jamie drawls, eyeing the both of you suspiciously. “The Great King Barnes finally finds his Lady and suddenly his favorite and only son is chopped liver? Is that how it is?”

“Son, consider this a mercy,” Bucky rumbled. “Think of it as punishment for using my name under a false command at the ball. Your sentence could be a lot worse than a private carriage and a bit of silence. Now, move.”

“Truly, the heart of a tyrant,” Jamie muttered.

After a roll of his eyes, he slid out the door, but as he passed his father, he stopped for a brief second. He turned to you, his gaze softening from playful to genuinely warm—like he missed you. He gave you a small little knowing smile—one that said he was glad you were safe, and even gladder that you were finally exactly where you belonged.

“See you at the palace.” He said to you softly.

With that, Jamie hopped down from the steps and retreated to the carriage behind yours. Bucky watched him go until he was settled, then stepped aside and raised a hand to help you up into the plush interior.

As you sat, Bucky occupied the seat across from you. He leaned back tiredly, the carriage creaking softly. For a long while, he just looked at you, his head tilted slightly as he let out a slow, exhausted breath.

Silence filled the carriage. Despite him already declaring you his Queen—his partner—you couldn’t help but sit up straight, folding your hands primly over your lap out of habit and respect for the King of Brooklynne.

You didn’t even know where to begin. You didn’t know if you should thank him for dragging you out of that hellhole you called a home, or if you should apologize for the trouble he had gone through to do it.

“Your Majesty—”

“Sweetheart, please,” Bucky interrupted, his voice sounding almost agitated. “I lost sleep over you. I couldn’t eat. I… I couldn’t even think. I felt like I was losing my sanity every moment I was in that palace and you weren’t there.”

He paused, the clip-clopping of the hooves against the cobblestones filling the space for a second.

“My heart burns for you,” he rasped, almost painful. “The least you can do is offer me the decency of calling me Bucky—just as you did earlier.”

You swallowed hard, your pulse fluttering in your throat. Bucky’s eyes were a cold blue storm of conflicting emotions. You felt as if he were picking you apart, piece by piece, intending not only to love you but to devour you.

He said he couldn’t eat without you, and now that you were here in front of him, he looked as though you were going to be his next meal.

“I’m sorry. I… I just wanted to say thank you,” you admitted softly. You couldn’t maintain his intense gaze, so you looked down, your fingers fiddling anxiously with the coarse fabric of your skirt.

“Thank you for helping me out of that house, and thank you for never giving up on me.”

Your face flushed with a mix of warmth and embarrassment as you continued, still refusing to make eye contact.

“Both you and Prince Jamie have been nothing but kind to me—a mere maid with rags for clothes.”

You huffed a small, incredulous laugh, one tinged with sadness for yourself. “You both extended your hands to me and showed me worlds I never thought I’d experience. In your presence, despite the gulf between our social standings, I have never felt alone. And for that... I am truly grateful.”

Bucky’s frown tightened as he leaned forward, his large hands catching yours and squeezing them firmly to still your fidgeting. The movement forced you to go still, and when he hooked a thumb under your chin to tilt your face up, there was no escaping him anymore.

“Enough,” he rasped, almost desperate. “Enough of this talk about social standings. You know none of that matters to me, not when it comes to you.”

Those piercing blue eyes searched yours, his thumb brushing warmly over the curve of your cheek.

“When I told you I was falling for you in that study,” he continued, lowering himself to one knee in the narrow space between the seats, “I meant every single word with every beat of my heart.”

While one hand remained on your cheek, the other began a slow descent. It traced the line of your ribs down to your waist, giving your hip a firm, possessive squeeze through your dress before trailing lower to rest over your thigh.

“You aren’t a ‘mere’ anything,” he whispered, his lips ghosting over yours. “You are the very air I’ve been gasping for. Ever since the night of the ball, my body and my heart have been craving you. And now that you’re finally here…”

His hand found the hem of your skirt, lifting the fabric slowly, inch by painfully agonizing inch, past your knee. His tongue darted out to lick his bottom lip, a small groan escaping him at the sight of your bare thigh.

“I finally get to have you.”

Bucky leaned forward, his head dipping low as he pressed his face against the skin he had just uncovered. You shuddered at the feel of his stubble pressing against your leg, and he snickered.

He started at your knee, his lips brushing against your skin.

A low, vibrating growl tickled against your thigh as he began to work his way upward. Each kiss was slow, wet, and worshipful. He moved with a starvation that made your breath hitch, his tongue darted out to taste you, marking you as his over and over again.

“These legs,” he growled, his voice muffled by your skin. “I missed feeling them wrapped tight around me. I missed the soft feeling of them in my hands. Did you miss that too, my dear?”

You swallowed hard, your heart hammering against your ribs as you looked down at the King of Brooklynne worshipping your body.

“I-I did, Bucky. I missed that too… being touched by you.”

“Good,” he soothed, his heavy, warm palm dragging up and down your leg possessively. “That’s my good, perfect girl.”

As he continued to worship the curve of your leg, his hand reached beneath the bunched up fabric of your skirt. His fingers hooked into the edge of your thin, worn undergarments, but he didn’t rush; he wanted to savor every second of your undoing.

With a slow tug, he began to peel them down, his knuckles grazing your hips and sending a wave of shivers through you. He watched your face the entire time, his blue eyes dark and hooded, waiting for the exact moment your composure finally shattered.

Bucky was barely holding on. His jaw hung slightly, his lips slick from the way he had been kissing and licking the skin of your legs.

It was an unbelievable sight—the King on his knees, panting over you like a loyal, starving hound.

“I want to break you,” he rasped. His words were threatening, yet his voice was coarse but soft spoken. “I want to see you cry for me while I ruin you. I want to see you come apart for me, just as I did for you when you left me.”

He looked up at you then, still kneeling between your legs, his chest heaving as he took in the sight of you completely vulnerable in his carriage.

“God,” he breathed, taking in your wet slit hidden just beneath the hem of your flimsy skirt. “Is that so wrong of me to want? To see my own woman completely broken for me?”

Bucky’s grip on your thighs tightened, while his other hand went down to cup his own erection through his pants.

“I should hurt you,” he sighed, his voice pent up with frustration. “I should pull you over my knee for daring to leave me... for making me endure that kind of agony. I should bind your arms together so you never even think about defying me again.”

He let out a shaky and jagged breath, his forehead dropping against your knee for just a second before he looked back up, his eyes searching yours, his cock already throbbing at the sight of your pleading face.

“But I won’t,” he whispered, his thumb tracing the smooth flesh of your inner thigh. “I love you and respect you too much to ever truly lay a hand on your pretty little body in anger. You’re my Queen. You’re my soul.”

A dark, self-deprecating chuckle caught in his throat as his gaze dropped back to where he had bared you to the cool carriage air. His fingers twitched, hooking into the waistband of his trousers.

“But fuck, I’m already disrespecting you, aren’t I?” he moved closer, his body hot as he crowded your space, his chest heaving against your knees. “Because we’re nowhere near the palace, and I’m about to fuck you right here in this carriage. I’m about to claim you again before we even reach the front gates. Isn’t that right, sweetheart?”

“You said I was yours, Bucky,” you whispered, your voice trembling despite how hard you tried to keep it steady. “So you can do whatever you want to me. I’m not running anymore. I’m here to stay.”

Bucky let out a low groan of satisfaction, burying his face against your thigh for a moment as if trying to catch his breath. Every word you spoke was like music to his ears.

“Lean back,” he commanded in a rough, broken rasp. “Lean back against the seat and hold on.”

You obeyed excitedly. The moment your back hit the plush velvet cushion, he grabbed your leg, his large hand wrapping around your calf as he hoisted it up, propping your knee over his broad shoulder. The position left you completely open and vulnerable, your thin skirt bunched around your waist as you exposed your cunt to him.

Bucky didn’t waste time with a preamble. He ducked his head between your thighs, his tongue finding the sensitive peak of your clit. Your body jolted at the sudden, wet heat of the contact. He licked you with long, firm strokes, his tongue heavy and wet as he tasted your arousal.

A sharp, needy cry escaped your lips, echoing in the small space. You could only hope the driver was too disciplined to look back.

“Ah! Bu-Bucky…” your hands flew down to his hair, fingers tangling in his brown locks as your toes curled in the air.

Bucky only growled against you, his hand sliding up from your thigh to grip your hip, holding you steady.

His tongue continued to trace eagerly over your wet folds, sucking and lapping in ways that were anything but royal or noble. He was taking everything from you—your pleasure, your scent, the taste of your arousal.

He wanted everything.

When he finally lifted his head to look at you from below, you felt like your heart could leap out of your chest at the sight of him. Drool collected around his chin and his lips were slick and swollen from making out sloppily with your cunt.

Bucky’s smirk was slow and predatory as he took in the sight of you—chest heaving, face warm, and eyes glazed with the pleasure only he was giving you. He looked like a man who had finally reclaimed his throne, but the only kingdom he cared about in this moment was the one between your legs.

“Look at you,” he taunted. “Dripping all over my clean carriage.” He clicked his tongue. “Naughty girl.”

He lifted his hand, his long middle finger dragging slowly up the length of your slit, tracing the seam of your cunt from bottom to top, gently rubbing at the clit before dragging back down and poking his nub against your entrance.

He did it again and again, teasing the entrance until you were whimpering, your hips bucking on reflex for more of him.

“You’re so wet, sweetheart,” Bucky rasped, his pupils blown wide with desire. “Are you this desperate for your King?”

“Bucky, please,” you begged, arching your back against the seat. “Enough with the teasing. I can’t—oh!”

Before you could finish your sentence, Bucky buried his finger deep inside you.

The air left your lungs in a jagged gasp. You were agonizingly tight, your walls clenching and fluttering around him in a frantic, rhythmic pulse that spoke of how long you’d been empty without him. You gripped his shoulder, your nails digging into the expensive fabric of his coat as you tried to pull him closer, your body trying to swallow his finger whole.

“Already making demands out of me,” he scoffed, though he was grinning. “You’ve got no shame, do you, my dear?”

He felt the internal squeeze of your muscles around his digit, making his jaw tighten so hard the bone looked ready to snap.

“God, you’re so tight,” he choked out, his thumb finding your clit and rubbing slow, deep circles against it. “Clenching around my finger like you’re never going to let me go. You’re going to break me before I even get my pants off, aren’t you?”

Your vision blurred as you felt yourself getting embarrassingly close. Your hips stuttered against his hand, your breath coming in shallow and broken hitches as you prepared to shatter all over his finger.

“I’m—I’m going to—don’t… don’t stop—”

But just as the peak approached, the sensation vanished.

Bucky abruptly retracted his hand, the wet, sliding sound of his finger leaving you squelching in the carriage. You let out a cry of pure frustration, your body slumped back against the velvet, twitching and unfulfilled.

“Bucky,” you panted in agitation, “why would you do that! I was close!”

He sat back on his heels, still kneeling in the narrow space between your legs. He looked up at you with a wicked light in his eyes, his chest heaving as he reached for the buckle of his belt.

“Not yet,” he teased. “I didn’t give you permission to finish, did I?”

His fingers worked the leather of his belt and the buttons of his trousers irritatingly slow, his gaze never leaving yours. He watched the way you squirmed on the seat, your legs still draped over his shoulders, trembling and desperate for the contact he had just stolen away.

“Look at you,” he scoffed softly, though his hands were shaking slightly with his own restrained need. “So impatient. I spent my time hunting the city for my Queen, and the moment I get her in my carriage, she’s already trying to come without me. Where are your manners, sweetheart?”

Once he finally freed himself, his length sprang forth, thick and pulsing with a bead of pre-cum bubbling at the tip.

You watched, enamored, as his left hand wrapped around your leg, giving it soft, possessive squeezes, while his other hand wrapped firmly around his cock—giving himself slow, deep pumps that made the veins in his forearm jump.

“Fuck, you missed me, my dear?” Bucky’s thumb catching a bead of his pre-cum and smearing it against your aching clit. “Did you spend every night thinking about this? About how I’d feel inside you again?”

You couldn’t even find the words to argue. You just nodded frantically, your head thrasing against the velvet cushion as you let out a broken whimper. Bucky absolutely loved seeing you like this—completely unraveled, stripped of your prim, timid manners, and desperate only for him.

“Good.”

He positioned himself, the slick head of his cock catching against your wet entrance. He paused for a second to catch his breath, his knuckles white where he gripped the edge of the seat, before he slowly—inch by torturous inch —slid inside.

“Fuck,” he gritted through clenched teeth, the word sounding both like a prayer and a curse.

You were so tight—Bucky had to squeeze his eyes shut, his neck muscles flexed with every powerful effort to not simply snap and bury himself in you all at once.

He wanted to savor all of this.

He wanted to feel every ripple of your body as it stretched to accommodate him.

But fuck, you weren’t making it easy at all.

As he tried to maintain a slow, steady pace, your walls began to clench around his cock in desperate pulses. You were squeezing him so hard it was a wonder he could move at all.

“God... sweetheart, stop,” he choked out, his composure fracturing little by little. “If you keep... clenching like that...”

You couldn’t help it. You had missed Bucky, and your body missed being filled by him even more. Every deep, ragged pant he let out—driven by how unbearably good you felt—only made your muscles flutter and tighten more. He was so big, the feeling of him stretching you made your eyes roll back.

“I’m sorry,” you breathed, your nails digging into the firm muscle of his back through his clothes for support. “I can’t help it. I—I missed you. I missed this.”

“Christ...” the groan escaped Bucky’s lips as his head fell back.

He didn’t even try to be gentle anymore.

His hips surged forward, his massive hands sliding from the edge of the seat to your thighs and then your hips, his fingers digging through your dress as he kept you in place. He drew back just enough to gain momentum before slamming into you again, making your body jump against his.

“Ah!” you cried out as Bucky fucked into you again and again, driving his hips deeper each time.

“So… tight. Fuck,” he groaned, his voice a broken rasp of disbelief.

The carriage groaned under the violence of his movements. The wood creaked and strained, the vehicle rocking so violently that no one could possibly excuse the motion as a bumpy road. You were being jostled and slammed against the velvet cushions, the sheer size of him stretching you until you were sure you’d break—and yet, it wasn’t enough.

You wanted more.

He needed more.

“Bucky! Ah—!”

The sound echoed off the carriage walls, dangerously loud. Bucky’s eyes flared with as he quickly brought his hand up, his palm slamming over your mouth to stifle your cries.

“Shhh,” he hissed against your ear, though his own breathing was a series of ragged, wet gasps. “This is a royal carriage, my dear. All eyes are on us right now. Do you want the whole kingdom to hear me fuck you like a slut?”

He quickened his pace, his cock disappearing and reappearing in a blur of friction as he drove himself deeper into your sensitive pussy.

“If that’s what you want… then I’ll just drag you out of this carriage myself,” he threatened, his voice dropping to a dark, possessive growl. “I'll fuck you right there on the gravel where the whole kingdom can watch their King ruin his sweet little wife. Is that what you want, my dear?”

Wife.

You felt like you could collapse from just hearing the word.

The heat and smell of his warm palm against your lips only made you more frantic. You let out muffled, desperate whimpers into his hand, your eyes rolling back as your walls fluttered and spasmed around him. You were seconds away from release yet again, squeezing his cock so tightly he nearly choked on his own breath.

Bucky leaned in even closer, his teeth grazing the shell of your ear as he inhaled the scent of your skin—a intoxicating mix of salt, sweat, and the heavy musk of sex filling the carriage.

“Fuck,” he groaned against your neck. “You’re cumming already? Just from this?”

He taunted you, and although he would never admit it aloud, but he was barely hanging on. He was simply a determined King wanting to watch you shatter first.

“I—mmph, can’t,” you whined into his palm. Your legs hooked around his waist, ankles locking behind his back to pull him even deeper, inviting him in to breed and fill you right there.

“M’gonna—mph—cum…”

Your mind went dizzy, your breath hitching sharply against his hand as the world outside the carriage ceased to exist.

You no longer cared about the palace or the guards. You only cared about the burning sensation of coming around Bucky’s cock. It was explosive—a kind of release that your body had been starved of.

He felt the way you were milking him, the desperate, crushing tightness of your climax nearly forcing him to join you then and there. But he ground his teeth, refusing to let go just yet.

“This is just the beginning, darling,” he rasped, his palm still firm over your mouth to catch your muffled, high pitched cries. “After this, I’m going to fuck you in every inch of the palace. In every room, against every window, on the cold marble floors until you can’t even remember your own name.”

He pulled back just an inch, his eyes dark and blown wide, searching your face to ensure you understood the delicious lack of mercy waiting for you behind the palace walls.

“The next time I see you on your hands and knees, it won’t be for scrubbing floors,” he growled. “It’ll be with your pretty tongue out, servicing my cock.”

Between the sensitive aftermath of your climax and the filthy possessive promises pouring from his lips, your senses were screaming and overstimulated. Every time his cock thrusted back into you, it felt like he was branding your soul.

He slowed his pace slightly once he felt himself getting close. His hips grounded against you in a circular motion that made you whimper for mercy. He leaned down, his lips wetting your cheek as he began to recite your future.

“From this second on, no one touches you but me. I’m going to take such good care of you, my dear. You’re going to have the finest silks, the softest beds, and the heaviest crown—but you’re going to spend most of your time right here, pinned under me.”

He delivered a sharp, shallow thrust that made your hips twitch.

“I’m going to make you my pretty, perfect wife,” he continued, his hand moving from your mouth to cup your jaw, forcing you to look into his blown out, hungry eyes. “And I’m going to spend every single night making sure I knock you up. I want you heavy with my heirs, so round and beautiful that you’ll never even think about running away again. You’re going to be so full of me that there won’t be room for anything else.”

The thought of it, that same reminder of being his Queen, his wife, and the mother of his children—sent a fresh jolt of lightning through your core.

You were a mess of tears and sweat, clinging to his shoulders as he began to pick up the pace again, his movements becoming more desperate, more frantic.

“I’m going to fill you so deep, you’ll feel my love in your chest,” he hissed, his cock pulsing inside as he felt himself get closer. “My wife. My Queen. My life.”

Bucky’s body suddenly went rigid, his muscles locking tight as he let out a final, guttural grunt of your name. His hips slammed into yours one last time, burying himself so deep it felt as though he was trying to merge with you as one.

“Fuck... cumming!” he choked out almost painfully.

His head snapped back, his eyes rolling back as he finally let his body go. His hips froze as his cock pulsed and throbbed. Then, you felt the scalding, thick ropes of cum pumping into your core—a seal on every promise he had just made.

“Mine,” he panted, holding you close. “All mine.”

He stayed buried deep inside you, his heavy chest heaving as he crushed you into the velvet cushions, his heart beating frantically in time with your own.

For the remainder of the ride, Bucky refused to let even an inch of space come between you, like he was scared of losing you again.

He pulled you onto his lap, wrapping his arms around your shaking, overstimulated body. His large hands, which had been so rough and demanding only moments ago, were now impossibly gentle as he stroked your hair and traced the line of your jaw.

Between the sounds of heaving breathing and the trotting of horses, he kept his lips pressed to your temple, murmuring soft, sweet promises into your ear, “My sweetheart,” “I finally have you again.” “My precious, darling girl.”

When the carriage finally lurched to a halt in the palace courtyard, the footman stepped forward, swinging the door wide and offering a steadying hand as Bucky allowed you to step out first.

Just in time, Jamie had hopped out of his own carriage and met up with you both, huffing a breath of relief.

“Finally!” Jamie called out. “That carriage ride felt so long—” he paused, stopping a few feet away, squinting as he took in the sight of you.

Your hair was a bird’s nest, both of your lips swollen, and Bucky’s collar was half-undone and his hair was disheveled with gray locks sticking out in unusual directions.

“Good grief,” he remarked, completely oblivious to the carnal acts that just happened inside the carriage.

“You guys look rough.”

thank you for all the love you guys showed for part one, and thank you for taking the time to read yet another lengthy fic <3 i wasn't planning on writing a sequel at all, let alone this soon, but the new season of bridgerton got me twirling my hair

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[salty-tang]

On the Subject of Marriage

wedding-hater groomsman!bucky x planning-the-wedding bridesmaid!reader

⤷ summary: It was supposed to be simple: plan the wedding, survive the vendors, don’t strangle Bucky Barnes. But perfection cracks when an unexpected disaster hits, and in the quiet aftermath you discover the last thing you'd expect - that falling in love isn't exactly what friends do. ⤷ warnings/tags: modern AU (reader is a journalist, bucky is an architect, but that doesn't matter too much); friends to lovers; side natasha x steve (they're the ones getting married!); generally fluffy/ romcom; a bit of arguing; mild feng shui slander. barely proofread and certainly not beta read, but that does not in any way diminish my love for vale! (i'm just tired haha) bonus smut at the end 18+ MDNI: unprotected p in v, finishing inside, use of petnames: baby, darling (you know i had to) ⤷ word count: 19.1k (take chapter breaks whenever there's a divider!) ⤷ A/N: written for the delightful @bedriddenbarnes as part of my very first event, the dear my darling valentines day fic exchange! there's so many other wonderful fics being posted, so please check out the masterpost!!

dear my darling reader masterpost || more bucky from me

The light should’ve felt peaceful. Instead, your head is pounding like you’ve spent the night sleeping beneath a church bell, each slow pulse arriving a fraction too loud, a fraction too bright. Your mouth is dry.

Urgh.

You breathe in slowly – linen and lavender detergent, sun-warmed cotton, and something unfamiliar beneath it. Cedarwood, maybe. Or the faint metallic coolness that clung to skin after too many hours outside under string lights and damp evening air. You wrinkle your brow without opening your eyes, trying to sort memory from sensation.

The wedding.

God, the wedding.

Your head throbs again, sharper this time – a warning.

You crack open one eye. The ceiling greets you first: white, slightly textured, edged with crown molding that doesn’t quite match the wallpaper. The second thing you register is the wallpaper itself – pink and white florals, sprigs of something that might be hydrangeas (Steve’s mom’s taste, unmistakably).

And the third –

Eyes. Arctic blue, and alarmingly close.

Bucky Barnes is lying on the pillow beside you, facing you, already awake. His expression is quiet, unreadable in the soft morning light. Peaceful, except for the severe crease between his brows that suggests that he too, is questioning the reality of this moment.

For one suspended moment, neither of you move. His breath tickles the loose strands of hair at your forehead. Yours has stopped entirely. His gaze stays on your face, steady but unreadable, let he’s waiting for you to say something first – or bracing for you to. His breathing is slow, controlled. Yours is not.

You become acutely aware of the absurdity of it all at once: the childhood bedroom, the floral wallpaper, the faint ache behind your eyes, the man you’ve spent the past month circling now lying inches from your mouth like this is the most natural place in the world for him to be.

Both eyes snap open fully, blinking sleep away and panic into focus. The entire night before come crashing back with nauseating clarity

The rain.

The ruined lake house.

The frantic salvaging.

Steve and Natasha’s incandescent smiles when it all somehow worked out.

The champagne you should not have accepted.

The second. Third. Fourth. Fifth. Nth glass you absolutely should not have accepted.

You – exhausted, delirious, running purely on adrenaline and relief – collapsing onto the nearest bed in Steve Rogers’ childhood home.

And somehow, inexplicably, Bucky ending up beside you.

He blinks, just once. The crease between his brows deepens, then smooths, like he’s made a decision you haven’t been briefed on.

You swallow. This is… a lot.

There’s too much context hastily skipped over, too many unanswered questions, entire conversations that need to happen. You really should say something – anything.

Instead, the both of you just lie there, staring at each other in the pale, barely-there light of early morning, and you have no idea – absolutely none whatsoever – how it started.

A month and a day earlier…

Saturday morning brunch is meant to be harmless.

At least, that’s what you assume when Natasha texts brunch? with no further explanation – which in your shared language means citrusy drinks with more alcohol than juice, Steve cheerfully announcing he’ll swing by to pick the two of you up, and maybe a passive-aggressive comment about how you never answer texts on time anymore since you made senior reporter.

The restaurant is bright in that deliberate, curated way – white tile, trailing plants, menus that list three kinds of toast and six kinds of alternative milks (for an upcharge, of course). Steve is already there when you arrive, standing to hug you like it’s been weeks instead of days. Natasha follows more smoothly, sunglasses still on despite being indoors, kiss to your cheek efficient and familiar.

You slide into your seat, shrugging off your jacket.

“So,” you say. “What’s the occasion?”

Steve grins. Natasha doesn’t answer.

You notice the table then – four place settings, evenly spaced. You pause, eyes flicking from the extra glass to the empty chair beside it.

“Are we waiting for someone?”

Steve opens his mouth.

“Oh,” Natasha says lightly. “Yeah. Bucky’s joining us.”

You blink. “Barnes?”

“He said he’s coming from a morning meeting with new clients,” she continues, reaching for a menu. “So he might be a little late.”

You open your mouth to respond – but then Steve peers over your shoulder. “Oh, there he is.”

You turn just in time to see Bucky Barnes crossing the café floor, riding jacket slung over one shoulder, expression composed in the way of someone who isn’t that late anyways but will be apologizing anyway. He looks exactly as you remember him – tall, self-contained, like he sort of exists on a slightly different plane from everyone else.

He lifts a hand in greeting and slips into the empty seat beside you with quiet ease. 

“Sorry,” he says by way of greeting. “Clients wanted to redo the entire second floor because their new feng shui master said the energies weren’t flowing properly. Whatever that means.”

“You’re fine,” Natasha replies. “We just got here.”

Then before you can interrogate Natasha on the true reason for why you both are here, the server arrives, menus appear, and the moment gets swept away in small talk. Drinks arrive and the table settles into that brief, expectant quiet that always precedes a big announcement.

Natasha and Steve exchange a look. It’s the look of two people who have already leapt and are now waiting for the ground to rise up and meet them.

Your stomach drops before your brain catches on.

“We wanted you guys to be the first to know,” Steve says. “We’re getting married.”

The sentence lands like a champagne cork popping somewhere inside your chest.

You blink once, because you’re reasonably sure you misheard – but Natasha is smiling in that precise, controlled way she does when she’s already braced for fallout, and Steve is beaming so openly it borders on reckless sincerity.

You make a noise. It is not a dignified one.

“What,” you say faintly, already halfway out of your chair.

“We’re getting married!” Natasha echoes, a million-watt grin on her face.

You scream.

There’s no other word for it. You scream, hands flying up, chair scraping back as you lunge across the table, nearly knocking over the water glasses in the process. She smells like citrus and coffee and something expensive and understated, and she laughs softly against your shoulder as you clutch her like she might vanish. “No. NO YOU ARE NOT DOING THIS TO ME RIGHT NOW!”

Natasha laughs as you throw yourself at her again, this time nearly climbing into her lap. “Show me,” you demand, pulling back just long enough to grab her hand, lifting it to the light, examining the ring from every conceivable angle.  “Nat, this is – this is perfect. Steve, are you – are you seeing this? This is her. This ring is literally her.”

Steve looks unbearably pleased with himself. “I had a bit of help,” he admits bashfully.

“I’m screaming,” you announce, already doing so. You absolutely do not care that the table beside you has gone quiet. “I’m so happy I might pass out! How long have you been hiding this from me?”

“About twelve hours,” Natasha says dryly. “We decided you’d explode if we waited longer.”

She isn’t wrong.

You drop back into your chair, breathless, eyes shining, hands still trembling faintly with the aftershock of joy.

Across the table, Steve beams like he’s watching fireworks set off just for him. His ears are pink, his smile helplessly wide. He reaches for his coffee, then forgets to drink it.

Bucky, meanwhile, reacts the way he does to most emotionally significant announcements – by doing nothing at all.

He leans back in his chair, arms crossing loosely over his chest, gaze flicking once between Steve and Natasha as if he’s checking that this is, in fact, real. His expression is unreadable at first – then cracks just enough to reveal a fond resignation.

“Well,” he says eventually, nodding once. “Took you long enough.”

Steve laughs, delighted. “I knew you’d say that.”

Bucky reaches across the table and claps him on the shoulder, solid and affectionate. “Doesn’t mean I’m wrong.”

Natasha watches the exchange with a small, knowing smile. “You’re happy for us,” she says.

“I am,” Bucky replies immediately, without hesitation. “You’re good together. Always have been.”

You notice – how easily the words come out, how certain he sounds – and your heart squeezes a little.

Then he adds, dry as dust, “Still don’t know why you’d want a wedding.”

You blink. “How – how can you hate weddings? Weddings are –”

“Expensive,” Bucky supplies. “A waste of time. Full of speeches no one remembers and promises that half the room doesn’t believe in.”

You stare at him like he’s just announced he doesn’t believe in birthdays. Or seasons. Or the concept of marking time at all.

Natasha hums. “You’re projecting.”

“I’m being realistic.”

But then, he glances at Steve again, and his tone softens, “I’m happy for you,” he says. “Both of you. Really.”

Natasha nods once, satisfied. “Good. Because you’re the best man.”

Bucky freezes like she’s told him he’s being drafted. There’s that split-second tension, the recalibration. You, mid-sip of your mimosa, choke. Hah! Karma!

He looks from Natasha to Steve, then back again, as if hoping one of them will crack and admit this is a joke.

“I am what.”

Steve’s grin turns positively feral. “Yeah. Best man. Obviously.”

Bucky looks at all three of you in turn, trying to locate the hidden camera. “No,” he says slowly. “That’s not obvious. That’s a terrible idea. What part of I think weddings are useless did you not get?”

Natasha hands you a napkin. “And,” she continues, entirely unbothered, “she’s the maid of honour.”

Your head snaps up. “Me?”

“Of course you,” Natasha says. “Who else would I trust?”

Your whole body does a small, involuntary jolt, like someone pressed your internal panic-and-joy switch at the same time.

“Me?” you breathe. Then again, quieter, “Me.”

Natasha’s looking at you with that rare, unguarded sincerity she reserves for maybe three people on earth.

Your throat tightens. “I – yes. Of course. I’d be honoured.”

Bucky blinks once, slow, like he hadn’t expected quite that level of enthusiasm.

You’re just about to turn on Bucky for that face he’s making – something between disbelief and mild judgment – when the plates arrive, and for a brief, blissful moment, the promise of carbohydrates knock every uncharitable thought clean out of your head.

This turns out to be a mistake, because the second you’re buttering sourdough with the single-minded joy of someone about to be fed, you’ve already forgotten to stay annoyed at him. Another thought slips in – soft at first, then niggling – that there’s a wedding to plan.  

“So,” you say, glancing up, smile bright. “I know it’s early, but when were you thinking of actually having the wedding?”

“Oh,” Natasha says, not evening looking up from her eggs. “Maybe August?”

You beam. “August,” you repeat dreamily. “That’s beautiful. Late summer weddings are so romantic – warm nights, golden hour photos, none of those terrible July storms –”

She nods. “Mm.”

“And that gives you loads of time to plan,” you continue, already halfway to bliss. “Plenty of runway.”

Natasha smiles. Then, lightly – certainly too lightly for the bombshell she’s dropping – adds, “August this year.”

The knife slips in your hand. The world stops. You laugh and it feels like it’s coming out all wrong. “Sorry – what?”

You turn instinctively toward the person nearest you, seeking grounding, confirmation, sanity. Your hand finds Bucky’s forearm without thinking.

He doesn’t pull away; he doesn’t reassure you either. He’s wearing a strange expression – half amused, half wary – like someone watching a beautifully engineered bridge begin to smoke.

“August,” Steve repeats serenely. “It’s kind of perfect, actually.”

You stare at him. “That’s,” you say slowly, “next month.”

“Yes,” Steve says, pleased. “Exactly.”

Then you laugh again, louder this time, shaking your head. “Okay, okay! But –” you inhale. “What’s the plan?”

“Well,” he says, folding his hands like this is the most reasonable thing in the world, “we were thinking simple.”

Your smile freezes.

Natasha nods. “Very simple.”

Your smile begins to strain. “Define simple.”

“Lunch,” Steve says. “At my parent’s place.”

“In the backyard,” Natasha adds. “Just family and close friends.”

The word lunch echoes in your skull like it’s been shouted down a hallway.

“A… lunch,” you echo faintly. Lunch is not a wedding word. Lunch is what happens when people have errands afterward.

“Yes,” Natasha says calmly. “Low-key.”

You lean back into your chair.

Steve chimes in, “We don’t really need much, we just want to get married.”

There it is, that gentle, sincere, devastating honesty.

You stare at the two of them, these people you love more than most things in the world, and feel something inside you crack open like a dropped champagne flute.

“No,” you say.

Steve blinks. “No?”

“No,” you repeat, firmer now. “Absolutely not.”

Beside you, Bucky exhales through his nose, clearly amused – a reaction you’ll pointedly refuse to dignify in favour of the emergency at hand.

“Oh, come on,” Bucky says, “what’s wrong with lunch?”

You swivel toward him, eyes wide. “Everything. Everything is wrong with lunch.”

“People show up,” he says, shrugging. “They eat. They say congratulations. Nothing different from a big party.”

You gesture helplessly between him and the couple. “This is a wedding. You don’t just – eat and disperse.”

Natasha finally looks at you properly. “We’re not trying to make a production of it.” Steve nods in agreement. “Between school starting again and Nat going back into full ballet rehearsal season, this is kind of our window.”

“There isn’t another one,” she adds. “Fall is gone. Winter is Nutcracker. And then the company tours in Spring.” Steve shrugs apologetically. “And once summer’s over, I’m back with the kids full-time. We don’t want to wait another year just to line up calendars.”

“It’s sensible,” Natasha adds. “Not romantic. Just… real life.”

“But –” you start, then stop, searching for something that doesn’t make you sound unhinged. “But you deserve more than real life.”

“We have each other,” Steve says gently.

“That’s not – ” You turn again, desperate now, fingers digging into Bucky’s arm without a shred of dignity. “Tell them. This is insane, right?”

He stiffens slightly, clearly unprepared to be conscripted into this fight. “I really don’t see the problem,” he says honestly.

Your jaw drops. “It’s a milestone,” you insist. “It’s about marking the moment. About saying this matters enough that it stops time for day.”

Bucky tilts his head. “Or,” he says, “they get married because they want to be married. The rest is optional.”

Natasha watches you both with interest. Steve’s head swivels between the two of you like he’s watching a tennis match.

“Behold,” you say dryly, gesturing at Bucky. “The patron saint of emotional rationing.”

He doesn’t miss a beat. “Better than being the apostle of overreaction.”

You release his arm with a huff. “You’re really telling me you’re fine with them getting married over sandwiches.”

“If they’re good sandwiches,” he says, unfazed. “Sure.”

You make a distressed, inhuman noise. Bucky studies you – really studies you – and for the first time since you met him, he seems to consider the possibility that something might be deeply wrong with you.

The table falls into a brief, careful quiet. It’s not uncomfortable, but it certainly is weighted. You slide your plate aside and, with the grim resolve of someone about to break an emergency story, pull out the battered journalist’s notebook you’re never actually without.

“Okay,” you say.

Three heads turn toward you.

“What if,” you say slowly, “I plan it.”

Natasha blinks. “You –”

“Everything,” you continue, gaining momentum. “The logistics, the vendors, the timeline. All of it. You don’t have to think about anything.”

When Steve starts to protest, you hold up a hand.

“No. Listen. You’re busy. I get that. You’ve both spent your lives showing up for other people.” You gesture between them. “Let us show up for you.”

Bucky watches you now, full attention, as if something in the room has shifted and he’s trying to locate the fault line.

“You two just –” you say, voice softer but no less certain, “you two just appear. Have a good time. Celebrate with us.”

Natasha studies you, eyes sharp, calculating. “You’d take this on?”

“Yes,” you say immediately. “Happily.”

Steve looks torn. “We don’t want to burden you.”

You laugh, quick and earnest. “You won’t. This is –” You falter, then recover. “This is important to me.”

A small, horrible beat passes in which you second-guess whether you’ve crossed a line.

Then Natasha exhales, long and thoughtful. “And you wouldn’t turn it into something enormous.”

You hesitate, just a tiny bit. “I wouldn’t turn it into something untrue,” you say. “I promise.”

That does it. Natasha reaches for your hand, squeezing once. “Okay.”

Steve smiles, relief washing over him. “Yeah. Okay.”

Your heart lifts – buoyant, determined, already sprinting ahead as you turn instinctively toward Bucky, eyes bright, dragging him into the moment without even thinking.

“And you,” you insist, “You’ll help.”

He stiffens. “I will not.”

“You’re the best man,” you say, steady, reasonable. “I’m the maid of honour. This is literally a two-person job, like it or not.”

His jaw flexes. “I don’t do weddings.”

“And I don’t do half-measures,” you shoot back. “So here we are.”

He opens his mouth, then closes it again – clearly deciding that arguing with you is both futile and dangerous to his peace of mind.

Natasha laughs. Steve shakes his head, amused. The conversation drifts on – dates, timelines, logistics – while you’re already sketching invisible plans in the air like a general surveying an impending campaign.

Bucky leans back in his chair, arms crossed, expression edged with a kind of begrudging vigilance, as if he now has to monitor whatever chaos you intend to unleash on his life. He still doesn’t believe in weddings. And whatever this is – you, dragging him into a four-week matrimonial war zone – isn’t changing that.

It is, however, very clearly about to become his problem.

Three weeks and a day earlier…

“Remind me,” Bucky mutters, voice as flat as concrete, “why I’m here?”  

You don’t answer immediately. You’re too busy absorbing the lake house foyer – the clean timber lines, the citrus-and-sunlight smell, the exact kind of curated serenity that makes your pulse rise with possibility.

Bucky stands beside you like he’s been forced at gunpoint to be here – jaw tight, arms crossed, weight shifted back on his heels.

“It’s indoor-outdoor, one of the top venues in the state, and seats exactly who we need it to,” you recite automatically, even though no one has accused you of anything yet. “And because I asked you to come.”

“I noticed,” he deadpans. “What I didn’t notice was any advance warning before being hauled into – whatever this is.”

You wave him off. “24 hours is plenty.”

“For you, maybe,” he replies flatly. “Some of us don’t move meetings unless something’s on fire.” He looks pointed around the perfectly intact room.

You open your mouth – ready to fight him, justify yourself, maybe both – but another couple steps in behind you. They’re glossy, coordinated, wearing the sort of high fashion monochrome palette that suggests they have a shared stylist and a joint credit card. The bride glances at you, then at Bucky, eyes flicking quickly over the height difference, the arm loop, the proximity.

Something in her expression sharpens. Territory has been staked, competition engaged.

Oh. So it’s going to be like that.

You are not losing this venue to someone wearing three different shades of black.

It is at this moment – this precise, irrational, adrenaline laced moment – the venue coordinator appears.  She is a woman in earth-toned linen who steps forward with her arms held out wide. “Welcome! You must be –”

“Engaged!” you blurt out.

Bucky chokes so hard it could be a medical issue.

You thump him on the back and keep smiling like nothing is wrong. “Yes,” you continue, “we’re so excited to be here.”

The woman’s smile widens, though she looks a little confused. Nevertheless, she clasps your hands in hers. “Thank you for coming in person and not sending a planner. I do prefer to walk the space with the couple themselves.” She tilts her head, studying the two of you like a composition. “I designed it that way,” she continues lightly, “otherwise the space gets confused. It needs to feel the energy of two people together.”

Bucky’s jaw flexes once – a man making peace with his own unbelievable life choices.

You do not give him time to regret it.

You keep smiling, turning just enough to close the distance between you as you decisively slide your fingers around the widest part of his biceps. It’s an action possessive to sell the lie, and strategic enough that he can’t object.

“Of course, we must accommodate the space,” you lie cleanly through your teeth.

Bucky’s gaze flicks to your hand.

Then to the woman.

Then back to your hand.

Something in his expression tightens – disbelief first, then resignation, then a faint, startled awareness of how close you suddenly are. His jaw works once, like he’s swallowing a protest.

The woman beams, satisfied. “Wonderful,” she says. “I can always tell when a couple’s right for the room.”

Bucky blinks.

“The room,” he mutters for your ears only, “is not the only thing being lied to.”

You squeeze his arm a little tighter – a warning, a threat, a plea for cooperation – and steer him forward.

“Just play along,” you hiss.

You move without thinking, guiding Bucky along with you. He leans down slightly, voice low and dangerous. “You did not tell me,” he says, “that I was going to be fake-engaged today.”

You smile up at him. “I didn’t think you’d come if I did.”

“I can still walk out.”

“You won’t,” you say sweetly. “You’d never leave me to lose to them.”

His mouth presses into a flat line. “That’s not a compliment.”

The coordinator sweeps ahead, her linen skirts whispering across the polished floor, gesturing for all four of you to follow her deeper into the venue. Her energy is serene, ceremonial, almost priestly – the kind of woman who would absolutely believe a building has preferences.

You move first, still linked to Bucky because you can’t risk breaking formation now. His arm stays rigid under your hand, but he doesn’t shake you off. Not when the monochrome couple is still behind you. Not when the coordinator keeps glancing back, clearly assessing which pair the space prefers.

As you’re led deeper into the space – past long communal tables, a dramatic staircase, an absurdly beautiful internal garden that was built to reflect the chaotic natural energies of the lake – you let yourself breathe for the first time all week.

It has been chaos – that particular, grinding breed of chaos born from too many deadlines stacked on too little sleep. A week of logistics and emails, of vendor spreadsheets multiplying like rabbits. You’ve been sleeping with your phone pressed to your chest, waking up to half-drafted ideas and missed calls. Coffee is drunk consistently, at ungodly hours.

And somewhere in the middle of all that, your harmless little notebook of ideas has evolved into something far more serious: a swollen D-ring binder thick enough to cause wrist strain, complete with a colour-coded contents page, subsection tabs, and – because you hate yourself – a newly minted annex.

Bucky has watched this escalation with increasing distaste. He flips a page, pauses, then squints at it. “Why is this laminated?”

“It’s the Emergency Contingencies Index.”

He looks up at you like he’s just witnessed a war crime. “…You laminated contingencies.”

“Obviously.”

He exhales through his nose — long, beleaguered, resigned to his fate. “Of course you did.”

You ignore the jibe and slide a printout across the table toward him. “Venue viewing. Tomorrow evening.” You tap the date and time with your pen, already mentally drafting an email you’ll have to send from the back of the cab to work. “Just promise me you’ll show up.”

He exhales slowly, like a man considering his options. He said nothing, and yet –

Here he is.

You catch him out of the corner of your eye now, consciously shortening his stride so he doesn’t power ahead of you, free hand shoved into his pockets, jaw set in concentration as he maintains the fragile illusion of engaged unity. It shouldn’t matter, but it does.

The foyer opens into a long, sunlit corridor. Windows stretch floor-to-ceiling, throwing bright bars of late-afternoon light across the hardwood.

Beyond her, a sweeping wall of French doors opens onto the lake, the view so startlingly still it looks curated. The afternoon light pours in, warm and liquid, pooling over the polished floors as though the entire venue has been waiting – patiently, expectantly – for someone to notice how perfect it could be.

The other couple gasps appreciatively.

You smile, unsurprised. You know this view; you’d studied it from three angles online, read two overly reverent blog posts about it, and cross-checked Google Earth. Still, seeing it in person, it’s better – warmer, more alive.

Bucky notices, of course he notices, but he doesn’t comment – he’s too busy maintaining his posture of a reluctant hostage – but the corner of his mouth tightens like he’s bracing for you to sprint ahead and start taking photos.

You nudge him anyway. “Try not to look like someone dragged you out of a bunker.”

His glance is slow, unimpressed. “Try not to lie about our relationship status in front of strangers.”

“Tit for tat,” you murmur.

The coordinator begins talking about the original timber, about the intentional asymmetry of the beams, about the way light “wakes the room gently.”

You are listening with rapt attention.

Bucky is… enduring.

Every now and then she asks a question – Do you prefer natural wood tones? Would you want drapery? Do you lean toward a circular ceremony layout or linear? – and you open your mouth each time, prepared to answer.

But then Bucky answers first – Not with enthusiasm, or vision, or any interest in weddings whatsoever – but with that dry, unfiltered architectural practicality of a man who absolutely cannot help applying professional standards even when he hates the situation he finds himself in.

“A circular layout will bottleneck the aisle, especially if it’s indoors,” he says, hands in his pockets. “You’ll lose at least a third of the sightlines.”

The coordinator brightens. “Exactly.”

The monochrome bride stiffens.

You blink at Bucky, startled. He catches the look, scowls faintly, and mutters, “It’s obvious.”

It isn’t, but you let him have his dignity.

You walk on through another set doors, which opens wide into to the main reception hall – soaring beams, vast windows framing the lake, the whole space glowing.

“This,” she says reverently, “is where most couples choose to place their focal installation.”

You know instantly what she means. The chandelier. You’d flagged it in your notes – a suspended floral-glass hybrid piece, deceptively delicate, impossibly heavy.

You open your mouth to ask about load-bearing specs, but –

“Your beam spacing’s inconsistent,” Bucky says first.

Everyone looks up.

He’s frowning at the ceiling, hands still in his pockets, the posture of someone who cannot stop being an architect even when he’s pretending to be an engaged man-captive.

“You’ve got a reinforced steel bracket hidden behind the main truss,” he continues, nodding toward a nearly invisible seam. “But if you’re planning anything heavier than a statement pendant, you’ll need secondary reinforcement. Otherwise the whole thing will torque.”

The coordinator’s eyes go very round.

The monochrome groom swallows, while his bride tightens her grip on her designer purse.

You stare at Bucky, stunned.

He glances sideways at you – and the look he gives you is defensive, almost irritated, the look of a man who realizes too late that he has just demonstrated interest.

“What?” he mutters. “You were gonna ask.”

He’s right, and that annoys you more than it should.

The coordinator beams. “Most people never notice that bracket. You have an extraordinary eye.”

Bucky grimaces, as if being praised for competence in a wedding venue is worse than being shot.

You step in smoothly. “He’s very detail-oriented.”

“He’s very particular,” the monochrome bride echoes, except in her tone, it’s an accusation.

Bucky lifts one brow at her – slow, unimpressed – and the bride looks away first.

The coordinator, oblivious or delighted, continues. “Of course, if you were envisioning a suspended installation – glass, florals, even a sculptural arc – we can accommodate it. The space responds beautifully to verticality.”

“We are considering something suspended,” you say before you can stop yourself.

Bucky shoots you a look that reads: You’re making up lies faster than I can track them.

You shoot him one back: Keep up.

He exhales through his nose. “If we do that, we’ll need that secondary bracket. And a counterweight system.”

The coordinator nods rapidly, already mentally rearranging her entire lighting rig. “Of course. That can be arranged.” Something shifts subtly. Her posture softens, the way she nods is as if a check box has just been ticked.

The other groom glances back at you and Bucky, his earlier confidence visibly dented. You squeeze Bucky’s arm, unable to help the spark of satisfaction that flickers through you.

The moment the coordinator drifts out of both eyesight and earshot – no doubt to commune with the floorboards or interrogate the other couple’s aura – Bucky exhales like he’s been underwater.

“Okay,” he mutters, stepping back a fraction, putting space between your bodies the way a man pulls his hand away from a hot stove. “We’re done here. We saw the thing. You touched me. The room approved. Can we go?”

You stare at him. “We haven’t even reached the terrace. Or seen the lake.”

“We don’t need to see anything,” he says, already half-turned toward the exit. “You’ve clearly got this handled. The room is spiritually climaxing for you. I’m just taking up space.”

You blink at him. “Are you – mad?”

“No,” he says immediately, too quickly. “I’m not mad.”

He is mad. He is radiating annoyance in a very silent, very repressed, very Barnesian key.

You step in front of him before he can make a full escape.

“Bucky. What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” he says again, jaw tightening. “You lie through your teeth, drag me into a fake engagement, hold onto me like I’m part of the act, and suddenly we’re competing with – ” he gestures vaguely toward the monochrome couple, “ – those people. Nothing at all.”

You cross your arms. “I asked you to come. You came. That’s on you.”

His laugh is humourless. “You didn’t tell me I was signing up to be your emotional seeing-eye dog for a venue tour.”

You bristle. “I didn’t ask you to hold my hand.”

“You didn’t ask,” he shoots back, “but you sure as hell did it anyway.”

You open your mouth. Close it again in favour of studying him, as if the truth of this situation might be written across the rigidity of his shoulders, the hard line of his mouth, and the glint in his eyes that isn’t anger so much as it is something that he doesn’t want to name.

This is not about the hand. This is not about the lie. This is something deeper and he’s trying very hard – too hard – not to be affected by.

“Okay,” you say slowly. “So what are you actually angry about?”

He looks away first, toward the lake shimmering through the hallway windows. The light catches on the water, fractured and restless – and for a moment, so is he.

“You keep acting like this wedding is an exam you’re going to be graded on,” he says quietly. “Like if you don’t get the perfect score, you’d have failed something.”

Your heart climbs straight into your throat. His accuracy is unfair.  

“And you,” you say, more sharply than intended, “act like caring about something automatically makes it ridiculous.”

Unexpectedly, he flinches – a tiny, involuntary contraction, like you’ve brushed into a decades old bruise.

“It’s just a venue,” he says, and there’s no mockery in it now. Only something raw, frustrated, almost… unguarded. “A pretty one. But you’re acting like it’s going to make or break their marriage.”

His mouth twists. “Like the right backdrop magically carries the weight of everything else.” And I don’t get it,” he exhales through his nose, gaze fixed somewhere past you. “Why this – all this – matters so damn much to you people.”

You people. It stings, but not in the way he thinks. Because underneath the snark, you finally see the real wound: he doesn’t understand ceremonies, symbols, anything beautiful for the sake of being beautiful – because he’s never let himself want any of it.

“Because it’s Nat and Steve,” you say, letting your voice soften to match his. “And I love them.”

He goes still at that.

You press on, because if you stop now you might not ever get it out. “I can’t fix their schedules,” you say. “I can’t tell them to stop adjusting their lives for everyone else. For rehearsals, for classes, for performances, for deadlines, for everyone who wants a piece of them.” You gesture around the sun-dappled riverbank. “This I can make good. This is their onewedding, and I refuse to let it be mediocre.”

A whole taxonomy of expressions moves across Bucky’s face – irritation, disbelief, something like reluctant comprehension, and then something else entirely, quick and unguarded, before he shutters it.

“And if all it takes is twenty minutes of us pretending…” you continue, voice steadying as you meet his eyes, “then yeah, I’m going to ask you to pretend like your life depends on it.”

He swallows – a small, tight movement, the only tell he gives away. You hold his gaze, refusing to look anywhere else.

“I’m not asking you to suddenly believe in weddings, Bucky,” you say quietly. “Just help me make one thing in their life perfect.”

His jaw works once, the fight leaving him in a slow, resigned exhale.

“…Fine,” he mutters, looking away as he rubs the back of his neck, “Just – don’t grab my arm like that again unless you warn me first.”

You smile, stepping past him toward the terrace where the coordinator has drifted off with the other couple. “No promises.”

*

The tour funnels you down a gentle slope, the house falling away behind you as the riverbank unfurls in front of it – a stretch of soft grass tapering toward the water, framed on one side by a broad, ancient oak. Its branches arc outward like the ribs of a cathedral, heavy with leaves that whisper in the breeze. You hadn’t noticed it from the house; from this angle, though, it dominates the horizon, dignified and steadfast, the kind of tree that seems older than the property deeds themselves.

The coordinator steps onto the very center of the lawn with the assured gait of someone taking her mark on a stage. This, you know instinctively, is where she believes vows ought to be spoken – the exact patch of earth where a couple should stand, framed by river light and the watchful canopy of the oak. She closes her eyes, lifts her chin slightly, and inhales through her nose like she’s tasting the air for nuance, for resonance, for meaning.

Sunlight spills around her like she arranged it.

“Well?” she asks. “What has the space said to you?”

You open your mouth, but Bucky beats you to it.

He straightens with the weary precision of a man reaching for a tool he resents knowing how to use. And, with all the cool detachment of someone reading a zoning violation aloud, he replies, “We’ll need to check with our feng shui master first. Just to confirm the alignment. Of the house. Of the day. Of us.”

You nearly swallow your own tongue as the coordinator woman’s eyes go wide. The monochrome couple freeze like meerkats spotting a predator.

“Your… master,” she breathes, reverent.

Bucky nods once, faux-solemn. “Yes. We never make major choices without him aligning the energies of the space.”

Something dangerously close to hysteria bubbles up – laughter, disbelief, the urge to grab him by the collar – and you shove it all down in favour of hissing under your breath, “Where the hell did you get that from?”

Without breaking eye contact with the woman, Bucky whispers back, “Someone said it to me last week.”

“Well.” Her spine straightens, chin lifting in pride. “You may assure your feng shui master that this house was built to honour all schools of thought. East, West, traditional, contemporary, celestial, terrestrial – every axis, every current, every flow – perfectly aligned.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt it,” Bucky murmurs, and the audacity of him nearly floors you.

The woman stands a little straighter, the way someone does when intellectually challenged and spiritually provoked. Her eyes sweep once more over the riverbank, the grass, the house behind you – a slow, assessing glide, like she’s listening to vibrations only she can hear.

She inhales deeply, with great purpose. When she opens her eyes again, something in her expression has shifted. “The space,” she says, solemn as a vow, “has begun to speak.”

A hush seems to fall – not real, but perceptual, the kind that comes from someone making a proclamation with enough confidence that your brain scrambles to keep up.

She lifts her hands, palms open to the sky. “It is… forming an opinion.”

Behind you, Bucky stiffens in the exact way a man does when he desperately wants to object but also desperately does not want to extend this interaction by another minute.

The woman turns, serene and certain.

The monochrome couple immediately arrange themselves into a picturesque tableau – her hand on his chest, his chin lowered like he’s posing for a photoshoot. They look like they rehearsed this in the car.

She lifts her palms. “Energy reveals itself through contrast. This space,” she announces, “always reveals the truth of a couple.”

Bucky mutters, “Spaces are unreactive,” under his breath.

You nudge his ribs with your elbow, a warning.

The coordinator opens her eyes and turns toward the monochrome couple first. She tilts her head, studying them with a tight, delicate frown – the kind people give wilted herbs at a farmer’s market.

“Mmm,” she says. “There is… tension in your current alignment.”

The monochrome bride stiffens. “Tension?”

“Yes,” the coordinator says gently, almost apologetically. “A little blocked. A little… forced.”

Beside you, Bucky murmurs, “Told you posing wouldn’t help,” and you jab him again, harder.

Then the coordinator turns to you and Bucky and her eyes widen. She steps closer, blinking once, twice, as if a spotlight has turned on specifically above the two of you.

“Oh,” she breathes. “This… this is interesting.”

Bucky straightens, like he’s bracing to be insulted. Instead, the coordinator smiles – slow and reverent – as if she’s seeing the first bloom of spring emerge from frozen ground.

“Your energy is very strong together,” she says.

You blink. Bucky blinks harder.

“Our what?” he splutters.

“Your connection,” she clarifies, waving her hands vaguely between your bodies. “There’s an undeniable resonance. A grounding. A clarity. The space likes you.”

You nearly choke. “We – we just walked in.”

“Yes,” she says simply. “And the space settled. Didn’t you feel it?”

You feel Bucky staring at you, silently begging you not to say yes, which is why you smile sweetly and answer, “Of course.”

The monochrome bride sputters. “We’ve been engaged for fourteen months!”

The coordinator turns sympathetically toward her. “Sometimes longevity dulls resonance.”

Bucky quietly coughs to hide a laugh – or dies, it’s hard to tell.

The monochrome groom steps forward, indignant. “We’re very aligned. We meditate together.”

“Even more worrying,” the coordinator murmurs.

You bite your lip to keep from laughing. Bucky fails entirely; a tiny, traitorous sound escapes him.

The bride narrows her eyes at you like you might drop dead from the strength of her displeasure.

You loop your arm a little tighter around Bucky’s, partly to sell the ruse… partly because the absurdity has short-circuited your ability to stand upright on your own.

The coordinator makes a gentle sweeping motion with her hand. “Let us test the resonance.”

Bucky whispers, panicked, “What the hell does that mean?”

“How would I know?!”

But the monochrome bride is already stepping forward like she’s ready to ascend the throne, so you tug Bucky along to keep up.

The coordinator stands between both couples, waving her arms like she’s invoking some ancient rite. “Take one step toward each other.”

You and Bucky share a look – half dread, half the feral refusal to lose when the competition is right there. You both step forward in perfect sync.

You mouth, I’m sorry. A muscle twitches in his cheek – not annoyance – something closer to careful exasperation. His answer is a barely perceptible tilt of his head that reads, I know. Don’t worry about it.

You stop toe to toe, breaths brushing.

Nothing mystical happens, nothing supernatural – just Bucky Barnes standing close enough that the world seems to tilt around the space you share. You refuse to look him in the eyes – God knows what you’d see there – so you stare determinedly at the bridge of his nose, willing your expression into neutrality as the warmth of him crowds out every thought you were trying to have.

He inhales, sharp and quiet, like he wasn’t expecting you to be this close either. He too, appears to be doing his level best to not look at you, but it’s an exercise in futility. His gaze skims your mouth first – a flicker, unintentional and devastating – before darting up to your eyes like he’s been caught thinking something he absolutely shouldn’t.

Your pulse slams; he swallows once, hard  – small, involuntary shifts, now kept between the two of you like a secret.

The coordinator beams. “There. You see? Harmony.”

Bucky stares straight ahead, face rigid, ears just barely pink.

The monochrome couple step forward too – but the groom hesitates; the bride overcorrects; their hands collide awkwardly.

“Oh,” the coordinator says softly, pained. “Oh no.”

Bucky mutters, “Yikes,” under his breath, and you actually pinch his arm.

The coordinator claps once, decisive. “I believe I’ve seen enough.”

Everyone tenses.

She turns to you and Bucky. “The space responds to you,” she says with priestess-level certainty. “It welcomes you. It expands for you.”

You’re about to thank her when Bucky murmurs, “If the space is reacting to anything, it’s your dramatics,” but fortunately only you hear it.

Then the coordinator swivels toward the other couple. “You,” she announces solemnly, “must reduce your guest list.”

The bride gasps. “But we – my mother – ”

“The room,” the coordinator says gravely, “has decided.”

The groom looks genuinely shaken.

Bucky leans in, voice barely audible. “I can’t believe this is working.”

You whisper back, “It’s not working because of me. It’s working because of that chandelier lecture you gave.”

“That was structural integrity,” he hisses. “Not flirting.”

But he doesn’t let go of your arm.

And you don’t step away.

The woman turns back to you both, her expression warm and resolute. “Take your time,” she says, though she looks like she’d happily build a shrine in your honour to expedite the decision. “But tell your master he will find no faults here. None.”

“We will,” you promise.

She glides away, leaving you and Bucky standing in a halo of lake-light and competitive triumph.

Bucky exhales, long and tired. “This is exactly how people lose their minds.”

You guide him toward the exit anyway, fingers still hooked through his sleeve – not intimate, not quite polite, just necessary.

“Welcome,” you murmur unapologetically, “to wedding planning.”

Two weeks and a day earlier…

The week takes off at a dead sprint. Your phone vibrates itself into delirium, screen lighting up with vendors, reschedules, quotes, “circling back” emails, and three separate florists who apparently all forgot they’d already spoken to you twice.

Bucky, for all his sins, is enduring it. At every appointment he trails half a step behind you – a man hoping proximity alone won’t make him legally responsible for whatever decisions you’re about to make. Hands in pockets. Jaw tight. Eyes narrowed as though each vendor is a fresh test of his moral fortitude.

And yet…

He comes. Without complaint, without needing to be chased.

And – this is new – somewhere between the cake tasting and the linen warehouse, the edge of him softens. Barely. A thaw measured in millimeters. A grunt instead of a sigh. A single, grudging nod when you ask what he thinks. A man not enjoying himself, exactly, but acclimating to the weather.

It’s not much, but for Bucky Barnes? It’s practically enthusiasm.

*

On Monday, you take him to the bakery.

That is to say: you enter the bakery; Bucky is tugged in behind you by the elbow like a particularly resentful ox being led to market. He drags his feet with the weary fatalism of a man heading into a tax audit rather than a pastel shop filled with butter and joy.

The shop itself is – there’s no other word for it – whimsical. Pastel walls, delicate bunting, sunlight slanting through the front windows as though the cakes have been personally blessed by the heavens. The air smells of warm vanilla and soft nostalgia, the kind that makes even cynics briefly believe in birthdays.

Bucky looks around as though the décor has personally wronged him.

The owner, whom you had coaxed into giving you the earliest slot of the morning through sheer force of will, gestures proudly to the tasting platter.

“We’ll begin with the Earl Grey sponge and lavender honey buttercream,” she announces, serene and certain.

Your eyes brighten.

Bucky’s narrow. “What happened to good ol’ chocolate?” he mutters, as though chocolate has been unjustly exiled from its ancestral lands.

You kick him beneath the table. Lightly. But not so lightly that it could be mistaken for affection.

“Eat,” you instruct.

He gives you the kind of look usually reserved for dire medical diagnoses, then reluctantly scoops the smallest, most suspicious sliver of cake onto his fork. He puts it into his mouth like a man testing whether the food is poisoned.

And then – you see it, the betrayal of expression he cannot stop. First surprise, then reluctant delight, followed almost immediately by the horrified awareness that he has enjoyed something he fully intended to hate.

“It’s fine,” he blurts, far too quickly.

You lean in, delighted. “You liked it.”

He scowls at the table, then at you, then at the baker – who is now beaming at him with the radiant satisfaction of a woman who has converted a lifelong skeptic.

It is not just fine.

It is objectively delicious.

And he hates – truly hates – that you saw the truth flicker across his traitorous face before he could stop it.

*

On Tuesday, Bucky takes one look at the flowers and immediately starts sneezing.

The florist winces in sympathy. “Allergies?”

“He’ll survive,” you say before Bucky can flee, even though he’s already retreating toward the far end of the worktable like a man hoping distance alone might save him.

The shop smells like cut stems and cold water – green and sharp and very alive – petals spilling across every surface in soft, painterly chaos. The florist gestures to a cluster of eucalyptus, trimming a sprig with neat, practiced motions.

The florist laughs kindly and gestures to a bucket of eucalyptus. “Don’t worry – these are hardy and allergen-friendly. They hold up in anything. Weddings, heatwaves, surprise drizzle…” He shrugs. “Outdoor ceremonies love a bit of weather drama, but flowers don’t – unless you pick the right ones.”

You perk up. “Is rain even a concern this time of year?”

“Not usually,” the florist says, selecting a spray of greenery and trimming it with quick, deft movements. “But you plan as if it might. Storms are shy until they aren’t.”

Bucky snorts. “Weather’s weather. Either it behaves or it doesn’t.”

You shoot him a look. “Some of us prefer contingency plans.”

He arches an eyebrow. “Some of us have noticed.”

You ignore him – mostly – as the florist flips to an empty page of his notepad.

“All right,” he says. “What’s the vision?”

You inhale to answer –

“Classic,” Bucky says before you can speak. “And nothing that sheds on cloth.”

Your head whips toward him. “Since when do you get a vote?”

“I don’t want to walk around looking like I’ve been rolled through pollen.”

“Oh my god,” you breathe. “This isn’t about you.”

But Bucky isn’t listening anymore. Somehow he’s gotten hold of a ranunculus – pale, full, elegant – turning it between his fingers with a strange, unexpected tenderness, like he’s examining the architecture of it rather than the bloom.

“Steve likes texture,” he says quietly. “And Nat wouldn’t want anything that droops. These won’t.”

Your heart skips a beat.

He pretends he hasn’t said anything meaningful, already shifting his attention to the eucalyptus as if the leaves are deeply compelling. The florist pretends not to notice, though his smile is unmistakably knowing.

Bucky clears his throat. “What?”

“Nothing,” you say.

(Not nothing. Not even close.)

*

On Wednesdaythe décor warehouse tries to kill you.

It is cavernous and overwhelming, chandeliers dangling from the ceiling every two meters like glittering threats, and an entire aisle of linens that could double as medieval weaponry. Sequins glint, metallics glare, tulle menaces.

You are confronted with sequined tablecloths; Bucky is confronted with the very edge of his sanity.

“This,” he tells the décor consultant as he lifts one anyway, rubbing the cloth between his fingers with a frown so deeply judgmental it could be submitted for peer review, “is both a fire hazard and a crime.”

“It’s festive!” she chirps, a woman who has clearly never met Bucky Barnes before today.

“The weave is cheap,” you announce, already flipping to the corresponding tab in The Binder, which has now manifested in your hands like a grimoire. “It’ll pill and crease endlessly. And the reflective finish will give half the guest list a migraine before the night’s through. We need organic fibres. High drape. Low shine.”

Bucky’s head snaps toward you, narrowing his eyes at The Binder as if it is a sentient being he should probably file a restraining order against.

The consultant nods, chastened, and flips open a book of fabric samples. “Right. Understood. Organic fibres only.”

As she rifles through swatches, her gaze drifts upward – to you, then Bucky, then the two of you standing shoulder-to-shoulder, already leaning unconsciously toward the same bolt of ivory linen. Bucky has angled himself half a step in front of you in the quiet, instinctive way he does when something large or unwieldy is suspended overhead (in this case – chandeliers).

“You two work well together,” she says mildly. “That’s rare.”

Bucky stiffens, as if she’s accused him of tax fraud. You give her a serene smile. “We’re… efficient.”

The consultant brightens. “Wonderful! Now, what about centrepieces? I have a full catalogue – ”

But you’re already unzipping The Binder. Its spine hits the table with a weighty thud, tabs fanning open like a legal case file.

The consultant startles. Bucky actually flinches.

“What is that,” he mutters, like you’ve revealed a cursed heirloom.

“My system,” you say, flipping to Décor –  Appropriate Fabrics – Do Not Attempt. “I have a plan.”

“A plan,” Bucky repeats, staring at the colour-coded pages with something between awe and genuine concern for your psychological welfare. “That thing looks like it could beat me in a fight.”

You pat the binder affectionately. “It could.”

The consultant beams, totally unaware that Bucky is staring at you like he’s just realised he may be assisting someone who is, clinically speaking, unhinged.

“Right,” she says brightly. “I’ll pull samples.”

Bucky looks at the chandeliers overhead. Then at you. Then at The Binder.

And for the first time all week, he whispers – almost reverently, “…I should’ve stayed in the car.”

*

It happens late on a Sunday, at a café that should have closed twenty minutes ago.

The whole week has been a blur of vendors and spreadsheets and Bucky’s increasingly elaborate attempts to pretend he’s not helping while very much helping. By Sunday evening, the two of you have collapsed into the only open seats you can find – a wobbly bistro table by the window, your laptop occupying most of the surface and Bucky occupying most of the silence.

You’re hunched over the screen, brow creased, staring down a ceremony timeline that stubbornly refuses to make structural sense. Bucky is across from you, sleeves pushed up, sketching something on a napkin with the grim focus of a man troubleshooting a structural fault in a bridge rather than a wedding.

You rub your eyes. “What are you doing?”

Without looking up, he mutters, “Fixing a bottleneck. Your aisle’s too narrow.”

“Why do you care?” you mutter just as carelessly, distracted by your task.

His pen stills, his shoulders shift, and slowly, reluctantly, he looks up.

For a moment, everything seems to hush – the espresso machine becomes distant, the street noise flattens, and the tired overhead lights soften around the edges.

Bucky taps the pen once against the napkin, like anchoring himself before he says something foolish. “Because you care,” he says. Then, quieter, as if the words escaped without permission, “and you shouldn’t have to do all of this alone.”

It lands inside you with alarming precision – a warmth, a weight, something perilously close to a beginning.

You can’t breathe for a second.

And he must feel it, because he looks away fast, jaw tightening, shoulders drawing in as if he’s trying to fold the moment back up and hide it inside himself again. Like he’s said something intimate by accident, and he regrets this sliver of honesty.

Around you, the world resumes: chairs scrape, someone calls out a drink order, the barista stacks cups with end-of-night urgency.

Bucky clears his throat. “Anyway,” he mutters, sliding the napkin toward you without meeting your eyes, “don’t make it weird.”

But it is. It’s extremely, catastrophically weird.

The napkin is a clean little sketch of flow paths and corrected spacing, annotations in a tidy slant you didn’t know he had. A map of attention. Of care.

You fold it carefully before slipping it into your bag, feeling absurdly like you’re tucking away evidence of something neither of you is ready to name.

When you leave the café, the air smells faintly of rain – the kind that promises trouble but hasn’t yet arrived.

One week and one day earlier…

You do not sleep.

You perform the ceremonial gestures of sleep – lying down, closing your eyes, arranging your limbs in the socially approved configuration – but rest never actually arrives. Your mind conducts its own private military coup at 3:00 am, storming your bloodstream with insurgent thoughts: ‘Did the florist confirm final stem counts?’, ‘Did I remember to order table numbers?’, and ‘Would it work better if family speeches come before the entrées? Or after?’

You drift, jolt awake, repeat. Several times.

By morning, you’re running on nineteen minutes of sleep and pure vengeance. So, when the caterer calls you mid-zoom-interview at the press junket for Disaster Day to inform you they cannot, in fact, prepare the vegan entrée in a mini size, something in you goes very still.

You stare at your phone with the placid serenity of a war general who has already accepted casualties. “‘Can’t,’” you say, voice crisp as a drawn blade, “is not a word in my vocabulary.”

Across the room, Bucky lifts an eyebrow over the rim of his laptop. He is technically working from home today – except “home” has quietly become your living room around 8:12 a.m. every morning. You’ve stopped asking why. He brings coffee. And pastries. And printouts for The Binder. And frankly, you no longer have the mental bandwidth to interrogate miracles.

“You shouldn’t threaten people before nine,” he says mildly.

“I haven’t threatened anyone.”

That is – generously – untrue. You have absolutely threatened everyone. Politely. With deadlines. And consequences. And lightly weaponised spreadsheets.

Bucky watches you pace while fielding the caterer’s excuses, your free hand slicing the air like you’re conducting an orchestra on fire. Something like amusement flickers across his face, but it softens quickly into concern – the subtle, steady kind he pretends isn’t happening.

And then, instead of retreating as any sensible person would before the detonation of a stressed bride-of-honour, he rises from the couch, crosses the room, and steps into your orbit.

He doesn’t grab your phone. He asks for it with one quiet, inexorable gesture of his hand.

“Give me that,” he murmurs. “Before the caterers fire us.”

“They are not going to fire us.”

“You’re vibrating.”

“I’m passionate.”

“You’re one ‘no’ from burning this whole city down.”

Before you can form a rebuttal, he slides your phone neatly out of your grip, taps the speaker off, and steps out onto the tiny balcony attached to your apartment. The door clicks shut behind him.

You watch him through the glass – leaning one forearm against the railing, phone at his ear, morning light catching on the metal lines of his arm. His hair curls slightly at the temples from the humidity, and he’s wearing that expression he saves for handling difficult subcontractors – patience wrapped in exhaustion, tied with a bow of menace.

He’s handsome in a way that feels entirely illegal before 9:00 am.

Three minutes later – just as you’ve abandoned your Zoom call in shame and are contemplating whether your cold muffin is a metaphor for your rapidly deteriorating sanity – the door opens again.

“All sorted,” he says, handing back your phone. “They’ll do it.”

“Really?”

“They just needed to be… encouraged.”

You narrow your eyes. “Encouraged how?”

He ignores you. Instead, he leans over your shoulder without warning, takes an enormous bite out of the muffin you were very clearly saving, grimaces, and declares, “These tasted better when they were fresh.”

“I hate you,” you lie.

He pats you on the head – like you’re a stressed-out Pomeranian instead of a full-grown adult on the brink of collapse – and sets the half-eaten muffin back on your plate.

“Be good,” he says absently, already grabbing his bag. “I’ve gotta be on the West Coast in…” He checks his watch. “Nine hours. Which is – too soon. Far too soon.”

“For the site walkthrough?” you ask.

“Yes,” he grumbles. “A walkthrough that could’ve easily been a Zoom meeting. But no. ‘In-person presence’ apparently matters when you’re paid obscene amounts of money to stare at blueprints and tell rich people their walls won’t collapse.”

He slings his jacket over his shoulder, pauses at your doorway, and glances back at you – at the chaos of your open laptop, the muffin carnage, the binder bristling with tabs like a hydra waiting to strike.

“You gonna be okay till I’m back?” he asks, voice low, deceptively casual.

You open your mouth to say yes. But your brain whispers table numbers and speech order and stem counts and seating charts and vegan mini entrées –

Bucky exhales, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’ll bring more muffins tomorrow,” he says.

And then he’s gone.

Five days earlier…

By this time, you have achieved a certain notoriety amongst vendors. The florist replies to your emails instantly, the lighting techs refuse to take your calls unless you’ve sent a written agenda in advance, the décor rental company has assigned their most battle-hardened employee to answer your number specifically – the kind of woman who has seen things.

And that afternoon, you’re on the phone with her – Tiffany, destroyer of inventory lists – vibrating with equal parts impatience and righteous fear. “No, Tiffany, I don’t want these silver chairs,” you say, pacing your living room like a commander on the brink of mutiny. “I want the silver chairs in the original quote. No. No, don’t you dare. These are narrower. I can see it. Don’t gaslight me with measurements, Tiffany.”

Meanwhile, Bucky – freshly returned from LA and looking unfairly good for someone who spent six hours on a cramped plane – is crouched on the floor beside the coffee table, reorganising the seating chart with the laser focus of a man who has chosen physical labour over listening to you eviscerate a stranger.

He has rolled up his sleeves, exposing the long line of his forearms. He is using a ruler. A ruler. The concentration is so intense it borders on devotional.

Your leg, jittering with fury at Tiffany’s incompetence, keeps brushing against his knee.

And Bucky… doesn’t move.

Not an inch.

He goes absolutely still, like someone attempting not to startle a wild animal – except it’s not fear pinning him there. It’s something tighter, quieter, more dangerous.

You don’t notice any of this. You’re too busy with convincing Tiffany about the discomfort of narrower chairs.

However, Bucky notices you. He notices the way your hair is falling out of its clip. He notices the focus in your eyes, the heat in your voice, the absolute refusal to compromise. He notices that every time your knee brushes his, it sends a pulse of something electric straight through him. And that his ears are burning.

He shifts the seating cards again – unnecessarily, compulsively – because it’s either that or he betrays himself.

You end the call with a victorious, “Thank you, Tiffany,” in a tone that means anything but, and drop onto the couch with a sigh.

Only then do you look down and see Bucky still on the floor, still close enough that your knee bumps his elbow, still very much there.

“Did you fix it?” you ask, nodding toward the seating chart.

He doesn’t look up immediately. When he does, his voice is steady in a way his pulse absolutely isn’t.

“Yeah,” he says. “I’ve got you.”

Four days earlier…

You are Time Itself. No one moves unless you decree it.

“Load-in is at seven,” you announce to the empty air – or perhaps to the universe, which should know better by now than to test you.

“It says eight on the schedule,” Bucky replies without looking up from his laptop.

“It’s seven,” you say. “Now.”

He exhales the kind of sigh reserved for malfunctioning printers and divine punishment, but he adjusts the timeline anyway. He’s the only person who could argue with you – and the only one who genuinely doesn’t want to.

Then the DJ calls.

He tells you, very cheerfully and very incorrectly, that your preferred recessional song is “technically unavailable.”

You stop breathing.

“What do you MEAN unavailable?” you shout into the phone. “Music does not disappear! It doesn’t migrate! It’s not an endangered species!”

Somewhere beside you, Bucky goes very still, like a man anticipating shrapnel. He gently pries the phone from your hand, tells the DJ, “Sorry, she’s been like this all week,” and steps away to do damage control.

“You need to eat something,” he says when he returns.

“You need to stop babying me,” you shoot back.

“Funny,” he says mildly, handing you a granola bar. “Because you’re acting exactly like a child.”

You glare at him. Then, still glaring, you bite half the granola bar in a single, furious chomp.

He says nothing – just watches as you flip through The Binder, muttering about back-up music options, crumbs dusting your fingers.

And then he smirks, just this quiet, unbearably fond little curve of his mouth – like he has, against all odds, successfully tamed a dragon.

Or worse, like he likes being the one who can.

Three days earlier…

You return to the venue for a walkthrough, overseeing the preparations, with the air of a small, determined weather system. A storm cloud in sneakers, striding across the lawn.

he grass is crisp underfoot; the late afternoon light glances off every rented surface. Staff scatter at your approach like startled deer as you fire off instructions rapid-fire.

“Those chairs need to be straight!” “That table is too close to the aisle – Natasha will murder someone!” “No, no, the lanterns go in a gentle arc, not –  is that a semicircle? I said gentle! Arc!”

You are relentless. A force of nature. A benevolent tyrant.

And behind you, Bucky moves like the calm shadow of that storm – not blocking it, not dampening it, simply… shaping its path. As you pass through the space, he drifts after you with that quiet, commanding competence vendors obey without hesitation.

You bark, “The draping is too low!” Bucky adds, evenly, “Raise it four inches,” and the fabric lifts to exactly the right height.

You snap, “Why is that easel crooked?” He doesn’t even check – just straightens it in passing.

You whirl and demand, “Did we lose the programs?” Without looking up from the seating chart he’s reviewing, he murmurs, “Left table,” and somehow also manages to hand them to you as you spin past.

Somewhere in the chaos, the vendors begin turning to him instead of you – but he never answers without meeting your eyes first, the quiet your call? passing between you with the ease of something well-practised.

It shifts the atmosphere around you.

Not dramatically, not all at once – but enough that you feel it: the way people start to move around the two of you rather than through you, the way instructions seem to settle more cleanly when he repeats them in that low, steady voice. It isn’t deference so much as an unspoken acknowledgement that whatever this operation is, you and Bucky are its centre of gravity. Like the two of you have become a team. A pair.

The hours blur. At some point the sun shifts, turning the river gold; at some point you realise he has been tracking your movements by sound alone; at some point everyone else started stepping back when the two of you approached together, as if clearing a path for a unit that operates on instinct, not instruction.

And then – He’s gone.

One moment Bucky is beside you, adjusting a lantern hook before you can work up the breath to scold it; the next, he’s simply… vanished. No warning, no explanation.

You freeze mid-step, wondering if perhaps the lanterns were the straw that broke the camel’s back. Maybe the arc was perfectly gentle after all. Maybe he’s halfway home by now, liberated from your tyranny, which is frankly more alarming.

Unfortunately, you don’t have time to worry about it. The rental company have just delivered the wrong chairs – again – and you’re rifling through The Binder for the order confirmation and delivery manifesto when you hear the tell-tale click of doors opening.

You don’t bother looking up. “Bucky, if that’s the caterer, tell them no, we do not want a cheese fountain. We already have a charcuterie table and this is enoughcheese as it is –“

“Not the caterer,” a voice cuts in, bright and very, very amused.

You freeze, snap your head to the door, and immediately want to scream. “Nat?”

She saunters in, sunglasses perched in her hair, dressed like she’s just come from robbing an art gallery. And behind her –

“Steve?”

He offers a sheepish little wave. “Hey.”

“What –” You spin around, scanning the unfinished chaos of the venue. The wrong chairs are still stacked in their delivery plastics, the table linens are half-unwrapped, and someone is vacuuming outside.

“What are you doing here?” you gasp. “We’re – this place is – not done.”

“Bucky called us,” Nat says casually, inspecting the archway of lanterns. “Said you were about to combust.”

You whirl around to glare at him. He’s loitering by the floral delivery, suddenly very interested in counting the number of petals on the hydrangeas.

Traitor.

Steve steps forward before you can explode. “Hey. We’re not here to stress you out. Just thought we’d – have a look. Say hi. Make sure you’re alright.”

“And point out any death traps,” Natasha adds helpfully.

“I –” you glance around the room as a bead of sweat slides down your spine. “I haven’t – okay, but the entryway’s a mess, and I haven’t confirmed if the florist finished –”

Steve claps Bucky on the back, murmurs something you don’t catch, and then turns to you with absolute sincerity.

“Just point out what’s left,” he says. “We’ll tell you if anything needs adjusting.”

You stare at him, hesitating.

There are a dozen things still bothering you – chair alignment, votive placement, aisle symmetry, the floral arch that’s slightly off-centre if you squint.

Natasha squeezes your hand. “Lead the way.”

So you do.

You walk them through the space, stomach clenched, waiting for them to flinch. Waiting for Natasha to raise an eyebrow. For Steve to say something painfully diplomatic like “Oh… interesting choice.” You start at the entryway, apologising for the seating chart station still being assembled. You usher them through the reception room hall, cringing at the wrong chairs. You pause by the catering tent, where someone’s left a crate of half-melted ice under the table.

But –

Steve is nodding. Nat is smiling. They’re chatting with the vendors like old friends. The florist’s assistant offers them tea. A tiny crack forms in the armour of your panic.

And then, you step outside, out onto the terrace.

The world opens.

The lawn rolls out before you, soft and immaculate, before dipping toward the lake – where the water is catching the last gold of the setting sun, shimmering in a way no Pinterest board ever adequately prepared you for. The breeze lifts warm against your face, and but beneath it, a cooler ribbon of air slips past your ankle.

And there, at the centre of it all, stands the arch.

It rises from the grass as though it grew there overnight: a sweep of branches and late-summer blooms woven together so seamlessly it feels alive. Moss softens the base, wildflowers spill through the latticework, and the whole structure glows in the amber light like it has been waiting – patiently, inevitably – for Nat and Steve to stand beneath it.

The trees along the waterline rustle, not loudly, but with that faint, anticipatory shiver of leaves that hints at a change in the air. The whole place feels momentarily enchanted.

Natasha inhales softly. “This is breathtaking.”

Steve wraps an arm around her shoulders, his expression lighting up in a way that makes your throat sting. “It’s perfect,” he says.

Perfect. Perfect.

You have not heard that word in two weeks – not directed at you, not directed at anything you’ve touched. The sound of it seems to land somewhere deep in your chest, loosening a knot you didn’t realise had become part of your anatomy.

You turn slightly, catching Bucky watching you. Not Steve.

Not Natasha.

You.

For a moment his expression is unreadable – steady, assessing, something flickering just behind his eyes as if he’s cataloguing the exact second your shoulders begin to unlock. And when they do, when that infinitesimal shift in your posture betrays just how close to breaking you’ve been, something gentler settles across his features. Something warm. Something proud in a quiet, devastating way.

He doesn’t say a word.

But the silence feels like one: See? I told you. You did this. You can breathe now.

Natasha spins to face you, eyes bright. “Everything looks incredible. Truly.”

You swallow, the question slipping out before you can stop it. “Really?”

“Really,” Steve echoes. “We wouldn’t change a thing.”

The breath leaves you all at once – a long, tremoring exhale you didn’t realise you’d been holding, as if your body had been bracing for criticism even now, even here. Your chest opens like someone finally snipped the last too-tight thread holding it together.

Maybe – just maybe – you haven’t been failing.

Maybe it’s all going to be okay.

Two days ago…

Bucky finds you by accident.

It’s late – late enough that the venue has finally exhaled. The last of the staff have gone, the caterer’s van taillights swallowed by the dark, the florist waving wearily before disappearing down the drive. Outside, a light drizzle patters on and off, the kind that can’t decide whether to commit to rain at all. The venue, which had buzzed like a disturbed hive all day, now settles into a deep, exhausted quiet.

He walks the grounds anyway.

The last staff car crunches over gravel as it pulls away; he stands under the overhang and watches its taillights disappear into the dark. He tells people go home, nods toward their umbrellas, makes sure no one is lingering in the drizzle out of politeness or fear you’ll summon them back.

Only when the final goodnight is called does he breathe out.

Inside, the place feels different. Dimmer. Reverent. The hallway sconces glow low, the air smelling faintly of wet cedar and the sweet scatter of greenery left behind. A final walkthrough, he tells himself. One last sweep before tomorrow.

He moves through the quiet halls checking what he knows: the service doors latched, terrace gate secured so the breeze won’t rattle it open, emergency exits clear. The air smells faintly of eucalyptus and wet earth drifting in from outside. Overhead, the timbers creak softly with the shifting weather.

He pauses beneath the hanging chandeliers – delicate strands of crystal beading suspended amongst shimmering lights. Dozens, maybe hundreds, trembling slightly whenever the drizzle swells and the wind nudges the eaves. He counts them again, and again, pretending it’s for safety, ignoring the truth humming beneath the surface:

Everything is done.

Everything is perfect.

Everything is so unmistakably yours.

He assumes you went home hours ago. He hopes you did. He hopes you’re asleep, or at least horizontal, phone finally out of your hands. He should be doing the same. He should stop orbiting the edges of this day and let tomorrow arrive on its own.

He’s halfway to convincing himself to go when he hears it – a soft, papery sound. A rustle, quiet enough that he almost thinks he imagined it. He slows, frowns, and follows the sound into the reception hall, stopping short at the sight before him.

You’re sitting cross-legged on the polished wooden floor of the reception hall, right beneath the hanging lanterns. The lights are dimmed to a buttery glow; outside, the drizzle streaks silver against the windows. The room is nearly silent, save for the faint breath of the lake through the open vents and the soft, intermittent rain.

Around you lie small squares of colored paper – pinks, creams, golds – scattered like fallen petals. Your shoes are set neatly to the side, and your hair has slipped from whatever pinned it up earlier, trailing loose around your shoulders, a few strands catching light each time you bow your head to fold.

You’re folding each piece with slow, tender precision, hands steady despite the exhaustion etched into every line of you.

A small flock already waits beside you – dozens of cranes ready to be strung up.

Bucky stands there, frozen, something in his chest tightening.

You don’t see him at first. Then he clears his throat. “You planning on sleeping at any point today?”

You look up, startled, then soften when you realize it’s him. “Nope,” you say, far too chipper for someone clearly on the brink.

He huffs out a laugh as he approaches you. “Of course not.”

You lift a paper crane between two fingers, holding it up to the warm light. “There’s an old belief about these,” you say lightly, as if it’s an afterthought and not something that’s been sitting on your tongue all night. “In some traditions, a thousand cranes mean a wish. Or a promise. Health, longevity, good fortune… luck in new beginnings.”

Your eyes flick to the pile beside you – uneven wings, crooked beaks, all of them imperfect in a way only sincerity can be.

“The kids at Steve’s school made a bunch,” you explain softly. “But it wasn’t quite enough for the installation. So I’m… just adding a few more.” Your smile tilts. “Stacking the odds.”

“Not just a few more,” he says automatically.

“I know,” you say lightly, “but it’s for good reason.”

Bucky looks at the cranes again, not as decorations, not as something hung from wires and beams and carefully calculated weight limits. But as wishes. Hundreds of small, deliberate hopes, folded by all the people that love Steve and Natasha, one careful crease at a time, suspended above a room meant to hold a beginning.

Something tightens in his chest. He should leave. He should go home. He should not be drawn to the floor beside you like it’s gravity and he’s helpless against it.

He sits down anyway.

The wood is cool under him. our shoulder is close – closer than it has any right to be – and heat pools along the inside of his arm just from being near you.

You hand him a square of paper. Your fingers brush his. He pretends the touch doesn’t short-circuit something fundamental.

“So,” he says, staring at the paper like it might explode. “Instructions?”

You grin – tired, luminous, devastating. “I knew you’d ask.”

He pretends that doesn’t do something awful and permanent to him.

You lean in, showing him the first fold as your fingers settle over his without hesitation. A warm, electric pressure crawls up his wrist and into his ribs. He swallows. Focus. Fold. Don’t look at her.

“You’re overthinking it,” you say softly.

“I’m not you,” he mutters.

“If you say so.”

You show him how to crease the wing. Your thumb grazes the inside of his palm. His pulse kicks so violently he’s certain you must feel it.

You finish your crane before he finishes his. He pretends not to notice – or admire – the deft precision of your hands. The shape of them. The small, quiet strength of your wrists.

He’s doing a lot of pretending in this lake house.

“You know,” you say, setting another finished crane on the pile, “I think this is the first moment I’ve sat still in two weeks.”

He studies you. Really studies you.

The smudged eyeliner. The exhaustion tucked into the corners of your eyes. The way your shoulders sag only now that no one but him is here to see it.

“You did it,” he says quietly.

You blink. “Did what?”

“Everything.” His gaze sweeps over the decorated hall, the crane installation, the arch waiting outside for tomorrow. “You really built this whole damn wedding from the ground up.”

You laugh, soft and self-conscious. “With help.”

“With me,” he corrects. “And I didn’t even want to be involved at first.”

You smile. “You warmed up.”

“No,” he says before he can stop himself. “I just realized something.”

You turn your head. “Which is?”

This is the moment he feels something tip inside him, heavy and irreversible.

He should lie. He should joke. He should deflect until the truth loosens its grip.

Instead, he hears himself say, “I realized I like seeing you care.”

Your breath catches; it punches through him like a single, unguarded truth.

He looks down quickly, pretending to fix a crooked wing.

“You’re intense,” he says, voice softer than before, “and stubborn, and about half a step from terrifying when you want something done right.”

“Gee, thanks,” you murmur, already starting on another crane.

“But you care,” he continues, ignoring the way his pulse stumbles. “And watching you fight for this – fight for Nat and Steve – finally made me understand it. All of it.”

You stare at him. He stares at the crane in his hands.

“Bucky,” you say gently. “Look at me.”

He does. God help him, he does.

Your expression is open and warm, lit from within despite exhaustion. Something he wants to hold – gently, carefully, protectively – even though he shouldn’t want anything at all.

“I know you don’t care for weddings,” you say.

“I don’t,” he replies immediately.

You raise an eyebrow.

He sighs and tries again. “I just care about this one.”

He doesn’t mean the wedding, but he doesn’t clarify. He can’t.

The silence stretches – soft, thick, dangerous.

You place another crane gently on the pile. His chest aches.

He folds his next one wrong on purpose. Your hand comes up, brushing his to fix it and he nearly stops breathing.

“You’re getting better at this,” you tease.

“I have a good teacher.”

Your eyes flick up at that. There’s a spark there, bright and undeniable. He has to look away, because if he holds your gaze any longer he’s going to say something he can’t take back.

You nudge his knee with yours – light, casual, intimate in a way that guts him. “Thanks for staying,” you say.

He swallows hard. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “It’s getting late.”

And that’s the truth. The whole terrifying truth.

You smile again – soft, grateful, too much – as you place another piece of paper in his hands. And Bucky realizes with a clarity that terrifies him more than anything has – he’d fold a thousand of these damn things if it meant sitting beside you like this.

He folds the next one, and tries not to fall in love with the way you breathe beside him.

He fails spectacularly.

One day earlier…

Your blissful slumber’s interrupted by the knocking on your front door. Pounding down your front door, by the sound of things. You’re dragged violently out of sleep, heart slamming against your ribs before your brain can catch up.

You groan, roll over, and bury your face in the pillow.

It keeps going.

A fist. Hard, urgent, unreasonable.

“Open the door!”

You peel one eye open and squint at your phone – 7:25 am on the one morning you promised yourself you’d sleep in. The one morning everything was supposed to be done.

You stumble out of bed, wrap yourself in the nearest blanket, and shuffle to the door with murder in your bones.

You yank it open.

Bucky Barnes stands there, breathless. His hair’s damp and jacket half-zipped. But his eyes are sharp and wild in a way that snaps you fully awake in half a second.

“What,” you croak, “is your damage?”

“You weren’t answering your phone,” he says immediately.

You blink. “I was asleep.”

“You can’t be.”

“I will,” you insist petulantly. “The ceremony’s not until –”

“The storm last night –” he swallows once, “– a tree came down.”

The words don’t make sense. They hover between you like a foreign language.

“What?”

“At the venue,” he says, softer now, already holding his phone out. “During the storm last night.”

Your stomach drops before you even look.

You take the phone. The oak is ancient. Massive. The kind of tree people build towns around. Its trunk is split down the middle like bone. One half still rooted, the other flung sideways across the terrace roof as though the sky itself hurled it there.

The terrace pergola is gone – not damaged, gone – crushed into splintered ribs beneath the weight of bark and branch. The glass along the upper windows has blown outward. One beam hangs at an angle that makes your stomach lurch. Leaves are everywhere – plastered wet and dark against shattered timber, caught in gutters, smeared across the pale stone like something dragged itself there.

“No,” you whisper. “No – no, no –”

“I’ll drive,” Bucky says gently.

The drive passes in a blur of grey sky and tightening panic. Your hands are clenched so tightly in your lap that your fingers ache.

When you pull into the venue, the damage is worse up close.

The tree dominates. It has erased the terrace – erased the clean, architectural line you loved. The roof sags under the weight of it, one support beam visibly bowed. Sawdust coats the stone in damp, sticky drifts. Someone’s already tried to tarp part of it – the plastic snaps angrily in the wind like it’s offended that such a measly attempt could even begin to fix the damage.

The smell of wet wood and earth fills the air.

You stop walking.

Just… stop.

“It’s gone,” you hear yourself say. Your voice sounds very far away. “It’s all gone.”

Bucky steps closer, careful. “Hey –”

You don’t hear him.

You see the terrace where guests were meant to gather for pre-dinner drinks. The roofline that gorgeously frames the lake. The space you checked and rechecked and trusted.

Your chest caves inward.

“No.” You shake your head, once, then again, harder. “I checked the forecasts. I talked to the landscapers. I –”

Your voice fractures. “This tree is not supposed to fall!”

The venue owner stands nearby, wrapped in a shawl, staring at the fallen tree like she’s in mourning.

“The space mourns,” she murmurs to no one in particular.

A worker approaches her, clipboard in hand. “Ma’am, I know it’s just the terrace, but we can’t allow anyone inside until inspectors clears the entire premise. Forty-eight hours,” he says carefully. “Minimum. Possibly longer if structural damage extends into the main hall.” 

Forty-eight hours.

You feel it then – the crack, the break, the thing you’ve been holding together finally giving way.

“It’s today,” you say, voice breaking. “The wedding is today.”

The owner looks at you, eyes wet. “I’m so sorry.”

You turn away blindly, stagger to a bench, and sit hard. Your breath comes in short, jagged pulls. Hot tears spill before you can stop them.

“I failed,” you choke. “I promised them – this was supposed to be perfect –”

Hands cup your face.

Firm. Warm. Steady.

“Hey,” Bucky says quietly. “Look at me.”

You shake your head.

“Please.”

You do, and you are met with an expression so fierce if startles you – protective, focused, utterly certain.

“I need you to breathe,” he says. “Because this isn’t over.”

You laugh, broken. “Bucky –”

Instead, he reaches into your tote – the one that has practically fused to your side over the past two weeks – and slides out The Binder. Your breath stutters. He holds it with the ease of someone who has done this before, who knows the weight, the tabs, the logic of your mind laid out in color-tabbed sections.

“I know you’ve got contingencies,” he says, flipping through pages with quick, efficient motions. “If it rains. If vendors can’t make it. If the power goes out.”

“Not – ” your voice cracks. “Not this.”

“No.” He closes The Binder gently. “Not trees falling.”

A beat.

A terrible, hollow beat where the question hangs between you: So what now?

You swipe at your cheeks. “We can’t fix the roof. We can’t move all the décor. We can’t – ” Your breath catches. “Bucky, we don’t have a – ”

“Venue?” he finishes, arching a brow.

You nod helplessly.

He looks at you for a long moment. Really looks. Then something in his expression shifts – subtle, almost imperceptible – like the first warm edge of dawn cresting over cold ground.

“Lucky for you,” he says quietly, “I’ve been spending a lot of time around someone who never accepts the first no.”

You blink. “Bucky – ”

“And,” he continues, the corner of his mouth lifting in a small, reluctant smile, “maybe some of that has rubbed off.”

You stare at him. “What are you saying?”

He exhales slowly, like he’s bracing for you to yell at him for the very thing that might save you.

“I’m saying,” he murmurs, “Steve’s parent’s backyard is flat. It’s big enough. The tent can be moved. The caterers can reroute. And the weather forecast gives us at least a until tomorrow morning before the rain starts again.” A pause. “If we start now, we can make it work.”

The world tilts. Not disastrously – but like a compass snapping north after spinning for too long.

“Why?” you whisper.

He doesn’t dodge. Doesn’t joke. His voice is soft, steady, unbearably sincere. “Because you care,” he says simply. “And I’m not going to let this break you.”

Your chest caves open. Relief crashes in, messy and overwhelming.

You breathe in once, twice.

“Okay,” you whisper back. Then louder, steadier, “Okay.”

He squeezes your hands once, grounding you.“Come on,” he says, rising to his feet. “We’ve got seven hours to save a wedding.”

*

The moment Bucky says “Let’s save a wedding,” things get moving – not metaphorically; literally.

He’s already striding away, already dialling, already speaking in that clipped, purposeful tone you’ve only ever heard when he’s absolutely out of patience or absolutely determined.  “Steve,” he says, pacing toward the parking lot. “Change of venue. Backyard. Yes, your backyard. No, I’m not joking. Trust me.”

You stumble after him, still half undone, still blinking tears off your face. “Bucky –”

“Nat’s going to love this,” he says to you, unfazed. “Call her. Tell her not to panic, and tell her she doesn’t have to lift a finger.”

He looks over his shoulder. “Can you do that?”

“Yes,” you say automatically, phone already in your hand.

She picks up on the first ring. “Backyard wedding?” she laughs, delighted. “Perfect. I’ll see you at Steve’s.”

Steve is already texting his parents. Someone’s uncle has folding tables and someone else has a generator “just in case.”

It snowballs fast. The miracle of a small wedding becomes apparent very quicky – every guest is a real person, reachable by phone, reachable within minutes.

You start calling, texting, forwarding maps.

Change of plans! Still today! Bring a chair if you can!

And they’re all very amused by this development.

People reply with laughing emojis, with on our way, with honestly this is very them, with do you need cutlery?

By the time you reach Steve’s family home, the backyard is already transforming.

Someone’s SUV is backed into the lawn with its boot open like a mobile command station. Extension cords snake across the grass. A white rental tent is being muscled upright by three determined guests and one very determined aunt.

The caterers pivot without complaint, food arriving in trays that suddenly feel perfectly suited to long tables and paper plates. The DJ shrugs. “I’ve done a Punjabi wedding on a moving bus. This is nothing.” Music starts, soft and warm and easy.

And Bucky –

He moves through the chaos like a man who made peace long ago with the fact that the universe likes to test him. He directs traffic, helps carry tables, adjusts tent poles, and somehow gets everyone to listen to him without raising his voice once.

When you open your mouth to worry, he’s already answering.

When you start to spiral, he meets your eyes and says, “Handled.”

At some point he has The Binder. You don’t remember handing it to him. You’re not even sure you did. He simply has it now, tucked under his arm like holy scripture.

And then, when you’re midway through redirecting seating placements, walking away from the tent to take in the big picture view, you notice something shifting in the light, a shimmer of cream and gold.

You stop.

A line of delicate shapes sway gently from the tent’s ridge pole. You take two steps forward, then three.

They’re paper cranes – your paper cranes.

Every single last one that you folded and strung together last night, every last one that you had to leave in the reception hall when the world collapsed.

You stare up at them, breath suspended.

“Bucky,” you whisper. “How did – ? They were –  They were in the reception hall.”

He doesn’t even stop tightening the rope he’s working on. “The reception hall wasn’t damaged,” he says. “Just the terrace. So I… grabbed them.”

You turn to him, struck speechless for a moment.

“You… went in?”

“The hall wasn’t damaged.”

“That isn’t the point!”

He shrugs once. “Doors are only locked if you don’t have the key.”

“You –  this is –  you could’ve gotten hurt!”

Bucky finally looks up at you, and he smiles. It’s a small one – crooked and almost shy. “I wasn’t leaving them behind.”

The cranes shift again in the breeze, glowing in the late-morning sun like tiny lanterns, catching glimmers of gold from the fairy lights someone is stringing between the trees.

The cranes shimmer faintly as the breeze lifts them, little beacons of luck and persistence swaying above the lawn. They look impossibly delicate – and yet here they are, surviving storms, travel, relocation.

You realise, as you take it all in, that the rest of the wedding is taking shape in much the same improbable fashion. Piece by piece, person by person.

Because when you turn, the lawn is filling with chairs – mismatched, ridiculous, perfect – carried in by guests who did not hesitate for a single breath. “Everyone bring a chair,” he’d said, and somehow… everyone did.

Kitchen chairs. Lawn chairs. Folding metal ones that look suspiciously like the ones from the high school Steve teaches at. A wicker bench someone absolutely took from their own porch.

It’s ridiculous, it’s perfect.

You finally dare to look at the time and, “It’s –” you begin, startled.

“Ten minutes to start,” Bucky says, checking his watch. “We’re on schedule.”

You gape at him. “How are we on schedule?”

He nods toward The Binder, lying open on a cooler like a general’s map. “The Binder,” he says with a shrug, “has all.”

And for the first time all day –

You laugh. Really, truly laugh. Because somehow, impossibly, disastrously –  you’re going to pull this off.

Together.

*

The ceremony goes off without a hitch.

The tent stands steady despite the soft ground beneath it, canvas glowing warmly in the late afternoon light. Strings of bulbs flicker on as the sun dips lower, their reflections catching in the little puddles of water that have yet evaporated. The grass is a little muddy in places, trampled by hurried footsteps and borrowed chairs. Nothing matches. Everything belongs.

And as the first notes play and everyone rises, you realize something with a clarity that makes your knees go weak:

The wedding didn’t survive despite the chaos.

It survived because of it.

You take your place near the front, hands folded, heart already too full.

Natasha walks in first, not down an aisle so much as across a stretch of grass cleared by people who love her. Her dress is simple and devastating, hair pinned back just enough to frame her face. She looks radiant, not because of the dress or the light or the day, but because she looks certain that this is where she’s meant to be.

Steve is already waiting.

He doesn’t try to hide it, the way his face changes when he sees her – like the world has finally resolved into something understandable. He forgets where to put his hands. Forgets that there are people watching. Forgets everything but her.

You feel tears sting immediately.

The officiant says a few words – nothing grand, nothing rehearsed beyond necessity. Something about finding home in another person. Something about choosing, every day, to stay.

And then, it’s time for vows.

Steve clears his throat, nervous in a way that feels almost boyish. “I don’t have a lot of fancy words,” he says, smiling at her like it’s a private joke, like the entire universe has narrowed down to just him and her. “But I promise to keep choosing you.”

Natasha’s bottom lip trembles. Steve swallows and continues.

“I’ve spent a long time thinking that doing the right thing meant standing alone,” he continues, voice steadying. “You taught me it doesn’t have to. Whatever comes next, I want to face it with you.”

You feel tears prick immediately, hot and unbidden.

Natasha takes his hands when it’s her turn, thumbs brushing over his knuckles, grounding him, grounding them both.

“I don’t make promises lightly,” she says. “But I promise you honesty – even when it’s hard. I promise to stand beside you, not behind you.”

Steve exhales, like he’s been holding his breath for years.

“I’ve spent a long time surviving,” she continues, voice softer now. “With you, I want to live. And I promise I’m not going anywhere.”

And that’s when the something in your chest gives way entirely.

You swipe at your eyes and, in the motion, glance to your left – toward Steve’s side.

Bucky is watching you.

Not the ceremony. Not his best friend standing at the center of it all. You.

There’s no surprise in his expression when your eyes meet. Just something steady and unguarded, something that makes your breath catch. You smile at him – small, private, meant only for this moment.

He doesn’t smile back, not fully, but his shoulders ease, like he’s finally letting himself breathe. His gaze lingers before he looks forward again, jaw tight, eyes bright.

The officiant speaks again, voice barely registering over the rush in your ears.

“By the power vested in me –” The officiant barely has time to finish the words before Steve kisses Natasha like he’s been waiting his whole life to do it.

The backyard erupts – not in polite applause, but in cheers and laughter and the unmistakable sound of people witnessing something go right after so much nearly went wrong.

You look around – at the grass, worn and imperfect beneath polished shoes; at the mismatched chairs – kitchen chairs, folding chairs, one unmistakeable beach chair in the second row; at the tent, glowing softly against the darkening sky; at the faces – teary, smiling, wholly present.

Not a single dry eye.

And suddenly, with a clarity that feels almost sacred, you understand it.

This – this patched-together, last-minute, mud-on-the-hems miracle – this wedding is perfect.

You glance at Bucky again.

He’s watching the couple now, but there’s something thoughtful in his expression. Something changed. As if he’s seeing the whole thing differently – not as an event, not as a spectacle, but as a moment that matters simply because the people in it do.

He catches your eye once more.

This time, he does smile.

And in that small, quiet exchange – barely noticed by anyone else – you feel it settle into place.

Everything is exactly as it should be.

Presently…

This bed isn’t yours. This room isn’t yours. And beside you – facing you, chest rising and falling in a slow, even rhythm, is Bucky.

His eyes are closed, dark lashes resting against his cheek. There’s a smudge of sleep at the corner of his mouth, a softness to him you’re not used to seeing in daylight.

Your gaze drops – bare shoulder, collarbone, the fabric of his shirt rumpled from sleep. And then you feel it: his knee tucked lightly against yours beneath the covers, like neither of you moved much in the night. Like the space between you was never up for negotiation.

Your breath catches.

And in that moment, as the sun reaches across the bed and touches the curve of his jaw, you realize with slow, startling clarity –

You don’t want to move. You certainly don’t want to disturb this.

But then –

His blue eyes – soft with sleep, unfocused at the edges – blink open at the same moment. He inhales sharply, like waking into the shock of something impossible, like waking into you.

The two of you stare at each other.

The world holds its breath.

His hair is mussed, falling over his forehead. His mouth is soft, not yet disciplined into its usual guarded lines. One arm – his – rests over your waist like he reached for you in the night and never let go.

His voice, when it comes, is low. Rough.

“Hey.”

A beat.

A second.

A lifetime.

You swallow, suddenly acutely aware of how close your noses are. Of how his chest rises and falls against yours. Of how you ended up – both of you – pulled together into the same borrowed bed after the reception because there were no spare rooms left at Steve’s family house and “it’s fine, we’re adults, we can share.”

Except now you are awake and sharing feels like the smallest word in the universe.

Bucky’s eyes flick to your mouth. It is microscopic, the shift, but you feel it like a jolt of electricity down your spine. Your heart kicks painfully, traitorously, into your throat.

It feels like balanced-breath territory, the narrow space between what is safe and what is true.

Your throat works. “Hey.”

You can smell him – soap and clean cotton and something unmistakably him. Your heart starts to race.

“This…” you start, because the silence is suddenly too loud, too much, and you have the irrational urge to fill it. “This isn’t what friends do. Right?”

The words hang between you, trembling, dangerous and far too honest.

Bucky doesn’t move for a moment.

Then his gaze settles fully – wholly – on you, and everything inside him sharpens, awakens, and resolves.

“No,” he says quietly. “It’s not.”

Something in his voice makes your chest ache.

You shift, just a little. The mattress dips. His breath catches – not dramatically, but enough that you notice. Enough that it feels like a type of confession all on its own. His hand – warm, careful – slides from your waist to your hip. Not pulling. Just touching. Just holding you like the truth has finally found him.

“We should –” you start.

He doesn’t move away. Instead, he says your name once; just once, like it’s something precious.

“You think I do this –” he murmurs, eyes fierce, intimate, unbearably soft, “– with anyone else?”

You can’t speak.

He moves a fraction closer, the tiniest shift of the pillow, but it feels like the world tilting toward something inevitable and vast.

“I woke up,” he whispers, “and for a second I thought I was dreaming. Because you –” his voice hitches, “– you were looking at me like I was someone you wanted.”

You inhale sharply. “Bucky…”

“And if I’m reading this wrong,” he continues, tone still gentle, still unbearably composed for someone confessing like this, “then tell me. Tell me and I’ll –”

You don’t let him finish.

You lift your hand – shaking, barely steady – and cup his cheek.

His breath stops.

“I don’t exactly know when it started,” you say, voice barely above a whisper. “But I think I’ve been wanting you for a while.”

He closes his eyes once. Slowly. Like the world has finally righted itself.

And when he opens them again, he is not uncertain. He is not hesitant. He is not a man fighting himself anymore.

“You know I don’t believe in weddings – I still don’t,” he says softly. “I don’t believe in big gestures or perfect days. But, this, I believe in things like this.”

His hand lifts – stops, trembling on the edge of daring – before he leans in instead, touching his forehead to yours. The world narrows to warmth and breath and the barest graze of his nose against yours, close enough that all you can see, all you can feel, is him. Your skin sparks, electric, even without his hand on you.

“I believe in you,” he continues. “In the way you care. In the way you fight for people. In the way you stayed up all night folding a thousand paper cranes because you wanted something beautiful to exist in the world. In the way you planned this entire wedding like the universe would collapse if Nat and Steve had anything less than perfect – because for you, caring this much isn’t some kind of twisted vanity, it’s how you move through the world.”

Your eyes burn.

“And I love you and I want to be by your side,” he says simply. “Whether it’s in the chaos or the quiet. And I don’t want to pretend otherwise anymore.”

The room feels very still, very small, and very, very full.

You don’t trust your voice, so you do the only thing you can.

With your heart in your hands, you lean in and gently press your lips to his.

His breath shudders as your lips meet, like he’s been holding something back for a long time and finally lets go. His hand slides into your hair, cradling your head with reverence, not urgency.

The world narrows.

When he deepens the kiss – just slightly – it feels like a promise. When you kiss him back, it feels like an answer.

When you pull away, forehead resting against his, everything has changed.

He smiles then.

Not the guarded half-smile. Not the amused deflection.

A real one. Open. Unmistakable.

“Hi,” he murmurs.

You laugh softly, breathless, overwhelmed. “Hi.”

Outside, the house begins to stir to life with footsteps padding across the hallway, the low clatter of someone in the kitchen trying (and failing) to move quietly, a kettle starting its slow, rising hiss. Chairs scrape gently over the deck. Someone laughs, hushed and tender, the sound drifting through the floorboards like morning light.

Inside, wrapped in tangled sheets and the quiet aftermath of a perfectly imperfect wedding, you realize – with a certainty that feels almost sacred – that this is how it begins – not with spectacle – but with choice, with closeness.

And with love, finally spoken aloud.

When you wake up again, it is to heat.

More specifically – heat and weight and a slow, lazy grind at the small of your back that your sleep-fogged brain misidentifies as a dream right up until you breathe in and, oh, it’s Bucky.

The first time you woke up, it was barely dawn. Just light creeping around the edges of the curtains, your faces inches apart on the pillow, his voice rough as he admitted he didn’t want to be just your friend. A kiss that felt like a beginning. The dizzy, terrifying relief of hearing your own feelings echoed back at you.

Then he’d cupped your cheek, pressed his forehead to yours, and said, “We can talk more when it’s not stupid o’clock.”

You’d agreed. You were exhausted. Your eyes had burned. He’d pulled you in against his chest, arm heavy around your waist, and the two of you had drifted off again, warm and close and newly, precariously honest.

Now it’s later, and Bucky is still spooned around you in the narrow guest bed of Steve’s childhood home, one arm banded heavy around your waist, his chest pressed to your back. His breath ghosts over the nape of your neck in warm, even little puffs.

And his cock is hard, pressed right against your ass.

You go very still.

The arm around your waist tightens, drawing you closer like he’s chasing you in his sleep. His hips roll, just a fraction, like his body’s following a rhythm his brain hasn’t caught up to yet. The thick line of him drags against you through two layers of cotton, and a completely traitorous pulse of heat shoots through you.

“Bucky,” you whisper, not trusting your voice to go any louder.

He makes a low sound, half groan, half wordless complaint, nose nudging into your hair. “Mm. It’s too early.”

“You’re –” You swallow, cheeks burning. “You’re kind of… uh… poking me.”

That seems to cut through the haze faster than any alarm. His body tenses behind you; his hips freeze. There’s a beat where you can feel him realize exactly where he is and what he’s doing.

“Shit,” he mutters, voice rough as gravel, dragging his face up from your neck. “Shit, darling, I –”

He starts to pull away and you instinctively reach back to grab his forearm.

“Wait,” you say.

He goes still again.

You could pretend you’re not already wet. You could pretend you’re not thinking about this every time he brushed past you in the venue kitchen this week, every time he stood too close at the lakehouse walkthrough, every time those stupid blue eyes lingered on your mouth a second too long.

You don’t.

“You’re not the only one,” you say quietly, rolling your hips back just enough that he can feel the way your body’s answering his. “If that makes you feel any better.”

Bucky lets out a shaky little breath right against your ear. “You’re gonna kill me,” he says, and there’s a muffled curse as his hand slides from your waist down over your hip, fingers digging in. He doesn’t move his hips. Yet. “You sure?”

You turn your head enough to see him, to catch his eyes, pupils already blown. “We already said this isn’t what friends do, right?”

“Pretty sure my friends don’t usually wake up tryin’ to fuck me,” he says hoarsely. His gaze drops to your mouth. “But I’m not complaining’.”

He kisses you before you can answer. It’s messy, morning-breath and sleep-warm, but his mouth is hot and eager and familiar in a way that makes your toes curl. His hand comes up to cup your jaw, thumb pressing under your chin, tilting your head where he wants you.

Behind you, his hips finally move. Slow, deliberate grind, the thick length of him dragging against you through the silky fabric of your dress. You gasp into his mouth; he swallows the sound with a low noise of his own.

“Been thinking about this for weeks,” he mutters against your lips. “You in that damn dress all day yesterday. Runnin’ around bossin’ everybody, climbing over me on those shitty folding chairs like it was nothing. You have any idea what you do to me?”

You push your ass back into him, just to feel how hard he is. “I think I’m getting an idea.”

“Tease,” he murmurs, and his hand presses low on your stomach through the dress, the heat of him burning through the thin fabric, fingers splaying like he’s steadying you for what comes next. “Can I?”

You nod, too quickly. “Yes. God, yes.”

He hums like that pleases him. His hand drifts lower, fingers skimming down, pushing the skirt of your dress up. He slides under it, into your panties, and finds you already slick and hot. His breath stutters. “Fuck, baby.”

He circles your clit once, light enough to make you whine, then slips his fingers lower, stroking through your wetness. “You this wet from just waking up next to me?” he asks, voice gone smug and filthy. “Or have you been dreaming about me?”

“Shut up,” you gasp, hips jerking. “You’re the one grinding on me in your sleep, Bucky.”

“Yeah, well,” he says, pushing two fingers into you, slow and deliberate, “if you start sleeping in my bed, there’s gonna be a lot worse than grinding.”

Your reply dissolves into a broken moan as he curls his fingers just right. He works you open with careful, steady thrusts, his palm rubbing your clit on every stroke. It’s obscene how fast he finds exactly how to touch you, like he’s been mapping out how this would go for weeks.

You reach back blindly and find him, wrap your hand around the thick length straining against his waistband. Even through the cotton, he’s solid, heavy, twitching under your fingers.

He swears, low and vicious. “You’re killing me,” he repeats, hips rocking forward into your hand. “Get these off.”

Between the two of you, your dress and panties end up somewhere at the foot of the bed. He groans when he sees you, bare and open in the afternoon light. His fingers slide back through your slick, spreading it, thumb drawing lazy circles over your clit.

“Prettiest thing I ever seen,” he says, almost to himself.

You push back, needy. “Bucky.”

“Yeah, I got you.” He shifts, fumbling one-handed with his own waistband until his cock is free, hot and leaking where it brushes the curve of your ass. He hisses through his teeth at the contact. “Fuck. You sure?”

You look over your shoulder, meet his eyes, and there’s no way he can mistake the answer. “Please.”

His expression crumples into something helpless and obscene. “Okay,” he says hoarsely. “Okay. I’ll take care of you.”

He lines up and pushes in, the blunt head nudging against your opening, then stretching you, slow, slow, until he’s buried thick and deep. You gasp, fingers clawing at the sheets, the stretch just shy of too much.

“Jesus,” he groans, forehead dropping between your shoulder blades. “You’re so fucking tight. Grippin’ me like you don’t ever wanna let me go.”

“You could move,” you manage, voice high and shaky. “That might help.”

He laughs, broken and breathless, and pulls back only to slam in again, setting a rhythm that has the old headboard tapping the wall in soft, insistent knocks. His hand finds yours on the mattress, lacing your fingers together, grounding you even as he fucks into you harder, his other hand still working your clit.

The slick sounds of him moving in you fill the little room, mixed with your gasps and his low curses. Every thrust hits that perfect spot; every drag of his thumb winds you tighter.

“Listen to you,” he pants, voice right against your ear now. “Making those little noises for me. You gonna come on my cock, sweetheart?”

Your answer is more of a strangled sob than a word. Heat coils tight in your belly, sharp and bright.

“Yeah,” he says, like he can feel you clenching. “There you go. Let go for me. Come on, baby. I’ve got you.”

It’s the way he says it – like a reverent promise – that tips you over. You shatter around him, muscles fluttering, vision going white at the edges. You hear yourself cry out, feel him groan into your shoulder as your body milks him.

“Fuck – just like that, just like that,” he grits, thrusts turning messy. A few more and he’s gone too, burying himself deep as he spills inside you, whole body trembling against your back.

For a long moment, the only sounds are your breathing and the soft tick of the old clock on the nightstand.

Eventually, Bucky shifts, carefully easing out of you, both of you hissing at the oversensitive drag. He collapses onto his back beside you, one arm flung over his eyes.

“This,” you say, staring at the ceiling, still trying to remember how lungs work, “is definitely not what friends do.”

He laughs, low and wrecked, turning his head to look at you. His hair’s a mess, cheeks flushed, eyes soft in a way that makes your chest hurt.

“Good,” he says, reaching over to tug you against his side, tucking you into the crook of his arm like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “’Cause I’ve never wanted to be just your friend.”

yap! i have a lot of feelings about weddings (i love weddings as a literary device as much as kevin kwan does LMAO) as you can tell... and i just got so juiced up with ideas i couldn't bring myself to cut anything so here we are! if you've read to the end, here is a kiss for you and i hope you enjoyed it and didn't find it too long! also im a wedding lover, my own wedding is going to be my superbowl. remember to check out the other event fics! there's so much care and love there!!

dear my darling reader masterpost || more bucky from me

[slutdier]

❝ 𝑪𝑬𝑵𝑻𝑼𝑹𝑰𝑬𝑺 𝑶𝑭 𝑹𝑼𝑻 ❞

A touch-starved alpha Bucky Barnes finally snaps when his freshly-moved-in omega neighbor’s heat spikes through the thin Brooklyn apartment walls. He hasn’t fucked a pussy since the 1940s, and her desperate, dripping scent drives him feral.

alpha!neighbour!bucky barnes x f!omega!reader

word count : 5,2k

warnings 18+ : explicit sexual content, no use of y/n, penetrative sex, knotting, fingering, a/b/o dynamics, heats, ruts, scenting, breeding kink, claiming/bonding bites, sex while pregnant, dubious consent (omega begs repeatedly while alpha hesitates out of fear of harm), size difference, possessiveness and mild dominance, brief mentions of historical trauma (hydra, forced celibacy, painful solo ruts)

author’s note : this is my first time ever writing anything a/b/o so pls be kind to her world 💀 hope you enjoy!!

The air in the old Brooklyn apartment building had been humming with quiet tension for three weeks now. Thin walls, creaky floors and James Buchanan Barnes across the hall, the gentlest alpha you’d ever met, who somehow made your body ache with a need so fierce it embarrassed you.

From the very first day, he’d offered to help with your boxes, voice soft as he asked, “Mind if I carry the heavy ones doll?” His metal arm gleamed under the hallway light as he lifted them effortlessly but he was careful, always careful, setting each one down like it was fragile, smiling that small, shy smile when you thanked him.

His scent drifted over you in the stairwell: warm pine, clean steel, something comforting and strong that settled deep in your lungs.

Your reaction was immediate and mortifying. Heat flared low in your belly, slick rushing hot and sudden between your thighs until you had to press your legs together to hide the way your panties were already soaked through. You ducked your head, cheeks burning, praying he hadn’t noticed.

But Bucky had.

His breath caught for the briefest second, blue eyes softening as they met yours. He didn’t say a word about it just murmured, “Anytime you need help I’m right here,” voice tender enough to make your heart stutter. Then he stepped back, giving you space, hands loose at his sides like he was proving he’d never take more than you offered.

Since then, you’d turned into someone you barely recognized, shy on the outside, filthy-minded on the inside, desperate for any scrap of closeness he’d allow.

In the laundry room you started timing your visits to his, wearing soft little shorts that rode up when you bent over, pretending you didn’t know exactly what you were doing. You’d brush past him too close on purpose, letting your vanilla-honey scent bloom thick and sweet in the humid air. He’d go still every time, folding a towel with careful movements but you could see the way his throat worked when he breathed you in.

You weren’t bold, you blushed just thinking about it but the ache between your legs made you reckless. You’d linger by the dryer, bending slow, thighs slick and trembling because you knew he could smell how wet you were. Once, a helpless little moan slipped out when another pulse of slick soaked through your shorts, leaving a damp spot you couldn’t hide.

Bucky’s soft inhale was the only warning before his quiet voice reached you. “Sweetheart… you okay?” So gentle, so concerned, like he thought you might be hurting. His eyes were dark but his expression was all worried kindness, metal hand curled loosely at his side so he wouldn’t scare you. You wanted to drop to your knees and beg him to do something about the mess you’d made of yourself.

The elevator rides were torture you inflicted on both of you. You’d stand just close enough that your shoulder almost brushed his chest, breathing him in until you were dizzy. Your body didn’t care that you were shy, it reacted anyway, nipples tight against your shirt, fresh slick coating your thighs every time the car jerked. You’d bite your lip to keep quiet but sometimes a tiny, needy sound escaped anyway.

He never crowded you. Always stood with his hands behind his back or gripping the rail, giving you every inch of space. But once, after a particularly desperate whimper left your throat, he leaned in just enough to murmur against your hair, “I’ve got you. Whatever you need, I’m right here.” The words were so soft, so patient, they made you throb harder, made you want to turn around and rub yourself against him like a cat in heat.

Nights were when your restraint cracked completely. Through the thin wall you could hear him, quiet at first then the soft rustle of sheets, the low, helpless groan he tried to muffle in his pillow. The slow, slick sound of his hand moving over his cock, careful even when he was alone, like he was afraid of waking you. You’d press your ear to the wall, legs spread wide, fingers plunging deep into your dripping cunt because you couldn’t stop yourself.

You’d fuck yourself hard and fast, chasing the rhythm of his strokes, imagining his gentle hands instead, how careful he’d be, how he’d whisper sweet things while he split you open. Sometimes you heard him say your name, so soft and reverent it sounded like a prayer.

“God baby… wanna take care of you… wanna be good for you…” It sent you over every time, thighs shaking as you came messily around your fingers, biting the pillow to stay quiet while slick soaked the sheets beneath you.

You were the one burning up with filthy, desperate need.

He was the one holding back with endless patience and sweetness, waiting for you to ask.

And every night you came listening to him fall apart so gently on the other side of the wall, you wondered how much longer you could stand not begging him to finally give you what you both wanted.

Until tonight.

Your heat had crested into something unbearable, a vicious, clawing thing that left you stripped bare on the living-room floor, legs splayed wide, thighs glazed with hours of slick. Fingers weren’t enough anymore, three buried to the knuckles, thrusting frantically, chasing a relief that wouldn’t come.

The vibrator buzzed uselessly beside you; even the pillow you’d humped raw couldn’t soothe the hollow, aching throb deep in your cunt. You were sobbing openly now, broken pleas spilling into the empty apartment.

“Bucky… please… need you inside me… need your knot… need your pups…”

The words tore out of you without shame, loud enough to carry through the thin wall.

On the other side, Bucky broke.

He’d been fighting it for weeks, every gentle, devoted inch of himself locked down tight. Every time your scent thickened in the hallway, every time you bent over in the laundry room and he caught the shine of slick on your thighs, every muffled whimper he heard at night, he’d gone back to his apartment and stroked himself slow, almost reverent, whispering your name while he imagined sliding into you gentle and deep, imagined filling you so carefully you’d feel safe and cherished while he put his pups in you.

He was obsessed with it. Couldn’t think of anything else. The thought of your belly rounding soft with his child, of your body changing because of him, because he’d taken care of you so perfectly, it lived behind his eyes every second of every day. He wanted to be gentle. Wanted to be good. Wanted to earn the right to breed you by proving he’d never hurt you.

But tonight your scent flooded the hallway like a wave of pure, desperate heat and your broken cries punched straight through his chest.

Three soft, urgent knocks sounded at your door, too controlled to be anything but him.

“Doll?” His voice came through the wood, low and trembling, thick with worry and rut. “Sweetheart, I- I heard you cryin’. You okay? Can I… can I come in? Just to check on you, I swear I’ll be good-”

You scrambled up on shaky legs, slick pouring down your thighs in fresh rivulets, and flung the door open.

He looked wrecked in the most heartbreaking way: hair falling into dark, pleading eyes, chest heaving under a damp T-shirt, sweats tented obscenely with the thick line of his cock, a wet patch spreading at the tip. His scent rolled over you, warm pine, clean steel, and the heavy, drugging musk of an alpha deep in rut, but his hands were open at his sides, fingers flexing like he was terrified to reach for you.

“Oh baby,” he whispered, voice cracking as he took in the sight of you, naked, trembling, drenched. “You’re hurtin’ so bad… I’m sorry I waited so long. I didn’t wanna scare you…”

You lunged at him with a desperate whine, wrapping your arms around his neck, grinding your soaked cunt against the ridge of his cock through the fabric. “Bucky please- need you now. Need you to fuck me, need you to breed me, please-”

He caught you easily, lifting you against his chest like you weighed nothing, metal arm cradling your back, flesh hand cupping your ass with reverent care but the rut roaring through him finally snapped the last thread of patience.

He couldn’t wait another second, couldn’t make it the few extra steps to the couch.

With a low, trembling growl he sank to his knees right there in the entryway and lowered you gently to the floor, laying you down like you were still the most precious thing in the world, even as his hands shook with the need to claim you now.

“I’ve got you omega,” he murmured, voice shaking as he peeled off his shirt, revealing miles of scarred muscle. “Gonna take such good care of you, I promise. Wanna make you feel safe while I… while I give you everything.”

He settled between your thighs, eyes locked on yours and slid into you slow, so achingly slow, inch by thick inch, groaning soft and reverent as your slick walls fluttered around him.

“God, you’re perfect,” he breathed, forehead pressed to yours, hips rolling gentle and deep. “So warm… so tight… been dreamin’ about this pussy every night doll. Dreamin’ about putting my pups right here-” His flesh hand slid to your lower belly, pressing lightly, possessively. “Wanna fill you up so gentle you feel every drop… wanna watch you grow round with me…”

The sweetness of it, the devotion in his voice, only made you wilder. You clawed at his back, heels digging into his ass, trying to pull him deeper, faster.

“Harder,” you begged, voice raw. “Bucky please- need it rough, need you to ruin me, need you to breed me like you mean it-”

He froze, hips stuttering, eyes wide with sudden fear. “No baby- no, I can’t.” His voice cracked, raw and vulnerable.

“I… I haven’t been with anyone since the forties doll. Back then I was just a man- had a few sweet omegas, even knotted and bred a couple before the war took me. But after I fell, after Hydra… nothing. Not a single person in seventy years. They stole every chance, turned me into a weapon instead of a mate. I’ve never knotted anyone since, never bred anyone since and now my rut’s hittin’ harder than it ever has. You’re so small, so perfect, and I’m terrified I’ll lose control and hurt you. I couldn’t live with myself if I ever hurt you sweetheart.”

The confession spilled out of him like it had been locked behind his teeth for weeks, his blue eyes glassy with fear and longing. He rested his forehead against yours, trembling. “I want to give you pups more than I want to breathe, sweetheart. But I need to be gentle. Need to keep you safe.”

You sobbed, clenching hard around his cock, grinding up against him in filthy desperation. “You won’t hurt me. I trust you. I need it alpha- need you to lose control, need you to fuck me full of your pups, please-”

His breath hitched, a low, helpless sound tearing out of him. You felt his restraint crack, felt the tremor in his thighs as he fought it.

“Please,” you whispered again, nipping his jaw, licking the sweat from his throat. “Be rough with me. I’m begging you.”

Something shattered behind his eyes.

With a broken groan he pulled back and slammed home, hard, deep, perfect. Your back arched off the floor as he set a punishing rhythm, hips snapping, metal arm braced beside your head so he wouldn’t crush you, flesh hand gripping your thigh to spread you wider.

“That what you need, sweet girl?” he rasped, voice ragged with filth. “Need your alpha to fuck you raw after all these years? Need me to breed this pretty pussy till it’s dripping with me?”

“Yes- yes- harder!”

He gave it to you. Pounded into you like he was trying to crawl inside your skin, cock dragging over every sensitive spot, balls slapping wet against your ass. Every thrust shoved a filthy squelch from your soaked cunt, slick splashing onto his thighs.

“Gonna knot you so deep,” he panted, eyes fixed on where you were joined, watching himself disappear into you over and over. “First knot in almost a century baby, all for you. Gonna lock you to me and pump you so full of cum you’ll be carrying my pups by morning- fuck, I can’t wait to see you swollen doll, can’t wait to take care of you while you grow ‘em-”

You shattered around him with a scream, pussy clamping viciously, milking him as you came in messy, squirting waves.

He followed with a hoarse cry, hips grinding deep as his knot swelled huge and sudden, popping past your pussy and locking tight. The stretch burned white-hot, perfect, and then he was coming, endless thick ropes flooding your womb, spilling hot and heavy, overflowing around the knot in creamy rivulets that soaked you both.

He collapsed carefully, rolling so you were draped over his chest, still impaled, knot throbbing with every aftershock. His arms wrapped around you gentle again, metal fingers stroking your spine, flesh hand cradling the back of your head.

“Good girl,” he whispered, voice soft and wrecked, kissing your temple, your cheeks, the tears on your lashes. “Took me so perfect… my first knot in seventy years and you made it feel like heaven. Gonna keep you knotted all night, baby. Gonna breed you again as soon as it goes down. Wanna put so many pups in you… wanna love you through every single heat.”

You nuzzled into his neck, breathing him in, your body finally, blissfully full.

And somewhere in the haze, you felt his knot pulse once more, another gentle, possessive spurt deep inside as he murmured against your skin, reverent and obsessed:

“Mine now, sweetheart. After all this time waiting… gonna spend the rest of my life keeping this belly round.”

You wake slow, aching in every possible way, sweet, filthy, perfect.

The hardwood is cool against your cheek, but Bucky’s body is a furnace curled around you from behind, heavy and protective. His flesh arm is draped over your waist like an anchor, metal hand resting low on your belly, fingers splayed wide and gentle, as if he’s already cradling something precious that isn’t there yet. The air is thick with the two of you: warm pine, steel, vanilla-honey, and the unmistakable proof of last night, hours of knotting, breeding, claiming, coating your skin, the floor, everything.

His cock is still inside you, half-hard and nestled deep, plugging the slow trickle of his own spend so nothing escapes. Every tiny shift of his hips makes a soft, wet sound and sends a lazy throb through your overworked walls. You’re sore, swollen, utterly wrecked… and your heat purrs at the feel of him anyway, slick already gathering fresh and helpless.

He stirs with a low, sleepy hum, nose burying in your hair to breathe you in like you’re oxygen.

“Mornin’ pretty girl,” he murmurs, voice gravel-soft and shamelessly adoring. His metal thumb strokes slow circles over your lower belly, reverent. “Sleep okay with my cock keepin’ you full all night?”

You whimper, half-embarrassed, half-desperate and rock back against him on instinct. The motion drags his thickening length through your messy heat and he groans like it hurts, so good it hurts.

“God, doll,” he whispers against your bond mark, lips brushing the tender, crusted bite with heartbreaking gentleness. “You’re still drippin’ me. Kept every drop right where it belongs, didn’t you? Good omega… best omega.”

His flesh hand slides up to cup one heavy, aching breast, thumb brushing your nipple so tenderly you shiver. “These are gonna get so full for me,” he says, quiet and certain, like he’s picturing it already.

“Gonna swell up sweet and heavy, leak milk down your pretty belly while I keep you knotted and happy. Can’t wait to taste you, gonna suck you soft and slow every night, keep you feelin’ safe and spoiled while our pups grow.”

The words are pure filth but his tone is pure devotion, soft, shameless, utterly obsessed. He rocks into you lazy and deep, stirring last night’s loads with slow, churning thrusts that make obscene, wet sounds in the quiet morning.

“Feel that little swell already?” he asks, metal palm pressing gently, possessively over your abdomen.

“That’s me, baby. All that cum I gave you, sittin’ deep, takin’ root. Been dreamin’ about this since the day you moved in, puttin’ my pups in you, watchin’ you bloom. Never thought I’d get the chance again… not after everything. But you-”

His voice cracks just a little, raw with wonder. “You let me in. Let me love you like this.”

You clench around him involuntarily, fresh slick coating his cock and he moans your name like a prayer.

“Still so greedy for me,” he chuckles, warm and fond, hips rolling a little faster now.

“My sweet, perfect girl, heat all burned out yet still beggin’ for more. Don’t worry, doll. I’m gonna give you everything. Gonna knot you soft and slow this morning, pump you full again till you’re overflowin’. Then I’ll carry you to bed, clean you up gentle, feed you breakfast with you in my lap… and knot you again after.”

He nips your ear, voice dropping to that shameless, loving growl. “Gonna keep this belly round for years, sweetheart. One litter after another, till you’re sick of bein’ spoiled and pregnant and mine. But I don’t think you ever will be.”

You come with a broken little cry, fluttering weakly around him and he follows right after, knot swelling slow and careful, locking you together as he spills deep with soft, reverent groans. His arms tighten around you, metal hand still cradling your belly like it’s the most precious thing in the world.

“There we go,” he whispers, lips dragging slow and hot over the fresh bond mark, then your shoulder, your damp temple. His voice is a low, filthy-sweet rasp right against your ear.

“One more thick, hot load pumped straight into your perfect little womb for our pups, pretty baby. Fuck… feel how full you are? This gorgeous, greedy pussy still milkin’ every drop outta me, drippin’ my cum down your thighs like the beautiful mess you are. Best thing I’ve ever felt- this tight, silky heaven wrapped around my knot, takin’ everything I give you, lettin’ me love you deep and dirty and so fuckin’ proper.”

He stays buried deep, knot pulsing gently, and holds you like he’ll never let go.

You’re both still filthy, crusted, sticky, gloriously wrecked, sprawled together on the living-room floor where you passed out knotted and spent. The hardwood is cool beneath you, scattered blankets and discarded clothes forming a makeshift nest, the air thick with the heavy scent of rut, slick and alpha cum.

Every time you shift in his arms, trying to get comfortable against his chest, flakes of his dried spend drift off your inner thighs like snow and the sight makes him growl low and possessive against your neck, metal hand tightening gently over your lower belly while his flesh hand slides down to cup your swollen pussy, thumb tracing the sticky mess still leaking slow from you.

“Can’t have my seed wastin’ on the floor, pretty girl,” he rasps, voice rough with leftover rut and pure hunger. “Every drop belongs right back inside this perfect little cunt.”

The shower’s already steaming when he steps in. His cock swings heavy between his thighs, thick, flushed, half-hard again like it never learned the meaning of enough. He steps in behind you, metal arm locking gentle around your waist to keep you steady while hot water pours over you both, rinsing away the crusted mess but doing nothing to ease the raw, throbbing ache deep in your pussy.

“Spread those pretty legs for me doll,” he rasps against your neck, voice rough with leftover rut and pure adoration.

You obey instantly, always instantly for him, thighs falling open under the spray. His flesh hand slides down your belly, cups your swollen, puffy pussy like it’s the most precious thing he’s ever touched. Two fingers part your folds slow and reverent, letting the water flush out the thick, creamy ropes of his spend still plugged inside you. They drip slow and obscene, swirling down the drain in filthy strands, and he watches like a man possessed.

“Fuck, look at that,” he groans, voice shaking with awe. “Bred you so deep it’s still pourin’ out hours later. My good girl, kept me locked in all night, didn’t let a single drop escape till now.” His metal thumb spreads you wider, cool plates against your fever-hot skin, letting more cum leak free. “Don’t worry, baby. Gonna stuff you full again soon as we’re clean. Can’t stand seein’ this perfect pussy empty.”

He soaps his big hands until they’re foamy, then washes you slow, almost worshipful, palms gliding over your heavy tits, down the curve of your belly, between your trembling thighs. But the gentleness only lasts so long. Two thick, soapy fingers push inside you without warning, scissoring deep to clean every inch of your used walls, thumb circling your swollen clit until your knees buckle and you sob his name.

“Easy, sweetheart,” he whispers, metal arm banding tight across your chest to hold you up. “Just cleanin’ my mess outta you… so I can make a brand-new one. Gonna keep this greedy cunt drippin’ me forever.”

You come hard and sudden, pussy fluttering weakly around his fingers, squirting slick and water down his wrist in messy pulses. The sound you make is broken, desperate and it rips a filthy-sweet groan from his throat. His cock is rock-hard now, grinding slow against the curve of your ass like it’s begging.

He rinses you thoroughly, really thoroughly, then wraps you in the fluffiest towel he found, carries you back to the kitchen still dripping. Sets you on the counter, spreads your thighs wide just to look, eyes blown black with that same breeding obsession.

“Stay right there, pretty girl. Don’t move an inch.”

He disappears for a second, rummaging through the scattered clothes on the floor, then comes back with his shirt, the same one he’d worn last night, still carrying the warm scent of pine, steel and him.

He stands in front of you, eyes dark and hungry as he slides it over your head himself, guiding your arms through the sleeves with careful hands. The fabric falls soft and loose, brushing your thighs as he tugs it down until it barely skims the curve of your ass.

No panties, of course not. He smooths the hem with possessive palms, fingers lingering on your bare skin underneath, a low growl rumbling in his chest.

“Never again, pretty girl,” he murmurs, voice rough and reverent. “Don’t want anything between me and this perfect little pussy. Wanna be able to touch you, taste you, slide inside you whenever I need. And I’m gonna need you a lot.”

Then he makes breakfast, shirtless, sweats slung low, metal arm flexing every time he flips bacon or pours coffee. You sit on the stool, legs swinging, feeling the slow, steady seep of leftover cum still leaking out of you onto the wood beneath your bare pussy. Every shift makes you clench, makes more drip out and the knowledge that he can smell it, that he knows, has you squirming, thighs rubbing together, heat already simmering again.

He plates pancakes drowning in syrup, crispy bacon, fluffy eggs and sits right beside you, metal arm draped possessive over the back of your chair. You’re halfway through a bite when the question slips out soft and curious.

“So… you really hadn’t fucked anyone since the 40’s?” you ask, fork hovering. “Like… not once? What about your ruts? How did you survive them alone?”

He freezes, coffee mug halfway to his mouth. Then he sets it down slow, turns to you with raw, unguarded eyes.

“Dead serious, doll,” he says, voice low and rough with memory. “Not a single pussy since 1943. Hydra kept me frozen most of the time, when they woke me, I was nothin’ but a weapon. No relief, no omega, no softness. Just blood and missions and ice.”

His metal hand slides up your bare thigh under the counter, cool fingers tracing the fresh trail of slick already coating your skin.

“After I got free… ruts hit harder than anything I’ve ever felt. Worst pain I’ve ever known, worse than fallin’ off that train, worse than losin’ the arm. I’d lock myself away, chain my ankles if I had to. Jerked off till my cock bled, till I passed out in a puddle of my own spend. Bit through my own lip, dented concrete with this hand tryin’ not to break out and hurt someone.”

His flesh hand cups your jaw, thumb stroking your lower lip with heartbreaking tenderness.

“Then you moved in across the hall,” he rasps, eyes darkening with devotion. “First whiff of your heat and I nearly tore the building down to get to you. Spent weeks strokin’ myself raw every time you walked past, smellin’ like warm vanilla and needy, dripping cunt. Thought I’d lose my mind if I didn’t bury myself in you soon.”

He leans closer, metal fingers slipping between your legs again, finding you soaked and open and aching. Two slide in easy, slow, possessive pumps that make you gasp and drop your fork.

“Last night was the first time in seventy goddamn years I got to sink into a real omega pussy,” he growls against your mouth, voice thick with love and filth. “First knot. First breeding. First time comin’ inside somethin’ so warm and wet and beggin’ for my pups. You took every drop baby-milked me dry, let me flood this perfect little womb till it overflowed.”

His thumb finds your clit, circling slow and relentless while his fingers fuck you lazy and deep right there at the breakfast table.

“Now I got this sloppy, greedy cunt leakin’ for me again before the plates are even empty,” he whispers, reverent and shameless. “Gonna spend the rest of my life makin’ up for every lonely rut- gonna knot you every heat, every day, every time you look at me like that. Gonna keep you stuffed full, belly swollen, tits heavy and leakin’ milk down this pretty body while I pump another litter into you.”

You moan, loud, broken, desperate, clenching hard around his fingers, hips rocking shamelessly into his hand. Breakfast is forgotten. You’re already dripping down his wrist again, thighs trembling, heat flaring hot and hungry because it’s him because it’s Bucky looking at you like you’re his whole world and talking like he’s going to spend forever proving it.

He kisses you deep and dirty, tasting like coffee and bacon and pure alpha love.

“You gave me everything, omega,” he whispers against your swollen lips, voice rough with awe and possession. “Ended a hundred-year drought with the wettest, neediest, most perfect pussy I’ve ever dreamed of. And I’m gonna keep it soaked, bred, and happy for the rest of my life.”

It’s a few weeks later, New Year’s Eve. The little drugstore test is still on the bathroom counter, two pink lines glowing like a promise. You’re barely four weeks along but your body already knows. Your breasts are heavier, tender and swollen, nipples darker and so sensitive that even the brush of Bucky’s dog tags against them makes you shiver. A soft, constant warmth hums low in your belly, a permanent simmer of need that has you wet almost all the time now.

Bucky hasn’t let you more than ten feet away from him since you showed him the test. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, shirtless, sweats slung low, metal arm catching the low light. You stand between his thighs wearing nothing but his old dog tags and a pair of his boxers rolled at the waist. Your belly is still flat but the way he looks at it, like he can already see the curve, already feel his pups moving, makes heat pool between your legs.

“God, doll,” he whispers, voice thick with wonder and something deeper, softer. Both hands, warm flesh and cool metal, slide up your thighs, over your hips, until they settle gently over your lower abdomen. His thumbs trace slow, reverent circles right where everything is changing. “You’re really carryin’ my baby. My seed took… first night I ever knotted anyone in seventy years, and it took.”

He leans forward, presses his lips to your belly in a kiss so tender it makes your eyes burn. Inhales deep, nose brushing your skin. “Smell so sweet already,” he murmurs against you. “Like warm vanilla and milk and mine. Fuck, baby… you’re perfect.”

His flesh hand slips lower, under the waistband of the boxers, finding you soaked, slick coating your thighs in a constant, helpless trickle. He groans softly when his fingers glide through it, metal arm tightening gently around your waist to steady you as two thick fingers sink inside slow and careful.

“Still so wet for me,” he breathes, pumping gentle, curling just enough to make your breath hitch. “This pretty pussy’s already flutterin’ around my fingers… and you’re only a month along. Gonna take such good care of you, sweetheart.”

He eases his fingers free, brings them to his lips and licks them clean with a quiet, reverent hum, eyes never leaving yours. Then he stands, towering over you for a moment before guiding you gently down onto the bed, onto your back, pillows propped behind you so you’re comfortable.

“Gonna love you slow tonight,” he promises, voice low and rough with adoration. He peels the boxers off your legs, settles between your thighs with infinite care, like you’re made of glass and gold. His cock is heavy, flushed, leaking at the tip, but he doesn’t rush. Just drags the head through your slick folds once, twice, coating himself, before pressing in, slow, steady, watching your face the entire time.

You both sigh when he bottoms out. He stills, lets you adjust, forehead pressed to yours.

“Feel okay, pretty girl?” he whispers, brushing a kiss to your lips, your cheek, the corner of your eye. “Tell me if it’s too much. You’re carryin’ my pups now- I’ll be so gentle, I swear.”

You nod, threading fingers through his hair, pulling him closer. “Feels perfect, alpha.”

The word makes him shudder. He starts moving, long, deep, unhurried strokes that drag over every sensitive spot inside you, slow enough that every ridge and vein of his cock feels like a caress. His metal hand cradles the back of your head; his flesh hand slides up your side to cup one swollen breast, thumb stroking over the dark, aching nipple with heartbreaking tenderness.

“These are gettin’ so full already,” he murmurs, voice raw with awe. He lowers his head, lips brushing the curve of your breast, tongue flicking gentle over the peak. Then he closes his mouth around it, soft, warm suction that makes you arch and whimper. He suckles slow and careful, like he’s already coaxing milk that isn’t there yet, like he’s memorizing the weight and feel of you changing for him.

You moan his name, hips rocking up to meet his gentle thrusts, slick dripping down your thighs, soaking the sheets. He switches to the other breast, giving it the same reverent attention, sucking softly, tongue swirling, teeth grazing just enough to make you gasp but never enough to hurt.

“Gonna do this every day,” he whispers against your skin, lips shiny, eyes dark and devoted. “Suck these pretty tits till they’re leakin’ for me. Then I’ll lick every drop off your belly before I kiss my way lower and taste how wet you get because of me.”

His rhythm stays slow, deep, loving, every thrust a promise, every pull of his mouth on your nipple a vow. Outside, fireworks start popping as midnight nears but inside it’s just the soft, wet sounds of him loving you, your quiet moans, his whispered praise.

“Come for me when the new year starts baby,” he breathes, thumb finding your clit to circle gentle and steady. “Come on your alpha’s cock while I’m suckin’ these gorgeous tits and buried deep in the pussy that’s growin’ my baby.”

The first big fireworks boom over Brooklyn just as you fall apart, pussy fluttering soft and sweet around him, a gentle, rolling orgasm that leaves you trembling and breathless. He groans your name like a prayer, hips grinding deep as his knot swells slow and careful, locking you together without a hint of pain. Warm pulses of cum spill into you, gentle and endless, his body curled protectively over yours.

He stays on his elbows so his weight never presses your belly, lips returning to your breasts, suckling softly through the aftershocks, kissing every inch of tender skin like he’s worshipping the changes already happening.

“Happy New Year pretty mama,” he whispers, voice thick with love, metal hand splayed gentle over your abdomen, flesh hand stroking your hair. “Best year of my life starts tonight, with you pregnant, tits heavy in my mouth, pussy soft and full of me. Gonna love you like this every single day. Gentle and slow and mine.”

— yours truly, ѕℓυtdιεr.

masterlist

taglist : @angel-bugz @sheriff-bodecker @arsenalofproblems @imanidiotsimpforhotmen @spdrveil @shackoflove @buckybunni @fancypeacepersona @noirecherie @babygirlxos @vickynguyennn @avgdestitute @silveredpenumbrashark @latenightmatilda @thegirlfatherr @nonotwithoutu @sebastians-love @doelikedollz @wintersgirllost @ryswritingrecord @biggestfangirl @swansonnetts @herejustforbuckybarnes @avatarobsessedgirly @gilwm @bb-laufeyson @gibbsgirl7 @hnnhbananananana @metal-armed-muse @mollyherondale @sambuckystony

[fatecantstopme]

All I Want Is You

Pairing: Steve Rogers x plus size!reader

Summary: Steve has spent years noticing every little detail about you, while simultaneously keeping you at a professional distance. What happens when you're required to train with him before going undercover to expose a dangerous sex trafficking ring?

Warnings: cursing, use of pet names, slight body image issues, human/sex trafficking, abuse/torture, injuries, explicit descriptions of reader's plus size body. Sweet fluffy SMUT, oral (F receiving), unprotected sex (P in V).

A/N: This one got away from me, but I have no shame and no regrets. This fic does contain some dark storylines and reader experiences some trauma at the hands of someone else, so please proceed with caution if such a topic might trigger you.

The sound of your heels clacking on the tile floor was the only sound echoing down the hallway as you rushed to the conference room. Your alarm had neglected to go off this morning, and you didn't wake up until about 10 minutes before you were supposed to be at work. You were thankful, not for the first time, to live and work in the same building.

You were less thankful, however, on this particular morning as you had a meeting at 9am with the entire team. A meeting you were attending on behalf of your boss, Cynthia, who was out of the country on business.

As you burst into the conference room, desperately trying to seem calmer than you were--and less out of breath--you froze as every single person in the room looked directly at you. Some with wide eyes, some trying not to laugh, some with concern, and one clearly very annoyed.

Tony (said very annoyed person) shot you a glare. "Thank you so much for gracing us with your presence, (Y/N)."

You winced at his dark tone. "I'm so sorry, Mr. Stark. My alarm didn't go off, and-" You paused when you looked at his flat expression. He didn't care about your excuses. "It won't happen again, sir."

"I'd certainly hope not." He said, tone clipped. "Now, where were we?"

Tony went back to droning on about something you were desperately trying to pay attention to, but all you could think about was how much of a fool you'd made of yourself. In front of everyone. Showing up late was one thing, showing up late utterly disheveled and out of breath, all while pissing off the most important person in the room was another thing entirely.

Natasha bumped her elbow against your arm gently from her seat beside you. It was just enough to say 'hey' and to tell you to relax, in her own way. You were grateful for it, of course, but you were still so embarrassed.

To be fair, there were two reasons you were embarrassed. Obviously, you didn't want to let Cynthia down, nor Tony, and you took great pride in your work. But you'd be lying if you said there wasn't another person in this room whose opinion mattered to you more.

You glanced across the table to the man in question, who sat patiently to Tony's right, expression stoic and calm as always. Steve Rogers. Captain America. The most disciplined, respectful, composed, and kind human being on the planet. Oh, and the absolute hottest specimen of mankind you'd ever laid eyes on.

He was beautiful. Objectively so. Tall, muscular, blonde hair, brilliant blue eyes, thick thighs you'd imagined straddling a time or two, and those hands? God you wanted them to touch you in very non-polite ways. Ways America's boy scout would likely blush at.

Of course you kept all those thoughts to yourself, even though you were certain both Natasha and Bucky were well-aware of your thoughts. You tried very hard to be as normal as humanly possible around him, but you never were able to really relax in his presence. Not like you did with some of the other Avengers.

With Nat and Bucky, it was easy. Nat was your instant best friend and Bucky was so similar to you, it was almost uncanny. Nat joked the two of you could have entire conversations without saying a word, in that stoic quiet way you both had.

One such conversation was taking place right now. Bucky's soft blue eyes found yours, one eyebrow lifting almost imperceptibly. You knew he was asking if you were okay, to which you responded with the slightest shrug of one shoulder and a tilt of your head.

Bucky's eyes softened even further, an expression you only really ever saw with you or Steve. He was silently telling you he was there for you--whatever you needed. He cared very deeply for the few people in the world he trusted, and you were honored to be one of them. You inclined your head just enough to thank him and he shot you the smallest of smiles in return.

"You two flirting again?" Natasha murmured under her breath.

You glared at her and rolled your eyes. "You know that's not what we're doing."

She grinned, swallowing the laugh that wanted to break free. "I know, but I do love teasing you both."

You opened your mouth to throw a snarky retort her way, but your jaw clenched tightly when you heard Tony's voice cut in.

"Something you want to share with the rest of us, (Y/L/N)?"

You tried for a smile as you leveled your gaze at him. "No, sir."

"Then let's keep the side conversations to a minimum, shall we?"

The urge to punch Tony in the throat was especially strong this morning. It wasn't that you didn't like him, he could just be a real ass sometimes. This morning was a prime example of that.

In order to make it through the rest of the meeting without pissing him off further, you ducked your head and focused on the notepad in front of you, jotting down notes as the various people around the large table spoke. You only looked up when Bucky directed a question at you, which you answered with ease. The rest of the time, you kept your eyes downcast, too concerned with trying to be invisible to really participate in the conversation.

What you didn't see was the way Steve's gaze lingered on you when you weren't looking. If you had, you would have seen the way his keen eyes seemed to catalog every minute movement you made. The way you tucked your hair behind your ear when it fell forward, or the way you adjusted your glasses like it was a nervous habit (it was), or even the way you bit your lip in concentration when you were writing something important down.

You never noticed the way he looked at you, and that's the way he wanted it. He admired you from the sidelines, in silence, at a safe distance--whatever you want to call it. He knew the moment you entered a room and the moment you left it. He knew where you were every second you spent in the same room as him, even if you were out of his sight.

He'd gotten very good at hiding his observations--his awareness of you. He had to get good at it, especially surrounded by trained spies and assassins who noticed every tiny detail. In the early days, Natasha would sometimes catch him looking at you and question him about it, to which he always gave unconvincing responses. He'd made it a point to be as subtle as humanly possible after that. He couldn't risk anyone knowing how he felt.

It wasn't technically forbidden--dating in the workplace. After all, several relationships had spawned amongst the group over time. It was different for him, though. He was Captain America--held to a higher, more unattainable standard than everyone else. He didn't want to drag you into the spotlight with him, didn't want to make you a target for every enemy on the planet.

He wasn't your boss, nor was he technically a superior to you in any way, but that didn't mean it wouldn't look untoward for the two of you to be together. As the second highest ranking analyst on the team (Cynthia being the first), you did report to him regularly. Cynthia worked more closely with Tony and his team, while you worked more closely with Steve and his team. It would be unprofessional for Steve to even consider anything romantic towards you.

So he had to be content with what he had, with watching you from the sidelines, cheering you on in his sturdy, quiet way. No matter how much a part of him longed to be with you, no matter how bad the ache in his chest became, no matter how much he dreamed in the quiet darkness of the night--he couldn't have you.

**********

"So what happened?" Bucky asked as he materialized at your side seconds after the meeting ended.

"My alarm didn't go off."

"Doll, you ran in here like the hallway was on fire."

You shot him a glare. "Yeah, because I was late to an important meeting."

"You didn't even put your contacts in. You've got that whole librarian look going on."

"Ya know, your observation skills are truly astounding. Aren't they astounding, Nat?"

Your friend chuckled from your other side. "Truly remarkable."

"I hate you both," he grumbled. "I'm just saying, even when you're running late, you're usually a little more..."

"Put together?" you finished for him.

He winced slightly. "I didn't wanna put it like that, but yeah."

"So I look like a homeless librarian today. Cool."

"That is so not what I said-"

"It's kinda what you said," Natasha interjected.

"I did not call her homeless."

"You basically called her a mess."

"I didn't say that--she said that!"

You rolled your eyes as they continued their argument down the hallway. You shook your head as you walked in the middle of the two of them, bickering continuing for far longer than was necessary.

You were grateful when you heard Wanda's voice call down the hallway, beckoning you back in her direction. You peeled off from the still arguing Bucky and Nat, both of which waved after you without breaking eye contact with each other.

"Thanks for saving me," you said when you reached her side.

Wanda sent you a disarming smile. "As much as I wish it had only been for you, I do need your help."

"Sure--anything you need."

"I received some intel on a potential target, but I need you to vet it. I'm not sure how reliable the source is and I think the whole thing might be nonsense. I just want you to do your thing before I bring it up with Steve."

"Absolutely. I'd be happy to. Send me what you have and I'll take a look at it."

"You're the best!"

You parted ways and headed to your office on the floor below. The building was relatively quiet this time of the morning--most people were hard at work, so the hallways were sparse. Once again, the only sound to be heard was your heels clicking on the floor.

You slightly regretted wearing the heels--they made your feet hurt--but you didn't really have time to run to your room to change them. You sighed softly as you veered to the right, entering the ladies' room.

You stopped dead when you caught a glimpse of yourself in the full-length mirror just inside the door. "Fuck--I really do look like a homeless librarian," you muttered.

You'd piled your hair into a high, rather messy bun, strands of which were falling out all over the place. Your bangs were sitting strangely on the edge of your glasses, giving them a weird wave on the ends. You tucked them behind your ears and hoped they'd stay that way.

Not a single ounce of makeup graced your face today--you'd barely had time to wash it and throw on lotion. At least your glasses were cute.

You glanced down at the slightly wrinkled soft pink wide-leg pants you'd donned that morning. In retrospect, you really should have ironed them before hanging them in your closet. The sweater you'd thrown on was a very light brown and at first glance seemed like the only part of your outfit that was remotely put-together.

When you leaned in closer, you saw a very obvious flash of skin along the side, right along the hem. You groaned, realizing you had a nice hole just above your hip. It matched perfectly with the one you'd discovered on the edge of your sleeve during the meeting.

You dropped your head into your palm and let out a loud, annoyed huff. "I'd like to start this whole day over."

The door to the bathroom opened behind you, and suddenly your day got ten times worse.

"Well look what the cat dragged in," Sharon Carter sneered from the doorway. She looked you up and down in her usual snide way. "Perhaps literally. Did you get dressed in the dark?"

You rolled your eyes. "Don't you have something better to do than comment on my clothes?"

"Of course I do. I'm briefing Steve in 15 minutes."

It was the way she said his name that made your blood boil and your fingers curl. She always said his name in that slightly condescending tone that made it very clear she thought she was better than everyone else. As if she was the only person on the planet who ever briefed him.

"Congratulations." Your tone was flat, allowing for only one interpretation of the word.

"Now, now--no need to be so jealous. Sarcasm is not a good look on you, dear." She smirked. "Then again, nothing is a good look on you." She laughed at her own joke like it was the funniest thing in the world.

If you rolled your eyes any harder, you were certain you'd see the inside of your skull. "Haha, very funny Sharon. I've got shit to do, so if you could move out of my way, that'd be great."

She was still blocking the doorway, but she 'graciously' moved to the side to allow you to exit. You knew there was nothing gracious about her, but you didn't expect her to stick her foot out and trip you, full-on mean girl-style.

You fell almost flat on your face, a slew of expletives flying from your mouth. "Really fucking classy, bitch," you growled at her as you pulled yourself off the ground.

She just laughed as the door swung closed behind her, leaving you alone in the hallway with a bruised ego and an aching ankle. "Today is really not my day."

You limped the rest of the way to your office, groaning in relief as you took your heels off the moment you stepped foot on the soft carpet. "Thank you, Jesus," you muttered.

You sat behind your computer with a very dramatic sigh, adjusting your glasses slightly before logging into the system. As soon as you opened your mail, you found Wanda had already forwarded you the information she'd received about the potential new target.

You began skimming the info and found yourself to be just as hesitant about it as she was. The source claimed to be involved in some sort of underground sex trafficking ring, which on the surface would be quite believable. Sex trafficking was extremely common this day and age, so that wasn't what caught your attention.

It was the type of sex trafficking ring, or rather the type of clientele it served. According to the source, the clients were all super-powered individuals looking to extort normal (helpless) humans. It wasn't hard to imagine even super-powered people being involved in something so heinous, but the idea that there were enough of them to constitute an actual ring? That seemed much less plausible.

Wanda had sent along information about the source himself, so you set about digging up as much as you could on him. The more information you found, the more believable his story became. The farther down the rabbit hole you went, the worse the knots in your stomach got. After nearly five hours of nonstop research, you were nearly certain the information Wanda had been given was correct.

You sent her a message that simply read, "My office ASAP" and within five minutes, the redhead was opening the door to your office with wary eyes.

"Please tell me it's not true," she pleaded as she walked in.

You gave her a slight shake of the head. "I'm around 97% certain it's true."

"Shit." She dropped into one of the two chairs in front of your desk. "I was really hoping this one was bogus."

"You and me both."

"Can you have Steve come here? I really don't wanna tell him."

You glared at her. "So you're making me do it?"

"Well you have all the information..." she gave you a sheepish smile. "Pretty please?"

"You're lucky I like you," you mumbled as you sent the Captain a message.

Several minutes later, Steve knocked firmly on your office door. He stepped into the space when you bid him entry, the slightest smile gracing his features before he saw the look on your face.

He loved stopping by your office, not just to see your face, but to appreciate the warmth and liveliness of the space. He imagined your room would be just as cozy, but seeing your office was as close as he would allow himself to any personal space of yours.

"What's wrong?" Steve asked as he entered the room fully.

"You're gonna wanna sit down for this one," you exhaled heavily.

He shut the door and took the seat next to Wanda. "Should I be worried?"

"I don't know if worried is the right adjective, but by the time I'm through, you'll definitely be disgusted."

Steve's eyes widened and he shot Wanda a look. She merely nodded before looking back to you, hoping you'd do all the talking.

"Wanda came to me this morning with some interesting information she received from a source. She wasn't sure it was reliable, so she asked me to look into it."

"Why am I just hearing about this now?" he asked Wanda.

"I didn't want to give you something like this without having (Y/N) vet it first."

"I agreed with her," you cut in before Steve could retort. "So if you want to be mad at someone, I'll take the blame."

He shook his head. "That's not necessary. What exactly did this source say?"

"The bottom line up front is there is a sex trafficking ring that caters specifically to super-powered individuals looking to treat regular humans as sex slaves."

Steve's jaw dropped slightly and it took him a moment to regain his composure. "I'm sorry--what?"

"Yeah, that was my reaction too," you said honestly. "I spent about five hours combing through everything I could find." You chewed on your bottom lip absentmindedly like you always did when you were nervous or worried. "It's real, Cap. I'm almost certain."

He stared at the ground for a long moment. "Percentage?"

"97," you answered calmly.

"Shit," he muttered lowly.

Your eyes widened slightly, still unaccustomed to hearing the Captain use any vulgar language. He'd been in the 21st century long enough that he'd begun to waver a bit on his insistence on 'clean' language. The development was still new enough it shocked you every time you heard it.

"I said the same thing," Wanda added.

Steve looked back up at you. "Do we have details on this thing? Where, when, how, who?"

"Some, but we're going to need to do some real-world work to fully flush this thing out. The source mentioned a sale happening next week."

"A sale," he said flatly, eyes dark. "A sale of human beings."

You nodded. "Technically, it's an auction, of uh-of human women, specifically."

"You have got to be kidding me," he groaned.

"I wish I was." You bit your lip again, a gesture Steve caught instantly.

"What are you thinking?"

"Huh?"

"You're thinking something. You always bite your lip when you're thinking."

You chose to ignore the way he said it with such conviction or how he could possibly know that, focusing instead on answering his question. "I think we can infiltrate the auction."

"How? All of the Avengers are public figures--people know what we look like."

"I didn't say anything about sending in an Avenger."

Wanda seemed to pick up on what you were saying before Steve did. "You want to send someone normal--a woman to be auctioned off."

You nodded, but before you could say a word, Steve's reaction cut you off.

"Nope. Absolutely not. I'm not putting any woman in that kind of position. Especially without backup."

"Take it easy, Steve. I never said we'd be doing it without backup."

He paused for a moment, giving you the time to further explain your plan.

"We can send more than one woman. We have plenty of female agents we could send. That way no one would be there alone."

"The only problem with that is a lot of our female agents have also been identified on the dark web and in other less-than-savory circles," Wanda interjected.

Unfortunately, you'd already thought of that too. "Analysts haven't," you said lowly.

Steve practically burst out of his chair. "There is a zero percent chance I'm sending an analyst into that. I can't ask them to do that."

"You're not asking. I'm volunteering."

For a moment, you thought Steve was going to pass out, but the look on his face quickly shifted to incredulous anger. "Are you insane? I'm not sending you in there! You have no training--you could get hurt or worse, and I'd be responsible. No--no way in hell."

You held up your hands in an attempt to stop his tirade. "Steve, listen for a second, okay? I might be just an analyst, but I'm very capable of taking care of myself. Ask Bucky or Nat--I've trained with both of them. I might not be a damn superhero, but I can do this. Innocent men and women are being sold off like cattle to monsters who only want to take from them...I can't just sit here and let that happen. Not when I can help put a stop to it."

Steve dropped back into the chair as if all the fight suddenly left him. "I never said you were just an analyst," he said quietly.

The tone of his voice, the subtle hurt laced in his words, hit you harder than you'd expected. "I know-"

It was his turn to raise his hand for silence. "I know you're strong and I know you're capable, but I hate the idea of putting you in harm's way. Especially when I'm not there to protect you." He quickly realized his slip-up and corrected himself. "When none of us are there to protect you."

"You'll be nearby," you counter. "And I can take at least one or two other people with me. There has to be a couple female agents no one has seen before."

"We've got a couple new ones we could probably send," Wanda said quietly.

"If we do that, why would you need to go at all?" Steve asked.

"Because you need someone with experience on the inside. A brand new agent doesn't have that, but I do. It has to be me."

Steve shook his head. "I don't like this."

"To be honest, I don't like it either, but I want to bring these bastards down. I know you do too."

His blue eyes met yours, gaze dark and unreadable. "If I agree to this, there are going to be rules. We do things my way."

"I can accept that."

"And you're going to train with me every single day until the op."

"Pardon?" You felt like your throat was closing up around the word, shock sinking in at his demand.

"You heard me. I'm not risking your life unless I think you can handle yourself."

Wanda looked at you in concern, but you ignored her gaze.

"Fine. You've got a deal."

"Good. Then let's get started."

**********

The next morning was your first training session with Captain fucking America, and you were terrified. Not of him, of course, but of embarrassing yourself in front of him. A huge part of you wanted to back out of this, but then you thought about the innocent women--women just like you--that were being harmed at this very moment and you knew you couldn't back down.

"You're in your head," Natasha commented as she walked beside you. She liked to work out in the morning too, so when you told her Steve's order, she'd volunteered to accompany you.

"Why would I be in my head? I'm totally fine. I've trained with you and Bucky, so why would I be worried? I'm not worried. Who said I was worried?" The words left your mouth in a stream of consciousness that had you slightly breathless when you finished.

"Okay, wow. No, you're totally fine. Definitely not in your head or anything."

You glared at her clear sarcasm. "It's just--I've never trained with Steve before."

"So? You've trained with Bucky hundreds of times. He's a super soldier too. No big deal."

"Yeah, but it's Bucky. This is different."

"How so?"

You weren't sure if she was genuinely confused or if she was baiting you. You opted for caution on the off-chance she was suspicious about your feelings for Steve. "This is Captain America, Nat. The Captain America. If I look like an idiot in front of him, I will die of embarrassment."

The words weren't entirely false, nor were they entirely true. You didn't want to look like an idiot in front of him, but not because he was Captain America...because it was Steve Rogers. The man who'd plagued your dreams since the day you met him.

Nat slung her arm around your shoulder. "Don't think of him as Captain America. It's just Steve. He's like a giant, squishy teddy bear. Who could kill a full grown adult man with one hand, but that's beside the point."

"Ya know, I can't quite figure out why, but that didn't make me feel much better."

She laughed as she pushed the door to the gym open with one arm. "Seriously, don't worry about it. If it helps, pretend like you're fighting Bucky. You have no problem kicking his ass."

"I have never once won a fight against Bucky and you know it."

"I never said anything about winning. You give him a run for his money and that's what counts."

You caught sight of Steve stretching across the room and the small ball of anxiety currently making a home in the pit of your stomach seemed to grow exponentially.

"Stop chewing on your lip and get your ass over there," Natasha muttered.

You hadn't even realized you were doing it--wishing for the hundredth time that you'd never developed the nervous habit. "Fine. I'm going."

"Have so much fun."

You flicked her off as you walked towards Steve, her laughter bubbling up behind you and following you all the way across the room.

Steve looked up at the sound of Natasha's laughter. He knew wherever she was, you were likely to be close by. He saw the bright red hair first, but then his eyes landed on you and it was like the world narrowed to just you. How you managed to look so damn radiant at 7am, he'd never know, but it made him wonder why exactly he'd proposed this training in the first place.

Okay, he knew why, but he'd been kicking himself in the pants every second since the words flew out of his mouth yesterday. He'd been doing so well at keeping a professional distance between the two of you, but he didn't know how the hell he was going to maintain that facade now.

He'd decided to treat you like any other trainee. That would help him keep his distance--keep things proper. Right? Right?

"Good morning," you said brightly as you approached him.

You'd said two words to him and he was already having trouble focusing. This was not going according to plan. "Good morning, (Y/N). Ready to get started?"

"Sure," you said, voice pitched a little higher than normal. You cleared your throat as a light dusting of pink spread across your cheeks. "What do you have in store for me today?"

"Stretch first," he said firmly. "Then we'll see how you fair in the ring."

You froze. "Day one and I have to fight you already?"

"You said it yourself--you've fought Bucky. What's the difference?"

The difference was you didn't wanna climb Bucky like a tree every time he was within spitting distance, but you couldn't exactly say that out loud.

"I've-well, I've never sparred with you before."

Steve pulled one arm over his head, folding it at the elbow for a stretch. The move tightened his already annoyingly tight shirt across his chest and for a moment you forgot how to breathe. And your mouth went dry. And you couldn't stop staring. There was no way you were going to make it through this. No fucking way.

"First time for everything," he said with a warm smile.

You blinked rapidly, tearing your gaze away from his pecs in embarrassment. You felt your cheeks heating up, but you chose to ignore it. If you kept your head down, maybe he wouldn't notice, so you bent at the waist, stretching to touch your toes.

Steve nearly choked on his own saliva the moment you bent in half. His mind was filled with images of you in a similar position, but with him behind you--and you screaming his name as he pounded into you.

He shook his head rapidly, clearing the dirty images from his mind. The last thing he needed was to get hard while he was training you. At work. In front of other people. Shit.

The two of you stretched in silence for a few minutes, both blissfully unaware of the other's less than savory thoughts.

"Alright, you ready?" Steve asked.

Nope. Definitely not. You were so not ready. "Ready as I'll ever be," you lied with what you hoped was an easy smile.

Steve nodded his head towards the sparring ring, a silent gesture for you to follow him. You trailed behind him, thankful the man didn't have eyes on the back of his head. You couldn't help but stare at his perfect ass in those damn sweatpants--'it really is America's ass,' you thought to yourself. The last thing you needed was for Steve to turn around and catch you ogling him like some sort of creep.

When you climbed onto the sparring platform, your first thought was there was no way you could focus long enough to get a single shot in, and your second thought was interrupted by Steve launching a kick towards your gut, a blow he would have landed if you hadn't jumped back just in time.

"I see we're not warming up or anything," you muttered.

"The stretching was the warm-up," he retorted. "Get your hands up and let's see what you've got."

You blocked his first punch, and his second, but you nearly tripped over your own two feet when he aimed another kick at your midsection. He was fast. Incredibly fast. Uncomfortably fast. You barely had time to think about how much faster he was than Bucky before he'd lobbed another punch your way.

You managed to duck, but you weren't able to avoid his legs swinging out and tripping you, toppling you to the ground. You groaned when your back hit the mat, but you quickly rolled out of the way when he brought his knee down towards your chest. You pulled yourself back up and launched your first kick right into the center of his back, propelling him forward.

He was back on his feet in an instant, launching his own counter-attack to your much slower moves. In positive news, you had zero time to be embarrassed. You were too busy trying not to get punched in the face by a man that could stop a speeding semi with one punch.

You rolled away from another blow that would have absolutely knocked you out, breath coming in nothing but panting gasps. Bucky had never once taken it easy on you, but he never came close to using his full strength, and you were starting to think he hadn't used his full speed either.

Within five minutes, you were drenched in sweat. You were not made for this shit--it's why you were an analyst, not an agent. Sure, you could take care of yourself, but your brain was your best asset, so why not use that instead?

"Are you trying to kill me?" you snapped, dodging another punch.

"No, but a superhuman enemy isn't going to take it easy on you. So I'm not taking it easy on you either."

"I doubt we'll be sparring in the middle of a fucking auction," you growled.

"Language," he snapped back, throwing another jab you barely blocked.

"Oh please, like you don't swear now."

"I don't say that."

"Yet," you muttered under your breath.

"I heard you."

"I know you did. Stupid super soldier hearing."

His leg swung out, taking you down to the ground again. This time you weren't fast enough to roll out of the way before he was on top of you, pining you to the floor. You struggled, but there was no way you were getting out of his grasp. None.

You tapped the mat, but he didn't release you immediately. You were both breathing hard, but for very different reasons. While you were out of breath from strenuous movement, he was breathing erratically from the untoward thoughts streaming through his brain at warp speed. Images of you naked beneath him in much the same position, just as breathless and sweaty as you were right now. But in those images, you were screaming his name, begging him for more.

The perverted slideshow in his mind lasted only a few seconds before he realized he was still holding you down. He shot off you like your skin had burned him, an unreadable look on his face.

You pulled yourself off the mat, a slight groan slipping past your lips as you stood. "Did you make your point?"

His professional mask had slipped back into place before he looked at you again. "That depends. Do you still want to go undercover at this auction?"

"Yes," you replied instantly.

"Then I guess I haven't made my point yet."

You glared at him. "I know you're worried about this entire operation, but nothing you do to me between now and next week is going to change my mind. I'm not asking for your permission. I'm telling you I'm not giving up on this."

A deep frown settled onto his face, eyes dark and annoyed. "I can tell you 'no'."

"Of course you can, but you won't."

He raised his eyebrows in question. "Excuse me?"

"You won't say 'no'. This trafficking ring upsets you just as much as it upsets me. You want to bring these monsters down as much as I do. And you know you need me to do it. I saw it in your eyes the moment I made the suggestion yesterday. You need me, Steve."

His first thought was that you had no idea how true those words were--how badly he truly needed you, in every sense of the word. He pushed the thought aside, allowing his anger to rise just a little, just enough for you to see it in his eyes.

He hated how right you were. He hated there wasn't someone else he could send--someone better trained, someone more expendable. A wave of shame hit him as soon as the thought crossed his mind. He didn't think any of his colleagues were expendable, but none of them were you. There was no way for him to explain it without telling you the truth he held in his heart, and he could never do that.

"And if something happens to you? If you get hurt? That's on my head, (Y/N)."

"Who's gonna care about some little analyst? I'm replaceable. No one at SHIELD will give a damn, certainly no one in the government, so I think you can stop worrying about the repercussions on you if something happens to me."

He froze solid, like he was back in the ice. Not a single muscle moved, he didn't even blink. He heard your words, each one of them felt like a bullet to his chest. He didn't blame you for misunderstanding his meaning, but it tore him apart to hear how little you thought you mattered, not just to him, but to the world.

His voice sounded strained, perhaps even a little broken, when he finally spoke again. "Doll, that's not at all what I meant."

Steve had never called you 'doll' before, never said it to anyone as far as you knew, and the word felt like it carried the weight of the world on it. Bucky called you 'doll' all the time, but it never felt like this--like a soft caress around your heart.

"I couldn't care less about someone at SHIELD being pissed at me--even less if it was some government goon. I'm not worried about getting in trouble or berated--I'm worried about losing you. Despite what you might think, you're not replaceable. Not to me. Not to this team. Not to this organization. You're a hell of a lot more important to a lot of people, so don't you dare think for one second I wouldn't care if something happened to you."

His words stunned you. Completely and utterly shocked you to your core. Of course Steve was a good man, so it wasn't a shock he would care about everyone, even you...but it was the way he said it, like it would break him to lose you. Like you were more than just a member of his team. Like you mattered to him--truly mattered.

"I'm sorry," you whispered, voice breaking. "I didn't mean to insinuate you wouldn't care."

He slowly nodded, entire expression softening as he gazed at you. You saw the flash of emotions cross his face, too complex to understand in the split second you witnessed them. His professional mask slipped back into place before you had time to process anything you'd just experienced.

"We're going to keep training," he stated. "Up until the last second, if we have to. Not because I don't have faith in you, but because I need to know you're as prepared as possible before I send you in there."

You inhaled sharply, realization hitting you. "So you're letting me go?"

He sighed. "I'm accepting I can't keep you from going."

You grinned. "Good enough for me."

Your grin brightened your whole face, and Steve suddenly felt as if he was looking at the sun. Beautiful, powerful, and deadly all at once. He knew you were a force to be reckoned with, but he still felt that quiet sense of dread seeping into his bones. He knew he wouldn't stop worrying until you were back safely post-auction.

**********

The next day, you and Steve sparred at the same time. You'd refrained from grumbling about the importance of sleep, knowing full-well he was up at 5am every day for his usual workout. In your defense, he was basically a machine, and you were most definitely not.

The following day he dragged you to the range to assess your shooting skills. To say he was impressed would be an understatement. Natasha had taught you very well on that front--you even gave the ex-Widow a run for her money.

The day after that was knives. You may have told a little white lie when Steve asked if you were as good with a knife as you were with a gun. In your defense, you didn't want him to skip your favorite activity simply because you were good at it. So you lied and said you could use a little work with your knife skills.

When you walked into the gym, you saw Steve talking with Bucky near the training dummies the latter used when he was training with his knives. You almost turned around and beelined right out of the room. You'd foolishly neglected to consider the fact that Bucky was by far the best knife wielder in the group, so of course Steve would ask him to assist.

The problem with that is Bucky had taught you how to use a knife. How to fight with one, throw one, defend against one. You'd had training on every single knife Bucky owned, and a few extra for fun because you liked it so much. In other words, Bucky knew you were phenomenal with a knife, so there was no reason for you to need 'extra training'.

"Hey, doll!" Bucky's voice carried across the room, freezing you mid-turn.

You schooled your face into what you hoped was a neutral early-morning expression before turning back towards the two men. You waved awkwardly as you started making your way over to them.

"You ever seen her use a knife?" Bucky asked before you were in earshot.

"No," Steve answered. "Why?"

Bucky just smirked. "You'll see." His smiled brightened when you reached them. "Good morning, sunshine!"

You shot the brunette a glare. "It's barely 7am, James. Calm down."

He chuckled. "I just love how pleasant you are in the morning. It's truly an honor to be in your presence."

"I hate you," you grumbled.

He slung his arm around your shoulder and pulled you in against his side. "No you don't."

Steve felt a strange tightness in his chest as he watched the teasing display unfold before him. He was very aware of how close you were with his best friend, but it always made him feel oddly uncomfortable when he saw it up close. He almost felt like a third wheel--like he was intruding somewhere he didn't belong.

"So, Stevie mentioned you needed to brush up on your knife skills."

You heard both the question and the teasing in Bucky's tone and you felt the urge to smack him.

"I thought you had a great teacher, so I was a little surprised to hear that." Bucky's smirk was so sickly sweet you nearly knocked him upside his pretty head.

"Shut up and give me a blade," you snapped.

Bucky's laugh was loud and contagious, absolutely loving how easily he got under your skin. He went over to his bag and grabbed his favorite knife--the one you'd gotten him for his birthday last year.

Instead of handing it to you like a normal person, he tossed it in your direction, much like he would expect someone to do to him.

Steve's feet were rooted to the spot as he watched the knife fly through the air, headed directly at you. His breath caught in his chest as he prepared to jump towards you, whether to push you out of the way or jump in front of you, he wasn't sure.

Before he could move a muscle, you caught the blade with ease, eyes rolling at Bucky, who simply smirked in response. Steve's heart started beating again, but he couldn't help the adrenaline still pumping through his body. He wanted to throttle Bucky for throwing a knife at you, but he quickly realized Bucky would never do something like that unless he was sure you'd be able to catch it.

"Farthest target," Bucky called.

You moved with surprising speed and precision, launching the knife directly into the chest of the dummy in the far corner of the room. Steve's jaw slackened slightly, clearly dumbfounded by your skill.

"You want two?" Bucky asked.

"Short," you replied.

Bucky nodded and tossed you two shorter blades.

"Simultaneous. Closest, far left."

You threw both blades at the same time, each one landing dead center of the indicated targets.

Steve stood there in silence, watching the exchange between you and Bucky. It was almost like the two of you were speaking in code, like you knew exactly what the other person was thinking without having to say it aloud. He'd witnessed it before, but not quite like this.

"Four, two boot," you said.

Bucky dug through his bag, producing four knives, two of which slid perfectly into your boots. The other two sat snuggly on your waist.

"Moving?" Bucky asked.

"Hell yeah."

Bucky pressed a button on the wall, and each of the targets began to move in different directions. Your feet were off the ground almost as soon as the targets began to move. You slammed a blade into the neck of the closest target, slid around the back of the next, cutting the neck from behind. You stabbed the same blade into the following target, dropped to your knee, pulled the blades out of both boots, and launched them at the final two targets. Each knife hit square in the chest.

Bucky let out a hoot and you spun around, shooting him a sharp grin. You glanced over at Steve, who simply stood there in shock. He'd just witnessed some of the best knife skills he'd seen in a long time and he had no idea how to process it.

"Hand to hand?" Bucky asked, slightly giddy.

You laughed as you nodded. "Three each."

"You got it, doll." Bucky retrieved three knives for each of you, handing yours to you before sheathing his own.

"What are you doing?" Steve asked, brain still struggling to catch up with what was happening.

"Watch and learn, Stevie," Bucky taunted with a grin.

You watched Bucky drop into a fighting stance, a small smirk still etched onto his face. This was where you felt most comfortable--fighting Bucky, preferably with a blade or two.

Bucky moved first, as you knew he would, and you slipped under his arm, the flat of your blade gliding against his armpit.

"That's one," you sang.

"That's all you're getting," Bucky grumbled.

"Unlikely."

Steve watched in awe--both yours and Bucky's movements almost seemed like a dance. A dance neither of you had practiced, but somehow knew intuitively. He once again felt like an outsider to something truly inspiring, something rare. His heart ached, chest feeling heavy with a weight he couldn't quite name.

You managed to get three more shots in, while Bucky only had one. You tossed your knife into the air, flipping it as you dropped to grab one from your boot. You caught the knife at the same moment you sliced the one from your boot upward towards Bucky's gut. The knife above you blocked Bucky's blow, putting you firmly in the winner's circle.

"Damn, doll," Bucky said with a laugh. "You get better every single time."

"I had a pretty good teacher," you teased with a smile.

Steve cleared his throat, ripping both of you out of your teasing moment. "So when you said you needed a little practice?"

You winced slightly. "I may have exaggerated that."

He raised an eyebrow. "I think that was more than exaggeration."

You shrugged sheepishly, a small smile plastered on your face. "Perhaps I wanted to make my own point this time?"

Steve chuckled lightly and shook his head. "Point taken, (Y/N)."

Bucky lifted his hand in the air and you immediately slapped it in a firm high-five. "It's so fun when he's speechless," Bucky goaded.

"Jerk."

"Punk."

**********

It was almost time. Two days until the auction was set to happen. All of the focus was on getting you and two brand new female agents into action. The preparation had begun the moment Steve had decided this op was a go, but most of that had been behind-the-scenes work you'd had no part in. Now, it was showtime.

"Roscoe is bringing all three of you in as his lots for the auction," Wanda stated from her place towards the head of the table, gesturing to you and the other two women.

"Still can't believe this dude's name is Roscoe," Bucky muttered from your left.

You snorted, your own disbelief had been assuaged when you'd done the research on said dude in the first place.

"I want to make it very clear," Steve began, "(Y/N) is in charge once you're all inside. Defer to her on any on-the-fly decisions."

One of the new agents, Kimberly, shot you a warm smile. You'd liked her immediately when you'd met a few days prior. She was kind and friendly, as well as very eager to learn.

Christina, on the other hand, was a grade A bitch. You'd known that within half a second of meeting her. She'd looked you up and down like you were dog shit on the bottom of her shoe. It hadn't surprised you one bit to discover that her training agent was none other than Sharon fucking Carter.

You weren't sure if Sharon had rubbed off on Christina, or if she was just like this, but it didn't really matter. You didn't trust her and you didn't like her, and that made your job a hell of a lot harder.

Christina had made it very clear she did not like the idea of answering to an analyst for anything, especially if that analyst was you. She'd been smart enough to never say anything in front of Steve, but when it was just the two of you? Oh, she let her opinions be known.

Bucky clocked the look on Christina's face instantly, shooting you a look that clearly said 'is she gonna be a problem?', to which you just shrugged. He sent another look that just said 'she's a bitch'--you nearly laughed out loud at that.

"I'm still not completely onboard with using Roscoe for any of this," Steve was saying. "But he's our only in. I don't really see any other option."

"My research indicates he's not the most reliable guy, but he was the one who came to Wanda with this information in the first place, so I suppose that gives him some credibility," you added.

"Like she'd know anything about source credibility," Christina muttered under her breath.

"Determining a source's credibility is part of her job description," Bucky snapped firmly. "And she's damn good at her job."

You shot him a grateful smile and he gave you a quick squeeze on the arm in return.

Steve looked back and forth between the three of you, confused by Bucky's sudden outburst, having not heard Christina's comment. He chose not to address it, turning back to the matter at hand.

"Myself, Nat, Bucky, and the three of you will meet Roscoe tomorrow evening. We'll essentially be doing a handoff so he can bring the three of you to the auction without suspicion. Wanda will be running comms from here."

You'd known Nat and Bucky would be accompanying you three to meet with Roscoe, but Steve hadn't mentioned he'd be going until right now. Even Bucky and Wanda seemed surprised. Nat was unfortunately absent from this particular meeting, but she'd already been prepped on her part of the op.

"Roscoe should be receiving the location details for the auction tomorrow night. All we know is it's somewhere in Manhattan," Wanda stated.

"At least it's not Brooklyn," Bucky murmured.

You let out a breath that could be interpreted as a short chuckle, accompanied by a light elbow to his ribs.

"As soon as we know the location, Nat, Bucky, and I will set up a command post nearby." Steve's gaze landed on you. "The moment you have what you need, you call it and we'll extract you."

You knew he was talking to all three of you, but his eyes remained glued to your face. You could see something simmering in his blue orbs, but you couldn't quite place it.

"If we know the location of the auction, can't we just bust it without doing this undercover crap?" Christina cut in.

Steve nodded to you, subtly deferring to your expertise on the matter. "We don't know where the girls are kept, or how many there will be. We don't have any idea how many superhuman targets we'll be facing, nor what kind of security measures they'll have in place. Hence why we need to get inside to find that information."

Christina looked annoyed at your response, but she refrained from commenting further.

"Roscoe could only give us so much. This is only the second auction he's been invited to, and as a purveyor of sex slaves, he's not given much information on attendees or security measures outside of the bare minimum he needs to know," Wanda added.

"Exactly. So keep your eyes open--get as much information as you can, as safely as you can. Don't put yourselves in harm's way unnecessarily." Steve's gaze swung back to you, as if that last sentence was just for you.

"We'll all have comms connecting us to the team on the outside," you stated. "Cell phones are not allowed at the auction, so Roscoe doesn't believe they have any jammers on the premises."

"And if they do?" Kimberly asked softly.

"Then we'll deal with it," you intoned. "Roscoe will be our backup plan. When we need out, he'll tell the team."

"What if we can't trust him?" she asked.

"Then we'll deal with that too."

"We'll be close by," Steve added reassuringly. "We won't leave you stranded."

"Won't having an analyst with us be a liability?" Christina asked, barely hiding her sneer.

"There's no better asset," Steve said firmly, tone leaving no room for argument. "She's the smartest person in this room--and the one I'd want with me if shit hit the fan."

The smile that spread across your cheeks was small, but appreciative. It was accompanied by a light dusting of a rosy pink hue that Steve thought made you look even more beautiful. A thought he was very careful to keep to himself, expression remaining neutral.

"If there are no further questions..." he began, leaving a moment for any further queries to arise. "Alright. Dismissed."

You grabbed your stuff, intending to head for the exit, but Steve's commanding voice stopped you. He waited until everyone else had left the room before crossing the space to you.

He leaned against the table, gaze heavy with a worry he hadn't shown anyone else.

"You're worried," you commented gently.

He sighed, running his fingers through his very neat hair. "That obvious, huh?"

"If it makes you feel better, it wasn't at all noticeable during the meeting."

"At least there's that," he muttered. "I'm just concerned about all the things that could go wrong."

"What good does it do to focus on those things? They're out of all of our control. We'll deal with anything that comes our way."

He nodded, wishing he could have even half of the positivity you did.

"Also, uh-I thought you were staying back with Wanda? Why the change of plans?" You practically blurted out the question. You needed to know the answer, but you couldn't explain why. You chewed on your bottom lip as you waited for his response.

Steve clocked it immediately, expression softening. He fought the urge to reach out and pull your bottom lip from between your teeth, a gesture that could only be seen one way. "I didn't like the idea of being so far away if something happened."

You nodded, lip still firmly between your teeth.

"Doll, there's nothing to worry about," he said so gently your heart clenched.

"I'm not worried," you lied.

"Then why're you chewing on your lip?"

You released your lip instantly, a slight grimace taking over your features. "I didn't realize you'd noticed that."

"Hard not to. You chew your lip when you're nervous or worried."

You stared at him in silence for a moment. "You pay a lot more attention than I thought you did. I thought Bucky was the only one that catalogued every tiny thing about people."

"Maybe it's a super solider thing," he joked. In reality, he knew it was entirely a you thing. He'd never paid this much attention to anyone else in his long life.

"Probably," you agreed with a laugh.

He looked at you in silence for a moment, expression conflicted. You thought he was going to say something, but he seemed to think better of it. "You should get some sleep. We have a long day tomorrow."

"Right." You stood up. "You should too, Steve. Even you need sleep."

He chuckled and waved you off, watching as you left the room. He knew there was no chance he'd sleep properly until this op was over and you were back home safely.

**********

"Seriously, what kind of name is Roscoe?" Natasha muttered from her seat to your right.

Before you could respond from your spot squished between Nat and Bucky, Steve spoke up from the driver's seat. "It's his name, Nat. Maybe don't offend the guy when we meet him."

"It's a stupid fucking name," Bucky grumbled from your left.

His words were met with a soft chuckle from you and an outright laugh from Natasha. Steve's eyes flicked to hers in the rearview mirror, the slight shake of his head the only indication he'd heard what Bucky said.

Kimberly and Christina sat in the front, alongside Steve. You could practically hear Christina's eyes rolling almost every time someone other than Steve spoke. Much like her training agent, Christina seemed to be infatuated with Steve. Not that you could blame her, as much as it annoyed you. He was a hard man to not fall for.

You were wedged rather uncomfortably between your two best friends, a spot you'd tried to trick Nat into taking, but she'd insisted she'd stab Bucky if she had to sit next to him for more than 10 minutes. You'd agreed to take the middle seat to avoid listening to them bicker for a straight hour, despite the discomfort your physical body would certainly experience.

"Could you scoot your giant super soldier ass over just one inch?" you grumbled after a solid 20 minutes of being squished so thoroughly you could barely stand it.

"How 'bout you just sit on my lap, doll," Bucky teased good-naturedly.

You rolled your eyes and smacked his arm a little harder than you needed to. "Or you could just scoot a smidge, James."

You heard Steve's quiet chuckle at the antics happening in the backseat, but the tension in his shoulders belied at least some discomfort on his part.

Bucky graciously moved over, allowing you to sit slightly more comfortably. Your lips parted, a 'thank you' on your tongue, but any response was silenced by Christina's whispered words from the front seat.

"She's the one with the giant ass."

While the words weren't exactly inaccurate, the tone she used was downright insulting. It wasn't meant as a joke or even a playful jab. It was meant to hurt you--and to your shame, it did. Your head dropped suddenly, unfocused gaze now trained on your lap. You twisted the ring on your index finger almost absentmindedly--a habit of yours any time you were uncomfortable or anxious.

Bucky noticed it first, having heard Christina's cruel words. You felt his hand reach out to yours, a gentle gesture to calm your fidgeting. You knew he wanted to say something to her, but the way you gripped his hand felt like a plea to remain silent. He leaned in and pressed a quick kiss to your temple, both a comfort and an excuse to lean close enough to whisper in your ear.

"Ignore her. She's just jealous."

The slightest of smiles tugged at the corners of your mouth and you flicked your gaze over to him in silent thanks.

Steve was the second to notice your discomfort. His grip on the steering wheel tightened to the point of pain as he fought the urge to snap at the woman in the passenger seat. He'd witnessed the mostly silent exchange between you and Bucky, all of which happened in the blink of an eye, but it was enough for him to know you didn't want to address it. So he remained silent, but his body language spoke volumes.

"Maybe we'll strap you to the roof on the way back so (Y/N) can sit in the front," Natasha snapped at the younger woman.

Bucky snorted unintentionally, which made you crack a smile. You heard the soft giggle from Kimberly, and even Steve coughed to cover his own laugh. You elbowed Nat softly, but there was no animosity behind the gesture.

"Thanks," you mouthed silently.

She just shot you a wink and changed the subject to something benign. Christina sat in stone-cold silence, arms crossed over her chest, a glare darkening her features. It made what would otherwise be a pretty face rather unattractive, as if the ugliness of her insides was finally displayed on the exterior.

Nat, Kimberly, and Bucky were all chatting comfortably, while Christina glared out the passenger side window. It almost felt like a very dysfunctional family roadtrip, and the thought made you smile.

Your eyes shifted to the driver's seat, noting the more relaxed set to Steve's shoulders. You took a moment to admire him from this angle, his profile just as shockingly beautiful as the rest of him. His focus was on the road, but the slight upturn of his lips told you he was listening to the banter in the car, even if he didn't comment on it.

You loved when Steve smiled. Out of all his multitude of expressions, nothing warmed your heart quite like seeing a smile grace his face. It was the only time he looked truly at ease, as if the weight of the world didn't rest on his shoulders. You couldn't help but want to be the one to make him smile--to be the one who saw the man beneath the shield. A slight twinge in your chest followed the thought, which you chose to ignore.

Steve felt your gaze on him, eyes flicking up to the rearview mirror to look at you. He kept his eyes trained back on you a little longer than he should have, but he couldn't help it. You were clearly lost in thought, staring almost absentmindedly at the side of his head. The sweetest smile danced across your face, a smile that never failed to make his heart skip a beat. He tore his eyes away from you, an almost painful action, turning his attention back to the road ahead of him.

Not for the first time, Bucky noticed the wordless exchange--the way the two of you seemed to look at each other without the other realizing it. A wave of sadness hit him, but he pushed the feeling down before it could truly take hold. You would never look at him the way you looked at Steve, but he was okay with that. He'd long ago accepted your heart belonged to his best friend, even if the blonde was too damn stubborn to notice.

It had been at least a year, maybe longer, since he last broached the topic with Steve, who of course insisted there was nothing between the two of you. Bucky decided it was well past time to address the simmering feelings anyone with working eyes could see. Anyone other than the two of you, apparently.

**********

Arrival at the small house on the outskirts of the city meant a delicious reprieve from the cramped car. Everyone stretched the moment they exited the vehicle, none more than you. Even your hips felt stiff.

Bucky and Steve stood with their heads in the trunk, grabbing every single bag like they were filled with air. You instinctively went to help them, reaching for your bag amongst the pile, but the look they both sent your way had you yanking your hand back with a laugh.

"It's like she has no concept of chivalry," Bucky commented to Steve as if you weren't there.

"It's that 21st century upbringing," Steve chided with a playful wink.

You rolled your eyes, trying to suppress a grin. "You're both idiots."

"Big strong idiots," Bucky teased. "Pick up heavy bag, carry heavy bag. Strong."

Your laughter seemed to pull Natasha towards you, eyes rolling dramatically at Bucky's goofiness. "He's so weird," she muttered to you.

"The weirdest," you agreed. "Come on you two."

The boys followed you and Nat into the house Kimberly and Christina had already entered. It was a small house, but it would do for what the team intended to use it for. Besides, you only had to stay here for the night.

"When is the great Roscoe supposed to arrive?" Nat asked.

Steve checked his watch as he dropped the bags onto the living room sofa. "Thirty minutes, roughly."

She nodded. "Perfect. I'm gonna do a quick bug sweep--just in case."

"It's a SHIELD-owned property," Bucky stated. Nat just lifted her eyebrows at him and he sighed. "Fine--I'll help."

He dropped his bags beside Steve's and trailed after Natasha.

Now that you were here, your anxiety started to creep in, nerves fraying at the edges. You stood at the window on the far side of the living room, staring out at the backyard, lip tucked firmly between your teeth. You didn't notice Steve approach you, nor did you notice him come to a stop beside you. His hand brushed against the small of your back, causing you to jump slightly as you spun towards him.

He pulled his hand away immediately. "Sorry--didn't mean to scare you."

"No, it's fine. I was just lost in thought."

"You okay?" His eyes dropped to your lips and back up to your eyes as he said it.

For a moment you were shocked by the less-than-subtle eye movement, but you quickly realized he was silently gesturing to the way you were chewing on your bottom lip. You released it with a soft groan, eyes closing as you exhaled heavily.

"I'm just a little nervous, that's all."

"I don't know if it'll help at all, but I'm a little nervous too."

You snorted a laugh. "It helps and it doesn't."

He chuckled softly, running a hand through his abnormally messy hair. "It's normal to be nervous before an op--especially if you're going undercover. But you'll be fine."

"Would you laugh if I said I'm not really worried about me? I just don't want anything to go wrong--those innocent girls are counting on us to save them, even if they don't know it."

Steve felt the familiar tightness in his chest. You were so damn selfless, even now, even when your life was potentially on the line, all you could think about was other people. "I'd never laugh at you. Certainly not when you say something so endearing."

You blinked up at him in surprise. That was about as soft as Steve ever was with anyone, and to be fair, it was entirely unexpected. You were trying to formulate a proper response, really any response at all, when your thoughts were rudely interrupted by Christina.

"Oh, Captain? Could you help me with something?"

You saw the slight tension in Steve's jaw as her words reached his ears. For the briefest of moments, you swore you saw annoyance flicker across his face, but it was gone in the blink of an eye. You were left wondering if you'd imagined it as he left your side to go attend to whatever the hell Christina needed.

You turned your attention back to the window, tuning out the noises in the house. You knew you should be thinking about the op, but the only thing on your mind was Steve. The last week had changed things between you two, even if you hadn't really noticed until now. He didn't feel nearly as distant as he had before, but what had really shifted was your comfort with him. You felt like you could be yourself in his presence--like you could relax in the same ways you did with Nat or Bucky.

Even though it shouldn't matter, you couldn't help but wonder what it meant, or if it meant anything at all. Perhaps the two of you were just getting to know each other better, so you both felt more comfortable in the other's presence. Yeah, that had to be it. It couldn't be that your crush had turned into something deeper, something more real. There was no way it was that. Just platonic friends--friends now, not just coworkers. That had to be the change you felt. You ignored the ache in your chest, the one that silently called you a liar, the one that seemed to call out to Steve even when he was right beside you.

**********

Roscoe's arrival was not particularly eventful. Bucky eyed him up and down with a wariness that would scare anyone with half a brain. Nat did the same from her perch on the kitchen counter. Even Steve leveled a stern expression his way, one that very clearly said do not fuck around.

Roscoe did his best to ignore the super soldiers and the spy, instead attempting to focus all of his attention on you, Kimberly, and Christina. He was describing what you could expect from the following evening--what you'd likely experience at the auction itself.

"I know it's not particularly comfortable, but there is a, shall we say, a dress code for the lots," Roscoe stated, slight discomfort in his voice.

"What sort of dress code?" Steve interrupted.

Roscoe shot a glance at you for help. While you'd never met the man until today, you had spoken with him via Wanda a few days before. One of the things you'd discussed was this 'dress code'.

"I already discussed it with Kimberly and Christina," you assured him calmly. "We came prepared."

"Why wasn't I informed?" Steve snapped.

"I didn't think it was relevant."

"It's my op, (Y/N). Everything is relevant."

"It's your op on the outside, but it's mine once we're behind those auction doors. I made a command decision."

Before Steve could argue further, Bucky's sharp voice cut in, a particularly deadly tone to it you so rarely heard these days. "What. Is. The. Dress. Code?"

His steely gaze settled on you and you swallowed uncomfortably, wincing slightly. You exhaled heavily as you realized you weren't getting out of this one. They'd see you tomorrow anyway, so you might as well rip the bandaid off now.

"It's lingerie," you stated as matter-a-factly as you could.

"I'm sorry, it's what?" Steve yelled, while Bucky stood frozen in place.

"It's not a big deal," you soothed. "Bra, panties, and a babydoll. It's fine."

"What the fuck is a babydoll?" Bucky grumbled.

"Think of it like a chemise, just a little more...risqué," you answered quietly. You opted to leave out the part about the babydoll being entirely see-through. You doubted it would go over well.

"No way in hell are you wearing that in front of a bunch of men who'd like nothing more than to eat you alive," Steve growled, voice lower than you'd ever heard it.

"We're okay with it," Kimberly cut in, attempting to reassure both men. "(Y/N) discussed it with us before we agreed to be a part of this op."

"She should have discussed it with me first," Steve snapped.

"Don't you get feisty with her," you threatened. "It was my decision, so you can be angry with me. I didn't tell you because I knew you would have this reaction. It's our bodies--so it's our choice."

Steve's anger dimmed almost immediately, though Bucky's remained at a simmer. You very rarely spoke to anyone with such authority in your voice, and you left no room for argument from either man.

Natasha had remained silent for the whole exchange, and she felt some level of pride for the way you stood up to Steve. You'd always deferred to him, as if the mantle of Captain America gave the impression he was somehow infallible. It was nice to see you moving past that idea.

"So, we good?" you queried, gaze meeting Bucky's, then Steve's.

Bucky merely nodded, choosing to defer to you now, but his eyes made it clear this conversation would likely continue later.

Steve, on the other hand, remained silent for several moments. You could tell he was weighing his options before finally coming to a decision. "I don't like it. I don't like it at all. But you're right. It's your decision."

You nodded. "Thank you."

Roscoe wrung his hands for a moment, as he'd done for most of the exchange between you and the boys. "I know it's not ideal, but you will need to arrive to the hotel wearing the items. You will be allowed to wear a coat or some other covering garment until you enter, at which time you will be required to wear only the items prescribed by the dress code."

Steve opened his mouth, clearly ready to engage in further argument, but one look from you shut him down.

"I imagine it will be more than a little cold in the holding area, so I do apologize for that."

"Do we know where the holding area is?" you inquired.

He shook his head. "We won't know until we arrive, but the holding area at the last auction was in a basement."

"Great," you muttered.

"Hair and makeup must also be done prior to arrival," Roscoe added. "The dealers are expected to present their very best in order to get top dollar."

Bucky's scowl deepened at the word 'dealers', and you felt Steve's tension despite being several feet away from him. Even Nat looked disgusted.

You took a moment to glance at the two women you'd be going undercover with. Christina looked almost like she was enjoying this, which wasn't much of a shock to you. Kimberly looked a little nervous, but when she saw you look her way, she offered a small smile of reassurance.

"What else do you know about the attendees?" Steve asked.

"I know 45 invitations were sent out. I don't know how many of them accepted, but I imagine it will be most of them."

"Do you know how many dealers are going?" Nat asked.

"Probably around ten, including myself. Each one will have anywhere between two and fifteen girls, depending on their supply. If a dealer brings more than three girls, they'll likely have assistants to handle the excess."

Great. 45 superhuman individuals, several dealers, and countless women. This should go well. You met Bucky's gaze from across the room. You could tell by his expression he echoed your sentiment, even if you hadn't said it aloud.

"Will these three be in your sight the entire time?" Steve asked tentatively, almost as if he didn't want to hear the answer.

Roscoe shook his head slowly. "There are handlers that move the girls from holding to the auction itself, so while they're in holding I won't be able to see them. It's my job to speak to the various buyers about the lots--talking them up, creating a buzz, etc."

You felt Steve's gaze land on you, but you took several moments to compose yourself before meeting it. You saw it then--face lined with worry, eyes dark with concern, body filled with tension he didn't know what to do with. He was afraid--afraid for you.

Neither of you spoke. You couldn't have even if you'd wanted to. Your voice was caught in your throat. Steve's silence was out of necessity. There was so much he wanted--needed--to say, none of which was for mixed company.

Bucky's keen eyes caught every second of pained tension oozing from his best friend. It was a fear he, himself, held deep in his heart--a fear he'd never let see the light of day. He was now more certain than ever that a conversation with Steve was not only inevitable, but necessary.

**********

Nat had a few more logistical questions for Roscoe before the 'meeting' was adjourned. Bucky's silence for the last half hour spoke louder than any words he could have said, while Steve's no-nonsense demeanor covered the tension lining every muscle in his body.

The moment the conversation ended, you excused yourself to the bathroom, needing a moment to yourself more than anything else. Something had shifted in the last hour, and while you couldn't quite put your finger on it, you knew it would impact you in unforeseen ways.

You stared at the mirror in silence, your reflection gazing back at you. It was then you realized it wasn't just some outside thing that had shifted--it was you, as well. You had changed. Not in the last hour, but over the course of the past week. You weren't the same girl you'd been when you ran late into that meeting...and you had a sinking feeling you wouldn't be the same girl when you walked out of that auction tomorrow night.

While you locked yourself in the bathroom, Bucky took advantage of your absence, grabbing Steve and practically dragging him out to the backyard; the only place that seemed even remotely private in the overcrowded house.

"Bucky--what are we doing out here?" Steve grumbled.

"We need to talk."

"If you're worried about (Y/N)-"

"That's not what this is about," Bucky cut in. "Well, at least not completely."

"Okay...?"

Bucky took a deep breath, unsure of exactly where to start or how to put his thoughts into words. After a second, he decided it was best to just blurt it out--consequences be damned.

"I need you to answer a question. Be completely honest with me--don't think. Just answer. Not with your head, with your heart."

Steve's lips parted like he was going to say something, but Bucky kept talking--it was too late to stop now.

"Do you love her?"

The question hung in the air like the aftermath of an explosion. Steve didn't need to ask whom Bucky was referring to--and that alone should have been the answer to his question.

Bucky could see the conflicting emotions in his friend's eyes and he knew immediately Steve was debating his answer. "For once in your life, Steven Grant Rogers, be selfish."

Bucky's use of Steve's full name opened something in his chest he wasn't prepared to face, but his words seemed to tear the answer from Steve's lips, a broken "Yes" slipping out without permission.

Bucky's responding exhale was one of relief, though perhaps tinged with a little sorrow of his own. "Then for the love of god, tell her."

"I can't," Steve insisted immediately.

"Why the hell not? And don't give me some bullshit stoic answer."

"It's not bullshit, Buck. The burden I carry is heavy, and it's not something I'd ever want to put on her. I'm Captain America, for god's sake--half the world loves me and the other half has a hundred reasons to want me dead. I can't put her in that kind of danger. I won't."

"So what, you'd rather let her suffer? Make yourself suffer? What good does that do anyone?"

"What're you talking about?"

Bucky knew then what he'd suspected all along. "She loves you, you daft idiot. She loves you and you're killing her by keeping her at arm's length."

Steve froze, unable to comprehend his friend's words. There was no way you loved him--not the way he loved you, and even if you did, it was unprofessional of him to want you. Not just unprofessional--immoral. It was wrong to put you in harm's way just to make himself happy.

"The shield isn't just about you, Steve," Bucky said quietly. "It's a symbol of hope for the world. I can't imagine what kind of burden you bear, but you don't have to carry it alone. It's not you against the universe's evil--it's all of us. Every decent person on the planet that believes in fighting for what's right. Let us help you carry the weight, before it takes everything from you."

Tears sprung in his eyes as Bucky's words washed over him. He'd never considered sharing the burden with anyone else--it was his responsibility, so he didn't want to saddle anyone else with it. But for the first time since he'd donned the mantle, he felt like maybe it was okay to share it...maybe he didn't have to do it alone.

Bucky saw the conviction in Steve's eyes before his friend said a word. He'd witnessed the realization sink in--the understanding that he wasn't alone, that he never would be.

Neither man spoke. Words weren't needed, not when you had nearly 80 years of friendship between you. They shared an embrace that said everything without saying a single thing. It was a moment both of them would remember for the rest of their lives.

You were standing in the living room when Steve and Bucky came in the backdoor looking oddly content. You eyed them both, trying to determine what exactly was different about them, but you couldn't quite identify it.

Steve started towards you, but your eyes were still locked on Bucky. He shot you a disarming smile, one full of emotions you couldn't discern. For the first time in your years of friendship, you couldn't read his handsome face, but it didn't worry you. You could see the peace in his eyes, and that was enough for you to know he was okay.

"Can I talk to you?" Steve asked quietly when he reached you.

"Of course."

You followed him outside, wondering what exactly he wanted to say. You hoped he wasn't going to berate you for the earlier conversation.

When he turned to face you, any worry about his anger fell away. It wasn't rage you saw in his eyes, nor was it worry or concern. It was something you'd never seen from him before--something deeper than you could possibly comprehend.

"There's so much I want to tell you," he started softly. "A million things I want to say--things I desperately want you to know." He shook his head slowly. "But now isn't the time--not in this random backyard behind a house full of people."

"Then when?" you asked breathlessly.

"After the auction. When you're safe."

You allowed a kernel of hope to form deep in your heart as you nodded your agreement. You weren't ready to let it bloom just yet, but that kernel would sustain you through whatever came next.

**********

It was one hour until show time. One, painfully short, hour. You were ready to go--had been for the better part of 45 minutes, but you hadn't left your room. You weren't mentally ready for that part.

Your hair was perfect, makeup both subtle and classic, and you'd donned the matching bra and panty set you'd brought with you. The panties were a jet black silky thong, covering just enough to leave something to the imagination. The bra you'd chosen was the same shade of black, but it was sheer lace, completely unlined. It pushed your already ample breasts up to new heights.

You held the babydoll in your hands, but you hadn't yet put it on. It was beautiful, the same gorgeous black lace as the bra on top, and sheer mesh from the bottom of your breasts down to the tops of your thighs. It wasn't the babydoll that was the problem, it was you, or rather, your body.

You'd never been a small woman, and you'd struggled with self-esteem issues all through adolescence and young adulthood, but for the most part, you'd learned to be content with your body by now. Most of the time, you found your curves to be beautiful, enticing even, but you'd never done anything quite like this before.

You'd never stood in front of a room of strangers, wearing next to nothing. You wouldn't have anything to hide behind--no baggy sweater or even a robe. Nothing to hide the bumps and lumps you weren't particularly proud of. You weren't even allowed to wear tights--the rules were very explicit. So this was it. This tiny mesh item was all you had to hide behind.

You pulled the babydoll on and stared at yourself in the full-length mirror. In any other situation, you would have thought you looked sexy, but all you could feel was the undercurrent of anxiety. You knew there was no chance Christina wouldn't say something cruel and snarky--and you knew it would hit harder than it should. She'd look hot and you'd look fat--as if the two were in any way mutually exclusive.

You blinked away the tears that threatened to ruin your makeup and adjusted your bra to hide perfectly beneath the lace of the babydoll. Your nipples were on full display through the lace, which was another requirement of the dress code.

You exhaled heavily and grabbed your oversized sweater, pulling it on both for comfort and for modesty. You didn't bother putting on your heels yet--no sense in causing yourself pain until it was absolutely necessary. The shoes actually belonged to Natasha, and each contained a small knife hidden between the top of the heel and the sole of the shoe. It provided a little extra comfort knowing you had some sort of weapon.

You grabbed the shoes and padded quietly out to the living room. The first thing you saw was Bucky standing in the small kitchen with his back to the living room. You looked at him curiously, but he didn't look your way.

The second thing you saw was Natasha, standing in the living room with her arms crossed, an annoyed look on her face you'd seen many times before.

It was the third thing you saw that shocked you, although in hindsight it really shouldn't have been a surprise. There on the sofa, clad in nothing but her lingerie for the evening, was Christina. She was leaning back slightly, breasts on full display for the world to see. She'd chosen to wear red, a color that suited her annoyingly well.

Finally, your eyes landed on Steve, who sat stock-still in a chair across from the sofa. His gaze was trained on the ceiling, as if he was deeply interested in the crown molding around the room. You would have laughed if he hadn't looked so thoroughly uncomfortable.

You cleared your throat quietly to alert them to your presence, and all four sets of eyes immediately shifted to you. Nat shot you an award-winning smile, followed by a dramatic eye roll you knew referenced Christina. Bucky made a slightly choked sound from the kitchen as he took in your appearance, but he gave you a thumbs up and a small smile to cover his initial reaction.

The only pair of eyes you really cared about were Steve's bright blue orbs, which were glued to your face. His lips were parted slightly, as if in awe of what stood before him. He stood up and walked towards you, coming to a stop a foot away.

"You look beautiful," he whispered huskily.

Your sweater covered most of what lay beneath, but he wasn't even looking at that. He couldn't tear his gaze away from your face, eyes tracing over every inch as if committing it to memory.

Your cheeks reddened beneath the soft shade of blush you'd applied, feeling particularly exposed under his gaze. "Thank you," you murmured softly.

"What's with the sweater?" Christina's mocking voice asked from behind Steve.

He winced slightly, as if suddenly remembering her presence. You gently patted his arm before walking around him to meet Christina's gaze.

"Well first off, it's cold in here," you began. "Secondly, I don't feel the strong urge to sexually harass several of my coworkers by lounging on the couch almost entirely nude."

Bucky desperately tried to hide his snicker behind a cough, but Natasha didn't even bother to hide her outright mirth. Even Steve let out a grunt to cover his laughter.

Before Christina could come up with a suitable response, Kimberly stepped out of the bathroom. She'd opted to throw a fuzzy robe on over her outfit, and her eyes nearly bulged out of her skull when she saw Christina.

"Oh my god!" she gasped, eyes looking away immediately.

Her reaction caused the four of you to laugh even harder, no one bothering to cover up their reactions this time. Christina let out a pouty sigh before getting off the sofa and stomping all the way to her room. She came back a few seconds later with a silk robe that really didn't hide much, but at least it was something.

Moments later, Roscoe arrived, prepared to escort the three of you to the auction. The plan was for Bucky, Steve, and Nat to follow behind, stopping at least two blocks away from the hotel. They wanted to be close by without being spotted.

"Are you girls ready?" Roscoe asked.

You swallowed thickly, voice suddenly unusable. You nodded, trying to seem comfortable. Your hands belied your anxiety, fingers twisting your ring nervously.

You felt Steve's reassuring presence behind you, hand pressing gently against the small of your back. You exhaled slowly, feeling a little calmer than you had moments before.

"Let's go," you affirmed, taking the first step to follow Roscoe out to his vehicle.

**********

When the van pulled into the front of the hotel, a valet approached, prepared to move the vehicle as soon as you had all exited.

"(Y/N)?" you heard Steve's firm voice crackle through the comms in your ear. "Do you read me?"

"I got you," you assured him.

"Keep us posted. We'll be there the moment you need us," he promised.

Your response was cut off by the opening of the van door. Roscoe stood outside, gesturing for the three of you to get out. He was already in character, eyes sharp, voice even sharper. "Don't cause me any trouble," he growled.

The three of you walked in ahead of Roscoe, so he could ensure none of you tried to run. Once you were safely within the confines of the hotel lobby, he guided you to the front desk.

From your understanding, the hotel itself was owned by one of the members of the trafficking ring, and all of the staff were aware of the goings-on this particular evening. The hotel had been closed to outside guests, thereby securing the location for the auction.

The front desk clerk scanned Roscoe's identification and dealer credentials before nodding and gesturing for them to take the elevator to the second floor, where the grand ballroom was located.

When the four of you exited the elevator, you were met by two large guards. "Outer garments must be removed before entry," one of them stated.

You shrugged out of your sweater with shaky hands, passing it to the guard. Kimberly and Christina did the same with theirs.

"You may take them on one lap around the room," the guard instructed Roscoe. "Then they will be escorted to holding until the auction begins."

Roscoe thanked the guard before snapping at the three of you to follow him. Your eyes scanned every inch of space you passed through, as you imagined your companions were doing as well. You tried to commit as many details as you could into your brain, with the hope of relaying them to Steve as soon as you were out of earshot of any attendees.

"Heads up, shoulders back," Roscoe snapped as he led you into the ballroom. "Do not embarrass me."

You had to suppress a gasp as you entered the ballroom. The sheer number of people shocked you--a mixture of well-dressed men and women mingling around the room. Several sets of eyes zoned in on you and your companions as you began to walk around the edges of the room.

There were most certainly more than 45 people there, you would estimate it at almost double that. Apparently the invitations included a plus-one. Some of the faces you passed appeared mildly interested, while some eyed the three of you like wolves assessing their prey. It sent a shiver of fear down your spine, which you tried desperately to hide.

By your count, there were at least two guards at each of the doors to the ballroom, plus five more near the makeshift stage. You imagined there were a few more behind the curtain at the back of the stage. You assumed that was where the girls would wait before being escorted to the stage for auction.

Once your rotation around the room was complete, two handlers stepped forward to escort the three of you to holding. You followed them in silence, waiting with severe discomfort to see where you'd be taken.

To your chagrin, when the doors to the elevator opened, you found yourself heading down to the basement. As the five of you exited the elevators, you were shocked by the cold damp of the cement basement. This was going to be an extremely unpleasant wait.

The handlers guided you to a large storage room and gestured for you to enter. The room already contained at least 30 other girls of all ages, shapes, sizes, and races. There really was someone to appeal to everyone. You couldn't recall a time you were more disgusted.

The moment the doors were closed, the three of you began to move around the room, eyes scanning for cameras (of which there were several), and any other exits (of which there were none).

You moved slowly towards the center of the room, away from most of the cameras. You lowered your face into your hands as if you were crying, effectively hiding your mouth from any prying eyes.

"Steve?"

The static crackled for a moment before you heard his reassuring voice. "I hear you."

"Double the original count of buyers."

"Jesus," Bucky breathed in the background.

"What else?" Steve asked. You could tell he was trying not to sound concerned.

You relayed what other information you had discovered, with the occasional input from Christina or Kimberly.

"Okay. Keep us posted and stay safe."

Several of the girls near you looked uncomfortably young, and your heart ached for them. You wanted to speak to them, to comfort them, but you couldn't risk being overheard by the cameras.

The doors opened several more times as the minutes ticked past, more and more women and girls filing into the room until there was almost no space to move.

Each girl had been given a lot number, which had been stamped onto their arm in dark black ink. The expectation was that the handlers would yell out several lot numbers, and those girls would move to the ballroom for auction.

You had no idea what time it was, but you imagined the auction had to be starting soon. Several minutes after the thought occurred to you, the doors opened and two handlers stepped in. One read out five lot numbers, while the other brandished a cattle-prod to keep the girls compliant.

To your horror, the very first lot number the handler read out was the one stamped on your arm. You began to move towards the door, and you heard Kimberly's breathy gasp through your comms.

Once all five of you were in the hall and the doors shut behind you, you heard Kimberly's soft voice relaying what had just happened. You could hear the tension in Steve's voice when he responded with his understanding, but you couldn't say anything to reassure him.

When you were escorted into the ballroom, you discovered you were correct in your assumptions about the curtains. The five of you stood behind them, waiting to be directed to the stage. By your count, there were only three guards behind the curtains, plus the two handlers that had brought you here.

You heard your lot number being read out over the speakers, and one of the handlers quickly ushered you out onto the stage. Your discomfort was surely visible, both in your stance and in your expression, but you held your head high and kept your mouth closed.

The auctioneer began to circle you like a vulture, assessing you aloud for the buyers to hear. His clammy hands brushed firmly against your skin as he spoke.

"Lot 1568, (y/age) female, (y/h/c), (y/e/c). Full, large breasts." He punctuated his words with a squeeze of your breast. His hand trailed down your front, stopping at the hem of your thong. "Shapely curves, full stomach, wide hips."

You felt the strong urge to headbutt this son of a bitch, not just for the descriptions of your body, but for the way he touched you like he had any right to. You held yourself still--you knew you couldn't fight, not yet.

He crossed behind you and grabbed your ass before giving it a firm swat. You hissed quietly, the sting entirely unpleasant in the current circumstances.

"Very nice, large, round ass. Excellent for smacking." That got a hearty chuckle from the crowd. His hands trailed down your thighs, skimming over your cellulite like he owned it. "Thick thighs, not smooth."

He stood back to his full height and stepped back to his podium. "We will start the bidding at $10,000. Do I hear 10?"

You were clenching your jaw so tightly you worried you might crack a damn tooth. You barely heard the sounds of the auction around you, the rage at being described like a piece of meat for sale at the goddamn butcher had your blood boiling and your vision turning red.

You knew your friends and your companions had heard every word the auctioneer said. You'd heard Steve's sharp inhales and quiet growls of rage, along with the low expletives from Bucky and Nat. Even Steve threw in a couple despite himself.

The reality of your situation didn't hit you again until you heard the auctioneer yell, "Sold! $650,000 to 14A."

Well at least you knew you weren't cheap--the rueful thought crossed your mind moments before you were being escorted from the stage and guided to the back of the ballroom. A man stood in front of a table along the back, and even from your distance, you could see he was counting out $100 bills.

The handler dragged you right up to the man, who had just completed his transaction, a brand new bill of sale in his hands. They had bills of fucking sale for people--and that got your blood boiling even more.

Your expression must have betrayed your inner thoughts, because your new 'owner' sneered at you. "What's wrong, bitch? Is this ordeal unappealing to you?"

You debated your response for little more than a fraction of a second. "You disgust me."

The slap came with shocking speed and force--so much force, in fact, your comms unit flew out of your ear, landing somewhere against a wall to your left. The whimper that left your throat was unintentional, and you nearly dropped to your knees in pain. At least you'd learned what his superpower was--strength.

"You'll learn quickly to be polite, slut," he growled. "On your knees."

You refused to move, which only further angered him. He gripped your throat and squeezed before uttering the words again, each one dripping with rage. "On. Your. Knees."

You dropped to your knees without a fight and he released your throat, with a muttered "good girl." He pulled a collar out of his pocket--it had sharp spikes on one side, and you quickly discovered those spikes were intended to dig into your skin if you disobeyed. He tightened the collar around your throat a little tighter than necessary, enough that you inhaled sharply in pain.

He merely laughed as he secured a leash to the collar, giving it a light tug as he started to walk. "Come along, bitch."

You cried out as the sharp spikes dug into your neck, and you quickly crawled to his side to avoid further pain. He walked you towards the front of the ballroom, as if he wanted everyone to see his new possession. Once he reached the front, he muttered at you to sit quietly and behave.

The marble floors were cold beneath you, and your legs quickly began to ache in discomfort, but you remained silent for fear of further pain.

Unbeknownst to you, Steve flew into full panic mode when he heard your whimper of pain. He didn't know what happened, but he knew someone had hurt you and now you weren't responding. He'd called your name several times, voice rising in fear with each non-response.

"Whatever happened caused her comms to fall out of her ear," Wanda said through the speakerphone. "The comms are online, but they're indicating a disconnect from (Y/N)."

Steve was trying to regulate his breathing as his panic started to rise further. He never should have let you go in there--he shouldn't have approved this. What if something happened to you? It would be all his fault. He should have told you he loved you earlier--what if he never got to tell you?

Bucky could see his friend beginning to spiral and he tried desperately to reassure him, even through his own worry. "She's strong, okay? She's gonna be okay."

"You don't know that," Steve snapped.

"She's got knives tucked in her heels," Nat said calmly. "She's not defenseless."

Steve's eyebrows shot up as he looked her direction. "She's got what?"

"I let her borrow my favorite shoes," she said with a shrug. "I had them retrofitted with small blades."

Bucky let out a broken, incredulous laugh. "You're a fucking genius."

"I know."

Steve was still worried, but the tension in his chest eased slightly with the news that you had a weapon--one you were very good with. He couldn't deny he wanted to bust in there and save you, but he knew it was too risky. They didn't have all the information yet--and backup had yet to arrive.

"Kimberly just got called," Christina's voice crackled softly through the comms. "She's headed upstairs now."

The news gave Steve just a little sliver of hope--perhaps she'd be able to see you, tell them if you're okay.

"Back-up is still 20 minutes out," Wanda's voice echoed through the car.

"Copy," Nat replied.

The large contingent of SHIELD agents that was supposed to arrive shortly after they did, had been stuck in traffic and unable to get around it.

"This is what happens when you have an op in fucking Manhattan," Bucky grumbled under his breath.

Steve grunted his agreement. He could only hope they would arrive in time.

**********

Kimberly was next in line to be auctioned. From her vantage point behind the curtain, she could just make out a sliver of the crowd. Her eyes strained slightly, but when someone in the very front moved, she caught sight of a woman on her knees. She knew it was you without a doubt, a sigh of relief escaping before she could stop it.

Thankfully, the handler closest to her wasn't paying much attention. He was chatting with a nearby guard about some game that was playing on TV.

She took the opportunity to mutter reassurances to the team, praying no one else would hear her. "I see her. She's alive."

Steve's entire body seemed to sag with relief. "Thank you," he murmured, as if the words were meant only for her.

Kimberly opened her mouth to give a count of the guards behind the curtain, but the auctioneer called her lot number and she was being dragged to the stage. She'd made a choice to provide information about you over information about security--she could only hope she'd made the right decision.

You saw Kimberly step onto the stage and her eyes found you instantly. You hated seeing her in such a position, about to experience the same thing you had 20 minutes prior. You hoped she wouldn't end up where you were right now--the pain in your entire lower body had faded into pins and needles, which was somehow worse than before.

You tried to shift your body, to get some sort of relief, but your 'owner' snapped the leash firmly, digging the spikes deeper into your neck. You bite your lip to keep from crying out, hands forming tight fists at your sides. When you glanced down, you could see the trails of blood dripping down the valley of your breasts, spawning from the spikes that remained pressed into your flesh.

You sent up a silent prayer that Steve, Nat, and Bucky had the intel they needed and would be coming to the rescue soon. You weren't sure how much longer you could stay like this, especially as more blood began to trickle down your neck.

Kimberly could see you were distressed, she could even see the blood around your neck and on your chest, but there was nothing she could do. She couldn't say a word without potentially getting caught.

Christina's voice cut through the silence of the comms. "Please tell me you guys have what you need."

Steve looked at Natasha, but she shook her head. "At least 10 minutes out."

"Backup hasn't arrived yet," Steve said solemnly. "You've got to hang on for a little longer."

They could hear the auctioneer announce Kimberly had been sold, highlighting the need to get this show on the road.

"We might not have that long," Kimberly whispered softly as she followed the handler to the back of the room.

"What do you mean?" Steve asked, apprehension clear in his voice.

"She's bleeding from the neck."

No one had to ask for clarification--they all knew she was talking about you. She couldn't explain further, couldn't provide additional context. It was already extremely risky for her to mutter those few words.

The car was utterly silent as her words crashed into each of them. They had no way of knowing how bad it was, but the concern was instant and sharp.

"We can't wait on them," Steve panicked.

"We can't bust in there without backup either," Bucky countered.

"She could be dead by the time they get here!"

"If it was that bad, she would be fighting, Steve!"

"What if she can't?" Steve's voice came out in a broken wail. "I can't leave her in there to die."

"No one's saying we should do that," Nat interrupted gently. "But Bucky's right. We can't risk going in there without backup--it would defeat the purpose of the entire operation. And he's right about (Y/N)--she wouldn't go down without a fight."

Steve's hands shook in his lap as he debated his options. In reality, he had none. He knew it. He knew they were right. But it didn't make it any easier to sit there knowing you were inside that hotel in pain, in danger. He hated it. More than he'd ever hated anything in his life.

"Tell them to floor the fucking vehicles," Steve growled. "We don't have time to waste."

They could hear Wanda vaguely in the distance yelling at the SHIELD agents to move faster, but both Bucky and Nat were stunned to silence by the vulgarity of Steve's language. Sure, he used some of the softer expletives here and there, but neither of them had ever heard him say 'fuck' or any variation. They needed no further evidence of Steve's deep feelings for you than that.

**********

You 'owner' decided he wanted to stroll around the ballroom as the auction continued, which meant you were forced to crawl beside him, the pain in your knees and legs dulled by the sharp stabbing of the spikes in your neck. You couldn't move as fast as he wanted you to, not with legs mostly numb from kneeling, and the agony shooting through your hand from your newest injury.

He held the leash tightly in his hands, leaving no slack as he walked. He didn't bother to slow his pace, not caring about the cries of pain emanating from the woman crawling beside him. You couldn't keep up no matter how hard you tried--and the spikes kept digging deeper into your sensitive skin, drawing more and more blood.

One of the spikes was pressing firmly against your windpipe, and you felt increasing fear that he would pull just the wrong way and the spike would pierce your windpipe. Your fear only elevated your heart rate, which made the blood flow faster down your neck.

After a few laps around the room, he finally came to a stop, leaning back against the wall with a sigh of contentment. You slouched beside him, dying to reach up and pry the collar away from your throat, but you'd already seen what he would do if you tried that. The shattered bones of your right hand were evidence enough.

The first sound you heard that seemed out of place came from outside the ballroom. It sounded vaguely like a shout, but it was cut short almost immediately. You couldn't help the surge of hope that ran through you.

Your 'owner' didn't seem to pay any attention to the sound--after all, the hotel was secure. There was no reason to panic. He continued to lounge against the wall as if he had not a care in the world.

It wasn't until the sounds of running feet echoed through the space that he began to perk up, confusion etched into his features. Seconds later, every door in the ballroom burst open as SHIELD agents rushed in.

Relief slammed into your chest, but it quickly shifted to pain as your 'owner' began to drag you along behind him, heading towards one of the exits. You tried to fight, but the spikes dug in unbearably deep and you were forced to catch up to him.

He paused for a moment, trying to assess his next move. It's only for a few seconds, just enough time for you to slip your left hand behind you and pull the blade from your heel. From somewhere on the other side of the room, you hear Steve scream your name--the sound both agonized and desperate.

You don't know if he can see you, but when you try to call out for him, your voice is barely loud enough to be heard over the panicked chaos around you. The collar tightens around your neck again and you lunge at your 'owner', slicing the blade right through his achilles' tendon.

His scream of pain is echoed by your own as he snaps the leash before dropping to his knees. The surge of adrenaline is all you have--it's all that's keeping you functioning. You grab ahold of the leash, yanking it towards you, feeding it into your teeth so you can slice through it with the blade in your good hand.

The moment the leash is severed, you begin to crawl away as quickly as you can, in the direction you'd heard Steve's voice. You feel your 'owner' wrap his hand around your ankle, dragging you back towards him. You kick desperately, but your legs are still mostly numb and are refusing to respond to your brain's instructions.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see a flash of blonde hair, followed by the scream of the man holding your ankle. He releases it instantly and you pull your leg back towards you. It takes you a moment to register the face that swims into your vision, but when you do, a choked sob is all that escapes you.

Steve wraps his arms around you, tugging you close, relief oozing from every pore in his body. You barely hear him whisper your name, and you don't clock the ache in his voice as he tells you he's got you.

He lifts you in his arms after checking that two SHIELD agents had put power-dampening cuffs on the son of a bitch who'd hurt you. He carried you out of the ballroom, not giving a damn about anything but ensuring you were okay. He knew Nat and Bucky would get Kimberly and Christina. All he cared about was you.

Once you were outside and away from the chaos, he gently sat you inside one of the large vans SHIELD agents had arrived in. He climbed in alongside you and gentle hands painstakingly removed the collar around your neck. More blood trickled out once the spikes were no longer digging into your skin, but the relief was instant.

You heard him call for a medic, but you don't even care in the moment. Steve had come for you--you were safe. Nothing else mattered. You started to feel tired, the adrenaline finally dissipating, leaving nothing but exhaustion in its wake.

As your eyes start to slip closed, you hear Steve's panicked voice calling out your name, but you're too tired to respond. You think you give his arm a reassuring squeeze, but you couldn't be certain. Not before darkness wrapped you in its warm cocoon and lulled you to sleep.

**********

You woke up several hours later, the rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor alerting you to your location. You began to shift as your brain reached full consciousness, eyelids finally cooperating as they fluttered open, revealing the dim lighting of the compound's medical bay.

The relief you felt was immediate. You'd been safely returned to the comforts of the place you called home. You had questions, of course--the need to know everyone was safe and all those innocent women had been rescued, but thoughts of the op faded when you caught sight of the man sleeping in a chair to the right of your bed.

If you hadn't been worried about waking him, you would have laughed at the sight before you. The chair had been made for a normal sized person, not a giant super soldier. He looked horrifically uncomfortable, and you imagined he hadn't intended to fall asleep in that tiny chair. His head leaned back against the wall, one arm dangled off to the side, and his legs were crossed at an unnatural angle.

It was both comical and extremely sweet. There was no doubt he'd stayed there for you, ignoring his own discomfort just to remain by your side. It warmed something deep inside you, the feeling in your chest forcing a soft sigh of contentment from your lips.

While the sound hadn't been particularly loud, Steve began to stir. He nearly jumped out of the chair when his eyes met yours and he realized you were awake. "Doll," he whispered, voice cracking on the single word.

"Hi." You offered him a gentle smile of reassurance.

He was on his feet and gripping your left hand in the time it took for you to take a single breath. "How are you feeling?" he murmured.

Concern was evident in his gaze, along with a smidge of wariness. It made your chest ache to an almost unbearable level.

"I'm alright," you answered. "Thanks to you."

Steve shook his head. "That was all you, doll. He was already on the ground by the time I got there. I just gave him a little extra encouragement to take a nap."

You chuckled softly. "In other words, you punched him in the face."

"That's correct," Steve said with a small smile.

"Still...thank you for coming for me."

He shrugged as if it really wasn't that big of a deal. "I wasn't gonna leave you there. Not like that."

Something swam in his eyes, a nameless emotion you couldn't place, yet it still managed to make you sad. There were so many things you wanted to say, but the right words just refused to come. So instead you asked a question you did wish to know the answer to. "Is everyone else okay?"

"Yeah, Kimberly and Christina are fine--Nat found them fairly quickly. Bucky had to chase down a few of the superhumans who tried to escape, but other than that, everything went off without a hitch."

"The girls?"

He offered you a gentle smile. "Rescued. The ones that had already been sold, as well as the ones in holding. Tony's got an entire team dedicated to ensuring they get the help they need."

"Good. Good." It was good--and you were glad, but that ache in your chest remained. You'd thought it was related to the op--to the not knowing how everything turned out--but even with the knowledge that your friends were okay and the victims were getting the support they needed, the ache continued to weigh you down.

Steve could see the turmoil in your face, but he didn't understand where it came from. He wanted to ask you about what had happened to you, but he wasn't sure if it was something you were ready to talk about. At least, not with him.

"Nat and Bucky went up to their rooms maybe two hours ago," he began. "I told them I'd call them when you woke up. I know they were worried."

You hadn't even considered that your friends would be worried about you. Obviously you were fine, your injuries would heal with time, so really there was nothing for them to worry about. "You don't need to wake them. My injuries aren't gonna kill me."

He looked at you in silence for a long moment. "I-I don't think it was the injuries they were worried about."

"What do you mean?"

"(Y/N), you-well, you went through something awful. None of us know exactly what happened, and you don't have to talk about it if you're not ready, but you can't blame us for being worried."

"I'm fine," you lied smoothly. You hadn't realized how not-fine you were until the lie slipped from your mouth. The entire experience had been horrifically unpleasant, but you couldn't help but imagine how much worse it was for the victims that came before you. The ones you hadn't been able to help. What horrors had they experienced? Where were they now? Still in captivity? Were they even still alive?

The flurry of questions clouded your mind and you quickly realized exactly what the ache in your chest was. You'd made it through the ordeal with barely any trauma, but countless others had not. Men and women had been tortured by these people for god only knows how long...some of them might still be out there now, alone and in pain. How could you even compare your experience with theirs?

"Where's your head at?" Steve whispered softly, interrupting your spiraling thoughts.

"It's nothing," you assured him. "I'm just tired."

It was evident he didn't believe you, but he chose not to push you. "You should get some sleep. Do you-do you want me to stay?"

The speed with which you shook your head sent a dagger straight to his heart. You didn't want him to stay. He didn't hide his pain quickly enough for you to not notice, and you found yourself scrambling to assuage him of any notion you didn't want him around.

"It's not that I don't want you here," you stumbled. "That chair is just so small and you looked so uncomfortable--you need to get some actual sleep too."

Steve attempted to plaster a calm smile on his face, but it came out more like a grimace. He let go of your hand, the loss of his touch almost painful. You opened your mouth to say something else--anything else, but he'd already stepped away, professional mask sliding into place and effectively shutting down any further discussion.

"You're right," he stated. Even his voice had taken on the tone of the Captain, not the friend. "Get some sleep. I'll have Nat check on you in the morning."

You watched him walk away in silence. It wasn't lost on you that he didn't say he'd check on you in the morning. It hurt more than it should, that professional distance that separated you like it had before all of this began. It wasn't that you didn't want to see Natasha...it was the pain of realizing he might not care as much as you did.

**********

"Well, well, well. Still lazing in bed, I see," Natasha teased as she walked into your room the following morning.

You attempted a smile for your friend, but you knew it didn't work by the shift in her expression.

"You okay?" You hated the gentleness in her voice--no teasing, no banter, just pure concern.

"I'm fine," you insisted.

"You're not fine, but if you want me to pretend you are, I can."

You shot her a glare. "Why does everyone think I'm not okay?"

"Because we know you well enough to know when you're lying through your teeth."

You sighed loudly. "I'm not traumatized. I'm not fragile. I'm not broken. I'm fine."

"I never said you were any of those things," she said calmly. "But you did go through something awful, whether you want to admit it or not. Your broken hand and the bandages around your neck are evidence of that."

"So I got injured, had an unpleasant experience. So what? What about all those other women? What about what they experienced? Or the ones we didn't save--what about them? Why does what happened to me matter in comparison?"

Natasha's expression shifted into one of understanding. She took a seat on the edge of your bed and slipped her hand into yours. "There's a reason therapists say not to compare traumas. Just because someone experienced something more horrific than you, doesn't make your experience any less awful. It doesn't mean you're not allowed to feel however you feel--it doesn't lessen what you went through or the impact it's going to have on you. No one can predict that."

Tears sprang into your eyes, unbidden and unwelcome. Her words touched something deep inside you, something you hadn't realized was there. You'd been so focused on what other trafficking victims had experienced that you'd unintentionally hidden how you felt about your own experience, even from yourself.

"Oh, (Y/N/N)," she murmured as she reached for you, tugging you into a hug.

She let you cry on her shoulder for much longer than you cared to admit. The cathartic release of tears relieved some of the pressure you'd felt building inside you. You finally pulled away, wiping your face with the sleeve of your gown.

"You don't have to hide what you're feeling," Nat insisted. "Not from us, and certainly not from yourself. Pushing it down only hurts you in the long run."

"She's right, you know," Bucky commented from the doorway. "I'd know better than anyone."

One glance at your friend's vulnerable expression sent another wave of tears streaming down your face. Bucky crossed the short distance to you, dropped a bouquet of flowers on your bedside table, and wrapped you in the tightest hug he could manage without hurting you.

"You don't have to talk about what happened with us," he asserted. "But don't bottle it up. Don't hide what you're feeling."

You dug your fingers into his shoulders as you clung to him, releasing some of your pent-up emotions into his chest. His presence soothed you even more than Natasha's did, but you were equally thankful for both of them.

You sniffled softly as you pulled away from Bucky, and he reached out to wipe the tears from your face. He gave you a reassuring smile and a soft kiss to your forehead.

"Alright, we done ruining shirts for a little while?" he teased gently, glancing down at the massive wet spot on his henley. Nat had a matching one on her t-shirt, and you couldn't help but laugh.

"Sorry about that," you giggled.

"Nahh, that's what we're here for. You can ruin our shirts anytime," Bucky assured you.

"Speak for yourself, Barnes. This is my favorite shirt." Nat shot you a wink so you knew she was teasing.

You smiled at them both, feeling incredibly thankful for their love and friendship. Out of the corner of your eye, you spotted the flowers Bucky had brought you and you reached over to grab them. "You brought me flowers?"

Bucky's cheeks reddened slightly, but he offered you a dopey grin. "Isn't that what you're supposed to do when someone isn't feeling well?"

You glanced down at the flowers, a small smile curling the corners of your mouth. "They're my favorite."

"I know."

Nat gave him a teasing punch in the arm, but the smile on her face betrayed her true feelings. "Didn't take you for a flowers kinda guy."

"Oh shut up."

You laughed along with them, a warmth spreading through your chest, thawing the pain of the last 24 hours. "I think it's sweet. Can you put them in a vase for me?"

Bucky smiled and grabbed them from you. "I have no idea where to find a vase, but I'm on it."

You laughed again as you watched him leave the room, on a mission to hunt down a vase.

"You feeling a little better?" Nat asked as soon as he was out of earshot.

"Actually, yeah." You bit your lip slightly, another tear or two slipping down your face. "Thank you."

"What're friends for?" She glanced behind her, making sure Bucky was still gone. "Speaking of friends, is everything okay with you and Steve?"

Just hearing his name felt like a knife to the heart. "I don't know," you answered honestly. "I think I did something to upset him. He was kind of cold when he left last night--overly professional, like he used to be."

"Hmm," she hummed. "I doubt you did anything wrong. Maybe he was just overwhelmed with everything that happened."

"Maybe," you considered. "Or maybe I misread everything that happened in the last week."

Natasha's eyes narrowed in disbelief. "Girl, please. I don't know what's up with him, but I know you're not misreading shit. You should have seen him last night when your comms when out. I thought he was gonna bust into that hotel to find you by himself."

"Really?"

"I've never seen him that frazzled. He was genuinely panicking. It took me, Bucky, Wanda, and Kimberly to talk him down."

"He couldn't really be dumb enough to actually storm in there without backup," you argued.

"Dumb? No. Worried? Absolutely. He was terrified, (Y/N). Honestly, we all were. We heard a loud sound, a cry of pain, and then nothing--it took all of our self-control not to barge in there. Bucky and I were upset, but Steve was downright irrational."

You couldn't picture Steve ever being irrational, or panicked, for that matter. He was always the picture of calm, cool, and collected. The poster boy for self-control and discipline. What could have possibly made him lose all sense like that?

"That's just so unlike him," you refuted. "I don't understand why he would freak out like that."

"Because he loves you," Bucky pointed out nonchalantly, as he walked back into the room with a large lab beaker full of water. He placed your flowers in it before meeting your shocked gaze. "What? Is that really so surprising?"

You took a second to pick your jaw off the floor before responding. "Are you insane?"

"Probably," he admitted with a shrug. "But not because of that."

"This is Steve Rogers we're talking about. There's no way he loves me."

"How else would you explain his reaction?" Bucky countered. "Nat's right. I've never seen him like that before--ever. And I've known him longer than either of you have been alive. Trust me when I say there's no other reason for that kind of panic."

You shook your head in disbelief. "I was his responsibility--he told me that himself. Of course he was worried when I stopped responding."

Bucky and Nat exchanged knowing glances. "Look, I'm just telling you what I saw. Steve wasn't worried, doll. He was downright terrified, like seconds away from hyperventilating, terrified. The only reason he didn't go busting in there is because Kimberly saw you and was able to tell us you were alive. It wasn't until then that he calmed down enough to be rational."

You didn't know what to say. You'd thought something had changed between you and Steve, especially when he asked to talk with you in private before the op, but you hadn't imagined he could love you. Sure, you'd hoped he might like you the same way you liked him...but you didn't dare to dream it could be more than that.

"I should talk to him," you whispered softly, almost to yourself.

"Obviously," Bucky and Nat said together.

You laughed lightly, feeling even better than you had ten minutes prior. You took the moment to look at the beautiful flowers Bucky had brought you, your laugh only deepening when you realized what he'd used as a vase.

"Is that a beaker, James Barnes?" you asked between giggles.

"It was all I could find!"

Nat joined in with your laughter, and Bucky followed soon after. Not for the first time, you felt so grateful to have such amazing people in your life--people you loved who loved you in return.

**********

You were released from the medbay later that day with strict instructions to come back in the morning to have your neck wounds cleaned and new bandages applied.

The second the doctor said you were free to go, you were off like a bat out of hell. "FRIDAY," you called as you raced down the hall.

The AI answered immediately, "Yes, Ms. (Y/L/N)?"

"Where's Steve?"

"Captain Rogers is currently in his room."

"Thank you!" You started walking faster towards the housing complex.

"Would you like me to notify him of your impending arrival?"

"No, that's okay. I've got it."

"Of course."

Ten minutes later you were standing in front of his door, suddenly afraid to knock. What would you say to him? You'd spent half the afternoon organizing your thoughts and considering exactly what you wanted to say...and now your mind was completely blank. You couldn't remember a single point you wanted to make.

Before you could even consider knocking, the door swung open and Steve started to step out, but he stopped dead in his tracks when he saw you standing there. He was wearing a tight quick-dry shirt and some loose sweatpants, so you assumed he was going to the gym.

"Oh, sorry, I-I was just stopping by to let you know I was released from medical, but um, it looks like you're on your way out, so I don't wanna bother you," you rambled.

"Uh, no-it's uh, it's okay. I was just going to the gym, but it can wait," he insisted, stepping back to invite you in.

"Are you sure?"

He nodded and shot you a smile, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Come on in."

You bit your lip nervously, entering his room slowly. You'd never been in his private space before, and your first thought was how orderly it was. It didn't surprise you, given his military history and overall organized personality, but it gave off such a different vibe from Bucky's room. While he was similarly orderly (ya know, military), his was mostly devoid of personalization--he believed it was a utilitarian space for sleeping and that was about it.

Steve's room was the total opposite in that regard. He'd painted the walls a soothing blue, pictures adorned nearly every wall, and he had a large bookcase practically overflowing with books. It was warm, welcoming, and entirely homey. You liked it immediately.

Steve stood behind you, arm awkwardly slung behind him as he rubbed the back of his head. It was weird seeing you in his private space--hell, it was weird seeing anyone here. Even Bucky had only been inside his room once or twice, and only for a moment at that.

He watched you in silence as you made your way over to his book shelves, a small smile on your face as you took in the various tomes piled haphazardly on the shelves.

"You've got a lot of books," you said quietly, an attempt at breaking the silence filling the room.

"Yeah, I, uh, I like to read."

"I know," you murmured. You quickly realized what you'd said, cheeks darkening as you turned to give him a sheepish look. "I mean, I've noticed you like to read in your spare time--like in the common room and stuff."

You wanted to bang your head against the wall for sounding like you watched him like some sort of creep, but the little smirk that played along his lips eased your mind.

"So..." you tried. "I-uh, well. Shit." You exhaled heavily and tried again. "I just wanted to um, apologize for yesterday."

His brows dipped low as he stared at you. "Apologize? For what?"

"I wasn't exactly honest with you, and I just felt like maybe I upset you? Which wasn't my intention, I just didn't really know how to express what I was feeling and I didn't want you to worry, and-"

His soft, but firm voice cut off your ramble. "Woah, there. You don't have anything to apologize for. I shouldn't have pushed you."

"I know you were just concerned, and I'm sorry I lied to you."

"You don't owe me an explanation."

"Of course I do," you insisted. You looked over at the two chairs in the small living space. "Can we sit down?"

He came over and took a seat in one of the chairs, leaving you to sit in the other. You twisted the ring on your index finger as you tried to find the words you wanted to say. He noticed, as he always did, but he remained silent, waiting for you to speak.

"When I was standing on that stage at the auction, all I could think about was how angry I was--angry at these terrible people, angry that innocent people were being treated like cattle, and angry that we couldn't help them all," you began quietly. "I think the anger, at least in part, is what got me through everything that happened after that. I wasn't even really upset about what was happening to me--I just kept thinking about the countless other victims that had come before me...and would probably come after."

Steve remained quiet, but attentive. He didn't want to interrupt you, not when you were finally opening up to him.

"I didn't really consider the impact my own experience had on me until this morning when I was talking to Natasha. I just kept comparing myself to the trauma other victims must have experienced and my only thought was that what happened to me was nothing in comparison. Nat made me realize it was okay for me to see my experience as trauma--that it didn't diminish what others had gone through."

"She's right," he said softly.

"I know," you agreed. "But I didn't really consider it before--so when I woke up in the medbay, I still had that anger, the rage I felt on behalf of all the other victims. I-I think I was ashamed for even thinking about what I'd gone through, so I pushed it down."

"It wasn't like I did it consciously, even. And when I told you I didn't want you to stay, I-well, I didn't even really mean it. I was angry and hurt--not because of anything you did--and I just wanted to be alone. I'm sorry if I hurt you. That was never my intention," you finished lowly.

Steve's lips parted as he considered his response. In all honesty, he'd felt terrible for how he'd reacted in the moment. It ate at him all night and the majority of the day. He'd been on his way to the gym to work out his own frustrations with himself when he ran into you.

"It did hurt," he confided. "But I should have known you weren't choosing to hurt me on purpose. That's not the kind of person you are. I was selfish, and I shut down. I'm sorry for that."

You bit your lip again, eyes filling with unshed tears. You didn't know where to go from here--what you should say next. Bucky's voice saying 'he loves you' echoed in your head, and you blamed that for what you said next. "Bucky and Nat told me about what happened when my comms went dark."

Steve's face froze in a wince, eyes darting away from yours. He didn't really have a good explanation, at least not one that didn't start with 'I love you and I was scared of losing you'.

"I was worried," he admitted quietly. "I heard you whimper in pain and that was it--silence. I-I thought the worst."

"I probably would have reacted the same way if the roles were reversed."

"You probably would have been more level-headed than me. I just, I panicked. I can't remember a time I was that terrified. Even after Kimberly said she saw you, I still couldn't breathe," he exhaled heavily like he'd still been holding that same breath. "When she said you were bleeding from your neck, I nearly ran into the building to get you. If Bucky and Nat hadn't calmed me down, I think I would have."

Neither of them had mentioned that part to you. You hadn't been aware that any of them had known you were injured.

"When backup finally got there and we went inside, all I could think about was getting to you. I had to get to you," he continued, voice laced with the echoes of his fear from the night before. "I can't describe the terror I felt when I finally saw you...and the rage. Jesus doll, I wanted to rip that guy apart."

His admission left you speechless. You wanted to reach out to him, take his hand, comfort him in some way, but you found yourself rooted to the spot.

He finally looked up at you, eyes blazing with a multitude of emotions. "I knew you'd fight for your life, but I still felt like I couldn't get to you fast enough. Even when I saw you bring him to the ground, I was still terrified." He exhaled a shaky breath. "I-I'm almost embarrassed to admit the rage I felt when I saw that collar around your neck up close. If you hadn't needed me more, I think I would have killed him."

Something broke in your chest at his quiet words. For the gentle, righteous Steve Rogers to admit something so dark--to tell you he'd wanted to kill someone--it brought you to your knees. Literally.

You dropped right in front of him, taking his hand into yours. Your right hand ached with the motion, but you pushed the pain aside. "You don't have to be embarrassed in front of me. You didn't kill him, even with everything he did to me, and that's a testament to who you are. You're a good man, Steve Rogers. Better than anyone else I've ever known."

His beautiful blue eyes softened as he looked down at you, and he lifted his free hand to brush your hair back from your face, tucking it behind your ear. "You're so beautiful," he whispered lowly, as if the words left his mouth without permission.

Heat creeped into your cheeks as you leaned into his touch, savoring it for the short moment it lasted. A part of you wanted to tell him how you felt about him, and the other wanted to ask him if he loved you. To your surprise, you didn't have to make the choice. He did it for you.

"I'm over 100 years old," he started, "and I've never felt this way before. Not once. I've never met someone like you, someone that made me wonder if I really could be happy. I'm not even sure I deserve it--deserve you."

You started to object to the mere idea he deserved anything less, but he brushed his thumb across your lips, silencing any retort.

"If I don't get this out now, I never will. Hell, maybe I shouldn't. It might not be fair, but I can't keep it in anymore. I've always held you at a professional distance, a safe distance. I thought it was the best thing for you, so I shoved my feelings down and maintained a level of professionalism that nearly killed me." His gaze somehow softened even more. "But in the last week, you managed to break down every single wall I had, and suddenly every excuse I'd come up with started to feel weak. You managed to push past all my defenses and take up residence in my heart--no matter how hard I tried to keep you out."

You swallowed thickly, waiting to hear what he said next.

"I know my life isn't ideal for a relationship. I've got the whole Captain America thing, which I know is a massive burden I can't ask you to put up with. And it would be so dangerous--being with me would put you in the crosshairs of every enemy I've ever made and have yet to make. I can't ask you to risk your life for me, I can't ask you to be with me, but I need you to know how I feel. I need you to know that my heart belongs to you, even if we can't be anything but friends."

You stared at him in silence, absorbing everything he'd just thrown your way. Your mouth opened and closed several times as you tried to formulate a response--something, anything to reassure him.

"I'm tired of living cautiously," you professed. "I'm tired of hiding behind what-ifs. If the last 24 hours have taught me anything, it's that I'm strong enough to handle whatever life throws at me. That includes whatever shitstorm our enemies decide to send our way."

"Our enemies?" he breathed, heart clenching with hope.

The corners of your mouth tilted up in a soft smile. "I don't care about the potential dangers. All I care about is you--all I want is you."

Steve released the breath he'd been holding, and his eyes swam with the deepest of emotions. He started to object, half-heartedly, "But what if you get hurt or-"

You reached up and touched his face, pulling it closer to yours. "I don't give a damn. I can take care of myself, and I have a whole family of superheroes to protect me. I'm not scared, so you shouldn't be either."

"You're incredible, you know that?" he whispered in awe.

A soft chuckle rumbled through your chest as you pulled his lips down to meet yours. The kiss was really the only answer he needed--the only answer either of you needed. Kissing him felt right--like you were finally where you belonged.

The kiss was soft. Gentle. Exploratory. It was two people getting to know each other on a deeper, uncharted level. His lips were soft, his tongue almost hesitant, but as you deepened the kiss, letting his tongue slowly explore your mouth, he became more hungry, more greedy.

The kiss turned desperate, deep, searching. His fingers tangled in your hair and his arm wrapped around you, tugging you up onto his lap. He was careful not to break the kiss, as if it was a lifeline he didn't dare shatter. Your good hand cupped his jaw, pulling him even more forcefully against you, drinking in every soft sound he made against you.

Neither of you had ever experienced a kiss like this before. A kiss filled with the kind of passion and love only found in storybooks. It was pure and perfect...and you never wanted it to end. But as the old saying goes, all good things must come to an end eventually.

It was Steve who finally pulled away, breathing heavily as his forehead dropped to yours. He didn't want to be any farther away than that, the need to be near you almost a tangible thing--a tether tying him to you.

For the first time in his life, he didn't hesitate, didn't overthink, he let his heart do the talking. "I love you," he breathed.

The words didn't come as a surprise, not when you really thought about it. They felt right--like they'd always been meant for you. There was no hesitation in your response, no worries or fears, just truth. "I think I've always loved you. I imagine I always will."

Your admission wrapped around his soul like the most comforting of hugs, the words sinking into him so deeply they would certainly leave a mark. "I know I always will."

A soft chuckle escaped your parted lips, and he swallowed the sound as he pressed his lips back to yours. Everything felt right. Like this was where you were both always meant to end up.

You sunk into him, soft like melted butter. A gentle sigh brushing against his lips as you tried to get even closer to him. The shift in your body placed you at a new angle, knees coming to rest on either side of his thighs.

Steve groaned deeply as your heated core pressed firmly against his growing erection. His grip in your hair tightened as the sensation pulsed through him--releasing you only when the pleasure-fog in his mind cleared.

"Shit, doll--I'm sorry," he murmured breathlessly.

You cocked your head to the side, confusion evident in your gaze. "Sorry for what?"

He looked down at the place your bodies met, then back up to your face. "I-um..."

"Oh, baby," you giggled as you ran your good hand through his hair. "That's not something you need to apologize for."

The red in his cheeks only made him look sweeter and you couldn't help the smile that crossed your face.

"I just don't wanna rush you." His steady gaze held yours, despite his obvious embarrassment. "I don't want you to feel pressured just because I'm turned on."

It was so sweet, the way he cared about you, but it was entirely unnecessary in the moment. You knew the kind of man Steve was at his core--so you knew he would never force you into something you weren't ready for.

"You're still healing," he continued. "I don't wanna hurt you."

The softest smile lifted the edges of your lips, eyes matching the gentleness of the expression. "What if I told you I don't wanna stop? That I'm not worried about any of my injuries? What would you do then?"

His gaze darkened just enough to betray how badly he truly wanted you. "I would ask you if I could touch you properly."

"And if I said yes?" The lust was evident in your eyes, a vivid marker of desire.

His lips caught yours in a breathless kiss, messier than those that came before, filled with an ache you were desperate to soothe. He pulled back just enough to speak, the words nearly unintelligible against your lips. "I'd do this."

His hands--those beautiful, large, solid hands--slipped under the hem of your shirt, tracing the slowest possible path upwards. Your breath caught in your throat as if the sensation of having his hands on you stole your very breath.

"Can I take this off?" he whispered softly.

You didn't trust your voice, so you gave him a tentative nod. He noticed the slight unease in your face--the tension in your body, because of course he did. He always noticed.

So he moved slower, caress even more gentle. You lifted your arms above your head to allow him to slip your shirt off, giving him the first view of your body. You heard the soft exhale as his hands came to rest on your hips.

His eyes were trained on your chest, at the way your breasts rose and fell with each shaky breath you took. He was struck by how beautiful you were, and not for the first time.

His fingers slowly brushed up your spine, edging ever closer to the clasp of your bra. "May I?" he asked gently, fingers already itching to pop the clasp.

"Yes," you breathed shakily.

Steve's sexual experience was a mystery to you, having never really had the occasion to ask. You'd assumed he wasn't particularly experienced given the multitude of hinderances he'd had in his life, but the ease with which he removed your bra made you rethink your assumptions.

His thumbs brushed over the straps on your shoulders, sliding them down painstakingly slow before removing the garment entirely. He let it fall to the floor with disinterest, gaze now focused solely on your exposed breasts.

If you'd been breathing hard before, now you were practically panting. The man had barely touched you, but you needed him more than you'd ever needed anything. Your lips parted with the full intention of begging him to touch you, kiss you, do anything, but any pleas were cut off when he cupped both heavy breasts in his large palms.

The sound that left his lips was nothing more than an unrestrained groan. "You have got to stop hiding these under shirts," he mused. "It should be a crime."

The unbidden laugh that escaped you quickly morphed into breathy moans as his lips wrapped around your nipple. His tongue traced a light circle around it, while his fingers pinched at the other. His hands were warm and gentle as he massaged your breasts with a careful reverence.

He listened carefully to the changes in your breathing and the intensity of the sounds you made when he did different things, quickly realizing you seemed to prefer when he was a little rougher--teeth nipping, fingers pinching and pulling, hands gripping tightly.

He released a pleased hum when your hips jutted forward, head falling back as a particularly salacious moan left your lips. The fingers of your left hand were curled in his shirt, as if trying to find something to ground you.

You were already ridiculously breathless with barely the slightest of stimulation, but you wanted more--needed more. "Stevie, take off your shirt," you whined, tugging slightly with your good hand.

A low, dark chuckle fanned across your chest. "So demanding."

You wanted him so badly you couldn't care less about his teasing. Besides, it wasn't your fault he was the perfect specimen of a human man and you just wanted to bear witness to it.

Instead of doing what you'd asked, he wrapped his arms around you tightly and stood. You instinctively wrapped your legs around his waist, as a little yelp left your lips. In normal circumstances, you would have told him to put you down--that you were too heavy to carry, but these weren't normal circumstances, and he wasn't a typical man. The serum running through his veins was all the assurance you needed that he could handle you. You'd seen him lift the front end of a car with one hand--rip a fucking log in half with his bare hands--you were certain he could carry you without breaking his back.

Steve laid you on his bed with a gentle reverence that warmed something deep in your heart. He offered you the sweetest of sultry smiles as he tore his shirt off over his head, revealing his toned torso. Your eyes trailed from his collarbone all the way down to the dips of his v-line. The man was sculpted by the gods themselves--it just wasn't fair to the rest of the world.

Steve watched you as your eyes raked over his skin, body heating up as the hunger in your gaze grew. He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his sweats, but he didn't move until your eyes met his. "Should I take these off too?" he purred.

A breathy exhale preceded your soft "please".

His lips curved into a knowing smirk, but he didn't dare refuse your request. He did, however, add a little something extra--technically, removed something extra.

When he rose back to his full height, he was completely bare. Long, thick cock standing at attention, precum beading in the slit. You licked your lips without intention, eyes locked on his cock. You couldn't decide if it was too big or not, but you wanted it--in your hands, in your mouth, and definitely in your pussy.

"Doll," he murmured lowly, bringing your attention back to his face. "You're staring."

"Like you wouldn't do the same if the roles were reversed," you huffed.

His mouth spread into a wide grin. "Funny you should say that, because I'd love to reverse the roles."

He leaned forward and gripped your hips, yanking you to the edge of the bed with no warning. He stood between your legs, hands braced low along the waistband of your yoga pants. His eyes flicked up to yours, seeking permission to proceed. The small nod you gave him was all he needed.

Seconds later, your pants were on the ground beside his, leaving your underwear as the last vestige of clothing either of you had on. Instead of removing them as you assumed he would, he dropped to his knees between your legs, pulling you even closer to the edge of the bed.

You sat up so you could look at him, breath catching in your throat at the sight before you. Steve wasn't just a big man on his knees--no, it was more than that. It was the idea of Captain America on his knees for you, and only you.

Your hand reached for him, as if on its own, fingers brushing softly against his cheek. The gesture brought his gaze up to meet yours, a hunger to match your own reflected in his beautiful blue eyes.

He kept his eyes locked on you as he lowered his mouth to your thigh, pressing messy open-mouthed kisses to the supple flesh. A breathy sigh slipped past your lips as his gentle kisses continued further up your thigh, closer and closer to where you were dying for him to touch.

After several slow, agonizing minutes, his mouth finally reached the apex of your thighs. By this point, you'd soaked through your underwear and any semblance of composure had long since abandoned you.

To your horror, his lips barely ghosted over the fabric before landing on your opposite thigh, fully intending to give it the same treatment as the other.

You couldn't help the desperate whine that escaped your throat. "Stevie, please."

The dark chuckle resounded against your thigh, a clear indication he wasn't going to give into you so easily. "Patience is a virtue, sweetheart."

"I've been patient," you countered haughtily. "I've waited almost four years for you to touch me like this."

The admission had him freezing with his mouth a hair's breadth away from your skin. His eyes flicked up to yours, watching as the bright pink heat spread across your cheeks. You hadn't meant to let that information slip and you bit your bottom lip hesitantly as you waited for his response.

"Damnit, baby," he growled lowly, reaching up to pull your lip from between your teeth with his thumb. "Don't you know what that does to me?"

Your sharp inhale coupled with your wide eyes gave him his answer. He rose up just enough so he was inches from your lips.

"It makes me wanna bite it myself." As soon as the words left his lips, he was on you, mouth pressing against yours hungrily. He nipped at your bottom lip, earning a soft throaty moan in return.

When he pulled back, he was breathless--even more than you. His iconic, world-renowned self-control was waning, fraying at the edges so much even you could see it.

"You have no idea what you do to me, do you?"

You shook your head slightly.

"Then I guess I'll have to show you," he promised, dropping back to his knees.

He gripped the edges of your underwear and tugged, urging you to lift your hips to allow him to remove them entirely. The moment you were completely exposed to him, pussy dripping and practically begging for his touch, he lost the ability to tease. He couldn't even bear to take his time--he needed you and he needed you now.

The way Steve pulled your legs apart, pressing your thighs down into the mattress to give him better access, was almost painful, but the second his tongue licked up your folds, nothing else registered.

The man was immediately on a mission with one goal in mind, making you fall apart for him. The fact that he got to enjoy your decadent taste along the way was simply a bonus. The low, guttural groans he let out reverberated through your core, setting every nerve ending ablaze with pleasure.

Had you had the use of both hands, you may have been able to sit up enough to watch him feast on you, but as it stood, you couldn't support your weight on the good one--not when you needed to feel his hair gripped between your fingers.

Your head was tossed back against the mattress, back arching off the bed, choked sounds of pure enjoyment pulled from your lips with every brush of his tongue. He couldn't help but smile at the sight, digging in more forcefully to hear those gorgeous sounds you made.

The way his tongue danced across your clit had you seeing stars long before your orgasm hit you. You tried to offer him praises, even a 'don't stop', but words escaped you. Your brain was filled with nothing but the pleasure he was giving you, and perhaps the lack of oxygen to your brain exacerbated the issue. You couldn't seem to get enough air into your lungs, not with the way he had you moaning his name--the only damn word you could remember.

Steve knew you were close, even though you couldn't tell him. He felt it in the way your legs shook against his palms, the way your moans began to string together into one sound, and the way your hips tried so desperately to get closer to him. He wanted to beg you to come for him, but he didn't dare stop what he was doing. He was keenly aware of the fickleness of the female orgasm.

So he continued working his mouth and tongue against your clit, sending wave after wave of blinding pleasure through your body. When you finally tipped over the edge, you let out a hoarse scream of his name, hips attempting to buck wildly against his face. He held you in place, lapping gently at your pussy to help you ride out your high without overstimulating you.

When your grip on his hair finally loosened and the tension in your body eased, he lifted his head to get a proper look at you. His first thought was how beautiful you looked--your flushed skin, the light sheen of sweat on your forehead, and your parted, kiss-swollen lips just begging him for another kiss.

He leaned over you to do just that, pressing a soft kiss to your lips, your jaw, your cheek, then back to your lips. He repeated the motions until your breathing steadied and your eyes finally opened again.

"Hey gorgeous," he murmured softly when your gaze eventually focused on him. "You with me?"

You nodded slowly. "When the hell did you have the time to learn to eat pussy like that?"

Your question shocked him and he barked out a laugh in response. "Jesus, doll. I've never been asked such a question before."

"Sorry," you teased breathlessly. "It's not my fault you eat pussy like it's an olympic sport."

He laughed again, reddening cheeks the only indicator of his embarrassment. "I, um--I'm not used to such, um-colorful descriptors."

"So you've never said 'pussy' before." You weren't teasing him or judging him. It was simply a statement of fact.

He groaned good-naturedly and ran his fingers through his hair. "Not a day in my life."

"Does it bother you when I say it?"

"No," he answered honestly. "I can get used to it. Maybe I'll even say it myself someday."

"Ooo, you nasty little rule-breaker," you quipped, eyes bright with mischief.

His laughter was instant and warm, and you couldn't help but join in.

"You're ridiculous," he chuckled.

"Yet, you love me."

His expression softened and he leaned down to hover a mere inch away from your lips. "That I do, doll. That I do." His lips brushed against yours, followed immediately by his tongue begging for entrance. You complied, allowing the kiss to deepen.

It was quick to turn greedy, as if he wanted to suck the very air from your lungs. He couldn't get enough of kissing you. He was certain he could kiss you for hours at a time and never get tired of it.

It was you who broke the kiss this time, pulling away so you could position yourself more fully on the bed, allowing Steve to settle between your legs.

The tender moment had faded into a simmering fire--a burning need to feel you, to brand your soul with his touch. "Doll, I can't wait any longer," he pleaded. "I need you."

You brushed your fingers across his jaw, down his neck, and along his collarbone. Every inch of skin you touched left burning embers in its wake, making it nearly impossible for him to maintain control.

"Please, Stevie," you begged lowly. "Make me scream."

"Shit," he ground out through clenched teeth. "You're gonna be the death of me."

You smirked as you reached down between your bodies to grip his cock in your soft hand. A deep, sudden groan forced its way from his mouth, unable to contain his enjoyment of your touch.

"I need to be inside you," he choked out, hand replacing yours around his aching cock. His eyes flicked back up to yours, silently begging for permission.

"Fuck me, Stevie."

He exhaled heavily, a last ditch attempt at control. He lined himself up with your entrance and began to push in. He couldn't control the untamed groans any more than you could control your desperate whimpers.

He'd fully intended on going slow--on giving you time to adjust, but the moment he was fully sheathed inside your pulsing wet heat, his restraint shattered. He began to thrust into you forcefully, sending pulses of painful pleasure throughout your body.

His size was so much more than you'd ever experienced--in every respect, but your body quickly became accustomed to him, like you were made for him.

Even with the punishing pace he'd set, he was still unbelievably sweet, uttering soft praises with every thrust.

"You feel incredible, sweetheart."

"Your body was made for me--so perfect."

"You make me feel so good."

"God, just look at you. So pretty like this."

He was so gentle as he maneuvered your legs against your chest, effectively folding you in half. He wanted to find that spot he knew was deep inside you--so deep you might not even know it's there. He needed to hear the cries he just knew you'd make--feel the way you'd squeeze him so tight.

It took him two thrusts before he slammed directly into your spot, earning a shattered moan from deep in your chest.

"There it is," he praised. "That's it sweet girl, taking me so well."

You mewled beneath him, body writhing as much as you could in the constrained position. "Steve, I--"

"I know, baby--can feel you squeezing me. Feels so damn good."

He kissed you as best as he could while maintaining his thrusts, shallow breaths mixing as you tried to stay afloat in the sea of pleasure he was close to drowning you in.

"Just like that, doll. So good," he groaned. "You gonna let go for me? I wanna watch you fall apart, baby. Wanna feel you soak me."

A sharp gasp left your lips at his words. You wanted to give him what he asked for--wanted it more than you wanted to feel your own pleasure.

Your eyes fluttered shut, too close to the edge to manage to keep them open. "Don't stop," you babbled. "Please, please, don't stop--Stevie, I-fuck."

"I've got you, baby. Not gonna stop. Come for me, sweet girl. C'mon you can do it."

The scream that tore from your throat as you shattered was the most beautiful sound he'd ever heard. You sobbed as ecstasy pulsed into every nerve ending, overwhelming your senses.

Steve's ragged breathing began to shift to deep, guttural groans as his rhythm faltered, seconds from joining you in bliss. "Shit, baby--I'm gonna-oh god-"

His hips stuttered as he came deep inside you, the few final thrusts allowing you both to ride out your highs and push his cum deeper into your pussy.

Soft, shaking breaths were all you could manage as Steve slowly shifted, easing your legs down as he slowly pulled out of you. You whimpered at the sudden loss--the emptiness almost unbearable.

"Hey, it's okay, sweet girl. I've got you," he murmured softly, pressing soft kisses all over your face.

You giggled at the sweetness. "Stevie--it tickles!"

He grinned as he pulled back enough to look at your face properly. "Sorry, doll--I just can't resist you. You're so damn beautiful."

You felt the heat creep into your cheeks, but the corners of your lips tilted up despite yourself. "You're beautiful too."

He chuckled. "Beautiful? That's the adjective you wanna use for your man?"

"I was gonna say 'pretty', but 'beautiful' just felt more fitting," you teased.

"You know what? I'll take it." He kissed you deeply, enjoying the softness of the post-coital bliss.

"So, uh-my man, huh?"

"If you want me to be," he hedged. "God, I hope you want me to be."

"I essentially professed my undying love to you. Of course I want you to be mine."

Steve's grin was wide enough to light up an entire room. "I would like it to be known that I professed my love first."

You rolled your eyes, an affectionate laugh accompanying the action. "You're ridiculous."

"Funny, didn't I say that to you earlier?"

"Mhmm," you hummed. "Do you remember what I said in return?"

"I think it was something about me loving you."

You smiled warmly, good hand caressing his face as you looked into his crystal blue eyes. "And I love you, in all your ridiculousness."

"Ditto, doll. And I'm never gonna stop."

[slutdier]

(𝑺)𝑪𝑹𝑬𝑨𝑴 𝑭𝑶𝑹 𝑴𝑬 𝑫𝑶𝑳𝑳 ✧.*

ghostface!bucky x f!reader

summary : When the Ghostface killings began, you found safety in your best friend 𝓑𝓾𝓬𝓴𝔂 𝓑𝓪𝓻𝓷𝓮𝓼, only to discover the dark secret he hid.

word count : 16,8k

warnings 18+ : this is very very dark so please read with caution!!! college au, no use of y/n, porn with plot, inspired by the scream franchise, explicit sexual content, knife play, violence and gore, mentions of blood, organs, killings, stabbing, phone threats, oral sex (m & f recieving), fingering, squirting, unprotected sex, masturbation, obssesion, gaslighting, verbal threats, coercion, dub con, degradation and humiliation

𝓪𝓾𝓽𝓱𝓸𝓻'𝓼 𝓷𝓸𝓽𝓮 : hii!! holy shit this got so long, my bad... wrapping up kinktober with totally unhinged ghostface!bucky barnes, maybe binged fresh and scream for some twisted inspo :3 huge thanks for all the love on my kinktober fics AND 400 FOLLOWERSS HOLYYYYYYY I LOVE YALL SO MUCH <3333

⤷ had to reupload this bc tumblr hates me and has been refusing to let me edit it for literal months

The campus lay hushed beneath the October sky, a brittle silence that seemed to hold its breath, waiting for something unspeakable. Bucky moved like a wraith, his black coat billowing slightly as he glided through the shadows, the Ghostface mask, white, hollow-eyed, mouth frozen in a scream tilting with each calculated step.

The knife strapped to his thigh, its serrated edge snug in a leather sheath, brushed against his jeans, a faint whisper of death in the quiet. His vibranium arm gleamed faintly under the moonlight, a cold contrast to the warmth of the thrill coursing through him, familiar and intoxicating. The air tonight reeked of fear and desire, sharp with the decay of fallen leaves and the promise of blood.

Jake had no clue Bucky was coming. He shouldn’t have.

Bucky had been watching him for days, stalking from the edges of campus life, noting every stolen glance Jake aimed at you, every laugh he shared with you in the cafeteria, every “accidental” graze of his hand against your shoulder in the crowded lecture halls.

Each moment was a trespass, a violation that clawed at Bucky’s insides. You, with your sweet, oblivious smile, thought nothing of it, your innocence was what made you his, what made you perfect. But Bucky saw through Jake’s charade.

He knew the rot behind those easy smirks, the hunger in those lingering stares. Worst of all, he’d overheard Jake at lunch, his voice low and smug as he bragged to his friends about what he’d do to you if he got you alone, filthy fantasies of cornering you, making you his in ways that made Bucky’s blood boil.

That was it. That was more than Bucky could stomach.

You were his best friend. His doll. His. Nobody else got to think of you like that. Nobody else got to breathe near you with that kind of intent. Nobody… but him.

Jake’s dorm room was dim, lit only by the sickly glow of a desk lamp and the faint pulse of music leaking from his oversized headphones, some generic trap beat that drowned out the world. He was sprawled on his bed, scrolling through his phone, oblivious to the Ghostface mask peering through the cracked window, its black eyes fixed on him from the shadows.

Bucky’s hands, one flesh and one metal, tingled with the cold, but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except you, keeping you safe, keeping you his.

He dialed Jake’s number first. Part of the game. Part of the ritual that made his pulse sing. The burner phone’s ringtone cut through the muffled music like a knife through flesh, and Jake jolted upright, fumbling for his phone.

“Hello?” His voice was shaky, already threaded with unease. Perfect.

“What’s your favorite scary movie?” Bucky rasped, his voice distorted through the modulator he’d rigged, low and menacing. The words carried a mocking lilt, anger and dark amusement bleeding into every syllable.

Jake forced a laugh, rubbing his neck, trying to play it cool. “Uh… Halloween? Friday the 13th? Hey, who is this? This some kinda prank?”

Bucky’s lips curled beneath the Ghostface mask, his head tilting as he savored the tremor in Jake’s voice. “Wrong answer, Jake,” he whispered. “You’re in my movie tonight.”

Jake froze, his eyes darting to the door, but it was too late. Bucky had already slipped inside through the window he’d jimmied earlier, silent as death itself, his vibranium arm absorbing any sound. His boots barely touched the floor, each step deliberate, a predator closing in on prey.

The room smelled of cheap cologne, stale pizza, and the faint musk of Jake’s gym bag, but Bucky could already taste the coppery tang that would soon overwhelm it all. He dragged the serrated knife along the edge of Jake’s desk as he approached, the blade scraping faintly against the wood, sending a shiver of anticipation up his spine.

Jake was still clutching the phone, stammering, “Man, this isn’t funny-” when Bucky struck. In one fluid motion, he was behind him, vibranium hand clamping over Jake’s mouth, silencing the scream before it could escape.

The Ghostface mask tilted close, its hollow eyes reflecting Jake’s widening terror as Bucky pressed the knife against his throat, the serrated edge biting just enough to draw a thin bead of blood warm, slick, trickling down like a warning.

The first cut wasn’t meant to kill. Not yet. Bucky wanted Jake to feel it, to know who was in control. He drove the blade into Jake’s side, just below the ribcage, the serrated edge tearing through skin and muscle with a wet, ripping sound. Jake’s body arched, a muffled scream vibrating against Bucky’s metal palm as blood gushed, soaking his t-shirt, the dark red blooming like a grotesque flower.

The knife grated against bone as Bucky twisted it, savoring the resistance, the way Jake’s body bucked in agony. He yanked the blade free with a sickening squelch, blood spraying in a fine mist, splattering the Ghostface mask. The wall caught some too, Jake’s tacky posters of bikini-clad models now streaked with gore, as if they were bleeding too.

Jake’s legs gave out, and he collapsed to his knees, hands clawing at the wound, fingers slipping in the hot, viscous blood that poured out like syrup.

“P-please… I didn’t… I swear…” he choked, voice breaking into sobs, tears and snot mixing on his face as he looked up at the Ghostface mask looming over him.

The sight of it Bucky’s cold blue eyes barely visible through the black sockets, unyielding, merciless, sent Jake into a panic. He scrambled backward, knocking over a lamp that shattered on the floor, his heels slipping in the growing pool of his own blood. The stench hit hard now: copper, piss, and raw fear, thick enough to choke on.

Bucky tilted the Ghostface mask, watching Jake’s pathetic crawl with the detached curiosity of a hunter studying a wounded animal. Adrenaline and obsession surged in his chest, a heady cocktail that made his blood sing.

“You thought about her,” he hissed, voice low and venomous through the modulator, each word dripping with possession. “You talked about her. You don’t get to do that, Jake. She’s mine.”

Jake’s hands scrabbled at the carpet, leaving bloody streaks as he tried to drag himself toward the door. Bucky stepped forward, deliberate and slow, savoring the moment.

He grabbed Jake by the hair, yanking his head back to expose the pale, sweat-slick column of his throat. The knife flashed again, this time slicing deep, parting skin and muscle with a wet, tearing sound.

The carotid artery gave way in a violent gush, blood spraying in rhythmic pulses. It dripped from the chin of the mask, pooling on the floor, soaking into Bucky’s boots. Jake’s body convulsed, a gurgling scream bubbling up as blood flooded his throat, spilling over his lips in a frothy red tide. His hands twitched, clawing weakly at the air, then went still, his eyes rolling back, glassy and vacant.

Bucky stood over him, chest heaving, the knife dripping in his hand. The room was a slaughterhouse now, blood smeared across the walls, pooling beneath Jake’s limp body, soaking the carpet until it squelched underfoot.

The Ghostface mask tilted one last time, as if admiring the carnage, before Bucky wiped the blade clean on the inside of his coat, the dark fabric swallowing the evidence.

His heart pounded, not with guilt but with a twisted, electric satisfaction. Jake was a lesson, a warning carved in flesh and blood for anyone who dared think of you that way.

He slipped out the window as silently as he’d come, the Ghostface mask tucked into his coat, his vibranium arm gleaming faintly under the moonlight. The campus stayed quiet, oblivious, as Bucky melted into the shadows, already thinking of you, safe, untouched, his.

The thrill of the kill lingered, sharp and sweet, but it was nothing compared to the thought of you, his pretty girl, forever out of reach of anyone else’s hands.

The next morning campus felt heavy, the air thick with a chill that sank into your bones. You gripped your coffee mug, its warmth fading as you entered the common room. Whispers swirled among pale-faced students huddled near the old TV, their eyes wide, phones clutched tightly. The fluorescent lights buzzed, casting a sickly glow.

“Did you hear about Jake?” a girl whispered, clutching her hoodie, knuckles white. “He didn’t make it.”

Your heart stuttered. “Wait- what?” you said, voice soft, the mug warm against your palm. Jake, your chem lab partner with the cocky grin, dead?

Her eyes darted nervously. “Someone called him last night. ‘What’s your favorite scary movie?’ Then…” Her voice cracked. “They found him… so much blood.”

The room tightened, the air suffocating. Goosebumps prickled your skin. You pictured Jake’s lingering stares, now heavy with his absence. Your gaze flicked to Bucky on the couch, laptop forgotten, his hoodie shadowing his sharp jaw. His eyes met yours, piercing, unreadable. A red cut marred his knuckle, raw and fresh.

“Cut myself cooking,” he said smoothly, shrugging, the cut vanishing into his sleeve. He stood, crossing the room, leaning close until his breath warmed your ear, smelling of coffee and something metallic.

“Just some psycho,” he murmured, voice a dark rumble. “College idiots with too many horror movies.”

You shivered, his gaze sharp, almost hungry, before it softened into a familiar grin. Unease knotted your stomach. His hand brushed yours, passing you your chipped mug, your spare, his thumb grazing your wrist, lingering too long.

“I’ve got you,” he said, voice heavy with certainty. “No one’s touching you.”

Your pulse quickened, caught between comfort and something tighter, dangerous. The TV flashed grainy footage: a janitor mopping East Hall, unaware of a cloaked figure trailing him, a serrated knife glinting under flickering lights. For a split second, a white mask, Ghostface, flashed, hollow-eyed, mouth gaping.

Your mug trembled, coffee sloshing. Bucky’s vibranium hand steadied your wrist, his voice calm. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” you whispered, but the word felt fragile. His eyes watched you, memorizing your fear, your shallow breaths. A dark thought sparked, what if Bucky was behind that mask?

You pushed it away quickly, but it lingered, sharp and thrilling.

Bucky tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, his touch gentle but his eyes stormy.

“Nothing’s gonna happen to you,” he growled, a vow etched in stone. The TV looped the footage, the shadow vanishing. Whispers grew louder, but Bucky’s grip on your wrist tightened, anchoring you to him, a blade’s edge between safety and something far darker.

The dorm room was a cozy cocoon of familiar scents: the faint, greasy tang of microwave pizza, the warm, slightly musty smell of blankets piled haphazardly on your bed, and the lingering bitterness of late-night coffee clinging to the air.

You sprawled across your bed, legs tangled in a faded quilt, your laptop precariously balanced on your knees, its screen casting a soft blue glow over your face.

Textbooks teetered in uneven stacks on your desk, dog-eared pages and highlighters spilling out like a scholar’s battlefield. The room hummed with the quiet comfort of routine, the kind of lived-in mess that felt like home.

Bucky was on the floor, his broad back pressed against your bookshelf, its shelves sagging under the weight of novels and half-read philosophy texts. His headphones dangled loosely around his neck, the faint thump of some metal playlist barely audible, as he scribbled notes for an assignment neither of you fully understood, something about political theory that you’d both been dodging for weeks.

His dark hoodie was slightly rumpled, the sleeves pushed up to reveal the glint of his vibranium arm in the dim light, and a half-eaten pizza box sat open between you, grease spots blooming on the cardboard.

“Hey,” you said, nudging a slice of pepperoni pizza toward him with your foot, careful not to knock over your laptop. “Don’t tell me you’re gonna hog all of that by yourself.”

He smirked, not looking up from his notebook, but reached for the slice with a lazy grace, his fingers brushing the crust.

“You know me, doll. I eat what I want. You’re lucky I even share with my favorite roommate.” His voice was warm, teasing, but there was a weight to the word favorite that you didn’t quite catch, too busy rolling your eyes.

You laughed, grabbing a pen from your bed and tossing it at him. It bounced off his shoulder, but his vibranium hand snapped up, catching it midair with a precision that made your breath hitch for a split second. He tossed it back with a grin, the pen landing neatly in your lap.

“Careful,” he said, his blue eyes glinting with mischief. “One more miss, and I might have to mark my territory.”

“Territory?” you teased, tilting your head, your hair falling over one shoulder as you propped yourself up on an elbow. “What, like Ghostface or something?”

Bucky’s head snapped up, his gaze locking onto yours with a sudden intensity that made your stomach flip. The air shifted, just for a moment, as if the room had inhaled and held its breath. Then he leaned closer, resting his elbows on his knees, his voice dropping to a low, gravelly murmur that sent a shiver down your spine. “Yup. You have no idea.”

You shivered but laughed it off, your heart giving a quick, unsteady thud. “Uh-huh, sure, Mr. Slasher,” you said, waving a hand dismissively, trying to shake the odd electricity in his stare. “Keep dreaming.”

He chuckled, leaning back, but his eyes lingered on you a second too long before he returned to his notes, the scratch of his pen filling the silence. You settled back into the night, the tension dissolving into the familiar rhythm of your friendship.

You argued over which horror movie to watch, your voice rising in mock indignation as you vetoed his suggestion of Scream for the third time this month.

“We’re watching The Shining,” you declared, clicking it open on your laptop. “It’s a classic, and I’m not dealing with your Ghostface obsession again.”

“Fine, fine,” Bucky conceded, his grin easy but his eyes sharp, like he was savoring a private joke. He shifted to sit beside you on the floor, his knees brushing against yours as he settled in, his arm casually draped over his leg, close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from him.

It was just Bucky, your goofy, protective roommate, the guy who’d steal your snacks but always replace them, who’d stay up late to help you cram for exams even when he was dead tired. You didn’t think anything of the contact, the way his shoulder pressed lightly against yours. It was normal. Comfortable.

But there was an edge to him you didn’t notice, a tautness in his posture that didn’t match the easy smile he wore.

When you got up to grab more snacks from the tiny dorm kitchen, he was right behind you, his footsteps silent but his presence heavy.

“I’ve got it,” he said, reaching past you to grab the bag of popcorn from the top shelf before you could, his vibranium arm brushing your shoulder.

“Got what?” you asked, pouring soda into a chipped mug, the fizz bubbling over your fingers. You glanced at him, raising an eyebrow, half-expecting another teasing remark.

“Protection,” he said with a shrug, his voice deceptively light, like he was joking, but his eyes were steady, unyielding, fixed on you. “You never know what’s lurking out there.”

You rolled your eyes, laughing as you nudged his arm with your elbow. “You’re ridiculous, Buck. It’s a dorm, not a horror movie set.”

“Maybe,” he said, his smirk returning, but there was something darker in it, something that made the hairs on the back of your neck prickle. “But I like being safe. Especially when it comes to you.”

You laughed again, thinking it was just his usual overprotective streak, the way he’d always hover a little too close when you walked home late or glare at guys who got too flirty in the cafeteria.

“Uh-huh,” you teased, bumping his shoulder as you headed back to the bed. “You’d protect me if Ghostface showed up, right?”

Bucky’s smirk deepened, and he leaned just a fraction closer, his breath warm against your ear. “Always, doll.”

You settled back onto the floor, blankets draped over both of you like a makeshift fort, the laptop now perched on a pillow between you. Bucky nudged the mouse toward you, his fingers brushing yours, lingering just a second too long. “C’mon, pick a different one,” he said, his voice low and teasing. “Scariest one we’ve got.”

You smirked, scrolling through the streaming app with exaggerated slowness, just to mess with him. “You mean the one where I scream like a maniac and you just sit there eating pizza like it’s nothing?”

“Exactly,” he said, leaning closer again, his shoulder pressing against yours, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Screaming’s part of the fun. And I don’t mind seeing you squirm.”

You rolled your eyes, shoving him lightly, but your laugh betrayed the flutter in your chest. “You’re awful.”

“And yet… your favorite,” he shot back, his eyes glinting in the dim light, the flickering glow of the laptop casting shadows across his face, sharpening the angles of his jaw, the intensity in his gaze.

Hours passed in a haze of popcorn crumbs, empty soda cans, and the eerie soundtrack of Halloween filling the room. Michael Myers stalked across the screen, and you flinched at every jump scare, your squeals mixing with the screams from the TV. Bucky stayed close, his presence a steady warmth beside you.

When a particularly loud scare made you jolt, he offered his arm, letting you grab onto it, his vibranium hand resting lightly on your shoulder to steady you.

It felt comforting, safe, normal, Bucky being Bucky, always there when you needed him.

But there were moments, fleeting, subtle, when you caught something else.

The way his jaw tightened when you mentioned Jake’s name earlier in the night. The way his fingers flexed against his thigh when the movie’s killer raised his knife, as if he were imagining it in his own hand.

When you finally yawned, stretching across your bed, your shirt riding up to reveal a sliver of skin, Bucky’s gaze snapped to it, then away, quick enough that you didn’t notice. He stood, checking the door one last time, twisting the deadbolt with a faint click.

“Sleep tight,” he said, his voice low, almost too casual, as he dimmed the lights just enough to leave the room in a soft, shadowy glow. “I’ll hear if anything happens.”

You smiled, half-asleep, your eyelids heavy as you burrowed into your blankets. “Thanks, Bucky. You’re the best.”

He paused in the doorway, his silhouette framed by the faint light from the hall, and for a moment, he just watched you. His smirk was barely there, a faint curve of his lips, but his eyes were dark, cataloging every detail, the way your chest rose and fell with slow, sleepy breaths, the way your fingers curled loosely around the edge of the blanket, the way you looked so soft, so vulnerable, so his.

You were blissfully unaware, your eyes fluttering shut, the world fading into the soft haze of sleep.

But Bucky knew. He knew the campus wasn’t safe, not with shadows lurking, not with people like Jake who’d dared to look at you, think of you, speak of you in ways that made Bucky’s blood burn.

He’d made sure Jake wouldn’t threaten you again, his knife carving that promise into flesh and bone. And he’d make sure no one else did either, not the shadows outside, not the wind rattling the windows, not the whispers of fear spreading through the dorms.

October gripped the campus, Halloween’s eerie glow in full swing. Carved pumpkins flickered along pathways, fake cobwebs swaying in the chilly breeze. Ghostface masks were everywhere, students chasing each other across the quad with mock screams or standing silently, their hollow-eyed stares unnerving in the twilight.

The day after Jake’s death, the campus hummed with nervous whispers, the shock fading into uneasy static. You walked through the quad, hoodie tight against the October chill, backpack tugging at your shoulder. Each Ghostface mask you passed spiked your pulse, your nervous laugh betraying you as you tugged your hood lower.

“Why’s everyone Ghostface this year?” you muttered to Bucky, striding beside you.

His blue eyes glinted, sharp and playful. “Keeps things interesting,” he said, voice light but heavy with something unspoken. His arm brushed yours, each touch deliberate, lingering just enough to tingle. “Relax, doll. I’ve got you.”

You rolled your eyes, nudging him. “You say that too much,” you teased, but your heart thudded, caught in his warmth.

Later as you were cutting between the science building and library, a masked figure slipped from behind a dumpster, silent and swift. Your breath hitched, sneakers skidding on gravel as your heart hammered. The Ghostface mask tilted, unreadable, until Bucky tugged it off, revealing his grin, dark hair mussed, eyes mischievous.

“Boo!” he laughed, but an edge in his voice kept your pulse racing.

“Bucky, you jerk!” you snapped, half-laughing, hand on your chest. “Don’t!”

“Scared you, didn’t I?” he teased, stepping closer, voice low, intimate. “You like it, doll.”

You shoved him, cheeks warm, oblivious to how his eyes drank in your nervous smile, your hitched breath, feeding something primal in him. The day became his game, scares and reassurance. In the cafeteria, his vibranium hand grazed your shoulder, whispering “Boo” as you flinched, nearly spilling your soda.

“Stay sharp,” he winked, positioning himself between you and the crowd.

On the library steps, he slipped behind the stacks, emerging as Ghostface again. You gasped, clutching a textbook, only for him to reveal himself, grinning.

“Guess who?” he murmured, leaning close, leather and metal scent enveloping you. You swatted him, stomach fluttering.

By evening, the campus quieted, streets empty save for costumed stragglers, laughter echoing off brick buildings. You chuckled about a freshman’s Ghostface dummy prank at the fountain, fake knife and all.

“Idiots,” you said, leaves crunching under your sneakers.

“Creative,” Bucky replied, hands in pockets, vibranium fingers flexing subtly. “Terrifying’s more like it,” you countered, voice nervous.

A masked figure darted from behind an oak, Ghostface mask gleaming under a streetlamp. You squealed, backpack slipping as you stumbled. The figure froze, tugging the mask up to reveal Luke, a sophomore from psych, freckled face flushed, eyes glinting.

“Gotcha!” he laughed, plastic knife dangling, grin not quite innocent.

“Luke, what the fuck?” you snapped, hands trembling on your backpack strap. “Not funny!”

Luke stepped closer, hand brushing yours, lingering. “Scary, wasn’t it?” he said, savoring your fear.

Bucky loomed, boots silent, vibranium hand flexing. “Back off,” he growled, voice cold, threatening. “She’s not your fucking prank.”

He leaned close, breath warm on your ear. “You’re safe… with me,” he whispered, words heavy, possessive. You believed him, trust instinctive, but a shiver lingered. As you walked to the dorm under flickering streetlamps, Bucky stayed close, tensing at every rustle, his hand ready, always shielding you.

The dorm was silent, the late-night hush broken only by the creak of the old building and your soft snores from the bed, where you lay tangled in blankets, a sliver of skin exposed where your shirt rode up. Bucky leaned against the wall outside the bathroom, vibranium arm glinting faintly, flesh hand flexing restlessly.

His mind churned with you, your nervous laughs at his pranks, your startled squeals, the heat of your shoulder brushing his in the library. Each moment fueled a raw, possessive hunger that clawed at him.

He slipped into the bathroom, the door clicking shut. Steam curled from the running shower as he stripped, hoodie and jeans pooling on the floor, leaving him bare. The scalding water hit his skin, but he barely noticed, his thoughts consumed by you.

Bracing his vibranium arm against the tiled wall, his flesh hand drifted down, fingers grazing his cock, already hard and throbbing with need.

“Fuck…” he growled, voice low, swallowed by the water’s hiss. His hand wrapped around his length, slick with water and precum, stroking slowly at first, each glide deliberate. He pictured you in the library, your tits bouncing when you jumped at his Ghostface scare, your wide eyes sparking a primal ache.

He imagined you here, pressed against the tiles, water streaming over your skin, lips parted as he pinned you, his hands roaming your curves, claiming every inch.

His strokes quickened, rougher, his grip tightening as darker fantasies took hold.

He saw you trembling under him, fear and trust mixing in your gaze, knowing he was the masked figure. He pictured the blunt edge of his knife at your throat, your whimper of his name, your body yielding to his touch. His cock pulsed, precum leaking faster, slicking his hand as he pumped harder, hips bucking into his fist. The wet, rhythmic slap of skin echoed faintly under the spray.

He imagined pinning you to your bed, vibranium hand locking your wrists, his other tearing your clothes, exposing your soft skin. He’d whisper how no one else could touch you, Jake’s blood proved it, spilled to keep you his.

“Fuck, doll…” he rasped, voice raw, his hand moving frantically, chasing the edge. He saw your thighs trembling around his hips, your moans turning desperate as he fucked you slow, deep, making you feel every thick inch of him.

The thought of you sleeping, unaware, just beyond the door, pushed him over.

He came with a choked moan, hips jerking, cum spilling hot and thick over his fist, mixing with the water and swirling down the drain. His knees buckled, vibranium arm bracing him as his breath came in ragged gasps, aftershocks pulsing through his cock.

He shut off the shower, the heat in his veins simmering, never fully fading. Wrapping a towel around his waist, he stepped out, glancing at your sleeping form, blanket slipped, revealing your hip’s curve. His smirk was sharp, predatory.

He’d spilled blood to keep you his, and he’d do it again, every moment of you his to claim.

The morning broke with an eerie stillness, the dorm cloaked in a quiet that felt too heavy, too tight, as if someone had drained the vibrancy from the walls and left them pale and hollow.

The usual hum of campus life, distant laughter, the clatter of footsteps, the muffled thump of music from neighboring rooms, was muted, swallowed by the October chill that seemed to linger in the air.

You stirred awake, blinking against the soft gray light filtering through the blinds, your blanket still tangled around your legs from the night before.

The room felt smaller, the shadows longer, and for a moment, you lay there, listening to the silence, your heart giving a strange, uneasy thud.

Dragging yourself out of bed, you shuffled into the tiny dorm kitchen, your bare feet cold against the linoleum. The faint scent of last night’s pizza lingered, mixing with the stale bitterness of coffee left too long in the pot. Your eyes caught on a piece of paper taped to the fridge, the handwriting sharp and familiar.

You peeled it off, the tape sticking slightly to your fingers, and read Bucky’s note:

Had to go out early. Don’t know how long I’ll be. Don’t worry, doll.

A small, selfish smile tugged at your lips, a flicker of warmth cutting through the unease. Bucky’s protectiveness, his casual use of doll, always had a way of grounding you, even if it came with that strange, unnameable weight you’d been noticing more lately.

You tucked the note into your hoodie pocket, the paper crinkling softly, and went about your morning, the words looping in your mind like a quiet promise.

The day moved in fits and starts. You grabbed your backpack and headed to your morning class, the campus still draped in Halloween’s eerie glow. The whispers about Jake’s death followed you like a shadow, hushed conversations in the lecture hall, nervous glances over shoulders.

You tried to focus on the professor’s droning lecture about organic chemistry, but your mind kept drifting to Bucky, where he was, what had pulled him away so early, why the note felt like it carried more weight than it should.

Lunch was a quick affair, a half-eaten sandwich and a lukewarm coffee from the campus café, the plastic lid sticky under your fingers.

You sat alone at a corner table, scrolling through your phone, the news about Jake still trending on X: Campus murder… Ghostface prank gone wrong? The grainy security footage you’d seen yesterday looped in your mind, the shadowed figure, the glint of a knife, the white mask that seemed to haunt every corner of campus now.

You shivered, pulling your hoodie tighter, and pushed the thought away, telling yourself it was just some sick prank, just like Bucky had said.

By the time you pushed open the dorm door after your last lecture, it was past noon, the gray sky outside heavy with the threat of rain. The apartment was still empty, the silence thicker now, unbroken by Bucky’s usual presence, his low chuckle, the clink of his coffee mug, the faint hum of his music through his headphones.

You dropped your backpack by the door, the thud loud in the quiet, and glanced around, half-expecting to see him sprawled on the couch or leaning against the counter, ready with a teasing grin. But the space was empty, the air stale, and that strange unease crept back, settling in your chest like a stone.

You wandered to the fridge, the note still crumpled in your pocket, and poured yourself a glass of water, the tap sputtering slightly. The dorm felt too big without Bucky’s energy to fill it, too small with the weight of the silence. You sank onto the couch, pulling out your phone to text him

You 5:09pm

Where are you? Everything okay?

but hesitated, your thumb hovering over the send button. He’d said not to worry, and Bucky always came through, didn’t he?

You glanced at the window, the blinds casting long, slanted shadows across the floor. Outside, a group of students passed, one wearing a Ghostface mask, the white face tilting as if watching the dorm.

Your heart skipped, and you stood abruptly, crossing to the window to twist the blinds shut. The room dimmed, the shadows deepening, and you told yourself it was nothing, just Halloween, just pranks, just your imagination running wild.

But as you settled back onto the couch, the note in your pocket seemed to burn, and you couldn’t shake the feeling that Bucky’s absence meant something, that the quiet wasn’t just empty, it was waiting.

The hum of the refrigerator, a distant siren wailing somewhere off campus, the muffled thud of footsteps in the hall, ordinary sounds that usually faded into the background, now grated against your nerves, intrusive, too loud in the oppressive quiet.

You pulled your knees up, hugging them to your chest, trying to let the silence wash over you, but it clung instead, heavy and suffocating, like damp cloth over your mouth.

Your phone lit up on the cushion beside you, the screen glowing.

No Caller ID.

Your heart stopped, a cold spike of dread pinning you in place. Every instinct screamed to ignore it, to fling the phone across the room, to run, but a sick, magnetic curiosity curled in your gut, urging your trembling hand to swipe and answer. You pressed the phone to your ear, your voice barely a whisper.

“Hello…?”

Silence. Absolute, suffocating silence, so thick it seemed to crawl into your chest, squeezing your lungs. It wasn’t just quiet, it was the kind of silence that had weight, that had eyes, that watched. Your breath hitched, shallow and sharp, as you tried again, forcing firmness into your tone.

“Alright, I’m hanging up.”

A rasp sliced through the quiet like a serrated knife dragging across glass, jagged and raw.

“Do that… and I’ll carve you into a decoration everyone remembers this Halloween.” The voice was low, wet, hungry, each word dripping with a perverse glee that made your skin crawl, as if the speaker could already taste your fear.

Cold flooded your veins, your teeth chattering despite the warmth of the room. Your grip tightened on the phone, knuckles white, the plastic creaking under your fingers.

It was him, the Ghostface who’d gutted Jake, who’d left the campus whispering about blood-soaked carpets and screams that echoed through East Hall. The one whose knife had painted the security footage in crimson, whose mask haunted every corner of your world.

“What- what do you want?!” you shouted, your voice cracking, raw with panic, the words spilling out before you could stop them.

“To see what you look like when you scream,” he purred, and a wet, cruel chuckle rattled through the line, slow and deliberate, like he was savoring the image of you breaking.

“I want to see your guts, sweetheart. Your insides, spilling out, warm and slick. Your blood pooling under you, your organs twitching in my hands. Ever seen a heart still beating? It’s beautiful… until it stops.”

Your stomach twisted violently, bile rising in your throat, burning its way up. The words weren’t just a threat, they were a vision, vivid and grotesque, painted with a sick relish that made your vision blur.

You could almost see it: the glint of a blade slicing through your skin, the hot, sticky rush of blood, your intestines spilling like wet ropes, glistening under the dorm’s fluorescent lights, your heart exposed, pulsing weakly as his gloved hands cradled it.

“Stop… please…” you whispered, your voice shaking, barely audible, as if speaking might summon him from the shadows.

“You see,” he hissed, each syllable deliberate, venomous, dripping like blood onto cold stone, “your guts would look perfect splayed across the floor, your intestines tangled like string, your liver sliced just right, glistening, still warm. Your blood… so bright, so thick, so hot, running over my hands, soaking the carpet. I’d make it slow, sweetheart. I’d make you feel every cut, every tear, every moment of your body coming apart.”

Your hands shook uncontrollably, the phone slipping in your sweaty grip.

You tried to move, to stand, to do something, but your legs felt like jelly, your body pinned to the couch by the weight of his words.

The TV flickered behind you, the game show’s cheerful music warping into something sinister, its light casting jagged shadows that skittered across the walls like crawling hands, like fingers reaching for you.

Every sound, the creak of floorboards, the hum of the fridge, the distant thud of footsteps, became a threat, a sign he was already here, waiting in the corners, his knife gleaming, his mask tilting in the dark.

“Tell me, darling,” he whispered, his voice now impossibly close, as if he’d slipped through the phone and into the room, his breath ghosting against your ear, “what’s your favorite scary movie? Because I’m gonna make it real. I’m gonna carve you into my own little horror show, and you’ll scream so pretty when I do.”

The line went silent for a heartbeat, a pause that stretched into eternity, heavy with a thousand unspoken horrors.

You could taste them, thick and metallic, coating your tongue like blood. The knife plunging, slicing through muscle and bone, blood spilling in hot, sticky streams, organs collapsing in a wet, writhing heap, your life leaking out in a grotesque tableau, his gloved hands slick with your insides, arranging them like a twisted artist.

Then, the whisper came again, soft and final. “I’ll be watching, sweetheart. Every shadow, every heartbeat. And soon… it won’t just be imagination.”

The TV flickered violently, the screen going black, plunging the room into darkness. The silence was deafening, but your pulse thundered, a relentless drumbeat drowning out everything else.

You dropped the phone, slamming it face-down onto the couch, your hands shaking so badly you could barely move. Tears stung your eyes, hot and blinding, your chest heaving with ragged, raw breaths. Every corner of the dorm pulsed with danger, the shadows twisting into shapes that weren’t there, hands, blades, masks staring from the dark.

Minutes crawled by, each second a lifetime, your body frozen, your breath shallow, as if any movement might summon him.

Then your phone lit up again, the screen glowing like a malevolent eye.

No Caller ID.

Every nerve screamed to smash it, to run, to hide, but that sick, magnetic pull held you fast, your trembling thumb hovering over the answer button. You knew you shouldn’t, knew it with every fiber of your being, but the silence was worse, the not-knowing unbearable. You pressed answer, your voice barely a whisper.

“Hello…?”

“Do you know what happens when you hang up on me?” The rasp was sharper now, a blade honed to cut deeper, scraping against your sanity. “You don’t get to walk away, sweetheart. You don’t get to hide.”

Your chest tightened, air trapped in your throat, your vision narrowing to a pinprick. “W-what do you want?” you stammered, the words barely escaping, your voice small and broken.

“To see you bleed,” he purred, the wet chuckle returning, slow and deliberate, dripping with anticipation. “Not just a cut, darling… I want to see what’s inside you. Your organs, your blood, your fear made flesh. I want to peel you open, layer by layer, watch your intestines spill like ribbons, your heart twitching in my hands. I want to paint the walls with you.”

The words were a physical blow, each one landing like a knife in your gut. Bile surged, your stomach churning as the images flooded your mind, your body splayed open, his gloved hands digging into you, pulling you apart with a lover’s care.

The couch beneath you felt alive, its cushions shifting as if something moved beneath them, something waiting to claw its way out. The room was a trap, every shadow a threat, every creak a footstep, every hum a blade being sharpened.

“Stop… please…” you choked, tears streaming now, hot and salty, your voice barely a whisper as the terror consumed you.

“You can’t stop what’s coming,” he hissed, his voice now so close it felt like he was breathing down your neck, his presence seeping through the walls.

“I’m already here, sweetheart. In the shadows, in the cracks, in the air you breathe. And when I come for you, you’ll scream so beautifully, your blood will sing for me.”

The line went dead, but the silence was worse, a void that pulsed with menace.

Your hands shook as you dropped the phone to the floor, the clatter echoing like a gunshot. The darkness seemed to move, the shadows stretching, clawing, detaching from the walls. You heard it or thought you did, the faintest scrape of a blade across tile, a whisper of fabric brushing the floor, a low, wet chuckle from somewhere just out of sight.

Your eyes darted to the corners, the door, the windows, every shadow a potential hiding place, every flicker a glint of steel.

You were prey, and he was hunting. The realization sank into your bones, cold and final. He wasn’t just imagining your blood on his hands, he was planning it, savoring it, his knife already tracing the path it would take. The dorm was no longer a sanctuary; it was a slaughterhouse, and you were the lamb.

Your breath came in short, ragged gasps, your heart a frantic drumbeat, and as the shadows closed in, you knew with sickening certainty: he was already here, watching, waiting, his Ghostface mask tilting in the dark, ready to make you his masterpiece.

The door’s keys rattled like a gunshot, shattering the dorm’s suffocating silence. You screamed, raw and broken, scrambling upright on the couch, clutching a heavy textbook as a weapon, knuckles white, heart slamming. The Ghostface’s voice echoed in your skull, promises of blood, guts, carving you into a grotesque masterpiece.

The door swung open, and you swung the book, pages fluttering wildly.

“Whoa, calm down!” Bucky’s rough, familiar voice cut through. He caught your wrists, vibranium hand cool, flesh hand warm, stopping the book inches from his face. His blue eyes widened, taking in your tear-streaked terror, your trembling frame. “It’s just me, doll.”

Reality snapped back. Bucky, hair mussed, jacket damp with rain, stood before you, concern masking a flicker of something unreadable.

The textbook thudded to the floor, pages splaying. Your knees buckled, sobs breaking as you collapsed against him, fingers twisting into his shirt, anchoring to his warmth.

“It was him, Bucky,” you cried, voice shattering, muffled against his chest.

“He called… wants to kill me… my guts, my blood…” The words spilled, laced with Ghostface’s gruesome threats, intestines spilling, heart twitching in gloved hands, blood painting the walls. You shook, tears soaking his shirt, the images searing your mind.

Bucky’s arms wrapped tight, vibranium hand steady on your back, flesh hand cradling your head.

“Shh, doll, I’ve got you,” he murmured, voice soothing, a balm to your terror. His fingers traced slow circles, grounding you, but to him, it was control, holding you exactly where he wanted, vulnerable, his. A hidden smirk tugged at his lips, buried against your hair. He was the voice on the call, the one who’d unraveled you, savoring every tremble.

He tipped your chin up, thumbs brushing tears from your cheeks, touch tender but calculated.

“Look at me,” he said, voice warm, steady. “Nothing’s gonna happen. You’re safe with me.” His eyes locked onto yours, a flicker of dark satisfaction at your dependence.

“Bucky… sleep with me tonight? I’m terrified…” Your voice was fragile, eyes pleading, feeding the dark thrill curling in his chest.

“Of course, doll,” he said softly, masking his twisted joy.

“Nothing’s gonna touch you.” He guided you to bed, settling beside you, blankets tangling as you curled against his chest, fingers tracing his shirt, seeking comfort. His vibranium arm draped over you, flesh hand brushing your hair, lips grazing your temple.

“Sleep tight,” he whispered. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Inside, a war raged. The protector Bucky, your best friend, who’d stayed up studying, walked you home, loved you fiercely, purely, wanting only to shield you. Holding you now, your trust in every soft breath, he ached to be your hero forever.

But the darker Bucky, born of scars and violence, was the Ghostface who’d dialed your number, rasping threats of carving you open, thriving on your fear, your sobs, your clinging need. He’d watched you answer, hidden outside, your terror lighting a primal fire in him, possession, not just protection.

Guilt gnawed, sharp and relentless, screaming he was sick, betraying you, twisting love into obsession.

Your whimpers in sleep, pressing closer, stoked both sides, guilt and desire warring. He’d killed Jake for you, spilled blood to keep you his, and he’d do it again, believing it was love. His fingers tightened in your hair, possessive, then softened, torn between monster and savior.

You murmured in sleep, trusting, and he buried the truth, playing protector while the Ghostface mask waited, his game far from over.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered, a vow and a cage, his smirk hidden as he planned the next move.

The next few days passed in a blur. Every little sound in the dorm the unexpected thump of a door, the creak of the floorboards, even the hum of the radiator, made your heart jump as if it were trying to escape your chest.

Sleep came in short, fractured bursts, haunted by nightmares that always ended the same way: a shadow looming over you, a whisper in your ear, the metallic scrape of something sharp against the floor.

Bucky stayed close, more than usual, wrapping you in his presence like a shield. But there was something… different. Something that made the hair on the back of your neck stand on end.

His eyes were sharper, more calculating, always flicking to corners you didn’t think could hide anyone. He lingered at doors longer than necessary, listening to noises you couldn’t even hear, and sometimes he flinched at a sound that didn’t exist.

The next night, the city lay in restless silence, oblivious to the predator moving through its veins like a shadow through fog.

Bucky slid the Ghostface mask over his face, the hollow eyes swallowing his own, the black mesh blurring the world into a void of anonymity. He pulled the long black coat tight around him, the fabric whispering against his jeans as he let the night embrace him like an eager accomplice.

In his gloved hand, the knife caught the weak glow of the flickering streetlights, its serrated edge gleaming with a silver promise of agony and finality. Every movement was deliberate, ritualistic rehearsed a thousand times in his mind, controlled down to the flex of his fingers. Step by step, the hunt began. Tonight, there would be a lesson, written in blood and screams.

He spotted the target before the man even realized he wasn’t alone.

Bucky knew him, Luke, that was it. Jake’s roommate. The same unlucky bastard who’d stumbled across Jake’s cold, ruined body in East Hall, the blood-soaked carpet squelching under his feet, the metallic stench clinging to his clothes for days.

And worse, he was your project partner. Bucky had seen the way Luke’s eyes lingered on you during those late-night study sessions, the way his hands brushed your arm a little too long, too bold, fingers grazing your skin like he owned it.

He’d even had the audacity to ask you out, his voice dripping with false charm, as if he was worthy of touching what wasn’t his, what would never be his.

Bucky’s grip on the knife tightened, his chest coiling with a cold, venomous fury that burned like acid in his veins. Touching you was bad enough. Fantasizing about you? Unforgivable.

He could still see it in his mind’s eye: Luke’s gaze fixed on your tits as you leaned over the table to point at a note, his tongue darting out to wet his lips, the subtle flex of his fingers like he was imagining grabbing your ass, pinning you down, making you his.

The thought made Bucky’s vibranium arm hum with restrained power, his flesh hand itching to feel the knife sink deep.

And now, here Luke was, walking alone down the dimly lit alley behind the campus bar, thinking the night belonged to him. Hood up, earphones blasting some mindless rap, careless steps echoing off the graffiti-scarred walls. An easy target. A dead man walking.

The phone rang in Luke’s pocket, vibrating insistently. He slowed, frowning, before pulling it out with a casual swipe.

No Caller ID

“Yo?” he answered, his voice laced with annoyance, oblivious to the shadow closing in behind him.

The rasp poured through the line, rich with malice, modulated to a gravelly whisper that scraped like nails on bone. “Do you want to end up like your pal Jake?”

Luke froze mid-step, his breath hitching audibly, the color draining from his face under the sickly yellow glow of an overhead bulb.

“The fuck? Who is this?” His voice cracked, a tremor creeping in as he yanked out one earphone, spinning to scan the empty alley, shadows twisting at every corner like grasping fingers.

“Wrong question,” Bucky sneered, his voice jagged through the modulator, low and hungry, savoring the spike of fear he could hear in Luke’s quickening breaths. “You should be asking where I am.”

Luke spun again, eyes darting wildly, trash bins overflowing with garbage, a chain-link fence rattling faintly in the breeze, puddles reflecting the neon sign of a distant bar.

“Look, man, this isn’t funny. I know people-” His free hand fumbled in his pocket, perhaps for a weapon or his keys, but it was too late.

“Not anymore.”

Ghostface hissed, and Luke barely had time to whirl around before Bucky lunged from the shadows, the knife flashing in a brutal arc. The blade sank into Luke’s abdomen with a wet, tearing sound, flesh parting like overripe fruit, the serrated edge grinding against muscle and sinew as it buried deep.

Luke gasped, a choked, gurgling cry escaping his lips as blood bubbled up, hot and thick, soaking through his hoodie in an instant. Bucky twisted the knife slowly, deliberately, feeling the resistance of organs shifting, the blade scraping against the edge of a rib, sending a shudder through Luke’s body that Bucky could feel vibrate up his arm.

Luke’s eyes bulged, wide with shock and agony, his mouth opening in a silent scream as blood flecked his lips, dribbling down his chin in sticky rivulets. His hands clawed weakly at Bucky’s coat, nails scraping uselessly against the black fabric, leaving faint smears of red.

The coppery scent of fresh blood flooded the alley, hot and metallic, steaming faintly in the cool night air, mixing with the faint rot of garbage and urine from the pavement.

“Please… please-” Luke gurgled, his voice wet and broken, bubbles of blood foaming at the corners of his mouth as he tried to beg, his knees buckling.

“Did you like it? Staring at her tits? Thinking about her ass?”

Ghostface rasped, his voice a venomous whisper behind the mask, his free hand clamping over Luke’s mouth to muffle the screams, feeling the hot, panicked breaths against his glove.

He yanked the blade free with a sickening squelch, a gush of crimson spraying across the alley wall in a fan of dark red, splattering the graffiti like abstract art. Luke’s body jerked, his abdomen now a ragged wound, intestines peeking through the torn flesh in a glistening, coiled mess, blood pouring out in rhythmic pulses with each frantic beat of his heart.

Luke collapsed to his knees, clutching at the gaping hole, his fingers slipping in the warm, viscous gore that coated his hands, strings of blood and tissue stretching between them like macabre webs.

“No… God, no…” he whimpered, voice fading to a rasp as shock set in, his face paling to a ghostly white, sweat beading on his forehead despite the chill.

Bucky tilted the Ghostface mask, watching with detached fascination as Luke’s blood pooled on the cracked concrete, spreading in a dark halo around his knees, seeping into the cracks like ink on paper.

The thrill built in Bucky’s chest, a dark, intoxicating high, but he wasn’t done. He drove the knife up again, this time into Luke’s ribs, the blade punching through with a crunch of bone, grating against the sternum as it pierced a lung.

Luke’s body convulsed, a wet, choking cough spraying blood in a fine mist that dotted Bucky’s mask, the warmth seeping through the fabric. Air whistled from the wound, bubbling with each labored breath, the sound grotesque and pitiful.

Luke’s eyes rolled back, his body twitching in the final throes, but Bucky leaned in close, his voice a low, intimate whisper behind the mask. “She’s not yours. She was never yours. And now, you’re nothing.”

The final slice was brutal, a swift, clean drag across the throat, the serrated edge parting skin and muscle with a wet rip, severing the carotid in a violent gush of arterial spray.

Blood erupted in rhythmic jets, painting the wall in hot, pulsing arcs, soaking Bucky’s gloves and coat in a sticky cascade. Luke’s body went rigid, then limp, collapsing in a twitching heap, his throat a ragged, gaping smile, blood frothing from the wound as his last breaths gurgled out.

The pool beneath him widened, thick and viscous, carrying chunks of tissue and flecks of bone, the metallic tang so strong it coated Bucky’s tongue even through the mask.

Bucky stood over the body, his chest rising slow and steady, the knife dripping red in his grip, strings of gore hanging from the blade like viscous threads. The rage in his chest eased, replaced with something quieter, darker, satisfaction, a cleansing fire that burned away the jealousy. Luke’s eyes stared blankly at the sky, glassy and vacant, his mouth frozen in a final, silent plea.

Another lesson delivered. Another secret buried in blood.

Bucky wiped the blade clean on Luke’s hoodie, the fabric absorbing the residue with a faint squelch, then slid it back beneath the folds of his coat.

He melted into the shadows once more, the night swallowing him whole, his steps silent on the blood-slick pavement. The city remained oblivious, but Bucky carried the weight of the kill like a badge, a vow etched in crimson: no one would touch you. No one but him.

The door creaked open past midnight, slicing the dorm’s heavy silence with a low groan. You jolted awake, heart hammering, the Ghostface’s gruesome call still clawing at your nerves. Every sound, creaking floorboards, hissing breath, felt like a threat.

“Bucky?” you whispered, voice trembling, clutching the blanket as you scanned the shadows.

He stood in the entryway, a dark silhouette against the hallway’s orange glow, hoodie damp, hair slick, chest heaving slightly.

“It’s me, doll,” he said, his smile off, too controlled, as he shut the door with a soft click. Wet smudges trailed from his boots, the dark patches on his hoodie glinting faintly, not sweat, you realized, but you pushed the thought away.

“Where were you?” you asked, suspicion sharpening your tone.

“Couldn’t sleep. Went for a run,” he said smoothly, shrugging off his coat, eyes avoiding yours, lingering on the shadows.

“At this hour?” Your unease grew, the air thick with unspoken tension.

He chuckled, boyish, disarming, crouching beside the bed, eyes level with yours.

“Restless, you know me.” But a faint smudge on his cheek, dirt, or something else, made your stomach twist.

“You’re not… hooking up with someone, are you?” you blurted, vulnerability creeping in.

His brows lifted, surprise flashing before a soft laugh. “Doll, if I was with some girl, I’d look better than this.” He gestured to his disheveled form, but his gaze flickered, dark, possessive. “You’re stuck with me.”

Relief eased you, and you leaned into his touch as his flesh hand brushed your hair, warm, lingering. He pulled you against his chest, the faint scent of leather and metal masking something coppery, sharp.

“Sleep,” he murmured, lips grazing your hair, hiding a smirk as he thought of Luke’s blood pooling in the alley, the knife still warm from the kill.

You settled against him, his warmth lulling you, but a dangerous spark flickered low in your belly, kindled by nights of his closeness, his arms a fortress too intoxicating. Glancing at him, his face softened in sleep, jaw relaxed, lips parted, you felt the ache grow.

Your hand drifted down, fingers brushing your shorts, rubbing slow circles against your pulsing clit, already soaked. The friction wasn’t enough, the need sharp.

Slipping under the waistband, you teased yourself, biting your lip to stifle a moan, his name escaping in a soft, desperate.

“Bucky…”

He stirred, eyes blinking open, thinking you were scared. Then he saw you, hand in your shorts, hips shifting, cheeks flushed, lips parted in a moan. His breath caught, gaze darkening, hungry.

“Doll?” His voice was rough, laced with desire, as his vibranium hand caught your wrist, stopping you, the cool metal searing against your heated skin.

“Fuck! Buck, I’m sorry-” you stammered, mortified, yanking your hand back.

“Shh,” he soothed, lips brushing your shoulder, voice a velvet chain. “Don’t stop. Let me make you feel good.” His tone was tender, but the hunger in it sent shivers down your spine.

His flesh hand slid past your trembling fingers, parting your slick folds with deliberate slowness, exploring your soaked heat like he was claiming it.

Two thick fingers pressed into your entrance, stretching you with a slow, burning thrust that made you gasp into the pillow, hips bucking. He curled them, hitting that spot inside you that blurred your vision, pumping deep and precise, coaxing desperate whimpers.

“Fuck, doll, you’re so tight, so fucking wet for me,” he growled, voice dripping with filthy praise, lips grazing your neck. “This pretty little pussy’s begging for my fingers, isn’t it? Sucking me in like she can’t get enough.”

“God, Buck,” you whined, arching into his hand, thighs shaking as his fingers thrust faster, the wet, obscene sounds filling the room. His thumb found your clit, circling firm and relentless, each stroke sparking through your nerves.

“Look at you, dripping all over my hand,” he purred, teeth nipping your earlobe. “Such a good girl, falling apart for me. Bet you’d feel so fucking perfect wrapped around my cock, wouldn’t you?”

Your body trembled, the coil in your stomach tightening as his fingers fucked you harder, curling just right.

“F-fuck… right there, don’t stop,” you moaned, nails digging into his forearm, clinging as pleasure consumed you. His vibranium arm pinned you against him, keeping you in place.

“You’re so fucking beautiful like this,” he rasped, voice husky with want. “My sweet, needy girl, coming undone just for me. Gonna make this pussy sing, baby.”

His thumb pressed harder on your clit, circling faster, fingers thrusting deep, relentless. The pleasure snapped, crashing through you in hot, shuddering waves, your walls clenching tight around him as you came with a muffled cry, face buried in the pillow.

He didn’t stop, drawing out every pulse until you were a trembling, boneless mess in his arms.

He eased his fingers out, the wet sound loud in the quiet. Bringing them to his lips, he licked them slow, savoring your taste with a low groan, eyes fluttering shut like it was divine.

“Fucking delicious, doll,” he murmured, voice thick with possession. “Sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted. All mine.”

Heat flooded your cheeks, but you were too spent to respond, tucking against his chest, breath syncing with his steady heartbeat.

He kissed your hair, tender but smirking, the taste of you mixing with the phantom scent of Luke’s blood, the kill fresh in his mind. His vibranium arm tightened, a vow, as he lay awake, planning his next move. You were his, fear, pleasure, trust and he’d kill again to keep it that way.

Over the next few days, small details gnawed at you. Dark, sticky stains on Bucky’s hoodie, dismissed as “ketchup” with a shrug. Missing kitchen knives, vanished without explanation. His eerie knowledge of the killings, details about victims, police patterns, things he shouldn’t know. You pushed it down, heart rebelling. Bucky was your best friend, your protector. He wouldn’t… he couldn’t.

But the dorm whispered warnings, shadows lingering too long, doors clicking open, faint metallic scrapes in the night, like a blade testing its edge.

This morning, the air felt lighter. You woke without fear’s familiar weight, Bucky already up, propped against the headboard, scrolling his phone, a faint smile softening his face. Breakfast was easy, eggs, coffee, teasing over toast. For an hour, you could pretend the horror didn’t exist. Almost.

A week later, that illusion shattered. Rummaging in Bucky’s drawer for a sweater, your fingers brushed something hard, smooth. You pulled it out, and your breath froze, a Ghostface mask, white, hollow-eyed, grinning cruelly. Panic clawed your spine, the world narrowing to its black, empty stare.

“Bucky?” Your voice cracked, thin, holding the mask at arm’s length like it might bite.

He turned from the desk, a flicker of something sharp in his eyes, gone in an instant, replaced by a casual chuckle.

“Oh, that,” he said, scratching his neck, voice smooth as silk.

“You forgot I had that, doll? Picked it up for Halloween.” He stepped closer, plucking the mask from your trembling hands, tossing it back into the drawer with a thud that made you flinch. “Thought it’d be funny, you in your nurse costume, me scaring you with this. A theme, right?”

His grin was warm, disarming, but his eyes didn’t quite meet yours, lingering on the shadows behind you.

“You okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” His laugh was soft, teasing, but it felt rehearsed, like he’d planned for this moment or feared it.

You forced a shaky smile, trying to laugh it off, but your chest stayed tight, heart pounding. The mask, buried under his clothes, felt too deliberate, too hidden. As he went back to his desk, humming casually, you couldn’t shake the thought: had he wanted you to find it, or had you stumbled too close to a truth he meant to keep buried?

The campus pulsed with chaotic energy, costumes ranging from tacky vampires to countless Ghostface masks, the air thick with beer, sweat, and spilled punch. EDM bass rattled the windows.

In Bucky’s dorm, you fidgeted before the cracked mirror, tugging at your nurse costume’s short skirt, the white fabric clinging to your curves, stockings accentuating bare thighs. The red cross pinned to your chest and cheap stethoscope felt bold, exposing. Your cheeks flushed under your reflection’s gaze.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you muttered, glancing at Bucky through the mirror, his lean frame in the doorway, dark hoodie and jeans radiating danger. His smirk was sharp, eyes raking over your hips, stockings, the low neckline, lingering with a heat that set your skin ablaze.

“You look… medically irresponsible,” he teased, voice low, predatory, making your heart skip.

“Excuse me?” you shot back, hands on hips, instantly regretting the way it drew his gaze.

He stepped closer, wolf-like, fingers grazing your skirt’s hem, knuckles brushing your thigh, sending a jolt through you.

“This wouldn’t pass hospital protocol,” he said, eyes dark, cataloging your parted lips, quickened breath. “Do you even own a stethoscope?”

You swatted his hand, flustered, cheeks burning. “It’s called theme commitment, Bucky.”

“So, you’re the nurse, I’m the patient?” he murmured, leaning close, breath warm against your ear. “Gonna take real good care of me, doll?” His tone was suggestive, curling like smoke, making your knees weak.

“Bucky-” you started, but he straightened, ruffling your hair with a grin, breaking the tension. “You look cute,” he said softly, disarming.

As he grabbed his jacket, you glimpsed black fabric in his desk drawer, the same one where you’d seen a Ghostface mask last week. Your stomach twisted, unease cutting through his warmth. You told yourself it was nothing, just a costume, but the doubt lingered as you followed him out.

The party throbbed with wild energy, EDM bass rattling the walls as strobe lights carved sharp shadows across the room. Pumpkins leered from tables, streamers swayed in the heat of sweaty bodies, and Ghostface masks dotted the crowd among cheap vampire fangs and witch hats.

The air reeked of beer, sweat, and punch. You tugged at your nurse costume’s short skirt, the white fabric clinging to your curves, stockings accentuating bare thighs, feeling exposed. Bucky was “mingling,” but you scanned for him, eyes catching every mask, every shadow.

A figure emerged by the snack table, black coat flowing, Ghostface mask glaring. Your stomach dropped, ice flooding your veins, heart hammering as the mask tilted, watching you.

“Relax, doll,” Bucky’s teasing voice came, lifting the mask to reveal his grin. “Just me.” His predatory stance and hollow-eyed mask chilled you despite the familiarity.

“Bucky, you scared me,” you said, voice shaky, forcing a laugh. He stepped closer, boots scuffing the sticky floor, a plastic knife prop dangling, his hand hovering near your hip.

“Dressed for patient care?” he rasped through a modulator, voice sinister yet playful, eyes raking over your skirt, the red cross on your chest. “Or does my nurse need attention?”

“Bucky…” you stammered, cheeks burning, caught between fear and a dark thrill, thighs clenching. “Stop messing around.”

He chuckled, low and menacing, the plastic knife grazing your thigh, making you jump. “I could keep everyone away from you,” he purred. “You’re mine tonight, doll.”

A drunken student in a cheap Ghostface costume leapt out, thinking it was a prank, slurring a mock scream. The crowd laughed, some shoving, but you froze, heart pounding, unsure if it was a joke or him. Bucky’s vibranium hand gripped your wrist, iron-tight.

“Stay here,” he hissed, eyes locking on the prankster through his mask, predator assessing prey.

He slipped into the shadows, silent, his long coat blending with the dark corner of the room. The prankster stumbled toward a hallway, giggling, oblivious, as Bucky followed, a ghost in the chaos.

Behind a stack of crates, out of sight, Bucky struck, his real knife, not the prop, gleamed, sinking into the kid’s side with a wet crunch, slicing flesh, grinding against rib. Blood welled, soaking the costume, the coppery stench sharp. The boy gasped, choking, blood flecking lips as he clawed at the wound, fingers slipping in sticky gore.

Bucky twisted the blade, feeling muscle tear, a shudder vibrating through the boy’s body.

“Not a game,” he whispered through the modulator, mask inches from the kid’s terrified face. He yanked the knife free, blood spraying, then stabbed again, cracking ribs, piercing lung with a wet pop. The boy convulsed, whistling gasps, blood frothing, collapsing in a heap, intestines peeking through torn flesh, pooling crimson in the dark corner.

Bucky stepped back, mask tilted, blood dripping from the blade, satisfaction burning in his chest. He wiped the knife on the boy’s costume, squelching, and slipped it beneath his coat. Moving like a shadow, he weaved through the oblivious crowd, the music and chaos masking his absence. In seconds, he was back at your side, arm sliding around your waist, mask still on, voice steady through the modulator.

“Miss me, doll?”

You jumped, then relaxed, clinging to his coat, relief and fear twisting, a dark thrill making your thighs clench. “Don’t leave like that,” you muttered, heart still racing.

He chuckled, pulling you close, the mask’s hollow eyes unreadable. “I’ve got you,” he murmured, grip possessive, the faint scent of blood clinging to him, unnoticed in the party’s stench.

A piercing scream cut through the music.

“Oh my God!” A girl near the hallway pointed, trembling, at the crates. The crowd parted, revealing the prankster’s body, blood pooling, intestines glistening, eyes glassy in a frozen plea. Gasps and shrieks erupted, partygoers scattering, the music jarring against the horror.

Your breath hitched, fingers digging into Bucky’s coat, the image searing your mind. His vibranium arm tightened around you, voice calm, almost too calm.

“Let’s go, doll. Back to the dorm. You’re safe with me.” He guided you through the chaos, his grip a lifeline, but the ease of his return, the blood you couldn’t see on his gloves, made the line between protector and predator blur, a truth too dangerous to face.

The October chill bit your skin as you stumbled from the chaotic party, Bucky’s coat brushing your arm, his warmth a stark contrast to your flimsy nurse costume. The image of the prankster’s blood-soaked body, torn flesh, glistening intestines, glassy eyes, burned in your mind, tangled with Bucky’s modulated Ghostface voice, teasing yet sinister. His arm anchored your waist, guiding you toward the dorm, but his steps were too sure, his vibranium hand flexing.

“Shit,” he muttered, stopping, eyes scanning the dark street, jaw tight.

“What?” you asked, heart skipping, catching the guarded edge in his gaze.

“Left my phone at the party,” he said, clipped, glancing back where lights pulsed faintly.

“You’re going back?” Panic spiked, the memory of the knife’s wet crunch too raw.

“I’ll be fine,” he said, shrugging, eyes softening but hiding something. “Go to the dorm. I’ll catch up.”

The idea of being alone chilled you, the Ghostface’s threat, 'I want to see your guts, sweetheart' echoing. “Be careful,” you whispered, hands twisting your skirt.

He kissed your temple, lips lingering. “I will, doll.” Then he vanished into the dark, coat flaring.

The dorm loomed a block away, but shadows moved, leaves rustled like footsteps, streetlights glinting ominously. You hurried inside, locking the door, sinking onto the couch, knees to chest. The nurse costume felt absurd now.

Tempted to text Bucky, you hesitated, his tense posture, the mask in his drawer, damp hoodie patches, metallic scent. Doubt crept in. You trusted him… didn’t you? But the silence felt like a trap, the line between protector and predator razor-thin.

Minutes dragged like hours, the small room suffocating under the weight of your fear. You paced, your sneakers squeaking on the linoleum, checking the locks, double-checking the windows, the blinds rattling as you twisted them shut.

Your chest tightened with every passing second Bucky was gone, the image of him slipping back into the chaotic party house, where blood had spilled, where screams still lingered burning in your mind.

You told yourself he’d be fine, that he was just grabbing his phone, but the memory of the black fabric in his drawer, the damp patches on his hoodie, the faint metallic scent you’d dismissed, gnawed at you. What if he wasn’t coming back? What if the Ghostface had found him?

Your phone rang, the shrill sound slicing through the silence like a blade. Your heart stopped, your breath catching as you stared at the glowing screen.

No Caller ID.

You didn’t want to know, didn’t want to face it, but desperation and fear made your thumb swipe to answer before you could think.

“Oh god, Bucky! Please hurry,” you whimpered, your voice trembling, cracking under the weight of your panic, tears already pricking your eyes.

A rasping, familiar-sounding voice cut through the line, low and deliberate, dripping with a cruel, predatory hunger.

“Hmm… I don’t think it’s Bucky you’re speaking to, pretty girl,” it purred, each word twisted by the modulator, sinking into your bones like venom. “Try again, hm?”

Your blood ran cold, your body freezing as the memories of the past week flooded back, the calls, the shadows, the voice promising to spill your guts, to paint the walls with your blood. Your knees buckled, and you sank onto the couch, clutching the phone so tightly your knuckles ached.

What you didn’t know was that Bucky was on the other end, hidden in the shadows just outside the dorm, the Ghostface mask discarded but the modulator pressed to his lips. His free hand was wrapped around his cock, straining painfully against his jeans, stroking himself slowly as he fed off your fear, each tremble in your voice sending a jolt of pleasure through him, his arousal twisting with his obsession.

“Where’s Bucky? What did you do to him?!” you shrieked, tears streaking your cheeks, your voice raw with panic and desperation.

“Oh, don’t get mad at me now,” the voice rumbled, low and teasing, a sick edge of amusement lacing every word.

“God… you looked so fucking sexy in that little nurse costume tonight.” His voice dropped, a husky growl that made your stomach lurch with a mix of dread and shame.

The realization hit like a punch, he’d been watching you, his eyes hidden behind that hollow mask, drinking in every inch of you.

“W-what?” you squeaked, your body trembling, your thighs pressing together instinctively as heat bloomed despite your terror, a betrayal that made your cheeks burn with shame.

“If only you knew, pretty girl,” the voice rasped, deliberate and ravenous, each word dripping with lust.

“I wanted to rip that tight little skirt off you, pin you to the wall, and fuck you raw right there in front of everyone. Watch those pretty thighs shake as I spread you open, my knife tracing along your skin, just deep enough to make you beg.”

A shiver ran down your spine, your body betraying you again with a pulse of heat between your legs, your shorts suddenly too tight, too warm. You were utterly ashamed, horrified that his words twisted, vile, could spark anything but fear. The voice seemed to press into your ears, heavy, intoxicating, wrapping around you like a noose.

“Stop… please…” you whispered, your voice barely audible, shaking with both terror and the sickening pull of his words.

“Stop? Oh, I’m just getting started, sweets,” the voice purred, low and deliberate, each syllable a caress and a threat.

“I’d tie you up, wrists bound tight behind your back, that pretty mouth of yours gagged with your own panties, soaked from how fucking wet you’d be for me. I’d fuck that tight little cunt of yours, slow at first, letting you feel every inch, my knife gliding along those gorgeous thighs, carving my name into your skin so you’d never forget who owns you.”

Your breath hitched, your thighs clenching tighter, heat pooling low in your belly despite the horror screaming in your mind. Your hands twisted in your lap, nails digging into your palms until they stung, your body caught in a sick tug-of-war between fear and the shameful arousal his words ignited.

You wanted to hang up, to throw the phone across the room, but you couldn’t move, pinned by the weight of his voice, by the vivid images he painted his knife grazing your skin, his hands claiming you, his cock stretching you open.

“Please… don’t…” you begged, your voice shaking, tears streaming down your face as you fought to hold onto reason, to drown out the heat pulsing through you.

“Why? Afraid your little Bucky won’t like it?” the voice hissed, the words sharp and mocking, cutting through you like glass.

“Or are you afraid you’d like it too much, hm? That you’d come screaming my name while I fuck you bloody, my knife pressed to your throat, my hands buried in your guts, feeling you clench around me as you break?”

“Stop! Stop!” you shouted, your voice cracking with desperation, your hands trembling so badly the phone nearly slipped from your grip.

You slammed it down onto the couch, ending the call before the horror could escalate further, before his words could pull you deeper into the twisted fantasy he was weaving.

The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by your ragged breaths, your chest heaving as you curled in on yourself, trembling uncontrollably.

Your mind reeled, the rasping voice still echoing in your head, each word a blade carving into your sanity. The shame was overwhelming, the way your body had responded to his threats, to the sick promise of pain and pleasure, making you feel dirty, broken.

You didn’t know it was Bucky on the other end, his hand still stroking his cock, precum slicking his fingers as he groaned softly, the sound of your fear pushing him to the edge, his obsession with you burning hotter with every whimper you let slip. He was just outside, hidden in the shadows, the modulator discarded now, his breath heavy as he watched the dorm windows, knowing you were inside, trembling, his.

You sat there, curled into a ball on the couch, your heart pounding, your body still humming with the aftershocks of his words. The dorm was too quiet, every creak a threat, every shadow a reminder of the voice that had promised to claim you, to break you.

The city was hushed as Bucky returned, distant party shouts fading. You curled on the couch, nurse costume rumpled, stockings laddered, trembling from the Ghostface call’s lingering threats, knives, blood, carving his name into your thighs.

Shame burned; your body’s heated response to the terror felt filthy, your thighs clenching at the memory.

Bucky slipped inside, coat draped over his arm, mask hidden, his calm too perfect. A faint metallic tang clung to him, masked by rain and leather.

“Hey,” he murmured, locking the door, crossing to you in quiet strides. His blue eyes scanned, door, windows before settling on you, reading your tremors, your flushed cheeks.

“You okay, doll?” he asked softly, crouching, vibranium arm on his knee, flesh hand brushing your hair, lingering on your jaw. He knew your whimpers from the call, his cock twitching at the memory, your fear his creation.

“Fine,” you lied, voice cracking, avoiding his gaze, shame twisting inside.

He smiled, teasing yet dark, feeding on your dependence.

“Shower’ll help,” he coaxed, voice intimate, pulling you up. “Just us, wash the night away.”

You nodded, craving his safety despite doubts. In the steamy bathroom, he unzipped your costume, knuckles grazing your spine, exposing your bra, eyes darkening over your curves. You stepped under the hot spray, Bucky joining, his naked body pressing close, chest to your back, arm steadying your waist.

“Lean on me,” he whispered, lips brushing your shoulder, soaping his hands. They glided over your shoulders, kneading knots, trailing to your breasts, circling nipples until they pebbled, dipping between thighs, teasing your core just enough to make you gasp, arching into him. “Bucky…” you breathed, half-protest, half-plea.

“Just relaxing you,” he murmured, vibranium hand on your hip, flesh fingers parting your folds gently, stoking heat. Steam wrapped you, his touch blurring fear and want.

The water cooled; he wrapped you in a towel, drying you gently, then himself.

“Lie down,” he said, gesturing to the bed. You sank face-down, towel loose, trusting. He straddled your hips, oil-slick hands kneading your shoulders, drawing moans.

“That’s it, doll,” he whispered, kissing your temple, thumbs grazing your ass, thighs, teasing close to your core, his arousal pressing against you.

“Breathe,” he murmured, lips at your ear, hand cupping your neck, stroking your pulse. You melted, fear fading, shame dulled by his possessive care. You didn’t mention the call, the doubts buried under his touch.

Bucky smiled against your skin, savoring your surrender, knowing the cycle, fear, salvation, control would continue, his darkness binding you tighter.

And then it hit you, the sharp, cold drag of metal against your inner thigh, sending a shiver ripping through every nerve in your body like electric fire. Your breath caught, your chest tightening as panic flared hot and vicious, choking you.

You turned toward him, eyes wide with dawning horror, and froze. He was already watching you, his gaze dark, intent, unblinking, a predator's stare, stripping you bare without a touch.

The knife gleamed in his hand, the blade slick with the promise of pain, its edge tracing lazy patterns on your skin, close enough to prick if you so much as breathed wrong.

“Remember what I said on the call…” His voice was low, husky, a rasping whisper that slithered down your spine like ice-cold fingers. “…how I’d love to fuck that pretty little mouth of yours… shove my cock down your throat until you choke on it, tears streaming, begging for air while I hold you there.”

Your brows furrowed, confusion mingling with terror, your mind reeling as the pieces slammed together. “B-Bucky…? You didn’t-”

“Oh, but I did, you stupid little slut.” The knife traced slow, deliberate lines along the tender skin of your inner thighs, light enough not to cut deep but enough to draw thin beads of blood, the sting making you jolt with every inch of contact.

The cold steel made your stomach clench, your pulse hammering in your ears like a war drum, fear and unwanted heat twisting in your gut.

“Every filthy word, every promise to gut you like a pig while I fucked your holes raw, that was me, doll. Your protector, your killer, your fucking owner.”

Before you could pull back, he shifted with brutal efficiency, twisting you effortlessly until you were facing him on your knees, the blade now pressing lightly at your stomach, the tip dimpling your skin, threatening to pierce if you resisted.

Your hands flew to your chest instinctively, trying to cover your heaving breasts, your hardened nipples, trying to keep some shred of dignity, some part of your body under your control. But he grabbed your wrists with his vibranium hand, pinning them above your head, the metal unyielding, cold as death.

“No…” you whispered, voice cracking, tears already brimming and spilling down your cheeks, hot and salty. Your thighs clenched together, slick leaking despite the terror, your pussy betraying you with a shameful throb.

“Hey, hey… shhh,” he murmured, cupping your jaw with his free hand, tilting your head gently, forcing you to look into his eyes, those same blue eyes that had whispered comfort now gleaming with sick hunger.

The contrast of his touch, soft, almost tender, against the threat of the knife pressing along your skin made your heart pound harder, your nerves alight with dread and disgust.

“It’s still me, doll. Still the same Bucky.” He pressed a kiss to your temple, lips warm, breath hot and ragged against your skin.

“The one whose fingers you came on last week… squirting like a desperate whore while I finger-fucked that sloppy cunt.” His voice dropped lower, darker, almost predatory. “…the same fingers that held the knife that slit poor Lukie’s throat, gutted him like the pig he was, his intestines spilling out hot and steaming while he begged like a bitch.”

Your stomach turned violently, bile rising in your throat as the image flashed, Luke's body twitching, blood pooling thick and crimson, his guts writhing on the floor like worms.

Your hands trembled in his grip, pressing against your thighs as you tried to shrink into yourself, curling away from him, but he held you fast.

“B-Bucky… please…” you whispered, voice barely audible, a mixture of fear, shame, and revulsion churning in your gut. Your pussy clenched again, slick dripping down your inner thighs, the betrayal making you sob harder.

“Never liked him anyway,” he murmured, dragging the knife slowly down to rest against the flat of your stomach, the cold metal making you shiver uncontrollably, goosebumps erupting as it traced lower, teasing the edge of your pubic bone.

“Too pushy… hands all over you, thinking he could touch what's mine. I watched him bleed out, doll, his cock twitching in his pants as he died, probably thinking of you even then. Pathetic.”

He tilted his head, eyes glinting in the dim light, scanning every reaction on your face, the way your lips parted in horror, the tears streaking your cheeks, the flush of shame betraying your body's response.

“Are you going to be a good girl for me?” His tone was soft, almost coaxing, but every word carried the weight of threat, obsession, and control, the knife pressing just hard enough to draw a thin line of blood across your stomach, warm and sticky.

All you could do was cry, body trembling, breath shaking, snot mixing with tears as you shook your head, whispering "No, please, Bucky, don't-"

Suddenly, his hand was at your throat, fingers wrapping around your neck, not enough to choke the life out, but enough to make your pulse spike, black spots dancing at the edges of your vision, your airway constricted just enough to remind you he could end it all.

The knife traced along your jaw, glinting as it moved with slow, deliberate menace, the tip pricking your chin, forcing your head up. “I asked you something, sweets,” he murmured, the rasp in his voice sending tremors down your spine, his breath reeking of blood and lust.

You nodded frantically, shivering violently, unable to speak through the sobs, your pussy clenching traitorously at the dominance, slick coating your thighs in a humiliating flood.

“Good,” he said with a satisfied hum, laying back on the bed beside you, the knife still pressed against your skin, a cold reminder of his control as he dragged it lower, teasing the blade against your swollen clit, making you buck and whimper in terror.

His other hand trailed lightly along your hip, then down your side, fingers dipping into the slick mess between your legs, smearing it across your stomach like war paint. “Now… come closer. Show me how good you can be, or I'll gut you right here, fuck your dying corpse while your blood soaks the sheets.”

Your mind was spinning, heart hammering, the room blurring through tears as he was the same Bucky you loved, the one who'd held you through nightmares, fucked you gentle and sweet and at the same time, the predator, the killer, the one who'd orchestrated every whispered threat, every terrifying phone call, who'd slit throats and spilled guts to claim you.

“Or,” he continued, voice low, dark, dripping with menace, “would you rather hang from a tree, your own guts wrapped around your neck like a noose, your pussy stuffed with my knife as you bleed out for me?”

You froze, shivering, caught between terror and the impossible thrill of knowing he could and might do it, your body responding with a gush of slick that made him laugh, low and filthy.

The knife pressed closer, tracing a line down your ribs, drawing another thin cut, blood welling hot and sticky, and your pulse raced, each thrum of fear mixing with something you couldn’t quite name, arousal, submission, horror twisted into need.

Every glance, every touch, every slow movement of the knife and his fingers was a test, and you were utterly, helplessly at his mercy, your sobs turning to whimpers as he forced your head down.

You knelt between his thighs, naked and trembling, palms pressed flat against the tops of his muscled thighs for balance, the knife's edge now resting against your back like a cold brand.

The room felt heavy, dim, the low light catching the edge of the blade on the nightstand, a silent reminder of who he really was, the killer who'd gutted your friends, who'd threatened to do the same to you while jerking off to your fear.

“Fuuuck, pretty girl,” he drawled out, voice low and gravelly, full of dark amusement as he lounged back, cock hard and leaking, veins throbbing under your gaze.

“Didn’t know my cute roomie could arch like that, like a desperate whore begging to be filled.” He smirked down at you, thumb brushing your bottom lip roughly, prying it open to test the stretch before he fed himself to you, his nail digging in until you tasted blood.

“Now come on,” he said, tapping his cock against your lips like a warning and a promise rolled into one, the salty precum smearing across your mouth.

“Suck it, or I'll carve that pretty throat open and fuck the hole myself.”

You obeyed, terror choking you as you opened your mouth, heat and adrenaline buzzing through you like poison. He was big, huge even, too big for your mouth, the girth stretching your lips obscenely, the head pushing against your tongue with a salty, musky taste that made you gag.

The stretch made your jaw ache, your throat protest, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes as you choked and drooled all over him, spit bubbling from the corners of your mouth, dripping down his balls in messy strings. He watched every reaction with a predator’s patience, his smirk curling darker as your saliva dripped onto his thighs, mixing with the blood from the shallow cuts he'd made.

“Yeahh, that’s right. Choke on it, you filthy cunt,” he growled, fisting your hair so hard your scalp burned, roots pulling as he yanked your head down, forcing more of his cock into your throat until you gagged, retching, snot and tears streaming down your face.

He started pounding into your mouth, slow at first, then faster, his hips rolling with a dangerous rhythm that made your throat convulse, bile rising as he fucked your face like a hole. Your whines and tears were muffled against him, vibrating around his cock, but he only moaned at the sensation, his balls slapping against your chin with wet smacks.

You felt yourself getting wetter, shame and heat twisting in your belly like a knife, a drop of slick running down your inner thigh, pooling on the sheets in a humiliating puddle.

“Fuck, doll, you suck me so good, like the cock-hungry slut you are,” he moaned, gripping you harder, his other hand grabbing the knife from the nightstand, pressing the flat blade against your cheek as he thrust deeper, the cold metal a threat that made your pussy clench.

“Gonna cum down this throat, huh? Fill you up until it leaks out your nose, you’d want that, right? Or should I cut you open now, fuck your bleeding mouth while you gargle on your own blood?”

It wasn’t a question. It was a command, low and lethal, and your whole body trembled as he said it, your throat convulsing around him in terror and unwanted need.

And then he did, hot spurts of cum hitting the back of your throat, thick and bitter, filling you until you had no choice but to swallow or choke, the burn making you gag harder. It overflowed, leaking from your lips in sticky strings, dribbling down your chin as you licked up every drop like you were starving for him, your tongue swirling around the head to clean him, shame burning you alive.

You were utterly wrecked, eyes teary and red, mascara streaked in black rivers down your face, slick with spit and cum, your chest flushed and trembling as you tried to catch your breath, coughing up strings of saliva and semen.

He sat up, still looming over you, cupping your jaw with one large, rough hand, fingers digging in bruisingly.

“Open up,” he murmured, voice dark and commanding. You obeyed automatically, your lips parting, tongue out like a whore. He leaned over and spit into your mouth, a wet, obscene glob landing on your tongue, mixing with his cum.

“Now swallow,” he continued, voice dark velvet, and you did, shivering as he watched you gulp it down, his thumb forcing your mouth closed until you obeyed.

“You like this, huh?” he taunted, thumb dragging along your lower lip, smearing the mess.

“Getting wrecked by your killer roomie, choking on my cum like a good little fucktoy.” His words curled into your brain like smoke, filthy and degrading.

He kissed you then, slow but possessive, forcing his tongue into your mouth to taste the mix of himself and his spit, his teeth biting your bottom lip hard enough to draw blood, the copper tang mingling as he sucked it clean.

He didn’t have to say it, the knife glinting nearby, the darkness in his eyes, the way he held your jaw just a little too tight, it was all a reminder: you weren’t just with your roommate.

You were with the predator you couldn’t stop craving, the one who'd coerce you into every filthy act, horror and desire twisted until you broke.

You were trembling, slick and aching, your pussy dripping like a faucet, and Bucky’s eyes roamed over you like a predator studying its prey, the knife still in his hand, its edge catching the dim light, a cold promise that made your stomach flutter in a delicious, sick mix of fear and anticipation.

But tonight, that predator was going to coerce you into every filthy degradation, his obsession a chain around your neck.

He leaned closer, pressing warm, possessive hands along your sides, sliding one hand over your hip to spread your thighs roughly, the other brushing your back before gripping your ass hard enough to bruise.

“Look at you, doll,” he murmured, voice low, dangerous, a dark thrill woven through every word. “Every inch of you… mine to ruin.”

His lips trailed along your neck, teeth grazing lightly at first, then biting down hard, leaving purple marks that throbbed, making you whimper and squirm.

You moaned softly, pressing closer despite yourself, chest rising and falling, your pulse thundering as blood rushed to your swollen clit.

Then he shifted, dragging the knife slowly along your inner thigh, the flat side pressing against your slick folds, smearing your arousal on the blade. Not cutting, not yet, but the cold metal against your hot, dripping cunt made you jolt, a gasp tearing from your throat as fear spiked.

"You feel that?" he whispered, voice low and rasping, his breath hot on your ear. "Knife against your sloppy pussy, slick and hot… mine to touch, mine to claim." He pressed it flat against your clit, just enough to make your knees buckle, your breath catch, your heart hammer in your chest like it was trying to escape.

The edge teased your entrance, dipping just slightly into your wetness, the threat of pain making your cunt clench around nothing.

“Everything about you is mine, you worthless slut,” he growled, the knife now tracing up to your tits, the tip circling your nipple until it hardened painfully, a thin line of blood welling as he nicked the skin. “Every sound, every tremble… it’s because of me. Beg for it, or I'll slice this pretty nipple off and make you eat it.”

You gasped, shivering, hips arching toward him instinctively despite the terror, your pussy gushing slick onto the blade.

“Yes… Bucky… please…” you breathed, voice trembling, heart racing, shame flooding you as your body craved the horror.

He pulled back just slightly, dark eyes locking with yours, filled with filthy hunger. “Good girl,” he whispered. “Mine. Every inch. And don’t forget… the knife isn’t for threat. It’s for thrill. For fear. For making you my bleeding, begging fucktoy.”

He pressed the blade against your throat now, the edge biting just enough to draw a shallow cut, blood trickling down your collarbone as he forced your head back.

And with that, he resumed, pressing his mouth to your bloody nipple, sucking hard, tongue swirling the copper taste while his fingers plunged into your cunt, three at once, stretching you brutally.

"Filthy whore, getting wet from a knife at your throat," he snarled, biting down on your tit until you screamed, his fingers curling to hit your g-spot with vicious precision, making you squirt messily onto his hand, the wet slap echoing in the room. "Look at you, pissing yourself like a bitch in heat. Beg me to cut you deeper while I finger-fuck this sloppy hole."

You sobbed, hips bucking, "Please… cut me… fuck me bloody…" the words forced from your lips by coercion and need, horror twisting into ecstasy as he nicked your other nipple, blood dripping onto your stomach.

Bucky leaned over you, his weight pressing you into the mattress like a cage, his dark eyes locked on yours with a hungry intensity that made you whimper.

Every motion was controlled, deliberate, commanding, and every word dripped with obsession and filth, coercing you into submission.

“Feel me, doll?” he rasped, thrusting slowly at first, his thick cock splitting you open, the stretch burning as he forced inch after inch into your tight, dripping cunt, bottoming out with a grunt. “Every inch of this fat cock buried in your worthless hole… mine to wreck.”

You moaned, arching into him despite the knife at your throat, nails digging into his broad shoulders, body trembling under the rhythm of his dominance, blood from your cuts smearing across his chest.

He smirked, lips brushing against your temple as he nicked your earlobe, blood trickling warm. “Bet little Jaime could never make you feel like this, huh? That pathetic fuck couldn't even get you wet, let alone fuck you until you bleed for him.” His voice was low, rough, dark, possessive. “Couldn’t even come close to what I’m giving you… this cock owning your guts.”

Heat rushed through you, every nerve alight with horror and ecstasy. His words, coupled with the feel of him buried inside you, sent shivers down your spine, your pussy clenching around him like a vice.

His hands gripped your hips firmly, nails digging into flesh until blood welled, tilting you, guiding your movements with his own, forcing you to feel every vein, every ridge as he slammed into your cervix.

“You’re so fucking perfect for me, my bloody little cumdump,” he growled, thrusts growing harder, faster, relentless, the wet slap of skin echoing, your slick and blood mixing in a filthy mess.

“Every moan, every tremble… it’s all because of me. Mine, doll. Mine to feel, mine to claim, mine to breed and break.”

You gasped and whimpered, hips rocking instinctively against your will, heart hammering as his lips latched onto a bloody nipple, sucking hard, teeth grazing as he bit down, drawing more blood.

Every sound you made seemed to fuel him, his obsession dark and unrelenting, the knife now tracing your belly, carving shallow initials, his, into your skin, blood beading as you screamed in pain and pleasure.

“Look at you… trembling for me like a gutted whore,” he whispered, voice low and dangerous.

“Screaming silently, begging silently… you’re mine, doll. And no one else could ever touch you like I do, fuck you while I slice you open, make you cum with my knife in your guts.”

His thrusts became faster, harder, more commanding, pressing you fully into him, every inch of your bodies moving together in a dark, thrilling rhythm of horror.

Your breath came in ragged gasps, every nerve alive, utterly consumed by him, by his dominance, his obsession, his claim, your body surrendering even as your mind screamed.

“Cum for me, you filthy bitch, or I’ll gut you right now,” he snarled, pressing the knife to your throat, the edge biting deep enough to draw blood, and you shattered, squirting around his cock in a messy flood, sobbing as he laughed, pumping you full of his cum, marking you inside and out.

You sagged against Bucky, chest heaving, body slick with sweat and trembling from his raw intensity, skin stinging from shallow cuts he’d carved into you.

The air reeked of sex, blood, and his cologne, shadows jagged in the dim light. His vibranium hand gripped your hip like a vice, flesh hand tangled in your hair, pinning you to his chest, every touch a possessive brand.

“Bucky…” you whispered, voice shaky, fear and desire cracking through. “You’re not… gonna kill me, right?” Your heart pounded, the knife’s cold ghost lingering, his brutal fucking still pulsing in your core.

His dark eyes locked on yours, a slow, disarming smile spreading, warm and boyish, masking the predator beneath.

“Kill you, doll?” he murmured, voice soft, almost hurt, thumb gently brushing your lip, smearing blood, saliva, and cum.

“My sweet girl, why would I ever hurt you?” His gaze softened, blue eyes pleading innocence, drawing you in. “You’re my world, my everything. Those cuts? Just love bites, marking what’s mine.”

Your throat tightened, Luke’s spilled guts flashing, wet ropes, crunching ribs, but his tender tone, the way he cradled your face, melted doubt.

“The… killings… the call…” you stammered, the rasping threats, fucking you bloody, carving his name, echoing, shame slick between your thighs.

He pressed a soft kiss to your forehead, lips warm, lingering.

“Shh, doll, that was to keep you safe,” he coaxed, voice velvet, manipulative. “Guys like Luke, staring at you, wanting you, they’re dangers. I protected us.”

His hand slid to your hip, fingers tracing a cut gently, soothing the sting, his eyes wide with feigned vulnerability. “You trust me, don’t you? I’d never let anyone hurt you.”

“I… trust you,” you whispered, voice trembling, clinging to his warmth, his lie weaving safety around your fear. His smile deepened, manipulative, feeding on your surrender.

“Good girl,” he purred, thumb stroking your cheek, smearing blood like affection.

“You’re mine, doll. I’d kill to keep you safe, gut anyone who looks at you.” His voice stayed soft, convincing, masking the feral edge. “But you? I’d rather die than harm you.”

Your pussy clenched, terror and desire tangling, his words a drug. He tilted your chin, eyes earnest, fooling you into belief.

“I only give what you need,” he murmured, knife’s flat edge teasing your throat, cold but not cutting, a playful threat. “Your tears, your screams, your sweet cunt, they’re mine to cherish.”

“I’m yours,” you breathed, tears spilling, body leaning into him, trusting despite the horror.

He kissed you gently, lips tender, sucking your bloody lip, groaning softly, vibranium hand cupping your ass, pulling you onto his lap. His cock hardened against your thigh, slick with your mess.

“Feel that?” he whispered, voice loving, grinding slowly. “That’s me, worshipping you. My perfect girl.”

“Bucky… please…” you whimpered, lost in his facade, needing his lie.

“Say it again,” he coaxed, eyes soft, knife nicking your back just enough to sting, love disguised as pain.

“Yours,” you sobbed, clinging tighter, pussy aching.

“That’s my girl,” he murmured, sliding into you slow, stretching you with tender thrusts, each one a claim.

“Forever mine.” His movements were gentle, binding you in devotion, his obsession hidden behind love’s mask, the cycle complete, your trust his ultimate victory.

— yours truly, ѕℓυtdιεr.

taglist: @angel-bugz @sheriff-bodecker @arsenalofproblems @imanidiotsimpforhotmen @spdrveil

[thewintermuse]

where i find you

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Pairing: Pining!Bucky Barnes x Sunshine!Reader

Warnings/Tags: Great Gatsby Inspired, Everyone’s Alive Because I Said So, Female Reader POV, Slow Burn, Pining, He’s So In Love It’s Actually Painful, Gatsby-Level Devotion, Quiet Yearning, Soft Angst, Fluff, Soft Bucky Barnes

Word count: 4.3k

Music: 

Invisible String - Taylor Swift

Like Real People Do - Hozier

Ruin The Friendship - Taylor Swift

Young And Beautiful - Lana Del Ray

Blood Sport - Sleep Token

The Night We Met - Lord Huron

Notes: hi hello!! I had a lot of fun writing this one (I know I say that a lot but I really do mean it). I’ve always loved The Great Gatsby and couldn’t help but find inspiration from it recently. Had to make it happy though. :) anyways, hope you all enjoy!!

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Bucky saw you for the first time in the glow of a neon “OPEN” sign and the soft hum of a cheap espresso machine.

It was a narrow Brooklyn coffee shop that smelled like burnt beans and sugary syrup, the kind of place he ducked into on bad days when the city felt too loud. Late afternoon, sun slanting through the front windows, dust caught in the light like slow snow.

He was standing in line, hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched up around his ears, trying to be as small as a man like him could possibly be.

You were in front of him.

Yellow sundress, loosely tied at the waist. A pencil tucked behind one ear, hair pulled up like you’d done it without a mirror and hadn’t bothered to fix it. You were balancing a textbook with one hand, your phone wedged between your cheek and shoulder, laughing at something someone said on the other end of the line.

The laugh got him first.

It was bright. Not loud, not obnoxious, just full. Like you hadn’t learned yet that the world could make you quieter.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m bringing cupcakes, you absolute tyrant,” you said into the phone, rolling your eyes fondly. “No, they won’t be store bought. I have standards. Okay, love you, bye.”

You hung up, finally looked up at the chalkboard menu, and groaned.

“Why are there twelve different kinds of latte?” You muttered. “Just pick a personality and commit.”

Bucky’s mouth almost twitched.

The barista smiled and called your name. “Same as always?”

“Please,” you said, slapping your card onto the counter. “Large vanilla latte, extra shot, no whip, and one of those—” you pointed at the display of muffins, “—the blueberry one that’s probably past its prime but still pretending.”

He watched you. He didn’t mean to. It was just… easy.

The girl in front of him who ordered like you’d known the barista your whole life, who joked about stale muffins and tyrant siblings, who waited off to the side and leaned against the counter, eyes drifting out the window as if you were always looking toward something bright.

He shouldn’t have remembered your name.

But he did anyway. 

You turned as you waited, scanning the menu again, and your gaze brushed over him, just for a second. Your eyes flicked to his dog tags, to his metal fingers where they peeked out of his glove, to the lines of tension around his mouth.

You smiled at him.

Not pitying. Not nervous.

Just… warm. Simple.

“Hey,” you said, like you knew each other.

His throat closed up. “Hey.”

He thought about you for the rest of the week.

He came back the next day, and the next, and the next, and you weren’t there. Life spun out: missions, nightmares, therapy appointments, Tony’s sarcastic commentary, Sam’s relentless needling. Years layered themselves over that moment like dust over a favorite book.

But he never forgot the way your name sounded when the barista said it.

Never forgot the flash of yellow and sunlight and easy laughter.

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When he heard your name again, it was in the Avengers’ kitchen, and Tony was talking with his hands.

“—so she’s this ridiculous genius, and if you break her, I’m not getting another one,” Tony said, pointing a spatula at Bruce. “She could be working anywhere and she said yes to us, so everyone be on your best behavior. No trauma, no explosions in her lab, no—”

“Who is this?” Sam asked, leaning against the island, nursing his coffee.

Tony opened his mouth, but the answer came from the doorway as you said your name lightly. “Ridiculous genius, at your service. Hi.”

Bucky turned.

The mug in his hand went weightless.

It was you. 

No yellow sundress this time. Instead, worn jeans, white sneakers, an oversized sweatshirt with the logo of some hospital he vaguely recognized. Hair pulled half up, half down. Same pencil behind your ear.

Same eyes.

Same laugh, when Tony dramatically clutched his chest like you’d wounded him by parroting his words.

“That’s my line,” Tony said. “You can’t just steal my material on day one. It’s rude.”

“I’m setting expectations,” you said, moving into the room with an easy confidence that made his chest ache. You held out your hand to Bruce, then Sam, casually introducing yourself. “I brought donuts because I heard you people respond well to sugar and chaos.”

Bucky stayed still.

The world narrowed to the shape of you as you crossed the kitchen. You smelled like coffee and something sweet, something floral and bright. Not heavy perfume, more like a lotion you’d slapped on without thinking.

You turned to him last.

“Hi,” you said again, softer this time, as if you’d noticed the way quiet clung to him. “You must be Bucky.”

His prosthetic buzzed faintly as his nerves spiked.

“Yeah,” he managed. “That’s me.”

You smiled. “Nice to finally meet you. Tony won’t shut up about you.”

He glanced at Stark, who was very pointedly biting into a donut and looking anywhere but at them.

“Good things?” Bucky asked, before his brain could tackle his mouth and drag it down.

Your smile tilted, slow and fond and secret. “The best things.”

He fell in love with you in that moment all over again and this time… he knew it.

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It wasn’t sudden, not really.

It was a thousand small things stacked on top of that first memory.

Bucky learned your schedule without meaning to. When you liked to work late in the lab. When you went for runs around the compound trails. When you’d come into the common room and flop down on the couch with a groan, complaining about stubborn data and overprotective attending physicians at your old hospital.

He learned that you hated black coffee and loved tea: chamomile to sleep, peppermint when you were nauseous, and a particular jasmine blend when you needed to focus. He stocked every flavor you liked in the kitchen cabinet, restocking quietly when it ran low.

He learned that thunderstorms scared you a little, not the sound, but the sudden power outages. So he made sure the backup generator checks near your labs were always up to date. Every test run. No exceptions.

He learned that you called your mom every Sunday evening, that your little brother was in college out west, that you’d wanted to be a singer once but decided you could help people more as a nurse, then a researcher.

He learned that you liked fairy lights.

He filed it all away, a catalog of brightness.

If Gatsby had his green light across the bay, Bucky had the soft glow of your desk lamp bleeding under your half-open door in the dead of night, the sound of you humming along to some playlist as you typed. He’d walk past, coffee in hand, pretending he was just stretching his legs.

He’d always glance in, just once.

Just to make sure you were okay.

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The party was Tony’s idea, but Bucky made it good.

“End-of-quarter team bonding,” Tony had declared. “There will be food, there will be music, there will be questionable decisions and even more questionable karaoke. Attendance is mandatory. That means you, Barnes.”

Bucky had rolled his eyes, but he’d been at every planning meeting.

Casual, he told himself.

Not casual at all.

You had a rough month. Long hours, failed trial runs, a near-miss incident in the lab that left you shaking for hours afterward. Bucky had sat with you in the med bay, your fingers curled warm and tight around his flesh hand, eyes glossy but stubborn.

“I’m okay,” you’d said, voice wobbling. “Just… scared myself, that’s all.”

“You’re allowed to be scared, sunshine,” he’d said, the nickname slipping out before he could stop it. “Doesn’t make you weak.”

You had looked at him like he’d handed you something important. “Stay?”

He’d stayed until you fell asleep.

So when Tony said party, Bucky thought: She needs a night where everything feels easy.

He suggested the string lights out by the lake. He helped Steve set up the bonfire pit. He talked Sam into handling the playlist because apparently Bucky’s taste was “old man tragic,” but he still slipped a few songs he knew you liked onto the list.

He made sure there were non-alcoholic options for when you decided you didn’t feel like drinking… and your favorite cider for when you did.

By the time sunset rolled around, the lawn behind the compound glowed with soft light. Fairy lights draped between trees, paper lanterns bobbing gently in the breeze, long tables set with mismatched chairs. The lake reflected the sky, streaked with pink and gold.

Bucky stood at the edge of it all, hands in his pockets, watching the horizon swallow the sun.

“Hey.”

He’d know your voice anywhere.

He turned.

You stood a few feet away, barefoot in the grass, heels dangling from one hand. Your dress was a soft blue that made you look like you’d stepped out of dusk itself. The color made his chest hurt.

“You okay?” You asked, tipping your head. “You look like a man about to bolt.”

He huffed a laugh. “Just thinkin’.”

“Dangerous hobby,” you teased, then moved to stand beside him, toes curling in the cool grass. You followed his gaze out toward the water. “This looks… really beautiful, Buck.”

He swallowed. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You bumped your shoulder softly against his. “Thank you for convincing Tony to go full Pinterest wedding out here.”

He blinked. “How do you know that was me?”

You smiled. “Because Tony’s idea of a party is neon lights and EDM that makes your ears bleed. This is…” you looked around, eyes tracing the fairy lights reflected on the lake. “Soft.”

Soft, he thought, looking at your profile. Yeah. That’s about right.

He didn’t say, I did all of this because I wanted you to have one perfect night.

He didn’t say, I’ve been building around you for years and you don’t even know.

Instead, he said, “You deserve it.”

Your eyes flicked to his, something warm and startled moving through them. Before either of them could say more, Sam called your name, waving a skewered marshmallow like a flag.

“Sunshine! Come save me from Stark’s attempts at s’mores!”

You laughed. “Duty calls.” You squeezed Bucky’s arm once, fingers lingering just long enough to burn. “Come join us when you’re done thinking dangerous thoughts, okay?”

He watched you go, light barefoot steps through the grass, the hem of your dress swaying around your knees.

Sam slung an arm around your shoulders, pulling you into the circle around the fire. Your laughter floated back across the lawn. You looked like you belonged there, at the heart of everything, lit from within.

Bucky stayed where he was, a shadow at the edge of the glow.

He was content to orbit you. 

He’d convinced himself that was enough.

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You found the box by accident.

It was a few weeks after the party, during one of those cold snaps that made the compound’s ventilation system work overtime. The heating in your room was glitchy again and FRIDAY regrettably informed you that maintenance would get to it “first thing in the morning.”

Which left you freezing, in fuzzy socks and an oversized sweatshirt, standing in the middle of your room and scowling at the thermostat.

You thought about toughing it out.

Then you thought about Bucky.

His room was just down the hall. He was on a late mission with Sam and Natasha, not due back until dawn. He’d told you before that you could borrow movies, books, “whatever you want, sunshine, make yourself at home”, and you assumed that extended to warm clothing in an emergency.

You padded out into the hallway, hugging your arms around yourself, and knocked lightly on his door even though you knew he wasn’t there.

“Sorry, Barnes,” you muttered as you let yourself in. “Desperate times.”

His room was neat in a way that felt deliberate rather than obsessive. Bed made, corners sharp. A stack of books on the nightstand. A small plant on the windowsill that you definitely guilted him into keeping alive.

His closet yielded one of his henleys, soft with age, smelling faintly of detergent and something that was just him. You pulled it on over your sweatshirt, reveling in the instant warmth.

As you turned to leave, your foot caught on something under the bed.

“Oof—” you stumbled, catching yourself on the edge of the mattress.

You crouched, frowning, and reached under.

Your fingers brushed cardboard.

You dragged the box out, thinking it might be weapons, extra gear, or something you should not be snooping in. You fully intended to shove it back and pretend you’d never seen it.

Then you saw your own name written in careful, looping script on the lid.

Your stomach dipped.

“That’s—okay,” you told the empty room under your breath. “That’s not weird at all.”

It was probably something practical, you told yourself. Mission files that involved you. Medical notes you’d given him. Something boring and clinical.

Your fingers trembled anyway as you lifted the lid.

It wasn’t clinical.

On top lay a folded napkin from the Brooklyn coffee shop where you used to study years ago, the logo smudged. Tucked into the napkin was a crinkled receipt you recognized by layout alone.

Your name – Lg. Vanilla Latte, Extra Shot / Blueberry Muffin.

The date was from three years before you’d ever set foot in the compound.

Your breath caught.

Beneath that was a photo, one you didn’t know existed. Taken from across the compound lawn during movie night. You were on a blanket, head tipped back as you laughed at something Sam had said, plastic cup in hand. Fireflies glowed in the background.

You looked… happy.

On the back, in Bucky’s uneven scrawl, was written: June 18 – she laughed so hard she cried.

Your heart thudded.

There were more.

Ticket stubs from the outdoor concert you’d dragged the team to last summer. A small, flat stone from the lake shore, painted with a tiny yellow sun, one of those crafts you did on anxious nights and left scattered, thinking no one noticed.

A dried daisy pressed between two pieces of wax paper. You’d worn that flower behind your ear to a mission briefing once as a joke after Sam told you you were “too sunshiney for 0600 meetings.”

Taped to the inside of the lid was a scrap of paper in Tony’s handwriting: DR. SUNSHINE – PROJECT LEAD. It was from the time Tony had made nametags for the lab and accidentally grabbed the wrong pen.

Below that, in Bucky’s handwriting, circled: sunshine.

You sank onto the edge of the bed, the box in your lap, throat tight.

This wasn’t casual.

This wasn’t a crush that came and went.

This was years. Layers. A quiet, steady devotion built in the spaces you hadn’t been looking.

You reached deeper and found a small notebook. The cover was worn at the edges.

Your fingers hesitated, then slipped it open.

Inside were lists.

What she likes:

– jasmine tea when stressed

– thunderstorms, but not blackouts

– fairy lights

– that stupid song Sam hates (I don’t hate it)

– calling home on Sundays, even when she’s tired

– when people remember her coffee order

What she hates:

– being talked over

– people touching her patients without asking

– cold hallways

There were notes from missions:

– Hands shook after the explosion but she pretended they didn’t. Stayed in the med tent anyway. Brave.

– Laughed for the first time in three days when I told her about the cat on the rooftop. Worth it.

There were… words scattered between the lists, like he’d tried to start sentences and abandoned them.

She’s—

I don’t know how to—

If this was another life—

Your vision blurred.

The air felt too thick.

You hadn’t been wrong, then. About the way he watched you sometimes, like you were something he was afraid to touch and couldn’t stop reaching for. About the softness in the way he said your name.

He’d never pushed. Never angled for more. Just… placed himself in your orbit and quietly shaped his world around you. 

Like Gatsby and his damn green light, you thought, breath hitching.

Except Gatsby had built his life around a fantasy of a girl he no longer knew.

Bucky had been there for every bruise, every panic attack, every bad day. He knew the ugliest parts of you and still…

Still.

The door clicked.

You jolted, snapping the notebook shut.

Bucky stepped inside, shoulders sagging with exhaustion, hair mussed from the wind, tactical jacket hanging open. He froze the second he saw you. 

For a heartbeat, everything was still.

His gaze dropped to the box in your lap, the open lid, the spill of mementos. You watched the color drain from his face.

“Hey,” he said, voice rough.

You swallowed. “Hey.”

He shut the door slowly behind him, as if sudden movement might cause the whole room to collapse.

“How long’ve you been in here?” he asked and you could hear the effort he put into keeping his tone even.

“Not long,” you said. “Your heating’s working. Mine’s being dramatic.”

He huffed a humorless sound. “Figures.”

Silence stretched between them, humming.

You glanced down at the box, then back up at him. “You labeled it,” you said softly. “You know that’s the part that’s really incriminating, right?”

The corner of his mouth twitched, but his eyes were still wide, bright with something like panic. “Yeah. Didn’t really think that one through.”

You shifted the box to the side, turning to face him fully on the bed. “Bucky… what is this?”

He stayed where he was, just inside the door, like crossing the room might be crossing a line he couldn’t uncross.

“It’s nothing,” he said quickly. Too quickly. “It’s just… stuff. I keep things. Helps me remember—”

“Me,” you said. Not a question.

His jaw flexed.

“Yeah,” he admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “Helps me remember you.”

Your chest went sore and sweet all at once.

“How long?” You asked.

He laughed then, a broken little sound as he scrubbed a hand over his face.

“Since before I knew your last name,” he said. “Since that coffee shop in Brooklyn, with the stale blueberry muffins and the barista who kept spelling your name wrong.”

Your breath left you. 

“You… remember that?” You whispered.

“Remember?” His eyes finally met yours, and the sheer weight of feeling in them hit you like a wave. “Doll, that moment got me through some of the worst nights of my life. You stood there in front of me in this yellow dress, laughing like the world hadn’t tried to chew you up yet, and you smiled at me like I wasn’t some… monster hiding in plain sight.” His throat worked. “Yeah. I remember.”

Your vision blurred again, this time with tears that burned hot.

He took a shaky breath, words spilling like they’d been held back for years and now the dam had cracked.

“I saw you again here and I thought… god, I don’t know what I thought. That maybe the universe was screwing with me. That maybe it was a second chance I had no business wanting. I told myself I’d keep it quiet, that I’d just… be your friend. Make sure you had what you needed. Keep the heating working in your room and stock your tea and walk you back from the lab and… that it would be enough.” His hands curled at his sides. “Because you deserve someone whose whole life isn’t a patchwork of broken pieces. Someone who isn’t constantly scared of what he might do if he loses control.”

“Bucky—”

“I built all this around you in my head,” he said, voice cracking. “This idea of what your life could be if you wanted me in it. Not because I felt entitled to you, but because… it made it easier to breathe. To have something good to hold on to.” He laughed again, bitter. “Pathetic, huh?”

You stared at him, heart pounding.

“You kept your distance,” you said slowly, trying to reconcile the contents of the box with the reality of the man in front of you. “You never… pushed. You never made me feel like I owed you anything.”

“I promised myself I wouldn’t,” he said. “Last thing I ever want is for you to feel trapped. So I stayed in the shadows, where I’m used to being. Thought maybe if I loved you quiet enough, it wouldn’t spill over.” He gestured helplessly at the box. “Guess I’m not as subtle as I hoped.”

You looked down at the notebook again, at the care in each item, each line. It wasn’t obsessive in the way that made your skin crawl. It was… reverent. Careful. Like he was afraid to touch and even more afraid not to.

You thought about the nights he’d sat with you through panic attacks, wordless and steady. About the way he remembered your mom’s name, your brother’s exams, the dates that were hard for you and always made sure you weren’t alone for them.

You thought about the way your pulse tripped whenever he walked into a room. About the way safety and want had blurred together in your chest months ago and never untangled.

“Do you really think I don’t get a say?” You asked softly.

He blinked. “What?”

“You keep talking like… like you decided the whole story already. Like you loving me is something that has to stay in your head because that’s safer for me.” You rose from the bed, the hem of his borrowed henley brushing your thighs. “You never asked what I wanted, Buck.”

He went very still.

“What do you want?” he asked, voice raw.

You crossed the small space between the two of you until you were chest to chest, his breath stirring the wisps of hair at your temple. Up close, you could see every line of strain around his eyes, the tension in his jaw, the way his hands trembled faintly where they hung at his sides.

You reached for one, threading your fingers through his, metal cool against your palm. His hand tightened instinctively around yours, afraid you might disappear.

“I want you,” you said simply.

His eyes searched yours, like he was sure he was mishearing. 

“I have for a while,” you went on, words tumbling out now that you’d started. “I just… I thought I was reading into things. I thought you were being kind, and protective, and that if I pushed for more I’d ruin the best thing in my life. I kept telling myself we were better off as we are than not at all.”

He made a sound then, punched out of him. His free hand came up to cup the side of your neck, thumb brushing the hinge of your jaw like he was afraid you’d shatter under his touch.

“You’re not—” He swallowed hard. “You’re not scared?”

“Of you?” Your lips tilted. “No, Bucky. Of losing you? Constantly.”

His forehead dropped gently to yours, eyes squeezed shut.

“I don’t know how to do this without loving you like it’s the only thing that’s ever mattered,” he confessed, voice shaking. “I won’t know how to… dial it back. I don’t think there’s a version where I’m not all in.”

You smiled through the tears, lifting your free hand to smooth a stray piece of hair back from his face.

“Good,” you whispered. “Because I don’t want half of you. I want all of it. The quiet devotion. The serial killer box of mementos. The way you plan parties to make sure I smile.” Your thumb brushed the corner of his mouth. “Be as Gatsby-level devoted as you want, Buck. Just… don’t stand on the other side of the bay and watch. Come inside. Be in it with me.”

His eyes opened, blue and flooded and disbelieving.

“You sure?” he asked. “Because once I step over that line, sweetheart, I’m not crossing back. I’m not good at loving halfway.”

You rose onto your toes, closing the last whisper of space between you. 

“James,” you murmured, using his first name like a vow, “I’m counting on it.”

He kissed you like a man who’d spent years rehearsing the moment in his head and was terrified of getting it wrong, and then forgot to be scared at all.

His mouth was warm and desperate, reverent and hungry all at once. One hand splayed at the small of your back, pulling you in, the other cradling the back of your head like you were breakable. You curled your fingers into the front of his jacket, holding on as the world tilted and righted itself around them.

When you finally broke apart, breaths mingling, he rested his forehead against yours again, laughing softly, incredulously.

“Okay,” he said, sounding wrecked and radiant all at once. “Okay. You asked for it.”

You smiled, cheeks flushed, eyes shining. “Gatsby?”

“Yeah?”

“Maybe don’t die in a pool over me,” you teased gently. “We can just… build a life. Together. No tragic literary ending required.”

He huffed a laugh that turned into something painfully tender.

“Deal,” he said. “I’ll just spend the rest of my days making sure you never have to doubt for a second how loved you are. How about that?”

Your chest ached in the best way.

“That,” you said, tugging him down for another kiss, “sounds perfect.”

Outside, the compound hummed on. Missions, headlines, the chaos of the world.

Inside Bucky’s room, under the soft glow of the bedside lamp, a box of carefully hoarded memories sat open on the floor, no longer a shrine to a love he’d only dared to hold in secret, but the first chapter of something real.

He’d still keep the napkin from the coffee shop. The ticket stubs. The painted stone.

He’d just start filling the box with new things too.

Not as a man watching from a distance, asking the universe for a second chance he didn’t think he deserved.

But as someone standing next to the woman he loved, hand in hand, finally stepping out of the shadows and into the light you’d carried with you all along.