Call me Jen, or Viv. Either way, I'll be writing a lot of things about Bucky Barnes, Stucky, and whichever Sebastian Stan character I become obsessed with.
Warnings:
-Descriptions of death/dying by strangulation
-Intense feelings of guilt/shame/regret descriptions
-Talking of death/death-related subjects
-Eventual Smut
-Necromancy used/ritual is G R A P H I C
-Blood/Bones/Corpses
-yearning, my friend, a shit ton of yearning.
-Angst, angst, and a dash of more angst
-Reader appears to have some form of mental illness and deserves a warning (BPD related symptoms)
~*~Additional warnings will be added as the story progresses~*~
Relationship: Bucky X Ghost!F!Reader
Summary: A list of names has followed Bucky Barnes since his first victim was taken by his hands as The Winter Soldier and forever etched into his memory. One by one, Bucky has been able to make amends in some form or fashion in his efforts to reclaim his life, but there was always the one person he could never cross off. How could he when he doesn't even know her name? Bucky's been dealt an unfair hand in life, but maybe someone from beyond the grave could help finally put this mind and soul at peace...
or, perhaps, mess with the natural law and order of things.
Prologue: Haunted (X)
Chapter 1: Ghost (X)
Chapters 2: Headlock (X)
Chapter 3: My Friend of Misery (X)
Chapter 4: Ocean Eyes (X)
Chapter 5: WILDFLOWER (X)
Chapter 6: Anchor (X)
Chapter 7: I Bet on Losing Dogs (X)
Chapter 8: Right Where You Left Me
Chapter 9: My Tears Ricochet
Chapter 10: Cocaine Jesus
Chapter 11: Heavy In Your Arms
~*~*~ More to come!~*~*~
warnings: 18+ NSFW, smut, mean and dark!bucky, hairy bucky, size difference, rough animalistic sex behavior, blood and wounds, animal hunting, manipulation, touch starved, breeding kink, baby trapping, pet names: “sweets, sugar, little doll”
word count: 11.4k
main masterlist || 🎨 art's moodboard event
a/n: thank you @artficlly for taking the time to host such a fun, creative event for writers to enjoy! be sure to check out the other works in the masterlist!
synopsis:
After a fishing trip gone terribly wrong, you find yourself stranded and stumble upon a small cabin deep in the woods. The man who lives there ends up risking his life to save yours, and you take it upon yourself to stay, return the favor, and make it up to him. But what you didn't know is that Bucky has no intention of letting you go.
Twigs and dark leaves crunched beneath the heavy stomp of your boots, each step forcing you to draw a ragged, tired breath from your overworked lungs.
Your hands gripped the straps of your backpack; the fishing gear inside clinking inside as the weight pressed into your aching spine.
You had set out with friends, a group of self-proclaimed ‘natural adventurers.’ In hindsight, that confidence was your downfall. You had done the one thing every horror movie and survival guide warns against—and that was splitting up.
From there, the trip spiraled.
You lost signal, then your footing, and somewhere in the frantic scramble through the bushes and trees, you had lost your phone.
Now, deep within the woods under a sky of oppressive gray clouds, your legs were beginning to give out. But as you shoved past a dense thicket of damp leaves, the greenery finally parted.
There, nestled in the distance, sat a small cabin. A thin ghost of smoke drifted from its chimney, dissipating into the moist air.
Finally. A small, breathless prayer to whatever deity was watching over you. You weren’t alone out here after all.
The cabin looked small from a distance, but up close, it was plenty big enough to house a whole family.
Your body surged with a newfound spark of motivation at the possibility of finally finding salvation. Maybe they had a functioning phone you could use to call for help—or better yet, a truck to drive you back to the closest town, even if it was miles and miles away.
That hopeful feeling made the gear digging into your spine feel a little lighter as you trudged uphill past the rocks and bushes, closing the gap between you and the house.
As you got closer, you took in the land.
Chopped logs were piled messily at the side of the building. There was a long, wooden table with a large cutting knife sitting on top—presumably where the family cut and prepped their meat.
Drawing in a deep breath of encouragement, you carefully climbed the first few steps of the entry stairway. You reached the porch and raised a hand to knock on the heavy wooden door.
“Hey! Who the hell are you?”
You spun around.
A man was stomping toward the porch, a fresh pile of logs tucked under one massive arm and a grime streaked axe slung over his shoulder. He was intimidating, to say the least. His features were hard and unwelcoming, framed by matted, dark hair and an unkempt beard that shadowed a sharp jawline. A sweat stained red henley clung to his broad chest and muscular forearms, which were mapped with the scars of years of manual labor.
His cold blue eyes pinned you to the spot, glaring at you with pure, unadulterated hostility.
“U-um,” you stammered, taking a quick step away from the door. “I mean no harm, sir. I’m just here to—”
“Get the fuck off my property,” he growled.
He dropped the logs—but kept a firm grip on the axe—as he marched toward you, his heavy boots grating against the dirt.
Jesus Christ. What did you get yourself into?
Just when you thought you’d finally found help, it was just your luck to stumble across an axe-murderer instead.
You quickly scrambled down the steps, raising your hands to show you came in peace.
“Sir, please!” you winced, trying to stand your ground. “I’m lost. I… I promise you. I was out on a fishing trip and I—”
“I don’t believe you,” he hissed. He approached just enough to get a good look at you, yet staying just out of arm’s reach. He nodded toward the heavy pack on your back. “Take it off.”
“… Excuse me?”
“Remove your backpack,” the man clarified harshly. “If you mean what you say, then you should have no problem with me goin’ through your stuff.”
With a hard swallow, you slowly removed your backpack as instructed. It was far too heavy to carry with just two arms, but as you strained to pass it to him, he snatched it out of your hands in one quick motion. You couldn’t help but wince at both his strength and rudeness.
He set the axe on the ground, and you finally let out a small breath of relief. He began to rummage through your pack, taking note of the fishing rods and reels, and digging through the fishing lines and tackle boxes filled with various lures. He sifted through the other emergency supplies—a flashlight, a couple of granola bars, and some first aid stuff— a bottle of rubbing alcohol and bandaids.
“See?” you huffed, a little spark of pride returning to your voice. “I told you. I was out on a fishing trip and I got lost—”
“Hands up,” he instructed, stepping toward you. “I’m goin’ to pat you down.”
You blinked. “Pat me down?” you repeated in disbelief. “For what—!”
Before you could even finish the sentence, and long before you gave him permission, two large, rough hands gripped your arms and started patting down your sleeves. You squirmed a little under his touch, but that didn’t stop him. His hands then moved to your waist, patting firmly through the fabric of your clothes.
To save yourself from the awkwardness of the inspection, you cleared your throat and gave him your name.
“…What’s yours?” you then asked.
He ignored you.
Your breath hitched and your face grew warm as his hands continued further down—to your hips, and then between your legs.
Once the man was satisfied that you weren’t a threat, he pushed himself up with a groan and finally looked you in the eye.
“Bucky.”
“Bucky,” you repeated softly. “Great. Well, now that we’ve got all this…” you motioned to yourself and your bag that he left on the ground, “sorted out, do you have a telephone I can use to call my friends?”
He reached down, snatched his axe off the ground, and headed back toward his pile of wood. Thunder started to crackle in the heavy clouds above you as you hurried to grab your pack, stumbling slightly as you tried to keep up with him.
“W-wait, okay—no phone. Fine. But do you have a vehicle or something? A ride to take me back to the nearest town, perhaps?”
“No ride,” was all he said, his voice flat as he started tossing the logs into the existing pile.
What?
No ride?
You couldn’t tell if this man was telling the truth—or if he was using these clipped, short answers just to fuck with you. But as you watched him lift his axe and deliver a swing to a log with perfect precision, you realized maybe this guy didn’t have time nor energy to play around.
That conclusion was almost worse than him joking.
“I’m sorry, you don’t have a functioning phone and you don’t own a vehicle?” you questioned in disbelief. “Then how do you get around?”
You could see the irritation building in his already grumpy features.
“Everythin’ I need is right here,” he grumbled. “Catch my own food. Build my own house. Don’t need to rely on anybody else.”
Your heart started to race as panic settled in.
“Do you know where the nearest town is?” you asked, your hands tightening around the straps of your pack. “Maybe I can get there before sundown—”
Bucky looked up at the sky, taking in the thick clouds and the moisture building in the air, before he looked back down at his logs. He delivered another hard chop before answering.
“Not a good idea,” he mumbled. “Looks like a storm is comin’.”
The forecast before you left this morning had promised a sunny day—but with the clouds thickening, the possibility of rain wasn’t low.
Still, a storm sounded like an exaggeration. A light trickle, at most.
“Can you please just tell me where the closest town is? The sooner you tell me, the faster I’ll get out of your hair.” You pressed.
He set the axe down and wiped the sweat streaking his forehead with his dirty forearm. He looked at you, letting out a slow, impatient breath.
“To the south,” he pointed behind you. “Go straight until you hit the road, then make a left. Though if you leave now, you’ll get caught up in the storm ‘fore you even make it to the street.”
You looked in the direction he was pointing—all you could see was a thick density of bushes and trees. You glanced back at him and gave him a short nod.
“Thank you, sir,” you said, though you hardly meant it because he had hardly been helpful.
As you began to turn and tread through the brush toward the south, Bucky called out, making you pause for just a second.
“I’m tellin’ you, lady, s’not a good idea to leave now,” he warned. “There are some dangerous animals out there—and the storm ain’t goin’ to do you any favors.”
You didn’t listen. You had to get back home. Adjusting your heavy pack and pushing through the dense treeline, you left both the man and his warnings behind you.
For the first twenty minutes, you felt pretty confident.
The woods were quiet, and though your legs were on fire and your back was aching, you felt like you were making good progress.
Then, the first cold drop hit the back of your neck.
A light trickle followed, tapping against the leaves above you. Within minutes, the sky seemed to open up entirely. The ‘light trickle’ you had predicted transformed into a heavy downpour, turning the forest floor into a messy slurry of mud that made your boots slip with every step.
The wind began to pick up, howling through the branches and making the trees groan around you. You squinted through the fog and the heavy curtain of rain, realizing you couldn’t see more than ten feet in any direction.
You were shivering, your hair was completely drenched, and your clothes were soaked through to the bone.
Just keep going straight, you told yourself. As long as you keep going straight, you'll be fine.
Then, a low snarl crept up behind you—and that sure as hell didn’t come from the wind.
Your whole body froze. To your right, partially obscured by dense ferns, a lean, gray shape shifted. It wasn’t a coyote—no, it was far too large. It was a gray wolf, its fur matted and dark with rain, stepped into the small clearing.
“Oh… my god,” you breathed to yourself.
Your heart was beating so fast you couldn’t hear anything else. Every survival tip you had ever read vanished from your mind; the only thing you could think to do was run.
And that’s exactly what you did.
The moment your heels spun, the forest became a blurry nightmare. Your heavy pack bounced violently against your spine as you bolted, not even daring to look back. You just ran and ran, your lungs burning with every inhale.
Then, like an idiot, your boot hit a mud covered root.
Your heart leaped into your throat as your feet slipped out from under you. You let out a sharp gasp, tumbling forward until your shoulder collided hard with the trunk of a thick oak tree. The impact knocked the wind clean out of you, leaving you gasping and dazed in the mud.
A hungry growl vibrated through the air, cutting through the roar of the pouring rain. You looked up just in time to see the gray mass of the wolf taking eager steps toward you, its jaws snapping for your throat.
In a blind, frantic panic, your hand slapped against the side pocket of your backpack. Your fingers curled around the cold canister of bear spray you packed but never actually used.
You ripped it out clumsily, shoved it forward, and squeezed the trigger.
A cloud of stinging orange mist exploded into the air. The wolf’s head snapped back as it landed a few feet away, pawing at its face and whining as the chemicals hit its sensitive nose and eyes.
You scrambled to find your footing, your hands shaking so hard you could barely push yourself up. Just as you were about to make another break for it, a massive shadow blurred past you.
“You idiot!” he hissed angrily, his voice a ragged pant. “What did I tell you!?”
Bucky.
Anger clouded his face, his chest heaving as he gripped a knife in one large hand. Without hesitation, he launched himself at the disoriented animal. As he pounced, the wolf lashed out, its claws swiping across Bucky’s leg.
He let out a pained yell. “Ah, fuck!”
It seemed like he had done this a dozen times before, adjusting his heavy weight until he finally pinned the weakened animal into the mud. The wolf snarled, snapping its jaws blindly, but Bucky’s grip was like metal. His large, scarred hand clamped down on the back of the wolf’s neck, the veins in his forearms tensing as he forced its head into the dirt.
With a loud groan of effort, he drove the blade deep into the side of the wolf’s neck, right behind the jaw.
The animal threw out one violent kick that nearly knocked him off before Bucky adjusted his weight again, twisting the knife to sever the artery.
The wolf let out a weak wheeze before it finally stilled. Bucky remained over the carcass for a moment, his clothes soaked with rain and blood dripping down his leg. He let out a slow, steadying breath before he stood up, wiping the blade on his already dirty jeans.
He turned his cold, blue gaze toward you, and for a second, his eyes resembled the wolf’s—angry and grim.
“I told you, stupid girl,” he growled, his voice barely audible over the storm. “I fuckin’ told you.”
All of it happened in a blur.
One second, you were tumbling through the woods, just a moment away from losing your life. The next, you were standing in the middle of Bucky’s cabin. Your body felt frozen, your pulse still thrumming wildly as your drenched clothes clung to your skin like a layer of ice. You only snapped out of the haze when you felt Bucky’s hands peeling the pack off your shoulders.
When he reached for the zipper of your jacket, you flinched.
“Hey!” you gasped, your voice cracking. “What are you doing—?”
“I don’t need you to remove my jacket for me,” you snapped, though your hands were shaking too hard to even find the zipper.
Bucky’s brows furrowed, and you watched his jaw tick. He looked terrifying in the dim light of the cabin—water dripped from his matted hair, his chest heaved with the earlier adrenaline of the kill, and fresh blood stained the denim of his jeans where the wolf had lashed out.
He took a step forward, closing the distance between you until he looked down at you.
“Listen, girl,” he hissed impatiently. “I just saved your goddamn life. Now here I am, lettin’ you into my home, about to offer you my damn shower—and this is what you say to me?”
You let out a shaky breath, swallowing hard against the lump in your throat. He was right. He had saved you.
Your eyes trailed down to the jagged cut on his thigh. “You’re bleeding,” you pointed out. “You need to take care of that wound, or it’ll get infected.”
Bucky only scoffed, stepping away and shaking his head at you as if you were the most frustrating thing he had ever encountered.
“Bathroom’s down the hall, make a left,” he gruffed, already turning his back on you. “And don’t take too long—I need to use it after you.”
Not wanting to risk upsetting him further, you took it upon yourself to head toward the bathroom.
The cabin was certainly large enough to house a small family, which only made you wonder more if he really lived here all alone. The walls were stripped of anything personal—no photos, no decor—aside from a few scattered post-its and scraps of paper covered in messy handwriting, tacked up with rusted nails.
As you neared the bathroom, you noticed the bedroom right next to it. The door was cracked open just barely and curiosity got the better of you.
Leaning back slightly, you caught a glimpse of his private space. It was sparse, but in the center sat what looks to be a queen sized bed. It looked massive in the small room—certainly big enough to fit another person.
“You found it?” Bucky shouted from across the cabin, snapping you back.
“Yeah—I did. Thanks!” you called back, your heart giving a small, startled jump.
After settling into the hot shower, the steam finally began to sedate the bone chilling cold from your limbs. You scrubbed the mud and gunk from your skin with the harsh lye soap. Stepping out, you quickly reached for one of the rough, oversized towels.
You had just managed to tuck the fabric securely around your chest, shivering as the cool air hit your damp skin, when the door suddenly creaked open.
“Jesus!” you yelped, clutching the towel tighter and stumbling against the counter. “Knock much?”
Bucky didn’t enter the room. He just stood stiffly in the gap of the doorway.
In his hand, he held out a bundle of folded fabric— a worn, massive white T-shirt and a pair of drawstring shorts that looked like they could fit two of you.
“Not used to company,” he mumbled. He reached out and set the pile of clothes on the edge of the sink without a single glance in your direction. “‘Sides, I’m not interestin’ in lookin’.”
He didn’t wait for a ‘thank you’ or for you to yell at him to get out. He simply pulled the door shut.
Eventually, you changed into the clothes he provided.
With every step you took out of the bathroom, the shorts threatened to slip past your hips, forcing you to yank the drawstrings tighter. The clothes didn’t smell like fabric softener, but it carried a scent that was distinctly him and the rest of the cabin— pine, and woodsmoke.
Returning to the living room, you found Bucky sitting in one of the wooden chairs, his leg propped up as he examined the angry red gashes on his thigh. He hissed, his jaw tightening as he accidentally grazed the wound with his thumb.
“Thanks for letting me use your shower,” you spoke up, catching his attention.
Your eyes caught the deep gashes on his leg.
“Do you need help?” you offered again. “I can help you clean that up. I have some antiseptics and bandages in my pack.”
Bucky didn’t look up, his fingers hovering stiffly over the torn skin.
“No need,” he said roughly, his voice strained.
It was clear to you that the adrenaline was finally wearing off and the real pain was setting in. He gripped the edges of the wooden chair, his knuckles turning white as he forced himself to stand. He took a single step, his breath hitching as he leaned heavily on his good leg, and began to limp toward the bathroom.
You frowned. “Are you sure—”
“I told you and I’ll keep tellin’ you,” he grunted through the pain, “I don’t need your help, girl.”
Then, he disappeared down the hall and shoved the door shut.
You tried to make yourself comfortable in the dim cabin, but a sudden, strangled shout of pain echoed through the walls. The sound made you jump—an involuntary yell painfully tore straight from Bucky’s throat. Something heavy hit the floor, maybe a stool? Or a basin? Then it was followed by the sound of ragged breathing and more muffled grunts.
“Bucky?” you called out, taking a careful step toward the bathroom. “Are you okay?”
There was no answer.
You stood outside the door, trying to respect his privacy, until another pained groan reached your ears. Your stomach twisted. Despite his prickly attitude, he was obviously struggling with a wound far worse than he wanted to admit—and standing here, not doing anything to help him after he saved your life, only made you feel worse.
“Bucky, I’m coming in,” you warned, your hand reaching for the doorknob.
You waited one more second, expecting him to curse at you to stay out, but the only sound was his labored breathing.
So, you took it upon yourself to push the door open.
Inside, Bucky was laid out in the tub—naked, of course.
His head lolled back against the porcelain as he fought to steady his breath. His dirty, blood stained clothes were piled in a heap on the floor, leaving trails of mud and grime everywhere. The tub was filled with soapy water, and while he was bare beneath the surface, your eyes didn’t wander—you didn’t care to look.
Your entire focus was pinned to his leg, which he had propped up on the edge of the tub.
Stripped of the dark denim, the damage was more visible. The wolf’s claws had dug deep, leaving uneven, angry furrows that were weeping blood into the water. The skin around the punctures was already beginning to puff and redden, and with the grime from the forest floor mashed into the open wounds, it looked even worse.
“Jesus,” you gasped, kneeling beside him to examine the damage. “Bucky, this looks like it’s already getting infected.”
Without giving him the chance to pull away, you reached out and pressed the back of your hand against his forehead. He was burning up—the heat radiating off his skin was alarming, a telltale sign his body was already struggling to fight the bacteria from the wolf’s claws.
“You’re overheating!”
Bucky’s eyes remained shut, his thick lashes casting long shadows against his pale, sweaty cheeks. A low, delirious mumble escaped him as his head rolled further to the side.
“...Tired,” he croaked.
Your frown deepened. “Stay right there. Don’t move,” you commanded, though it was obvious he wasn’t going anywhere.
Before he could argue, you scrambled out of the bathroom. Bucky’s vision was disoriented and blurry, his mind racing through a fog of fever.
Just my luck, huh?
He had been minding his own business until you showed up on his doorstep. His only excuse for following you was a half baked thought about picking berries to go with his meat before the storm broke—and he just happened to grab a knife, and he just happened to head south in the exact direction you walked off to.
Damn. He was a fucking idiot.
You hurried back into the bathroom, clutching the antiseptic, a roll of sterile gauze, and a small bottle of ibuprofen tightly in your hands.
You knelt by the edge of the tub again, popping the cap off the antiseptic. “This is going to sting. Just try to breathe.”
As the cool, medicinal liquid hit his cuts, Bucky’s body jerked causing the water to slosh. A sharp hiss whistled through his teeth, his fingers gripping the wet ledge of the tub. He stared at you warily through heavy, lidded eyes.
Just like the wolf he had saved you from, he looked as if he were ready to pounce.
He wasn’t used to this. For as long as he could remember, pain was something to be swallowed with a bottle of whiskey and a needle and thread. He had built his own house, caught his own food, and bled his own blood without a soul nearby to witness it.
That was the whole point of being out here.
But as you meticulously cleaned the wounds, your touch was... different.
It was soft, steady, and gentle. He hadn’t felt anything like it in years. He had forgotten what it was even like to be tended to.
Bucky’s breath hitched as he watched you focus, your bottom lip caught between your teeth in concentration as you began to wrap the clean white gauze around his thigh.
“There,” you said softly, setting the tools down and offering him a weary smile.
You looked at him as if you were expecting a thank you, but the words didn’t come.
He let out a slow, shaky breath and let his head thud back against the tub. He was a fool for letting a stranger in, a bigger fool for letting her see him like this—but as the pain started to dull into a throb, he found he didn’t really care.
Sensing his need for space, you got up slowly. “I’ll let you be. When the storm clears up, I’ll be out of your hair—for real this time.”
Just as you turned for the door, Bucky’s hand shot out of the tub, catching your wrist and splattering water across the floor.
“Take the bed tonight,” he said, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. “I’ll sleep on the couch.”
You blinked at him. The couch? That tiny thing?
“Sorry, but your couch is far too small for someone like you,” you said, half-insulting his choice in furniture. “Besides, you need proper rest to heal up. I’ll take the couch.”
Bucky’s hand lingered around your wrist for a moment. You expected him to protest further, but it seemed his energy was finally spent.
With a tired sigh, he dropped his hand, letting it hang limply over the side of the tub.
“Fine,” he grumbled.
He had a dreadful feeling it was going to be a long night.
By the time Bucky woke up, the storm had retreated, leaving behind a world that smelled of damp earth and pine needles. Sunlight pierced through the bedroom window, cutting a sharp line across the bed where he lay alone.
He groaned, his eyes snapping open as he braced himself for the throbbing pain in his leg. He reached down, his fingers brushing against the white gauze you had wrapped around his thigh.
To his surprise, the skin wasn’t burning anymore. The fever had also broken. He sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, testing his strength.
There was a dull ache, sure, but he was steady enough to stand on his own.
He pulled on a clean pair of jeans and limped out into the living room, expecting to find you still curled up on that cramped, uncomfortable couch. A stray thought crossed his mind… that maybe he should’ve invited you to share the bed, but even he knew that would have been going too far for a stranger.
When he reached the living room, he found the couch empty. The rough wool blanket he had given you was folded neatly at one end, and when his eyes shifted to the corner where your heavy pack had been sitting, he found nothing but the bare floor.
His jaw tightened.
A strange, lonely feeling settled in his chest. A feeling he hadn’t felt in years and didn’t care to name. Of course you were gone. You had hiked out the moment the rain stopped, just like you said you would.
All he could do now was hope you made it to town safely.
He grabbed his boots and stepped out onto the porch, intending to finish the woodpile he abandoned yesterday. The air was crisp, and the forest was alive with the sound of dripping eaves and morning birds. He took a deep breath, turning his gaze toward the lake to check the water levels after the storm.
He froze.
Down by the lake, silhouetted against the sparkling reflection of the morning sun, was a figure. You were crouching by the water’s edge, his oversized white T-shirt tucked into those ridiculous drawstring shorts with a fishing line in your hands.
As he watched, you reached down and hoisted a small wicker basket— likely something he kept in the shed for gathering berries—and he could see the shimmer of scales thrashing inside.
By the looks of it, you had already caught three or four good-sized trout.
Bucky let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.
He began to descend the porch steps, his limp much less pronounced than it had been the night before. The damp grass flattened under his boots as he made his way toward the bank, the sound of his approach masked by the gentle lapping of the lake against the stones.
“Thought you said you were leavin’,” he called out, his voice gravelly with sleep.
You jumped, nearly dropping the basket back into the water as you spun around. Your hair was a mess of tangled waves and there were smears of mud on your shins, but your eyes were bright—clear of the panic from the night before.
“Oh!” you smiled at the sight of him. “You’re still alive!” You hoisted the basket up with straining arms, making your way toward him. “I caught you some fish—you eat fish, right?”
Bucky crossed his arms over his chest. “More of a red meat kind of guy.”
“Well... fish is good for you,” you informed him, trekking past him barefoot with the heavy basket. “And I’m going to fix you up some breakfast.”
Bucky’s brow furrowed as you reached him. “Don’t waste your effort,” he huffed, still looking as grumpy as ever. “I like my breakfast done a certain way.”
You ignored him, walking right past and back toward the cabin. “You should lay back down and take it easy. Consider this a thank you for saving my life yesterday.”
“I don’t need you playing house,” Bucky mumbled grumpily, following you through the cabin and into the kitchen. “I’ve been feedin’ myself since before you were born. Put those down, I’ll do it.”
You didn’t even look back as you set the wicker basket on the wooden counter. “Sit. Down. Bucky.”
He opened his mouth to snap back—to tell you exactly whose house this was and who was in charge—but the stubborn confidence in your voice caught him off guard. Up until this moment, he pinned you as a naive, helpless girl who couldn’t survive a night without his intervention.
He huffed, sounding like a disgruntled bear, and finally lowered himself into the sturdy wooden chair at the head of the table. A low groan escaped his throat as he eased his shoulders, his injured leg pulsing— a none too friendly reminder of why he shouldn’t have been standing anyway.
From his seat, he watched you move.
“Not only can I catch fish,” you said, getting to work, “but I can also cook it well.”
The cabin, which usually felt cold and cavernous, suddenly felt smaller and more… domestic.
You moved around his kitchen, your bare feet moving across his rough floorboards. You looked ridiculous in his clothes; the hem of his white T-shirt tucked into the oversized shorts, and the sleeves rolled up in thick bundles just so you could use your hands.
He watched the sunlight catch the dampness of your hair as you began to prep the fish. The sight of a woman in his space—wearing his shirt, smelling like his soap, and ignoring his bad attitude just to make sure he was fed—hit him harder than he expected.
“Christ,” he cursed under his breath.
For most of his years, he believed isolation was his only sanctuary. But watching you, he realized things he never thought he would feel.
He liked seeing this—a beautiful woman, clean and comfortable, cooking just for him. He could already picture it, coming home from a long day of chopping wood or hunting, only to find you like this. Safe and sound.
He liked the idea of having someone to protect.
Bucky was suddenly feeling very hungry now, and it wasn’t just for the fish.
“You’re gonna burn ‘em,” he muttered, though his eyes were soft as he watched your back. “Pan needs more grease.”
“I’ve got it, Bucky,” you replied, glancing playfully over your shoulder. “Stop worrying that old head of yours.”
“Old?” Bucky grumbled, though a faint, reluctant twitch of a smile played on his lips.
You turned back to the counter as you began to slice the trout into neat fillets.
“You know,” you began, tone light and teasing, “in my friend group, they called me the Fish Whisperer. Or the Fish Butcher. One of those. It depended on how much wine was involved in the cooking process.”
You let out a small, self deprecating chuckle, turning your head to see if you could pull another reaction out of him. But as you looked back down to finish a particularly tricky cut near the bone, your damp finger slipped on the smooth handle.
The blade skidded across the scales, coming dangerously close to your thumb. You let out a sharp, panicked gasp, pulling your hand back just as the tip of the knife bit into the wooden cutting board.
“Crap—!”
Despite his injured leg, Bucky moved with that same quick, almost predatory speed you had seen in the forest.
In a heartbeat, he was already hovering over you, his large hand reaching out to steady your wrist while his other instinctively moved to your lower back to stabilize you.
“Careful, sweets,” he rumbled into a protective growl.
You swallowed hard at his sudden closeness, his chest pressing against your shoulder. His grip on your wrist was firm but careful—the touch of a man who knew exactly how much damage his hands could do and was choosing, with every ounce of his will, to be gentle.
“Bucky…” you breathed, trying to still your heartbeat. “Are… are you okay?”
You stayed frozen, feeling his warm breath against the side of your neck. He let out a shaky breath, as if trying to stabilize his own heart, his thumb tracing a slow, distracting line over where your blood rushed in your wrist.
“I… just don’t want you hurtin’ yourself,” he said slowly, his voice thick and low. “That’s all.”
Since that little mishap with the knife, the tension in the cabin was suffocatingly thick—and you weren’t entirely sure if Bucky felt it, though he was certainly the cause of it.
By the time you finished preparing breakfast, you laid everything out on the table. Even with your back turned, you could feel his shameless stare burning through the thin fabric of the white T-shirt you wore.
“Where’s the cutlery?” you asked, turning to him.
He simply shrugged, his gaze glued on you before he looked down at the food.
“Your hands are the cutlery,” he said flatly.
You didn’t think it was possible, but eating with your hands only increased the tension tenfold.
You picked carefully at the fish, trying to maintain some level of decency, but Bucky was another story entirely. He went after the meal like a ravenous animal, picking the trout apart with his bare hands. You didn’t even need to ask if he liked the food; the way he was scarfing it down told you everything you needed to know.
You swore he didn’t look away from you once.
Leaning forward with his elbows heavy on the wooden table, he used his blunt, calloused fingers to strip the flaky white meat from the bone. Every time he finished a piece, he licked his thumb and forefinger clean with a slow, wet swipe of his tongue. His eyes remained glued to yours, dark and unreadable, as he licked his lips.
All of this made a strange heat crawl up your neck, and with no napkins in sight, you eventually had no choice but to follow suit.
You hesitantly lifted your hand, licking the salty grease from your own fingertips. The moment you did, Bucky stopped chewing. He went completely still, his gaze dropping to your mouth, his dark blue eyes tracking the movement with a sudden, sharp hunger. He watched every motion, his jaw clenching as he seemed hypnotized by the way your tongue moved.
Small, was all he thought as he felt his body warm. But it’ll do.
“I suppose I should take my leave after this,” you announced mid chew. “Thank you for everything—”
“You shouldn’t,” Bucky interrupted suddenly, a piece of fish still caught between his fingers. “There might be another storm tonight.”
Your brows furrowed. Another storm? While the mountain weather was notoriously unpredictable, the sky outside was currently a clear, piercing blue.
Although he proved himself right yesterday, another storm seemed today entirely unlikely.
Pushing out of your chair and grabbing your plate, you made your way to the sink.
“Well, in that case, I should leave now. The sooner the better—”
“Good luck with that,” he huffed, his tone sharpening with what seems like restless impatience. “The mud and the terrain from yesterday’s mess will only slow you down. You’ll be lucky to make it a mile before you’re stuck again.”
He took a quick sip of his water, letting out a satisfied exhale as his gaze settled on you. “Best you wait ‘til tomorrow.”
You stood by the sink, staring out the window as you weighed your options. Your friends and family were likely worried sick, perhaps already calling for a search party, and the thought of them panicking made your chest hurt with guilt.
But then, you remembered everything that had happened yesterday.
The storm, the wolf, the bone chilling rain, and the way the world had turned into a sliding, muddy trap. Bucky was right about the terrain—if you went out there and twisted an ankle or got lost in the washouts, there wouldn’t be anyone to save you a second time.
You were completely oblivious to the way Bucky’s eyes traced your body. You didn’t notice how he was manipulating the trauma of yesterday to keep you exactly where he wanted you.
In his kitchen, in his shirt, and under his roof—permanently in his sights.
“I… I guess you’re right,” you admitted softly, finally turning back to face him. “I don’t think I have another fight in me today. If the mud is really that bad, I’d just be a liability.”
Bucky didn’t smile—that would have been too obvious—but the tension in his shoulders eased instantly.
“Smart girl,” he rumbled, picking up another piece of fish before tossing it in his mouth. “No sense in chancing it. The woods don’t give second chances twice in a row.”
“I’ll just… stay out of your way, then,” you murmured, feeling a strange mix of relief and unease. “I can help with the chores? Or the woodpile?”
Bucky hummed, pretending to ponder the offer, though he already knew exactly what he wanted out of you.
“I’ll take care of the heavy liftin’,” he explained. “You can help me clean the place a bit—or catch some more fish for dinner.”
“You liked my fish?” you asked, a soft smile tugging at your lips.
Bucky pushed himself out of the chair with a grunt and met you at the sink, handing you his plate. “Guess you were right,” he gruffed. “You can cook, sugar.”
Your face warmed at the nickname. It seemed so at odds with a man as burly and grumpy as Bucky, yet it fell from his lips so naturally.
“Okay,” you agreed, setting the plates in the basin and turning on the tap. “Anything to help lighten your load. Thank you for letting me stay another night, Bucky. I really don’t know how to repay you.”
A swell of satisfaction and pride settled in his gut.
He liked this.
No—he loved this.
“Look at you, doin’ the dishes,” he noted with a nod toward the sink. “That’s already doin’ more than enough.”
He raised his hand to give you a gentle pat on the back, though his body yearned for something more—to press a kiss to your forehead, the way a husband might for a wife.
“I’ll go fetch some firewood to keep the place warm for when that storm hits,” he said, already turning toward the door. “Just stay here. Clean up, catch the fish. Don’t want you gettin’ hurt or lost again, little doll.”
The storm might not have been coming, but as far as he was concerned, you weren’t going anywhere.
For the rest of the day, you did exactly as instructed.
Despite your insistence that he stay off his leg, Bucky spent the entire afternoon outside. While you cleaned the cabin, the thud of his axe echoed against the trees.
Eventually, you headed back down to the water, but the moment you began fishing, you felt the pierce of a gaze tracking your every move. Every time you glanced over your shoulder, you found Bucky only a few feet away, wiping sweat from his forehead, his chest heaving from the labor— but his eyes never left you.
When you moved down the shoreline, or stumbled over a slick rock, or struggled with a particularly strong fish fight, Bucky was at your side in an instant.
“Careful, sweets.”
“Mind your step. Can’t concentrate on my own work if you’re stumblin’ all over the place, little doll.”
“I saw you fall just a moment ago. Sit down—let me check your leg.”
You kept promising you were fine, but nothing seemed to soothe his protective instincts.
You didn’t want to call him suffocating—he was certainly kinder than when you came across him yesterday—but the unwarranted attention he kept giving you felt restless.
As the day bled into evening, you noticed there wasn’t a single cloud in the sky.
You waited, even as you cooked dinner and set the table while Bucky washed up, but by the time the sun had completely fell below the horizon, the air remained still, dark, and clear.
There was no storm.
And it was too late to start the trek to town now.
You and Bucky were sitting at the dinner table yet again, but since the sun went down, neither of you had spoken a single word to each other.
“Hey, Bucky?” you called out.
He didn’t look up. His eyes were glued to the plate as he scarfed down the meal you made the same way he had earlier this morning. When he didn’t answer, you tried again, firmer this time.
“Bucky. There’s no storm like you said there would be.”
Bucky swiped a hand across his mouth, clearing the grease. “I guess not.”
A slow, impatient exhale left your nose. Bucky sensed your tension, and he narrowed his eyes at you, displeased. He rested both heavy forearms on the table and leaned in.
“It’s good that you stayed,” he pointed out, his voice low like a warning. “It’s better bein’ safe than sorry. You should know that by now—’specially after yesterday, sugar.”
Your frown only deepened, and Bucky’s jaw tightened. He clearly wasn’t pleased by how eager you were to leave him.
“I know,” you sighed, looking toward the dark window. “It’s just... my friends and family must be worried sick. If I had left earlier, I could have been home by now.”
“If you had left earlier, you wouldn’t have made me that delicious breakfast for savin’ your life,” Bucky reminded you, his tone sharp with impatience. He shoved his empty plate aside and leaned back in his chair, making it groan. “You should sleep in the bed tonight.”
“What?” You blinked, not quite comprehending his words. “No. Your leg still needs to heal, and that couch is far too small for you—”
“No one takes the couch,” he cut you off like a command. “We both share the bed tonight. There’s plenty of space.”
You hesitated, your gaze drifting toward the dark hallway that led to the bedroom.
The thought of sharing a bed with him—this hulking, unpredictable man, made your pulse race. “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” you pointed out softly. “I’m perfectly fine on the couch, really.”
“If you’re gonna trek tomorrow morning, you’ll need all the sleep you can get.”
He pushed his chair back, the heavy wood scraping harshly against the floorboards as he stood and began to limp toward the bedroom.
“Come on,” he grunted, not even checking to see if you were following. “I’ve got a set of clothes you can change into.”
With a defeated sigh, you followed him. By the time you reached the bedroom, Bucky was already rummaging through a heavy dresser in the corner. He pulled out another oversized white T-shirt and held it out to you.
“Here.”
“And the pants?” you asked, taking the soft fabric from his hand.
“All I’ve got are sweatpants that’d be way too damn big for you,” he said, shoving the drawer shut. “Unless you want to sleep in jeans?”
You swallowed hard. Sleeping without pants? You looked down at the drawstring shorts you had been wearing all day—stained with mud and smelling of the lake from your fishing trip.
“I’ll just wear these again,” you decided.
Bucky looked at you, his expression darkening with displeasure.
“No. Those are dirty,” he gruffed. “The shirt’s big enough to be a night dress. You’ll be fine.”
His tone left no room for nos or further objections. It wasn’t a request but rather an arrangement he had already finalized in his head.
After retreating to the washroom to change into the fresh shirt, you returned to find Bucky already stretched out on the mattress, his large frame covered by the sheets, taking up half the bed as he waited for you.
The sight of you standing in the doorframe wearing nothing but his shirt made the fabric of his pajama pants feel suddenly, painfully tight. He wasn’t sure he would even survive the night with you lying right next to him.
He scooted over, clearing a space for you while trying to discreetly adjust himself beneath the quilts.
You made your way to your side of the bed, sliding under the covers and lying stiffly beside him.
You stared up at the ceiling, feeling completely out of place in the quiet, suffocating cabin. Beside you, Bucky lay perfectly comfortable.
To him, this was exactly where you belonged.
“I’m sorry you couldn’t leave today,” he said, though the apology rang a little hollow. “I was just lookin’ out for you.”
You turned your head toward him, your hair fanning out across his pillowcase. Bucky’s heart strummed in his chest at the sight of you.
He could get used to waking up to this every morning.
“It’s okay,” you reassured him with a soft, tired smile, though he could still sense the disappointment behind it. “Better safe than sorry, right?”
“Exactly right, sugar.”
From your short time knowing Bucky, it hadn’t taken long to notice just how… blatant he was with his staring. Even now, lying together shoulder to shoulder, his blue eyes were piercing right through yours.
Unreadable and unwavering.
You swallowed hard, trying to break the tension. “How’s your leg?”
“Still hurts,” he mumbled lowly. “But I’m feelin’ a lot better lyin’ next to a pretty girl.”
So much for breaking the tension.
His words, intimate and entirely unexpected, filled you with embarassment. Staring back at him, you had known from the very start how handsome he was beneath all that grumpiness, the tired eyes, and the dark shadow of stubble.
You hadn’t pegged someone like him as the flirtatious type. But as you searched his expression, you couldn’t tell if he even realized he was doing it, or if he was simply saying the first thing that came to his mind.
Averting your gaze, you stared into the dark corner of the room.
“Y-you’re ridiculous,” you stammered, breathless.
Bucky’s large, calloused hand reached out, his fingers hooking gently under your chin. He tilted your face back to him, forcing you to meet his eyes yet again.
“For tellin’ the truth?” he rumbled, his voice filling the tense air between you.
You couldn’t move, held captive by his touch and the intensity of his stare.
You watched as his eyes began a slow and hungry journey. He traced the line of your forehead, the curve of your cheek, and then dropped to your mouth, lingering there until your lips parted involuntarily to suck in a breath.
“Pretty,” he mumbled so quiet, it was like he was speaking to himself.
His gaze continued downward, looking at the delicate column of your throat, then further still, taking in the way his oversized shirt draped over your body, shifting with every shallow breath you took.
When his eyes finally snapped back to yours, they were darker than before—pupils blown wide.
“So goddamn pretty.”
“I…” you started, not quite sure what to say, “t-thank you.”
There was a moment of silence between you two, and throughout the quiet, Bucky’s hands began to be more bold in its movements. He caressed your cheek, tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear before trailing his thumb slowly over your bottom lip. He watched with a dark, satisfied grin when your breath hitched.
“You know, bein’ out here alone all these years... it makes a man yearn for things,” Bucky started to explain in a low, gravelly whisper. “Things a man like me thought he’d never have.”
“Like what?” you breathed.
“A family,” he answered with what sounded like a dreamy sigh. “I’ve seen it everywhere in these woods. Bears protectin’ their cubs, birds tendin’ to their nests. It’s the most natural, beautiful thing there is—that kind of connection. I just know havin’ somethin’ special like that... it’d finally bring me peace.”
You weren’t entirely sure where he was going with the confession, but all you felt you could do was nod and offer him sympathy.
“I hope you find that peace one day, Bucky.”
Then, his hand suddenly trailed from your cheek down to your throat, his fingers wrapping around the delicate skin of your neck in a gentle yet possessive squeeze that made you gasp.
“Feels like I already have, little doll.”
Bucky didn’t give you the chance to breathe, let alone retract the invitation he saw in your eyes.
He closed the space between you two, his mouth crashing against yours with a hunger only a man like him—starved and isolated for decades—could possess.
It wasn’t gentle at all. It was more like a claim.
His lips were rough, and his tongue swept against yours messily and hungrily. He moved like a man who hadn’t shared a kiss with a woman in his lifetime—like a man who was dying for the touch of another person.
You melted into the mattress as he moved more eagerly against you, the sheets ruffling as he hovered over you. One of his hands held you still by side of your neck while the other wandered your body through the thin fabric of his own shirt. His rough hand, warm and calloused, groped and fondled you through the flimsy white cotton, making you gasp into his mouth.
Bucky growled low in his throat as your fingers tangled into the thick, messy dark hair at the nape of his neck. His stubble tickled your skin, and the needy noises leaving his lips only made you squeeze your legs together, a deep ache beginning to build.
“Bucky,” you gasped, turning your head sharply to break the contact. You were panting, your lips swollen and tingling. “We... we shouldn’t. This is... I’m supposed to be leaving tomorrow.”
Bucky took this as an opportunity to bury his face in the crook of your neck, his hot breath searing your sensitive skin. He trailed a line of wet kisses toward your ear, his stubble grazing your jawline.
“Tomorrow’s a long way off, sugar,” he buzzed against your skin.
“Bucky, please—”
You were cut off with a sharp gasp as you felt Bucky grind his hips firmly against your leg.
Against the soft fabric of his pajama pants, he was hard, throbbing... and leaking. In the short time you two had been making out, he had already made a mess of himself in his own pants.
A shaky groan left his lips as he gripped your hip tight, making you wince slightly. “Fuck, baby,” he breathed, resting his forehead against your collarbone. “M’so hard. It hurts.”
Bucky began to rock himself—slow and shallow—against the soft heat of your leg. You couldn’t help but look down, watching the heavy outline of him throb against the fabric as he pressed into you.
“Just... we can fuck tonight—and you can forget all ‘bout me tomorrow,” he pleaded, his voice wrecked. “You can leave as early as you want—but please, darlin’. I need this.” He rocked his hips against yours again, drawing another gasp out of you. “It’s been so long.”
He drew the long hem of the shirt up and past your hip, and his breath hitched at what he saw.
“… No panties?”
Your face burned with embarrassment. “I… didn’t want to re-wear the ones I had on,” you explained, your voice small. “They’re dirty.”
You said that, but what Bucky was seeing right now felt far filthier. Your pussy, exposed and puffy and glistening, was laid out bare right in front of him—ripe and ready for the taking.
You knew exactly how this looked, and the way Bucky’s eyes darkened as they locked onto your cunt only confirmed it. His tongue darted out to wet his lips, his gaz heavy as he took in every inch of you.
Bucky quickly slid down the bed until his broad chest was wedged between your knees. You tried to pull back—mostly out of shyness—but his large hands clamped around your thighs like iron shackles, pinning you wide for him.
“Bucky, wait—!”
But you cut yourself off with an involuntary cry as his tongue flicked out and lapped at your cunt. He was relentless and wasted no time. He buried his face against you, his dark stubble grazing your sensitive inner thighs as he began to feast like a starving animal.
He was messy and loud. The wet, slapping sounds of his tongue working against you filled your ears—vulgar and completely shameless.
You had never been touched or licked like this before. You had never felt the unabashed hunger of a man’s mouth on your skin, and your body was loving every second of it.
“Oh god,” you gasped, your fingers knotting the bedsheets.
Your hips bucked up against his face, seeking more, but Bucky held you perfectly still, his thumbs digging into your skin to keep you exposed.
He let out a low, muffled growl against your clit, his tongue flickering faster and faster against the sensitive peak until you were sobbing for breath. Every time you instinctively tried to close your legs or hide from the overwhelming sensation, he only snarled, forcing you back open for him.
He was devouring you.
He was treating you like the prey he had spent all day stalking.
Bucky finally pulled away, letting you catch your breath. His eyes were dark and his chin was coated with your sweetness mixed with his own saliva and drool.
“Taste s’fucking good,” he groaned so deep, sounding almost frustrated. “Only makin’ it harder for me to let you go.”
He sat back on his heels, still wedged firmly between your thighs, as he pulled his shirt over his head. You watched, enamored, as his broad chest moved— every muscle flexing under the warm glow of the bedside lamp. Dark hair traced the center of his chest, trailing down to where his hands found the waistband of his pants.
He pulled them down and kicked them to the side of the bed. Lying there between your legs was a man of pure masculinity. Thick hair decorated his body, and his hand—which you already thought was massive—could barely wrap around his cock as he stroked himself to his full length.
Bucky’s jaw went slack as he fucked his hand, his eyes shamelessly taking in the way you were spread out for him in nothing but his cotton tee.
Dark, curly hair sat at the base of his cock, and from where you laid, you could smell him—the salty scent of his precum, the masculine musk of pinewood, everything that was uniquely him. It made you ache, your pussy clenching around nothing as you watched.
“You’re drippin’ all over my sheets, sugar,” Bucky grunted. “Makin’ a reaaal mess.”
“Bucky,” you breathed, pushing yourself up on your elbows. “I don’t think you… I don’t think it’ll fit—”
“No?” he cut you off.
He didn’t let you finish—he didn’t need to—but he already seemed darkened by whatever doubt you were about to voice.
“I don’t care,” he grunted, his large hands grabbing your legs and hauling you flush against him. “M’gonna make it fit.”
Your body tensed as you felt the head of Bucky’s cock poke against your entrance. He groaned at the contact, his eyes fluttering shut in relief. You were already so wet, so warm, and so inviting. And judging by how easily his tip began to slide in, it wouldn’t be long before he was buried deep in your cunt.
Bucky held himself there for a moment, bracing his weight on his forearms as he let you adjust to the stretching pressure of his tip alone.
He looked down, a dark, fond smirk pulling at his lips as he watched you squeezing your eyes shut with the effort of taking him.
“Open ‘em up, sugar,” he rumbled the command. “I want you lookin’ at me for this.”
As your eyes fluttered open, meeting his blown out blue gaze, he began to push.
“Oh—fuck, Bucky!” you gasped as he slid deeper, your tight cunt stretching painfully and perfectly around his length.
A broken groan tore from his throat, his chest heaving as he fought every urge in his nervous system to just slam himself deep inside you. He was trying so hard to hold back that his face contorted into a snarl, his muscles locking with the strain.
You mewled and whimpered as he forced his way in, each movement of his hips more strained than the last. He was struggling with the tightness of you, the stretch a dizzying mix of burn and pleasure. By the time he was halfway in, it already felt like too much.
You began to squirm, your hips shifting and doing nothing to soothe the ache in Bucky’s balls. If anything, your movements only made him groan in pleasure.
When he realized you were trying to escape his length, his hands snapped down to your hips. His fingers dug into your skin, pinning you flat against the mattress and making you yelp.
“Where the hell do you think you’re goin’?” he growled, hovering over you with a snarl that made him look terrifying under the warm lamplight. “You aren’t goin’ anywhere. I told you, darlin’—I’m makin’ it fit.”
With that, his grip tightened on your waist and he hauled you flush against his body in a ruthless motion.
Your legs shook and your eyes rolled back as his cock buried itself completely, sinking to the hilt deep inside your cunt. Your head spun with the overwhelming bliss of being filled so thoroughly.
“Haaah—!” you hissed sharply, your back arching off the bed. “B-Buck—”
Bucky’s entire body was shaking, overstimulated with a desire he hadn’t felt in years.
He hovered over you, dark strands of hair shadowing his eyes as he watched your soft legs shake and squirm beneath him. His cock—the one you claimed was too large to fit—was sunk completely inside you, twitching as it savored every desperate ripple and clench of your tight walls around his shaft.
He watched himself grind his hips against yours, slow and steady at first, letting you adjust to every inch.
“Christ,” he groaned, the sound torn from the back of his throat. “You’re takin’ me so well, little doll…”
When your whimpers finally began to break into soft, needy moans, he took it as his cue to pick up the pace.
He started drawing his hips back and thrusting faster, making your body jolt and shake against the mattress with every thrust. The sight of his cock disappearing entirely into your cunt, leaving only his dark curls pressed against your glistening slit, made him throb and leak deep inside you.
“God… feels s’much better than my hand,” he grumbled to himself.
“Bucky…” you whined softly, the sound like music to his ears. “Feels good, don’t stop.”
Bucky was hypnotized.
He looked down, his vision tunneling as he watched the way you moved helplessly beneath him. Your body was rolling with every thrust against his mattress. Your hands came up to his shoulders, soft fingers digging into his hard muscles for stability.
And when you looked at him with those soft, trusting eyes, something in his chest snapped.
His hips began drawing back further before slamming all the way in, drawing a loud, sharp cry from you that only made him want to fuck you harder—right through the bedframe and against the floorboards.
Bucky felt like an animal in heat, his mind clouding with a singular, primal thought that went far beyond just getting off.
He wanted to fill you. He wanted to plant himself so deep that it would take.
“Bucky—it’s too much, ah!” you moaned, clinging to him and wrapping your legs around his waist for support, inadvertently drawing him even deeper.
That didn’t help him at all.
“Oh—fuck, sweets!” he roared, pinning his weight onto you as your legs strapped him down. “Fuck—you’re askin’ for it now.”
The thought of breeding you, of keeping you right here in the cabin he built with his very own two hands, made his blood sing. He could see it so clearly—you, rounded and heavy with his child, tits full of milk, never having to leave the safety of these woods or the protection of his arms.
Every filthy thought of a future together was met with another hard thrust inside you.
“Mine,” he growled. He was so lost in the haze of lust that his mind was a jumbled mess. The only thing he could process was the need to fuck and breed.
Fuck and breed. Fuck and breed.
To breed.
Breed. Breed…
“You’re stayin’ right here, sugar. M’gonna fill you up so full, you won’t even remember how to walk out that door.”
His words were purely possessive. If you didn’t know any better, you would think it was just dirty talk—and god, did it work. Your pussy spasmed tight around his cock as you felt yourself getting close.
“Fuuck, Bucky,” you whined, “d-don’t stop…! I’m gonna cum—”
Every gasp that left your lips fueled the dark fire in his gut and the building ache in his balls. He didn’t just want tonight; he wanted years.
He wanted the connection he had seen the animals share in the woods—he wanted a son running around this cabin and you there to be called Mama.
Your cunt clenched as you tossed your head back, letting out a loud cry that rang through the cabin as you came undone all over Bucky’s cock. The feeling was exquisite, your pussy was milking Bucky with every pulse—and at this point, your body was practically begging for Bucky to cum inside.
“I’m gonna breed you,” he rasped, the words sounding like both a warning and a promise.
His eyes were crazed and wild as he looked down at the friction where your bodies joined. “Gonna give you everythin’ you need. Just stay... stay for me, little doll. Let me put a baby in you.”
Your head was rolling back against the pillow, your face drenched in sweat as your vision swam. You were still coming undone, your mind a hazy blur.
“H-huh…?” you managed to whimper with a tired slur of your words. “W-what was that—?”
One of his hands drew up from your hip to your neck, pinning you in place, while the other found your thigh, spreading you wider and bending it back so he could pound into you deeper—making the mattress and wooden bedframe shake and bolt against the cabin wall.
“Oh my god—!”
“Don’t you worry your pretty head ‘bout it,” he grunted, his breath hot and uneven against your ear. “M’just tellin’ you how it’s gonna be. I’m gonna keep this pussy pumped so full of me, you won’t ever remember what it’s like to be without it.”
He pulled back almost all the way, dragging out the pleasure until you cried out, before slamming back in until the hairs on his pelvis hit your slit.
“You’re gonna stay right here,” he reminded you darkly. “Nothin’ but my shirts on your back so I don’t have to waste time undressin’ you. Just easy access... every time I walk through that door, I’m gonna bend you over the table, the bed, the porch... and I’m gonna remind you who you belong to.”
The filth of his words and the overstimulated stretch of your walls was nearly enough to make you pass out.
“I’m gonna fill you up every single night, little doll,” he hissed, his pace becoming uneven and desperate as he felt his own climax nearing. “Until you’re waddlin’ around this cabin carryin’ my name... carryin’ my blood. You’re never leavin’, understand? You’re mine to breed.”
When you didn’t answer right away, he lightly squeezed your throat, making you gasp.
“Understand, sweets?”
“Y-yes,” was all you could muster weakly and tiredly, not understanding enitrely as all you felt was overwhelming pleasure. “Never leaving… fill me…”
You repeated the last few words you remembered him saying, and that was your downfall.
“Yeah?” he huffed a prideful laugh, like he finally had everything he wanted right here—right beneath him. “You gonna make me a daddy?”
His heart leapt in his throat, balls drawing tight as he felt himself finally reaching the edge. This was perfect—a pretty pussy to fuck whenever he pleased, and an even prettier woman to take care of.
Bucky’s entire body buckled, and he let out a loud roar that made you flinch—it sounded more like an animal than a man. His back arched as he slammed into you one last time, burying himself so deep it made you cry out again, his pelvis bottoming out against you.
A thick, hot rush of cum flooded into you, a heavy and pulsing warmth that seemed to go on and on.
His eyes rolled back and his teeth bared in a primal snarl as his entire frame shuddered with his release. He was pumping you full, emptying every bit of himself deep into your womb.
“Fuck—baby—!” he choked out, voice strained and cracking.
He didn’t pull out, even when his cock was completely spent and overworked inside you. Even as his body stilled and his length throbbed tiredly against your used, overstimulated walls, he stayed buried to the hilt.
He panted, his heavy chest heaving against yours as he kept you pinned firmly into the mattress. He was soaking you, making a complete mess of your insides just like he promised.
“There… fuck,” he rasped, his sweaty forehead dropping to rest against yours. “Puttin’ a baby in there right now—you feel it, don’t you? You feel how much I'm givin’ you?”
You couldn’t bring yourself to answer. You had absolutely no energy left in your spent body.
All you could smell was the thick scent of sex and sweat, and the only light in the room came from the bedside lamp, which was now flickering weakly.
Then came the thunder. Rain began to pour, hitting against the cabin roof and the surrounding forest floor harshly. Bucky shifted his body, pulling you into his arms and dragging your limp body against his chest, pressing soft, and sweet kisses against your sweaty skin.
“There’s the storm, baby,” he cooed gently, his voice prideful as he proved himself right yet again.
“I told you. You aren’t goin’ anywhere.”
sitting in the drafts since new years oh nah someone save me 🥀 once again, this is my contribution for art's moodboard event hosted here! please be sure to check out the incredible writers who put out their work so far!
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Italian: [la ˈdoltʃe ˈviːta]; Italian for 'the sweet life' or 'the good life'
or...
A girl travels to Italy in search of relaxation, only to find something far sweeter and more complicated.
Last Updated: May 19, 2026 [ongoing]
Main Masterlist 𖤓 Taglist
𖤓 Pairing | Massage Therapist!Bucky Barnes x f!Reader
𖤓 Summary | A girls trip to Italy was just what you needed to cope with the classic corporate burnout. You just didn't think the way you coped would be the disarmingly charming massage therapist at the Amalfi Coast hotel.
𖤓 Warnings | Fluff + Smut, vacation fling, just two idiots infatuated with each other, banter, some angsty feels, Romanogers appearances, no reader descriptions, no use of y/n | each part will have more indepth warnings, please read at your own risk :)
𖤓 Word Count | 5.6k (so far)
𖤓 Chirps | So...what does one do when the deadline for a collab fic sneaks up on you and you leave the submission open ended? You turn the idea into a series of course! Literally the night before I was meant to post my fic I had a rather interesting discussion about the movie Monday with some friends, and then this was thought up in the aftermath.
── ⋆⋅𖤓 Part 1 | Earned It
While on vacation, your best friend books a spa day for you to loosen up. A luxury spa, the hottest masseuse you've ever laid eyes on, and the slip of a sound lead to a very not normal massage. But in your defense...he had very good hands and a flexible definition of tension relief.
the hottest thing a guy can be is barely conscious on the floor while someone lifts his head up by the hair so that you can see his glazed out eyes and the blood running down his face
PAIRING: the winter soldier x ditzy!reader
SUMMARY: the winter soldier infiltrates a college halloween party to follow the pretty girl with bunny ears who collided into him on the sidewalk.
WARNINGS: she/her pronouns for reader; ditzy & clueless!reader; reader is mentioned to have hair & wears a skimpy bunny costume; size difference (he's beefy and taller than reader); original characters; mention of punishment and violence (suck dick, hydra); mention of alcohol & weed (they're not the ones intoxicated); mention of murder; bucky mainly speaks russian (it's english in cursive because I don't speak russian + I don't trust google translate when I don't have a basic knowledge of a language) and a little broken english; he asks reader to call him soldat; touch starved bucky; slightly dark & possessive!bucky; light fluff & angst; smut (there is no explicit consent but both of them want it); feral behavior; big dick bucky organization (🙂↕️); oral (f receiving); spanking & pussy spanking; pussy pronouns; nipple play; a little bit of degradation; sex in the woods; unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it pls); primal and rough sex; multiple orgasms; creampie; panty sniffing & stealing.
WORD COUNT: 8.5k
A/N: I posted this last october if I'm not wrong, and honestly this is still one of my favorite one-shots lol. the reader's behavior and personality was heavily inspired by karen from mean girls and rose from the golden girls (a line in particular comes from one of the episodes 🥸). hope you'll enjoy it!
“I can already smell the weed from here. It’s only eleven, for fuck’s sake.” Sarah grimaces as she gets out of the driver’s seat of her Nissan Versa.
“It’s a college party, were you expecting tea and cookies?” Nicole sighs, bent over as she reties the straps of her shoes for the umpteenth time.
The huge mansion sits among the bare trees like a sore thumb. Strings of fake cobwebs dangle from the balconies in tangled clumps, lazily swaying in the cold October breeze. The projectors wash the building in a ghostly glow and pumpkins with bizarre carved faces line the porch, their flickering candles warping the jagged smiles into something unsettling.
The front steps are already crowded with masked people smoking, drinking and laughing too loudly. Sarah snorts out loud as one of the few latecomers nearly trips over a fake gravestone planted in the lawn beside a massive steaming cauldron that reeks faintly of dry ice.
“At least this year Ethan and his minions put some effort into decorating. Do you remember last Halloween?” Nicole turns towards the house with Sarah beside her, but then glances back to find you still standing by the car window, adjusting the corset of your costume.
“Jesus,” Sarah huffs exasperated, planting a hand on her hip. “Stop fussing, you look good!”
“Just a sec…” You mumble absently, turning sideways to check your back.
This year, the three of you agreed to not pick a group costume. Last Halloween had been a disaster from start to finish, mainly because Nicole wanted to go as Cher, Tai and Dionne from Clueless, while you suggested Sam, Clover and Alex from Totally Spies. Sarah was too busy with her now ex-boyfriend to care either way, and a few days before the party she ditched both of you to dress up as Princess Peach and Super Mario with him.
Naturally, you and Nicole still managed to clash over something as simple as matching outfits: she pushed for Harley Quinn and Poison Ivy, but you barely knew who they were, so you argued for Daphne and Velma instead. Long story short, neither of you had time to buy decent costumes and ended up throwing together the easiest thing possible: a devil and an angel.
Just like at least thirty other girls at the party.
That same night, Sarah caught her dear Super Mario kissing Princess Daisy—her cousin—in one of the upstairs bathrooms of this exact mansion, and from that moment on, she swore off group costumes forever.
One year later, in front of the Nissan, a Kim Possible looks pretty much done with life, while a Cher from Clueless sits on the curb smoking her first cigarette of the night. And you, a bunny in a very revealing outfit, tap your lips to even out the glittery gloss.
You thought the ears were a little too big when you bought them, but now, paired with the sheer corset and the short skirt, they look perfect.
“Okay,” you tug the skirt down out of instinct, though the snug fabric barely moves against your thighs. “I’m ready!”
“Fucking finally.” Nicole mumbles, lifting herself from the sidewalk with a groan.
“Hey—”
Sarah’s warning comes too late. Your body is already colliding with something solid, hard as steel. A startled yelp escapes you as a large hand instantly clamps around your bare arm to keep you from stumbling backward. You realize your eyes have squeezed shut reflexively only when they flutter open at once, landing directly on a broad chest covered by what looks like a black tactical vest. Your gaze slowly drifts up, along a strong neck, until it catches on a pair of blue eyes staring down at you. The lower half of the stranger’s face is hidden behind a black mask, yet you are instantly fascinated.
“Oh, hi!” You beam, tilting your head slightly, fully aware of how much guys usually love it when you do that.
The bulky stranger simply looks at you, expression barely changing. There’s a faint furrow between his brows that makes it impossible to tell whether he’s assessing you or debating scolding you for nearly knocking yourself flat against him.
A beat of silence passes between you, in which you let your curious eyes roam shamelessly on his face, before dropping to his impossibly large shoulders. Heat tingles low in your stomach, before a hint of embarrassment curls through you at how obvious you must look beneath his unwavering stare.
Someone clears their throat behind you, but you can’t look away. You don’t want to.
“Honey, let the gentleman go, c’mon.” Sarah grabs your wrist while wrapping her other arm around your waist to gently steer you away.
The long fingers around your forearm jump back as if your skin burned him.
“Nice costume, man. Looks expensive.” Nicole nods at the strange guy, still standing rigidly in the same spot. Only his eyes move, tracking you carefully as your friends lead you toward the entrance at an unhurried pace.
Something about him feels off and Sarah has no interest in provoking some potentially dangerous individual. After all, nights like these are full of creeps looking to take advantage of crowded parties and drunk girls.
Still, you glance back twice.
Each time, you catch him still looking at you.
Before fully crossing the threshold and navigating the sea of intoxicated students, your head turns one last time. The stranger is now facing the house with his shoulders squared beneath his dark clothes, and a stupid little thrill runs through your veins at the thought that maybe he might be here for the party as well.
Years without being touched by anything except harsh hands and cold medical equipment, and what unravels the Winter Soldier is a sweet-looking girl wearing bunny ears and clothes so tight he could almost trace the shape of her nipples.
He can’t remember the last time he felt such a delicate thing brush against him.
Because you are soft. Too soft. Too pretty. He could snap your bones with one twist of his wrist, yet you looked at him like you wanted to be swallowed whole.
His heartbeat has not slowed down since the moment his hand closed around your arm. And as much as he wanted to glare at your friend the moment she took you away from him, he had taken the chance to study your body properly: from the luscious curve of your hips straining against that pathetic excuse for a skirt, to the way your tits threatened to spill from the indecent corset that looked almost painted onto your torso. The fishnet stockings bit into your flesh with every step you took, the tiny bows stitched along the hems probably meant to make the costume cute, but to the Soldier, they only made it filthier.
But the thing that truly made him swallow thickly was the puffy, white cotton tail sewn to the back of your skirt, right at the top of your ass.
Fake.
Such a shame.
He could picture it so clearly: grabbing it between his fingers and tugging until you made that sweet little sound again for him.
It makes his jaw clench beneath the mask.
With a sharp shake of his head, the Soldier forces the intrusive thoughts away.
You weren’t supposed to be here. Nobody was.
The orders had been clear: break in, eliminate everyone inside, then wait at the nearest safe house for extraction.
No witnesses.
The target is a former HYDRA scientist who’d escaped over a decade ago. He’d covered his tracks well, moving states almost yearly, changing names often enough to become little more than smoke in old files. The Soldier vaguely wonders if the man had worked on the Winter Soldier project at some point, even if there would be no way to know. The face in the mission folder had looked painfully ordinary. Like all the others.
The wife and son were to be eliminated too, if present.
HYDRA had enforced the no witness rule brutally during his earlier missions. Back when he still hesitated. Back when stray civilians had managed to survive because he’d been too uncertain.
He can almost feel the scars across his back throb faintly at the memory—a lesson carved into flesh.
However, this situation is entirely new for the Asset.
For starters, the black SUV belonging to the scientist is missing from its usual spot in the driveway. And considering the mansion now resembles a nightclub overflowing with sweaty college students in cheap costumes, the target is clearly elsewhere.
He can’t proceed with the mission.
HYDRA hasn’t contacted him with further instructions either, which means he’s expected to wait at the designated safe house until retrieval. That could mean tomorrow. Or next week.
The Soldier looks back at the house spilling laughter and obnoxious music into the cold night air, then glances down at his gloved hand, slowly flexing his fingers.
Your warmth still seems trapped against his palm.
With a quiet exhale, barely audible beneath the pounding bass, he starts walking toward the door.
Inside, it’s pure chaos.
The bass from the speakers had already been rattling the lawn outside, but in here it practically punches through your rib cage. You roll your eyes at the umpteenth awful EDM remix of some new pop song you don’t even know the lyrics to. Personally, you’d rather dance to early 2000s hits—preferably ones not butchered by a DJ with a SoundCloud account and too much confidence.
People spill through every hallway of the mansion. The improvised dance floor is packed shoulder to shoulder with students clumsily grinding against each other beneath flashing purple lights, while smaller groups cling to the walls, shouting over the music with red cups clenched in their hands.
The smell hits the second you step inside: a mix of cheap perfume, spilled beer soaked into hardwood floors, and sweat that makes your nose wrinkle—all layered beneath the sickeningly sweet scent of vape smoke. Laughter ricochets off the high ceilings, blending with shrill screams every time the DJ blasts the fog machine over the crowd.
A staggering vampire bumps hard into your shoulder, nearly sending you wobbling off your pumps, but Sarah promptly catches your elbow before you can stumble. She immediately sends his back a glare, before shooting a look of utter disgust toward a group of visibly wasted frat boys gathered around the kitchen island.
“I hate college.” She gags dramatically, scowling as they loudly dare each other to shotgun whatever neon-colored concoction the host is pouring into their plastic cups.
You grin at her because, honestly, Sarah would rather be home wrapped in a blanket watching some obscure slasher movie marathon. But after the stunt she pulled last Halloween, you and Nicole practically dragged her here by force. Ever since her cheating ex, she’d shut men out entirely, and a small part of you hopes tonight might finally loosen her up enough to flirt with some attractive masked stranger for a few hours.
Your attention drifts toward the windows lining the far wall. Beyond the glass, the quiet street stretches through the chilly night, washed in pale streetlights.
The strange man is nowhere to be seen.
Almost immediately, your eyes flick toward the front door, scanning person after person as they wander in and out. Vampires. Cheerleaders. Devils. Witches. Cowboys.
No sign of the hot, tall man in black tactical gear.
Disappointment settles strangely heavy in your chest. With a small, dejected sigh, you turn back toward your friends, who are currently debating whether it’s worth risking the kitchen—where there’s at least a seventy percent chance of walking in on some couple making out—for drinks, or staying in the living room to dance instead.
Adjusting your bunny ears with a small smile, you vote for alcohol.
“Hey, Nic!”
All three of you turn at the sound of a familiar voice.
Jacob, captain of the basketball team, jogs toward your group, stopping directly in front of Nicole with an easy grin plastered across his face.
“Hey, girls. Nice costumes.” He grins, wiggling his fingers at you and Sarah in greeting. She gives him a flat nod in return.
“Hi, Jacob! You too!” You smile politely, before leaning closer to your friend. “Is that a... basketball uniform?” You mumble into her ear.
“Of course.” She raises both eyebrows, pressing her lips together as she fights a chuckle at the sight of your college team’s uniform.
Jacob isn’t a bad guy. Just a little painfully self-absorbed. And maybe slightly too obsessed with basketball—to the point where being team captain has somehow become his entire personality. Nicole went on one date with him last semester and came back with a migraine after listening to him talk about playoff rankings for nearly two hours straight.
She’d tried letting him down gently afterward, but he insisted on staying friends. Now he trails after her like an overgrown golden retriever.
“Which player did he dress up as?” You ask quietly.
Sarah’s face goes completely blank. She stares at you for a full second, mouth opening and closing once before she gives up entirely and decides eavesdropping on their conversation is more worthwhile.
“I need a teammate for beer pong,” he mentions offhandedly, pointing toward the long folding table at the far end of the living room, where rows of red cups are already set up beneath flashing lights.
Nicole grimaces slightly. “I don’t know. Maybe later? I’m with my friends right now.”
“Don’t worry about us, Nic.” You interrupt immediately, grabbing Sarah’s arm before she can object. “We’re getting drinks, then we’ll come find you, right?”
Sarah smirks at Jacob’s instantly hopeful expression and nods once.
“See?” He spreads his arms dramatically. “C’mon, we’re gonna crush them. Don’t you remember? You’ve got a winning streak to defend.”
Nicole laughs—a sharp, bright sound that somehow cuts through the pounding music.
“Okay, fine.” She sighs, sending you a half-smile.
As she steps beside him, someone near the table suddenly shouts her name. Then another voice joins in. Within seconds, half the group is chanting Nicole! loud enough to rival a halftime show.
Throwing her arms into the air, she pumps her fists along with the cheers like she’s entering a stadium instead of a living room.
Sarah shakes her head before nudging you toward the kitchen. “C’mon, Lola Bunny. Let’s get a drink.”
If his handlers found out about this, he isn’t sure he would get away with something as mild as hair pulling and a few lashes on his back.
“Cool outfit, dude!”
A guy dressed up as a banana—only his face visible through the costume—shouts after him. The Soldier glances at him briefly, expression unreadable, before continuing to run a silent scan of the room, re-evaluating the night’s target. His enhanced senses catch everything at once, unfortunately: from the humid press of bodies, to the sour-sweet spill of rum beside the DJ booth. Sweat and perfume and alcohol mingle into something thick and suffocating.
“Shit, man. That’s a nice costume you got there.” Someone slurs behind him. “Looks like real metal—” Before the hand can even reach his wrist, instincts detonate and his fingers clutch the guy’s forearm.
Hard.
“Ow ow ow—sorry sorry! Y—You’re crushing my bones, dude!”
The man wearing a cheap Jack Sparrow costume goes pale beneath the eyeliner, features twisting in pain as the Asset looms over him, a silent threat carved into posture alone.
At some point, he registers a small cluster of students turning towards them, whispering with curiosity blooming into something sharper.
Exhaling, the Soldier ultimately decides to release his grip. The pirate stumbles back into his friend, who immediately starts scolding him about consent and personal space.
Satisfied with the clear warning, the Soldier turns around, moving again through the crowd.
He raises an eyebrow, scanning the sea of people with his keen eyes. Finally, he catches a familiar pair of bunny ears excitedly turning left and right.
He walks to a dark corner of the living room with deliberate ease, folding his arms across his chest and leisurely resting back against the wall.
And he waits.
Nicole’s yellow and navy-blue plaid jacket is neatly draped across Sarah’s arm as she rolls up the sleeves of her shirt, a cocky grin spreading across her face.
“Watch and learn, losers.” She snaps, reaching for a ping-pong ball.
From the sidelines, Sarah offers a shout of encouragement, her voice already a little hoarse from all the previous screaming as Nicole sank those balls one right after the other in the rival team’s cups with brutal consistency. You lean into her slightly, eyes tracking the table from one end to the other as a red cup still full of peach vodka sits loosely in your hand, mostly forgotten as you watch the game unfold.
Nicole lines up her shot with practiced ease, wrist flicking at just the right angle. The ball arcs, drops, and sinks cleanly into the last cup with a satisfying splash.
The crowd erupts, chants of her name break out from multiple directions as you and Sarah cheer, briefly pulling Nicole into a tight, celebratory hug. Jacob throws himself at her, and she shrieks as his muscled arms lift her body from the ground, parading your friend around like he would do with the player scoring at the last minute of an important game. Nicole blows a kiss at the losing team, and once her feet touch the floor again, she bows before the intoxicated crowd surrounding the table.
You dart forward to hug her again, while Sarah claps behind you, still laughing.
“God, you were amazing. That was a really Tour de France!” You beam excitedly, but Nicole just stares at you deadpan for a second, before bursting out laughing, too tipsy to deal with your clueless ass.
“Thank you, bunny.”
“Also, Jacob is still very much smitten with you.” Your eyebrows wriggle up and down and Nicole is already sighing half-amused, lips parting to say something, but Sarah’s voice cuts through the moment, sharp.
“Are you fucking kidding me?”
Her expression tightens, focus snapping in place as she leans closer to you and Nicole, lowering her voice.
“Tactical guy is here.”
“Who?”
“The weird guy you bumped into outside. Black gear and blue eyes. Tactical guy.” She explains as if her choice of the nickname should be obvious.
He’s easy to spot because he doesn’t belong here—not in movement, not in stillness, not in anything about the way he stands. He towers above the crowd in matte black, posture too controlled and a judging frown permanently etched on his features.
The people around him are too inebriated to notice him, yet he doesn’t even spare a mere glance to anyone who isn’t you, not even the girl in a lingerie-level costume strutting up and down the room, hoping to catch the attention of his icy eyes.
She doesn’t know he’s busy admiring a much better view that is making his pants tighter and tighter the more he studies it.
“Holy shit,” Nicole gasps. “He’s staring at you.”
Your stomach does a weird flip at her confirmation. At least you aren’t imagining it.
“Yeah, and it’s creepy as hell. He hasn’t blinked once in the past five minutes.” Sarah frowns, goosebumps running up and down her arms. Nicole just smirks, eyes flicking between him and your parted lips.
“Go talk to him!”
“What? No way!” Sarah retorts, her head snapping towards the other. “He looks like he eats people like her for breakfast.”
“Duh, that’s exactly her type!” Nicole chuckles, nudging you forward as she gently takes the cup of vodka from your hand. “C’mon, put on that pretty smile of yours and he’ll be asking you to go upstairs before the next song starts.”
Across the room, his steady gaze still hasn’t moved.
Sarah grabs your right arm again. “Seriously, something’s off about him.”
“Boring!” Nicole says in a singsong voice, rolling her eyes to the sky. “We’re literally right here if anything happens.” She touches your left elbow, subtly pushing you forward.
If this were a cartoon, they’d be the angel and devil arguing over your shoulders.
You grin as usual, even if your heart is pounding so fast you are sure it’s going to come out of your chest any moment now.
With a small nod, you leave your two bickering friends behind and slowly make your way through the bodies swaying to the beat of Candy Shop. Your heels click against the sticky floor, until they stop short in front of the brooding man.
“Hey.” You smile, shouting over the music. “You look kinda lonely. It’s okay if you don’t know anyone, first parties are totally the worst. At my first college party, I ended up throwing up on my crush’s shoes after kissing him.” He doesn’t answer, but a deep line forms between his eyebrows.
“You’re very quiet, but that’s fine. My friend Sarah says I talk enough for two people. Or a whole group, depends on how much caffeine I’ve had.” You shrug.
Still nothing.
“So, um… what’s your name?” You tilt your head, this time expecting at least a reluctant answer, but the guy just keeps staring down at you with an unreadable expression.
“You’re the silent type, hm?” You muse, your amused chuckle soft. “That’s okay. You’re like those spy movie protagonists who never smile until the very end, and then make everyone swoon the second they do.”
He blinks once. Slowly. Maybe a little confused?
“Anyway,” your manicured fingers adjust your bunny headband as you introduce yourself. “I don’t know if you remember but I actually ran into you earlier outside. Sorry again about that. I’m a little clumsy.” You clear your throat, taking a step forward.
“You really are a good listener, by the way!” You sigh dreamily. “Most guys just check their phones halfway through our conversation.”
“So,” You lean closer, slightly standing on the tip of your toes. “Do you want to dance? You look like you need to loosen up a little.” Your eyes immediately fall down to his torso, following the sculpted muscles hidden under those heavy clothes. It’s honestly a miracle slick doesn’t start running down your thighs the moment you realize he could literally pin you to the ground and have his wicked way with you right here in the middle of the party.
Well, you spoke too fast.
The flimsy pair of panties you chose tonight to avoid the outline to be seen through the fit skirt, is getting damper. The thought of this beefy man fucking you until you pass out tickles the back of your brain for a second too long, and suddenly your thighs are clenching against each other in a way you are certain went unnoticed.
It didn’t. But you couldn’t know that the man in front of you is an enhanced individual who could probably track you from a single sniff of your pussy.
The pungent scent of something inherently you teases his nostrils even through the thick black mask. Yet he hesitates, as though he’s trying to determine whether ignoring you would make this conversation end faster. The problem is, he isn’t entirely sure he wants it to end. On one hand, he doubts he can keep himself together much longer if you continue speaking to him in that sweet voice, especially while standing this close to his starved body.
On the other… he doesn’t want to leave you.
But then you slip your hand into his left one, and his body stiffens.
“Wow, your hands are freezing!” You mention casually, squeezing his palm once. It’s indeed cold and weirdly smooth. Before his brain can fully process the alarming ease with which you’ve intertwined your fingers with the most dangerous weapon he possesses, you are unknowingly leading the fucking Winter Soldier straight onto a dance floor packed with sweaty college students—him silent and tense behind you, you practically glowing with excitement.
Yet, he doesn’t dare to stop you.
Why would he do that? A gorgeous girl with soft hands and even softer eyes has been watching him like he embodies all her prohibited wet fantasies. He would be a cruel bastard to deny this pretty thing anything.
The dance floor is a chaos of flashing lights and flailing arms that makes the Soldier’s breath hitch, but you don’t give up, and lead him right into the middle of it.
“Okay!” You yell over the music—far too close—and raise a finger. “Rule number one: just move! Don’t think too much about it or you’ll get self-conscious. I’m talking from experience.” Then raise a second one. “Rule number two: have fun!”
He just stands there—stiff as a marble statue—blue eyes darting back and forth, as if he can’t decide whether to scan the crowd like he’s on guard duty or watch the angel swaying her sinful hips right in front of him.
“See? It’s easy! Just let the music guide you.”
You smile anyway at his lack of response, peering up at him through your eyelashes. “You know, you look so cool. You’ve got this very brooding bodyguard vibe going on, like I’m some rich, dangerous man’s daughter and you’re protecting me from his enemies trying to harm me.”
Another confused blink.
“Maybe I read too many fanfics.” You ponder under your breath, before you reprise your little tantalizing moves, giggling as your fingers barely wrap around both of his wrists to coax him to move with you.
Somewhere at the edge of the improvised dance floor, Nicole is whooping, bouncing on her feet like an overexcited puppy as she takes a sip of your drink. Beside her, Sarah observes the scene appalled.
“Shit.” She mutters, tiredly dragging a hand down her face.
“I like your company. You don’t talk much, but that’s okay. Also, you’re kind of scary—but like, in a cute way.” You chuckle, twirling once and nearly bumping into him again.
That’s when it happens.
A slow, careful shift of his shoulders, but it still is something. His movements are stiff, precise, like his body is negotiating with itself about whether it’s allowed to respond at all. But it’s enough to make you smile satisfied.
The heavy bass pulses hard through your bones, and for a moment, it’s easy to forget he isn’t even really dancing, yet his presence feels like gravity: solid, unshakable, dragging attention toward him without trying.
You turn once again, this time giving him your back. His hand accidentally brushes your hip, causing you to shiver at the faintest twitch of his fingers. They jump back at his side, flexing once like he’s fighting the urge to touch you.
You tilt your head up at him, eyelashes lowered just enough to make it feel deliberate. “Are you having fun, big guy?”
You don’t expect an answer, obviously, but the way his gaze sharpens, intensely following the movement of your lips, is enough for you. It’s not unsettling. On the contrary, it feels… focused. And you already love being the centre of his undivided attention.
The music slows into a deeper beat, couples around you melting closer together, so you get bolder. Initially it’s your back simply brushing against his chest. And then, you unexpectedly find yourself gasping as his right arm circles your waist, keeping you firmly to his front. His jaw locks as you rub yourself against his solid body, your ass inevitably grinding against his bulge. For a second, you really think he might actually say something. Instead, his chest moves behind you with a slow exhale.
“You are so beautiful.” He murmurs against your neck, almost too quiet to hear. As a matter of fact, you don’t catch that, the words being swallowed by the loud song and the thick mask.
“Not so bad, right?” You bite your bottom lip, turning your face back enough to glance at him.
But your lips accidentally brush his mask and the last thread keeping his brain anchored to sanity rips in half.
“Oh!” A loud squeal erupts from your lips as the man spins you around and takes you into his arms. Suddenly, the world is hanging upside down.
Well, no. You are.
He throws your squirming body on his shoulder with an ease that should scare you, yet your stomach twists in excitement as you are kept completely still into his strong arms. You can feel several eyes burn through you as he struts towards the front door, an abrupt gust of cold wind sending a shiver down your spine as you realize he’s taking you somewhere outside.
“Oh my Gosh!” You giggle, feeling the urge to kick your legs like a teenage girl gushing about her crush.
He’s taking you to the woods. This is really happening!
Inside, Nicole freezes mid-sip. “What the—is he taking her away?”
“I told you! Fuck, Nicole! I told you!” Sarah shrieks, running to the door with her friend in tow. They both stop on the porch, eyes frantically searching into the darkness, until they see you waving at them from his shoulder, grinning ear to ear.
“Don’t wait up!” Nicole bursts out laughing, astonished.
“Holy shit, look at her, she’s loving it!”
Sarah groans in response, pressing a hand to her forehead, her chest heaving with quick, short breaths. “She’s giggling. She’s actually giggling. Why is she giggling?”
Nicole simply shrugs. “If a quiet, huge masked man with those gorgeous eyes picked me up like that to fuck me in the woods, I’d giggle too.”
They observe in silence as you get smaller and smaller, until you completely disappear amongst the dense trees. Nicole sighs, placing her hands on her hips.
“Well, you heard her, don’t need to wait up.” She claps once, skipping down the front steps.
“Where the fuck are you going? Of course we’re gonna wait for her to come back.” Nicole stops at the bottom of the stoop, throwing Sarah a deadpan look.
“You really think she’s coming back here? They will probably go at it like bunnies—pun not intended—all night, and then he’s going to take her home tomorrow morning.” She climbs two steps, grasping her friend’s wrist. “Like any adult having fun on Halloween.” She tugs at it, until Sarah reluctantly complies, hesitatingly following her to the Nissan.
“I don’t know, Nic. There’s something wrong about him—”
“So what if the guy is quiet? Maybe he just wants to stay in character.” She huffs, raising both her eyebrows expectantly.
“Mmh... that makes sense.” Sarah mutters, frowning at the trees. “Where are we going, by the way?”
“Home. And we are watching the new The Conjuring. You look miserable here.”
“Well thanks, you asshole.”
“You still haven’t told me your name.” You breathe out, yet to be released. After a few seconds of silence, you huff out a laugh. “You really don’t talk much, do you? By the way, that exit was so dramatic. I loved it!” He grunts in reply, shaking his head. It’s a deep sound that makes your legs shake a little, and you hope you’ll hear it again when he pounds you against a tree.
The walk feels endless as you dangle upside down, forced to watch the ground without anyone to talk to. Finally, he stops in a rather secluded place, and from the looks of it, you must be quite far from Ethan’s house.
Good. You don’t need some wandering drunk couple ruining your night.
As soon as your heels touch the crouching leaves scattered on the damp land, you shriek in surprise, finding yourself pinned to a tree as the man’s hands eagerly explore the sides of your body.
“O—oh! That—that feels nice.” You gasp when his palms squeeze your tits, his thumbs roughly stroking your nipples. The Asset’s eyes don’t know where to focus, torn between your hazy eyes staring up at him pleadingly and the outline of your turgid nubs pressing insistently against the fabric of your top.
“I need to kiss you.” He mumbles, the tip of your nose brushing against his mask. The hoarseness in his voice makes you flinch. It feels like he hasn’t spoken in a while... A long while.
“I don’t understand you.” You complain, clinging onto his vest to keep him close. He sighs, abruptly leaving your chest to cradle your face with a certain rudeness that twists your insides with arousal.
“Kiss. But you close… eyes…” He utters tentatively, staring right into your sparkling eyes. “Don’t look.”
The implications of seeing his face are several and dire. First and foremost, he doesn’t even remember the last time he saw his reflection, and his heart wouldn’t bear a potential rejection. What HYDRA forces him to do is repulsive, but of course you don’t know who he is—and you don’t need to. His face could reflect that repulsiveness though, and be in the worst conditions known to mankind. At that point, why would someone as lovely as you allow him to taint your body with his touch?
Plus, recognizing him would mean putting a target as large as a skyscraper on your back. If anyone were to ever find out about this, you would be in serious danger with both legal and illegal organizations.
The less you know, the better.
Your eager nod momentarily sets his worries, your hands immediately shooting up to cover your face. The Soldier’s mouth twists into what should be a small smile, but probably looks more like a grimace after years of his features knowing only pain and anger. His trembling fingers reach for the side of the mask, stopping there briefly to take you in. He waits, just enough to make sure you are actually following his order. Then, the device is tossed to the side with an uncaring flick of his hand, falling on the ground with a dull thud.
His fingers shake as they wrap around each of your wrists, waiting.
“Kiss, but… don’t look.” He repeats, his voice coming out in a rough, agitated whisper.
“My eyes are closed.” You swear, giving him a resolute nod. The Soldier lowers your hands with great care, until he can see your pinched expression as you keep your eyes squeezed shut.
And then, your lips finally meet. From the way he was treating you a second ago, you would think he was going to kiss you just as softly, like a doll made of glass.
Wrong.
The kiss is feral. His teeth clash against yours, biting and tasting you as if he has been waiting for you his whole life, his tongue frantically searching yours as his hands keep your jaw firmly open, allowing him to do whatever he wants with you.
And you can’t help a needy whimper from clawing out of your throat.
The Soldier pulls you closer to his chest, his metal arm now wrapping around your waist as the other hand traces a slow path down your body, from the side of your breast to your exposed thigh, leaving behind a trail of goosebumps.
He knows he just crossed an inviolable line he won’t easily come back from. He was ruined the moment he decided to look for you inside that chaotic mansion instead of following HYDRA’s orders. Yet, that stinging guilt rapidly crumbles the more he kisses this sweet creature.
He has yearned for something warm for so long. Something soft, and pretty, and nice. Something that is completely and utterly his. And now, it is time to finally collect what he is owed.
The sloppy kiss is met with eagerness from your part, your hands urgently tugging at his vest to keep him pressed against your squirming form. You need more. You need to feel him too.
He reaches for the corset first, pulling both cups down until your breasts spill free from their confines. Once his lips leave yours to focus on your neck, you let out a gasp at how dizzy you feel—your head has been spinning all along because of the intensity radiating off him.
Your moans are still pretty restrained, and the Asset doesn’t like that at all. He wants to hear you whimper for him, beg him to paint your insides white, scream his name over and over again in that sweet voice of yours.
His name.
He doesn’t own a name.
Maybe you could give him one. You sound like a creative girl, with all your silly little anecdotes.
When his mouth finally reaches the swell of your chest, the sight of your soft, bare tits makes him grunt appreciatively. His lips immediately latch onto one of your nipples, while his capable fingers flick and tug at the other. Your whimpers echo through the small clearing as he uses his teeth to lightly pull at your sensitive nub, moaning as he feels it hardening in his mouth. The way he kneads and sucks at your soft skin reminds you of a starving man being offered food after a week without eating.
The Soldier has never seen a more beautiful pair of breasts in his entire life. Well, he doesn’t remember ever looking at a woman’s chest before, but if he did, he is sure it wouldn’t even get close to yours.
The hickeys that now mark the tender skin of your tits are burning, causing you to flinch each time the Soldier’s tongue worships them softly.
“What—oh shit—what’s your name?” You utter between your own wanton noises, eyes still closed as your head falls back against the bark of the tree. Your bare back keeps brushing against it as your body jerks in time with his tongue stroking your nipples. They are so sore, tingling whenever he leaves one exposed to the chilly October air to give the other some love. Still, the scratches on your back are already burning as the coarse surface cruelly scrapes your skin, and you’re certain they are going to hurt so bad in the following days.
The Asset momentarily leaves your nub with a wet pop, frowning up at your parted lips. He grips your jaw with one hand, keeping your mouth open while rising to his full height. He gathers a bit of saliva, before letting it fall gently onto your tongue. Your breath hitches at the unexpected, lewd act.
“Swallow.” His cock twitches at the way you obey at once.
“Soldat.” His voice is authoritative, leaving no space for questions and doubts, before going back to lavish your nipples. Your eyebrows momentarily knit in confusion, not understanding what it means.
Is it a video game character? Is that why he’s all geared up like some sort of spy?
Your brain doesn’t have the time to elaborate a sensible question, as a twist of your poor, abused peaks draws a loud cry out of your throat.
The scent coming from between your legs is now too much for his straining cock. He needs to taste all of you: your mouth is sweet, your breasts are sweet... but the Soldier is certain your pussy is even sweeter.
With an annoyed huff at the realization he has to leave your tits, he makes quick work of removing his tactical vest, tossing it on the ground. You squeal as you are once again lifted in the air; still, you keep your eyes firmly shut and that makes his expression soften a little.
“You’re such a good girl for me, sweetheart.” With a small peck, he takes you away from the poor tree that has already witnessed enough for one night, manhandling you down on your knees and guiding your hands on the ground to make you understand he wants you on all four.
“Stay.” The order growled right into your ear, along with his hands squeezing your hips, makes you whimper and nod quickly as a reflex.
Now that he’s behind you, you deem the situation safe enough for you to slowly open your eyes. Black spots soon materialize out of nowhere, yet you notice immediately the rough fabric underneath you.
“Oh,” you blink at it. “Thank you, Soldat.”
There might be a feral beast clawing at his chest, challenging him to take you right there right now, over and over again, but he doesn’t want the rough ground to scratch your knees and palms. The softness in your voice makes him tense up, enough to feel an unfamiliar sting behind his eyes. His name—his title—said with so much gentleness stokes the flames in his lower belly until he feels a damn blaze licking at his insides.
You barely catch the black glove being discarded to the side as his calloused hands grope your hips, pushing you back against his crotch. You gasp at the ferocity he puts into his thrusts as he starts rutting your ass, grunting and panting with the effort of not coming in his pants like a fucking virgin seeing a pretty girl half-naked for the first time.
“This is what you’ve done to me.” He groans under his breath.
“Soldat…” You hum, one arm reaching behind to caress a strong thigh. “Don’t tell me you’re going to come like this, humping me like an animal.” The little airy giggle you let out makes him swallow, a shiver running down his back at those mocking words that should make him recoil. Instead, the fire grows, and before he can regain control of his body, his hips stop abruptly.
His nimble fingers don’t waste any more time, lifting the hem of your skirt until your ass is completely at his mercy.
“Yes, yes!” You encourage him, gently rocking back. The heady scent is stronger now, but it’s still not enough. The flimsy panties leave you with a sad ripping noise and a feral growl rumbling in his chest. A gasp falls from your lips at the sudden bareness of your core, giggling when you hear him inhale deeply. Is he smelling your underwear? Fuck, you want to turn around so bad and enjoy the show.
The Soldier almost drools when your scent clings to his nose, along with your slick soiling the delicate fabric. He clumsily stuffs your panties into his pocket, shifting around until he’s lying right beneath the lower half of your body.
“C’mere, bunny.” His digits sink into the skin of your thighs, forcing you down until you are fully sitting on his face. “It’s time to eat.”
“Wait! Oh, fuck!” Your lips part pathetically around a breathy moan as his tongue looks for your clit, pulling your knees apart until you’re completely spread open for him. Tears form at the corners of your eyes as your hips uncontrollably buckle down, clawing at the vest when the tip of his tongue leisurely flicks your throbbing nub.
A loud moan escapes your lips when he finally breaches your hole, eating and sucking as if he’s savoring the most exquisite delicacy he’s ever had the chance to taste. Your body squirms at the unforgiving stimulation, still, you’re covering his face like a fucking oxygen mask and you’re far too worried he’s not breathing at all.
“S—Soldat, wait! You can’t brea—AH!” A smacking sound echoes through the air as his palm leaves his mark on your asscheek. “Fuck, please! Do it again.” You beg, hips grinding down without restraint as slick shamelessly falls into his waiting mouth.
Finally.
The Asset internally preens at your enthusiastic reaction to something he did so spontaneously. Unprompted. Human.
Because you are not treating him like a ruthless weapon. A lethal killer that acts in the shadow. An ugly experiment with no dignity left.
But like a man.
So he does it again. And again.
“Taste so good, my pretty bunny.” He rasps out, returning to your clit, two of his fingers curling inside you in the meantime. You yelp, the knot in your belly getting closer and closer to snapping. Your asscheeks are burning, yet you don’t stop his punishing palm, instead arching up into his hand every time it comes down on your tender skin.
“I’m gonna come.” You mumble deliriously, sobbing when in response his metal palm smacks your ass before meanly grabbing the tender flesh, and a third finger joins the other two, pounding against that sweet spot of yours before your orgasm hits you out of nowhere.
“Fuck fuck—Soldat!”
He wonders what he’s going to do from now on when he hears that word. It would be impossible to not get hard as your delightful whines resound through his mind.
Your hole clenches desperately as he nurses on your throbbing clit one last time, panting heavily once he lifts your shaky thighs up.
“Holy shit.” He whispers surprised, licking his lips clean. His lower face is completely damp with your arousal, and in that moment he decides he’s not going to wash his face until the scent disappears on its own.
The Soldier takes a good, long look at your trembling body, now back on his knees behind you. His palms gently caress your raw skin, pulling a shiver out of you as one of his two palms is colder than the other, yet the sensation is soothing against your burning cheeks.
He would really love to kiss the sensitive spots until you fall asleep, but he can’t stop now, not when his cock is painfully craving to be inside you, his imposing bulge pushing forcefully against his pants.
The rustling sounds behind you are loud but you can’t find it in yourself to focus, still dizzy after the violent orgasm Soldat drew out of you mercilessly. You are not inexperienced by any means, yet you’ve never come this hard and fast in your life. You wonder if it’s the whole situation influencing you—being half-naked in the woods while a feral, beefy stranger eats your pussy as if it’s his last day on Earth—or if he’s just that good.
Maybe it’s a mix of both, maybe it’s something else. You don’t care. You just want him to rearrange your insides. Now.
You seem to share the same sentiment as your eyes widen at his cock obstinate at your wet folds. Your gasp soon morphs into a startled moan when the tip slides inside. The way he feeds you his length is far from careful, and without warning, your hole is tightening around all of him.
The Soldier needs to take a deep breath, the muscles in his abdomen clenching to prevent himself from disappointing you by spilling his cum at once.
When was the last time he was intimate with someone? When was the last time he felt something other than fear?
He doesn’t hold back, gradually pulling back, before lust takes over him and your trembling arms give up under you. You fall forward with a whimper, resting your cheek on his vest as his grip on your hips becomes brutal, and barely catching the foreign words being muttered under his breath.
You are delirious with pleasure, the stretch of his thick girth burning so good you can’t breath—for a second you truly fear your hole is going to tear apart.
It’s almost humiliating how it takes only a big cock and a pair of broad shoulders to reduce you to a shaky mess of moans and whimpers.
“Beautiful, sweet creature... you’re so lovely.” The obscene, sloppy noises of your pussy swallowing every inch of him drives him insane. You’re like heaven incarnate wrapped around him, and he refuses to leave, his hips barely pulling back as he clumsily humps you from behind.
“Mine, mine, mine.” You whisper the name he gave you, lying helpless with your eyes rolled into oblivion and drool soaking the dark fabric under you. It’s a miracle how the bunny headband still survives on your head as his harsh thrusts push your body back and forth, your fingers weakly holding onto the same ruined vest that your nipples brush against, now rubbed raw and sensitive.
“That’s a good girl. She’s squeezing me so tight, baby. I can’t let you go now that I found you, need to keep you forever here around my cock.” He grits out, head falling back as he feels his orgasm dangerously close, yet he’s ready to deny himself over and over again until he can feel you come around him again.
“Bet you’d like that... be my little cumdump until you are too full it starts spilling down your thighs. But I’ll just fuck more into you and then everyone will know you are fucking mine.” That’s when, with his mind clouded by pure pleasure, he reaches between your wet thighs, experimentally spanking your clit.
“Fuck!” Your squeal pulls a smirk on his lips, prompting him to do that again, his thrusts still frantic and erratic.
“Take it, my sweet little bunny. That’s it.”
Your nub throbs as the man fucking you like an animal smacks it repeatedly, and you’re certain he’s enjoying himself so much watching you jolt each time, panting like a dog the louder you whimper. His tip relentlessly taps your sweet spot, and it’s just a matter of time before you let out a delirious moan, walls tightening as your second climax washes over you—this time leaving you stiff and crying as wave after wave of bliss settle deep in your bones.
“Got… you.” The Asset grits out breathless as he buries his cock deep into you with a hard, final thrust, succumbing to the overwhelming sensation of your hole squeezing him. He falls over the edge with a guttural groan. Thick, hot ropes of cum flood your insides at once—there’s so much of it you almost choke at the unfamiliar yet pleasant sensation of being stuffed full.
You shiver under him, exhausted but sated, yet the Soldier doesn’t seem to want to budge, still hugging you tight as his thighs shakes at every little twitch of his cock.
It feels too much.
His dick snug inside your tight heat, your body held with care by the same hands soiled with innocents’ blood, the sudden emptiness in his chest after such a heavenly experience... Should he cry? He feels like crying. He’s almost certain of it, though he doesn’t understand why. He just had the best night of his entire life with the most beautiful woman he has ever seen.
Still, the weird sensation sits somewhere deep in his chest, heavy and unfamiliar, pressing against ribs that only know obedience and survival.
He knows he’ll have to move eventually, reality catching up to him the moment he steps too far from this strange warmth you keep offering so freely.
But he doesn’t want to let you go yet.
Honestly, he isn’t sure he can.
“Soldat, my back hurts.” Your voice is feeble yet tinted with amusement. Still, he scrambles on his knees, pulling out carefully in fear of hurting you. You wheeze softly at the sudden loss, your weak arms barely moving at your sides as you try to get yourself into an upright position, but the man behind you has other plans. You find yourself facing him at once, gently led down until your back is touching the vest.
With your mind too foggy with exhaustion, it is hard to remember the only rule he gave you. And shock flashes across your face the moment you can finally see Soldat’s handsome features clearly.
Your lips part, a compliment already rising to the surface, but it never makes it out. His hands come up instead, cradling your face with surprising tenderness before guiding you into a slow, lingering kiss. There’s no urgency in his actions this time, no hunger sharpened by desperation. Just some deep and achingly careful adoration that makes your heart clench painfully all the same. The kind of kiss that feels dangerously close to a goodbye. Like he’s trying to memorize you through touch alone.
He kisses you until your lungs are begging for oxygen, and when he finally pulls away, neither of you can move. His blue eyes simply observe you, urgently tracing your features with a spark of veneration glinting in his gaze.
You look like the personification of debauchery with your smudged mascara and lips swollen from kissing and biting, the poor bunny ears hanging crookedly from your hair after being fucked so crudely.
Yet, the Winter Soldier thinks he has never seen anything prettier.
“I looked at you.” You whisper softly, your dazed eyes dancing over his face with sleepy fascination, utterly devoid of remorse.
His right thumb lovingly strokes your cheek, and somewhere beneath the Soldier, beneath HYDRA’s cruelty, something human finally smiles back at you.
pairing | drifter!bucky x fem!reader x drifter!steve
word count | 23.3k words (sorry yall, save this for bed)
summary | two drifters take refuge on a sun-blistered louisiana farm, but the real heat comes from the farmer’s enigmatic daughter who draws them in with slow, honey-thick temptation.
tags | 18+ (MDNI), Explicit Sexual Content, porn w plot (and i really think the plot is good), farmers!daughter!reader, multiple smut scenes (yeah i went overboard), southern gothic vibes, lots of erotica, sexual tension, STUCKY ANGST,mutual pining (heavy denial), lots of unprotected sex, piv, oral (m&f!receiving), secret sex, lying, seduction, threesome (m/m/f), sensory overload, horny!reader (unapologetically), reader is a freak, love triangle (and best believe this is a triangle with all three ends), voyeurism (self righteous steve), double penetration, first time stucky (reader is their main cheerleader), shameless!reader, manipulative!reader, knows exactly what she's doing, enjoys instigating and stirring the pot, steve rogers is repressed and in denial, bucky barnes has a dirty mouth and is easily jealous, pride vs desire, lotsssss of religious imagery, sin vs purity imagery, they all need therapy but instead they have sex, (there's probably more i should add, but i dont remember)
a/n | this has been sitting in ellipses for the last month, finally im free! jumping on the stucky train, and i have no shame abt it. and i really tried to edit and cut, but everything is important to the plot
likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨
MASTERLIST
divider by @omi-resources
The two-tone ’78 Chevy sat wheezing on the shoulder, its hood punched open like a yawn in the late-afternoon heat. Beyond the ribbon of cracked asphalt, cane fields lay flat and humming, cicadas sawing at the silence. Bucky leaned both forearms on the grill, hair sticking to the sweat on his neck, and offered a lopsided grin that only made things worse.
“Relax, Stevie. Tank’s empty, not the end of the world.”
Steve slammed the driver’s door harder than he meant to; the truck shuddered like it might expire altogether. “Not the end of the world? We’re forty miles from a town anyone’s heard of, it’s a hundred degrees, we got eight dollars between us, and you didn’t think to check the gauge?”
Bucky shrugged, easy as a breeze. “Gauge is busted, remember? Besides, you were the one drivin’ last—”
“Because you were too busy sweet-talking that waitress to keep your eyes on the road.”
“Tyra?” Bucky’s smile widened. “She gave us pie for free.”
“Great. Maybe we can burn it for fuel.” Steve dragged a hand through his hair and squinted up the road; nothing but heat rippling off the tarmac. “We need a plan.”
“We got one,” Bucky said, straightening. He rapped the hood twice, like patting a tired mule. “We walk. Someone around here’s gotta sell gas. Maybe even trade a couple hours’ work for a full can.”
“Or they’ll run us off with an axe.” Steve’s voice softened despite himself; frustration never stuck to Bucky for long. “This was supposed to be different, Buck. Thought we’d find steady work in New Orleans—”
“And we did, for a minute. Things change.” Bucky’s gaze drifted past Steve to the hazy edge where pasture met cypress and moss. “Look, the road forks up ahead—left’s more fields, right’s water. Bayou country. People out here always need strong backs.” He slung their one duffel over his shoulder. “C’mon. Sun’s not gettin’ any kinder.”
Steve glanced at the truck and sighed. “You really think we’ll ‘figure it out’?”
“We always do.” Bucky’s grin turned conspiratorial, the one that had gotten them into brawls and out of worse. “Besides, you love savin’ my ass. Gives you purpose.”
“One of these days,” Steve muttered, though a reluctant smile tugged at his mouth, “your luck’s gonna run out.”
“Then I’ll borrow yours.” Bucky tipped an imaginary hat and started down the asphalt, boots crunching gravel. After a beat, Steve fell in beside him.
The sun slid lower, painting the sky blood-orange. Somewhere to the east, a smear of water reflected the light. The air smelled of cane juice and distant brackish rot.
Eventually dusk bled over the cane fields in long bruised stripes, the sky turning molasses-thick and purple. For close to an hour, the only sounds had been boot soles on gravel and Bucky’s running commentary; little jokes about gator crossings, predictions of cold beer “just past the next bend,” memories of music drifting out of French Quarter bars.
He talked as if words could keep the darkness from settling on their shoulders.
Steve let most of it wash past. Sweat glued the back of his shirt to his spine; the sun had scalded the bridge of his nose raw. Every mile without a plan felt heavier than the duffel bumping against his hip. When Bucky announced, for the fourth time, that “things always work out,” Steve only answered with a quiet grunt and kept walking.
Then the road took a shallow dip and opened onto a low rise of pasture, and there it was—a farmhouse half-hidden behind live oaks, porch lights already flickering on like fireflies. Off to the right, a tin-roofed barn crouched at the edge of a bayou inlet, its stilts mirrored in dark water. Smoke drifted from a chimney in a lazy ribbon; somewhere close, a cow lowed.
Bucky stopped dead and threw out an arm as if presenting a miracle. “Told you, pal. Luck’s a lady tonight.”
Steve studied the place; fencing mended in patches, tractor parked beneath a tarp, rows of tomatoes staked with twine. Not prosperous, but lived-in, cared for. “Or it’s someone’s home, and we’re about to get run off for trespassing.”
“Won’t know ’til we ask.” Bucky’s grin caught the last shred of light, turning his eyes almost silver. “Guy like you knocks on a door, says ‘Sir, evening, we’re lookin’ for some shelter for the night,’ who’s gonna say no?”
“Plenty of people,” Steve muttered, but the fight had drained out of his voice. He glanced back the way they’d come, miles of empty asphalt slowly disappearing into night, and exhaled. “All right. We try.”
They left the road, boots whispering through knee-high grass that smelled of sun-baked sugarcane and river mud. A chorus of frogs started up, rhythmic and lewd, as if cheering them on. When they reached the split-rail fence, Bucky vaulted it in one easy swing; Steve followed, slower, feeling the rail creak beneath his weight.
Closer now, Steve noticed the details Bucky’s optimism had missed; shutters needing paint, porch boards warping at the ends, the faint uneven beat of a generator somewhere out back. A place run by sweat and necessity, not spare cash.
Bucky rolled his shoulders like a man warming up for a dance. “Let me talk first. I’ll soften ’em up.”
Steve’s mouth twitched. “And if sweet talk doesn’t cover room and board?”
“Then you flex those big-boy muscles and show ’em we’re worth feeding.” He winked.
Steve looked past him to the porch. A screen door stood ajar, warm lamplight spilling through, and inside he caught a glimpse of movement—someone crossing a threshold.
“Yeah,” Steve said finally. “Could be worse.”
Behind them the sun sank, and the bayou lapped soft against the stilts, as if tasting something new in the twilight air.
The screen door slapped once against its frame and stayed half-open, lamplight spilling across warped porch boards. A man stepped out. A raw-boned figure in dungarees and a sweat-stained work shirt, the brim of his straw hat casting his face in shadow. The pump shotgun balanced in the crook of his arm said everything his tight mouth didn’t.
Bucky lifted one hand, palm out, easy smile already in place. “Evenin’, sir. Hate to trouble you—”
“You’re already doin’ it,” the man cut in, voice dry as crushed shell. His eyes flicked from Bucky’s scuffed boots to the duffel on Steve’s shoulder, then back. “Road’s that way if you’re passin’ through.”
Bucky chuckled like they were all sharing a joke. “Wish we were. Truck ran dry few miles back. Just lookin’ for a spot of ground to lay our heads, maybe point us toward gas come mornin’.”
Mr. Moreau, Steve caught the stitched name on a feed-store cap hooked to a nail by the door, didn’t blink. “Folks who show up empty always want more’n a night’s sleep.”
“Not us,” Bucky said, still smooth but softer now, reading the room. “Couple hours on a cot, we’re golden.”
Steve stepped forward, wiping his palm on his jeans before offering it. “Sir, we don’t expect charity. We grew up working yards and warehouses in Brooklyn. Let us put in a day’s labour; repair fence, muck stalls, whatever needs doing, in exchange for a meal and a corner of your barn. Tomorrow we’ll walk to town, buy fuel, and be gone.”
The old man studied Steve’s hand like it might bite. Up close Steve could see the lines etched deep around his mouth, the cautious flare of his nostrils, the calculation behind the suspicion. When he finally spoke, he addressed Steve, not Bucky.
“You fix fence?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Know your way around a baler?”
“Can learn quick.”
Moreau’s gaze shifted to Bucky. “And you?”
Bucky’s grin turned boyish. “I swing a hammer straight and don’t complain about blisters.”
A long moment of silence stretched, filled only by the bayou’s night chorus and the low thrum of a diesel generator. Then Moreau nodded once, sharp. “Barn’s there.” He jerked his chin past a line of pecan trees toward the weather-silvered structure on stilts. “You’ll sleep in the loft—floor’s solid. I’ll send my girl with sheets, pillows and supper.”
He paused, shotgun still resting easy but present. “Sunup, you start mending the northeast fence line where the posts lean. No smoking, no liquor, no wandering past the pens after dark. Gators like the warm water.”
Steve’s shoulders loosened a fraction. “Yes, sir. Thank you.”
Bucky tipped two fingers from his brow. “Much obliged, Mr. Moreau.”
Steve offered his hand again; Mr. Moreau finally considered the gesture, then shook once. It was firm and testing. “Careful, bayou’s mean at night, and I ain’t friendlier.”
They watched him retreat across the porch, boards groaning under deliberate steps. Inside, a screen door banged and lamplight shifted, framing a second silhouette for half a heartbeat, before it disappeared deeper into the house.
As they crossed the yard the porch lights dimmed, leaving only moon-slivered clouds and the distant lantern glow of the barn.
Bucky exhaled a satisfied breath. “See? Luck.”
Steve shot him a side-eye that was half exhaustion, but reluctant amusement won out. “Your kind of luck usually gets me shot at.”
“Guy didn’t even chamber a round. We’re fine,” Bucky said, swinging the duffel like a lunch pail. “C’mon, punk. We got hay to fluff before the linens arrive. Wouldn’t want the lady of the house thinking we’re ungrateful.”
They crossed the yard toward the barn as cicadas struck up their night chorus, and behind them the bayou breathed thick water-scent into the dark.
The barn’s lower doors groaned shut behind them, sealing in the smell of hay dust, old saddle soap, and the faint sweetness of cane. A thick ladder hugged one beam; Bucky scrambled up first, boots thudding on the rungs. When he pushed through the loft hatch he let out a low whistle that echoed off the rafters.
“Well, hell—thought we’d be beddin’ down with the cows.”
Steve followed, palms rough against the rails. The space wasn’t the raw hayloft he’d pictured. Slanted cedar walls glowed amber in the lamplight, and a faded striped couch sat center stage, its cushions sun-soft. A trunk doubled as a coffee table; books leaned drunkenly on handmade shelves beside a beaten-brass telescope aimed through a cut-out window toward the purpling sky.
Bucky flopped onto the couch, springs sighing. “Damn. Better than half the motels we’ve stayed in.” He stretched, hands locked behind his head, boots still on. “Called it—Barnes luck.”
Steve shot him a look. “Boots off. Don’t wreck the place five minutes in.”
“Boots are fine.” Bucky toed one heel against the other anyway, dropping them beside the trunk. Then he tipped his head back, scanning rafters strung with paper stars and a single model airplane dangling by fishing line. “Knew Moreau wasn’t as mean as he let on.”
“Or this belongs to his daughter, and he’ll tan you for putting your filthy socks on her couch.” Steve drifted to the telescope, brushing a thumb over its brass barrel.
In the corner sat a small writing desk cluttered with jars of dried flowers, a stub of vanilla candle, and a horsehair brush still catching the lamplight in its bristles. Feminine touches, but nothing frilly enough to feel staged.
He glanced at Bucky, who had already settled deeper, arms splayed like a victorious cat. “We’ve got one night of goodwill, Buck. Tomorrow we work till our backs snap, and then we’re still broke. Gas isn’t growin’ in that south field.”
Bucky closed one eye, pretending to sight something on the ceiling. “You worry too loud. We fix the fence, maybe fix the truck while we’re at it—they toss us a few extra dollars, or a jerry can. Folks out here respect elbow grease.”
“Respect doesn’t fuel an engine.”
“Neither does frettin’. You’ll give yourself ulcers before thirty.” He rolled to his side, propping his head on a bent elbow. “Come on, take a seat. Feel this cushion. It’s practically luxury.”
Steve ignored the invitation and set his eye to the telescope. Through dusty glass he caught a sliver of bayou, water black and mirror still, framed by cypress knees. Fireflies sparked like stray embers above the reeds. Something about the view stirred a bone-deep ache for order he couldn’t name.
Behind him Bucky huffed. “You’re really gonna stand there brooding? You’ll ruin my mood, Rogers.”
“You have a mood?”
“Best mood this side of the South, if you’d let it breathe.” The couch creaked again; Bucky’s feet thumped the floor. “Fine. I’ll do a full inspection. Make sure no ghosts under the bed.” He padded toward a curtained alcove where a narrow mattress crouched beneath more quilts.
Steve lowered the telescope. “Careful.”
“Relax, I’m just checking.” Bucky flipped back the curtain, paused, then called over his shoulder, softer, “There’s a vase of fresh magnolias in here, Steve.”
Steve nodded once. “All the more reason to treat this place right.” He dragged fingers through hair damp with sweat and twilight humidity. “Tomorrow, we fence. After that, we find a way to buy gas.”
Bucky chuckled, but it came out tired. “Tomorrow, we survive. Tonight, we sleep on feather cushions like kings.”
A scrape sounded below, the barn’s side door opening. Lantern light bobbed on the ladder rungs. Steve stepped forward, heart ticking faster despite himself, as he caught the soft shuffle of feet heading toward the loft.
“Guess Mr. Moreau’s ‘girl’ brought supper,” Bucky murmured, straightening his shirt, suddenly attentive.
Steve’s pulse thudded, nerves tight for reasons he couldn’t quite blame on hunger. He smoothed his face into politeness.
“Remember,” he muttered, “boots off the furniture. And be respectful.”
Bucky grinned, eyes flicking to the ladder hatch where a warm glow now haloed the first edge of a tray. “No promises, pal.”
Boot-steps creaked up the ladder—slow, sure.You appeared in the hatch with twilight at your back, balancing a tin tray loaded with two enamel plates, a fat mason jar of water beaded with condensation, pillows and neatly folded sheets tucked beneath one arm.
“Evenin’, boys.”
Bucky was on his feet before the last syllable hit the rafters, grin flashing like he’d been rehearsing it. “Evenin’.” He slid a hand under the tray, thumb brushing the outside of your wrist as he relieved you of the weight. “Smells incredible. You must be the angel Mr Moreau mentioned. I’m James Bucky Barnes, and the tall, worried lookin’ fella is Steve Rogers.”
You arched a brow, amused, “Angel, huh?” The word tasted ironic coming from you, syrupy drawl cut with something sharper. “More like delivery girl. Pillow-fairy if you’re polite.”
You set the pillows on the couch arm, smoothed the patterned sheet across the cushions. Up close, sweat-shine on their skin smelled of road dust and cut cane.
Steve cleared his throat, polite even with his sleeves rolled and collar limp. “Thank you for supper… and the linens, ma’am. This your cookin’?”
“Jambalaya,” you hummed, rolling the word slow. “Daddy says it keeps visitors honest—pepper’ll burn lies off a tongue. Hope you’re hungry.”
Bucky inhaled over the plate, eyes closing like a man at church. “Starvin’, darlin’.” Then, glancing around the loft, “Guess this is your spot? Kinda figured we’d be burrowin’ into hay bales.”
Your shrug said maybe tomorrow. “Daddy doesn’t usually let strangers sleep on his land, much less up here.” You perched on the trunk, unbothered by their looming height. “Guess he saw somethin’ useful in you.”
Steve straightened, earnest. “We appreciate it. If you’d rather we sleep downstairs—”
“Relax, Captain Courtesy,” Bucky cut in, throwing him a side-eye. “We’ll keep our boots off the sofa, promise.” To you, softer, “You’re welcome to sit a spell, if you’re not busy. Share a plate. Tell us the house rules.”
The offer hung there with the dust motes, cicadas whirring through the slats, night air thick with sweetgrass and something darker underneath. You let it linger, watching how Steve’s jaw flexed when Bucky talked, how Bucky’s fingertips tapped the tray like he had more to say with them.
Finally you leaned back on your palms, eyes flicking from one to the other. “House rule’s simple; earn your keep. Fence line’s a mess, cows need milkin’, and Daddy hates slackers.” A slow smile uncurled. “But I might come up later, see if the telescope’s still pointed true.”
Bucky’s grin sharpened. “We’ll set it for the moon.”
You rose, brushing hay dust from your jeans. “Eat while it’s hot. I’ll fetch y’all at first light.” At the hatch you paused, tilting your head just enough that lamp-glow kissed the line of your neck. “Sweet dreams, city boys.”
Boot-steps receded, leaving the scent of spices and warm wood in your wake. Bucky let out a low whistle, passing Steve a plate. “Tell me again why you thought today was a bad day.”
Steve didn’t answer. He just watched the ladder, heart knocking once, twice—like somebody’d tapped a match to kindling he’d forgotten was there.
The wire rasped through worn leather gloves as Steve cinched a new section taut against the post.
Morning heat hadn’t hit full force yet; the light was soft, hazy, dust motes floating like lazy sparks each time the staple met wood. Across from him, Bucky should’ve been driving the next nail, but his hammer paused halfway, blue eyes angled toward the paddock.
You were out by the dairy pen, skirt hem stopping at mid-thigh, knees braced to the churn of a milk pail. Every now and then you tipped the tin to pour a pale ribbon into the waiting bucket, the motion flexing your thighs.
Bucky’s lips pulled into a slow grin. “Tell me that view doesn’t make fence-mending a religious experience.”
“Eyes on the post,” Steve muttered, tamping the staple flat. “We finish the south line before the sun’s overhead.”
“M’hands are workin’, my eyes are multitaskin’.” Bucky leaned, deliberately stretching the thick cotton of his vest. “Can you blame me? Those legs could power a tractor.”
Steve followed the angle of Bucky’s gaze despite himself—caught the way morning light traced the curve of your calf, the slip of skin above a worn boot. He cleared his throat and yanked the next length of wire. “Point is, don’t stare. It’s rude. And we told Mr Moreau we’d act right.”
“Act right?” Bucky’s laugh was a slow roll, low enough only Steve heard. “Saint Rogers over here pretending he didn’t spend the last five minutes studying her ass like it’s a map to salvation.”
Steve’s jaw ticked. “I was making sure she wasn’t lifting more than she should.”
“She’s strong. Didn’t you see her lop that bale? Girl could throw you through the barn door if she tried.” Bucky’s hammer finally met the post—thunk, thunk—driving the nail, though his gaze drifted again to the milking stall. “Bet she smells like vanilla and brown sugar up close.”
“For God’s sake—”
“You’re the one sniffing the air like a bloodhound.” Bucky shot him a sideways grin. “Relax your righteous feathers, punk. We fix the fence, we earn lunch, maybe catch her eye after chores. No harm in looking.”
Steve said nothing, but his ears burned hotter than the sun. The fence gave a satisfied hum under tension. Beyond it, you straightened, wiping the back of your wrist over your brow before hoisting the sloshing bucket to your hip. The movement pulled your skirt higher; both men went still, identical pulses jumping in their throats.
You glanced over, caught them, and offered a small smile before turning toward the barn.
Bucky’s voice dropped, sincere in spite of the teasing. “That smile’s an invitation, pal.”
Steve set his hammer on the top rail, exhaling hard. “It’s a warning.”
“Same thing, if you read it right.” Bucky twirled the hammer once, then thunked it into his belt. “Come on, we finish quick, we wash up, maybe wander by the paddock—”
Steve lifted the next coil of wire, but a reluctant curve tugged his mouth. “Finish quick and it better be neat. If her dad sees a sloppy fence, we’re gone before sunset.”
Bucky nailed the last staple with a flourish, dusted his palms, and followed Steve down the line.
The sun hung lazy-low, just warm enough to slick skin but not yet cruel. Fence posts were set, woodchips scattered like confetti around the chopping stump where Steve swung the maul in steady, clean arcs. A few yards off, Bucky rolled hay bales into neat ranks, muscles jumping under sweat-dark cotton.
Bootheels tapped along the packed lane. You appeared with a mason jar in each hand, glass sweating so hard it dripped onto your bare thighs. The hem of your skirt rode high; your cropped tank left a sliver of midriff glowing. You stopped at the paddock rail, hips cocked, watching them work like it was your own private picture show.
“Y’all look parched.”
Bucky straightened first, forearm wiping grit from his brow. One lazy grin and he was sauntering over to you. “Angel, you’re a vision.”
“Uh-huh.” You handed a glass to Steve, eyes glittering. “Don’t spill it.”
Steve set the maul aside, palms broad and pink from the handle. He accepted the lemonade with a murmured thanks—voice gone rough in a way that wasn’t from thirst alone. “Smells like lemons and cane sugar. You make it yourself?”
“Fresh this mornin’. Daddy swears by it.” You sipped from Bucky’s jar, lips glistening, then handed it to him. His gaze tracked the curve of your mouth like a compass needle. “Saw you two knockin’ that fence line out fast. Figured a reward was fair.”
Bucky tipped the drink, throat working. “Could use more rewards just like this.” His eyes drifted down, unapologetic. “Gotta say, the scenery makes hard labour downright spiritual.”
Steve cleared his throat, shooting Bucky a side-long glance that begged for decorum. He turned to you instead. “Is it just you and Mr. Moreau runnin’ all of this?”
“Daddy’s got three hands from town come by Mondays, Wednesdays, and Saturdays.” You shrugged, playful. “So he was mighty generous lettin’ you bunk the loft—already plenty of help around here.”
“Generous man,” Bucky echoed, elbow nudging Steve. “Maybe we earn a longer stay. Few more fences need mendin’? Any chores need extra muscle?”
Steve flicked him a warning, but you only smiled, amused at the jockeying. “We’ll see what Daddy thinks.”
Bucky leaned on the rail, voice dropping. “What about what you think?”
“I think city boys burn quick in bayou heat,” you teased, running a finger along the condensation of Steve’s jar. “But if you don’t mind a little sweat, maybe stick around. Could be fun.”
You tapped the rim of Steve’s glass, then Bucky’s. “Finish up. Lunch at the house in twenty. Don’t keep me waitin’.”
With that you turned, skirt swishing just enough to make both men swallow. The backs of your thighs glowed in the noon light as you sauntered toward the barn, humming something slow and sweet.
Bucky watched every step. “One more day, Stevie. Let’s charm the old man, top off the tank, see where the night goes.”
Steve drained the lemonade, eyes still on your retreating sway. “We charm him by working, Buck. And by keeping our mouths clean.”
“Hands might not stay that way, though,” Bucky muttered, rolling his shoulders before grabbing another bale.
Steve hefted the maul again, but there was a new looseness in the set of his jaw, in the way he glanced toward the barn door you’d slipped through.
The dining room smelled of fried catfish and sweet corn fritters—hot oil, cracked pepper, a shimmer of cayenne that clung to the air like summer sweat. Cedar-plank walls held the noon light soft and amber; a battered ceiling fan turned slow overhead, pushing the warm scent around.
At the rough-hewn table sat Mr. Moreau, back straight, elbows planted wide like fence-posts. His gaze pinned both men while your small radio whispered an old Fats Domino tune from the sideboard.
You settled first, bare calf crossing over knee, skirt riding high so a ribbon of thigh caught the fan breeze. No fuss, no apology, just a lazy slide into the chair to the left of the old man. Bucky and Steve perched side by side on the long bench, shoulders too broad for the narrow space.
Mr. Moreau cleared his throat. “So.”
Bucky flashed an easy grin. “Sir, we wanted to thank you for lunch—and for the loft last night. Fence is tight, wood’s stacked, goats’re lookin’ downright smug. Thought maybe we could hang on a bit. Give you a few more solid days’ work.”
Steve nodded, posture crisp. “We don’t expect pay. Just room, board, maybe a little gas when all’s done.”
The old man’s eyes narrowed, slow as an eclipse. “Men who drift in askin’ favours are usually runnin’ from somethin’.”
Bucky’s grin softened, but didn’t falter. “Only thing we’re runnin’ from is bad luck and an empty tank.” He lifted a fried fillet in salute. “Figured we’d trade sweat for supper till fortune turns.”
Mr. Moreau grunted, slicing into cornbread. “Luck’s earned, not begged.”
Across the table, you leaned your chin into one hand, nails tracing idle circles on the lacquer. “Daddy.” The single word mild and amused. “Fence never looked that straight. Saved you two of the town boys this morning.”
Bucky shot you a grateful wink. Steve took a careful sip of sweet tea—eyes flicking from the old man to the curve of your mouth as you licked a crumb of batter from your bottom lip.
“Could use them on the west pasture, too,” you added, voice syrup-slow. “Boards are rotten through. And your back’s been talkin’.”
The old man’s jaw ticked, like admitting pain was heresy. “Mmph.”
You shrugged, turning your attention to the drifters. “Reckon they stay through the weekend, that job’s done.”
Bucky’s boot nudged Steve’s knee under the table. He straightened. “We’ll have that pasture tight by Sunday. After that, we’ll roll on, no trouble.”
Mr. Moreau studied them, then you. “Ain’t your habit takin’ strays, girl.”
You tucked a damp piece of hair behind your ear. “Maybe they’re useful strays.”
Bucky coughed a laugh; Steve nudged him this time—behave. But you’d already hooked a foot beneath Bucky’s boot-lace, giving it a slow teasing drag. His breath caught, just a fraction, before he masked it with another bite of fish.
Steve felt the shift, the invisible pull of your attention, and he flushed hotter than cayenne pepper. You shifted again, thigh brushing his denim under the table’s edge, bare skin against coarse cotton for half a heartbeat, then you broke contact, like a cat pretending no mischief at all.
Mr. Moreau missed all of it, “My daughter’s comfort counts first.”
Bucky leaned forward, forearms on the table, voice dropping to a respectful drawl. “Sir, we’d sooner limp to Baton Rouge barefoot than disrespect your home or your daughter.”
You tipped your glass, amber iced tea shining against your mouth. “Told you they got manners, Daddy.”
Steve cleared his throat, earnest. “Mr. Moreau, we may have never grown up around farms… but work here feels right. Let us finish what we started.”
Silence stretched, thick as cane syrup. A fly buzzed the rim of the pepper sauce; the fan creaked overhead. Your toes traced a line up the inside seam of Bucky’s jeans, making him swallow hard. Steve’s knee jostled under your hand, and his fork stalled halfway to his mouth.
Finally Mr. Moreau set down his cornbread. “Two more days. West pasture, chicken-wire pen, then you go. I’ll spare a gallon for your tank—no more.”
“See it done proper.” He pushed back from the table, chair legs scraping. “I got hogs to check.” Then he turned to Steve, stern but not unkind, “You strike me as a man who knows straight from crooked. Keep him,”—a nod at Bucky—“on the square.”
“Yes, sir.”
The old man left through the side door, screen slapping shut. The room exhaled, something easier curling in the hot air.
Bucky looked at you, mischief lighting every line of him. “Appreciate the save, darlin’. Didn’t think we’d pass inspection.”
You rose, gathering plates, the hem of your skirt lifting as you reached across Steve’s shoulder—letting him feel the soft brush of your hip before you eased away. “Didn’t do it for free. Fence straight Sunday means I pick my payment.”
Steve tried for steady. “And what payment is that?”
You stacked dishes on the sideboard, glancing back over your shoulder. “Surprise me.” Then, softer, to Bucky, “And y’all behave. Daddy’s got a rifle on the porch.”
Bucky’s grin widened. “Lucky for us I’m faster than buckshot.”
“We’ll see.” You disappeared through the kitchen arch, leaving the faint scent of honeysuckle lotion in your wake.
Bucky exhaled a slow whistle. “Think she likes us.”
Steve dragged a hand down his face. “She’s teasing, Buck.”
“Teasing’s just foreplay writ large.” He elbowed Steve, leaning in. “Did you feel her on your leg? Damn near thought my heart’d stop.”
Steve pushed his chair out, cheeks flushed. “Focus, please.”
Sun-bleached boards thudded under their boots as they stepped off the porch. The cicadas had switched to their slow, drowsy rhythm—a back-of-the-throat drone.
Steve kept his voice low but firm. “We’ve got a good thing here, Buck. Two days’ work, a gallon for the Chevy, and a place that doesn’t smell like diesel. Don’t screw it up.”
Bucky shot him a sideways look, half-smile already fading. “Why’s it always ‘don’t screw it up,’ Stevie? Maybe let a man enjoy the view.”
“We promised Mr Moreau we’d behave,” Steve’s glare held steady. “You act like you’ve never seen a pretty girl before.”
“I promised to respect his house. Didn’t promise to walk around blind.” Bucky kicked a pebble off the path, hands sliding into his back pockets. “Besides, she’s not just ‘a pretty girl.’ She’s—” He paused, searching for the right weight of the word. “—a woman. Curves like a prayer and a mouth that could talk the devil into church.”
Steve stopped, jaw tight. “You’re thinking with your dick.”
“Guilty as charged.” Bucky’s grin flickered, then fell when Steve didn’t soften. “Come on, I’m not gonna leap on her in broad daylight. I can look.”
“Looking becomes touching, and touching gets us tossed back on the road.” Steve’s shoulders slumped with the day’s work, but the edge in his voice stayed sharp. “I’m tired, Buck. One calm weekend—that’s all I’m asking.”
Bucky dragged a hand through sweat-stiff hair, irritation creeping in. “You ever get tired of being the saint? Ever just… feel something and want it?”
“I’m not dead.” Steve’s gaze drifted back toward the house where you were in, then snapped back. “I just know consequences.”
Silence yawned between them, warm and weighty. A dragonfly skated past, wings catching the sunlight.
Finally Bucky exhaled, palms up in surrender. “Fine. No dirty business. Cross my heart. Happy?”
“I’ll be happy when we’re rolling down the highway with a full tank.” Steve started walking again. “Fence first. Daydreams later.”
Bucky fell in beside him, muttering, “Still gonna daydream,” but the bite had gone out of his voice. He cast one last glance at the house, wondering if you were watching from a window, then squared his shoulders and matched Steve’s pace.
Night pressed soft against the loft, all damp cricket-song and the slow pump of the bayou. Bucky slept hard—one arm flung over his face, snore sawing in and out like a loose screen door. Steve lay staring at the beams, sweat cooling on his chest, counting every creak of the rafters until the numbers tangled.
Finally he slid upright, feet finding the quilt-cool boards. Maybe a glance through the telescope would bleed off the restlessness. Just stargazing, nothing more.
The brass tube stood ready at the cut-out window, still flecked with dust from the afternoon. Steve angled it toward the water first—silver ripple, cypress knees shining. Pretty, but the hush didn’t fill him. The lens drifted past the dark smear of the barn roof, climbed to the house on the slight rise. One window glowed warm at the top floor—the only light left awake.
Curiosity, he told himself. He dialed the focus with thumb and forefinger, glass settling on the open curtains.
You moved into frame like a slow exhale, backlit amber. Bare shoulders, skin glinting where the lamp touched. A thin bra—lace maybe, pale against the line of your ribs. Matching panties sat low on your hips, soft fabric hugging the curve he’d pretended not to follow all day.
Steve’s breath stalled. He should pivot away, point the scope at the moon. Instead he watched, heartbeat thudding dull over the swamp’s night chorus.
You worked lotion over your body, hands moving over your chest, throat lengthening with each drag. Heat pooled low in Steve’s stomach, spreading tight. His underwear grew snug; he shifted, ashamed and hungry all at once.
Then your hands slid behind your back. A tiny hitch of shoulders, a flick—straps loosened, the bra easing forward before you peeled it off, slow as a secret. Breasts cupped the lamplight, perfect weight swaying when you dropped the scrap of lace onto a chair.
Steve’s palm tightened on the telescope barrel. He wanted to look away, give you privacy, keep the promise he’d made to himself and to Bucky, but he couldn’t. Not while you turned, adjusting the lamp wick, the soft underside of your breast catching the glow. His breath fogged the eyepiece; he wiped it with a trembling thumb and stared harder, pulse hammering through every inch of him.
Below, Bucky’s snore cut off, shifted, resumed. Steve froze, spine prickling, but the other man didn’t stir. Only the wind moved, pushing thick bayou air over Steve’s damp skin, over the ache pressing urgent inside his shorts.
In the window you stretched, arms above your head, nipples tightening against the night chill. A small satisfied sigh seemed to carry across the dark, Steve almost felt it on his tongue.
“God,” he whispered, a prayer or a curse, he wasn’t sure.
You turned then, facing the glass fully, eyes half-lidded, unaware of the distant drifter watching like a sinner. Steve’s heartbeat slammed. One more second, he promised himself, just one—
A floorboard groaned behind him. He jerked away from the telescope, heat flushing his face even in the dark. Bucky muttered, rolled, settled again. Steve pressed knuckles to his mouth, breathing through the thunder in his chest.
He lay back down but sleep didn’t come. The image of you; smooth skin, bare and unhurried, glowed behind his eyes, bright as the wildfire heat pooling low, refusing to let him go.
A pulse of want rolled through Steve so sharp it bordered on pain. He imagined stepping into that warm-lit room, sliding behind you, palms cupping the soft weight he could only see now in glass and reflections—thumbs circling your nipples until your breath stuttered.
He could almost feel the heat of your skin against his tongue, taste salt and honeysuckle lotion as he mouthed the tip and heard you sigh his name. The thought hit low and thick, tugging at him until his boxer briefs felt two sizes too small.
He tried to drag the vision back to something polite, tried to picture himself knocking on the door, asking if you needed help with chores, but the reel kept slipping; his hands spreading over your hips, his mouth trailing down to suck at the lush underside fo your breast where the lamplight painted shadows.
He wanted to trace every curve, let you arch beneath the weight of his body, feel you shiver when his tongue flicked over pebbled skin. The wanting rode him hard, ruthless, until he clenched his fists against the quilt and swallowed a groan, knowing the taste of you would haunt his tongue long after dawn.
Crickets sang louder, the bayou hummed, and Steve counted the beats until dawn, pulse trapped in the fist of his own wanting.
The next day the sun was high but merciful, tucked behind a gauzy veil of clouds. Steve worked the auger alone, shoulders bunching with every crank. He’d barely spoken since dawn, jaw tight enough to creak.
Across the pasture, you crossed the grass with a slow swing in your hips, skirt flirting just above your knees. Bucky spotted you first; the post-hole digger hit the dirt with a muffled thud. His grin arrived a heartbeat later.
“Afternoon, darlin’. Come to supervise?”
You stopped beside him, fingers trailing the rail he’d just set. “Someone’s gotta keep an eye on you. Your friend over there”—you nodded toward Steve—“can hardly look me in the eye without blushin’.”
Bucky followed your gaze. Steve never looked up, but his strokes came faster, as if he felt the attention. “That’s Stevie for ya. Spends half his life polishing a halo no one asked him to wear.”
“And you?” Your tone dropped silk-low. “What do you polish, hotshot?”
“Depends who’s askin’.” He leaned on the fence, sweat darkening the vee of his T-shirt. “If he’s the saint, guess that makes me the sinner.”
You hummed approval, thumb idly circling the rough grain near his wrist. “Sinner’s a big word.”
“Earned it.” His gaze dragged the length of your legs, unapologetic. “Figure sin’s just pleasure folks’re too scared to call by its proper name.”
“That right?” You shifted closer, the scent of hay and skin mingling. “Tell me a sin, then. One you’d commit if no one was watchin’.”
Bucky’s smile dipped wicked. “Start with a kiss, slow and sweet, right where that pulse flickers.” He trailed a knuckle just shy of the soft hollow beneath your ear. “Maybe taste that sheen of sweat on your throat—follow it down, see where it gathers.”
Your breath caught, but you kept your poise, folding arms under your breasts so they lifted, tempting. “Bold talk for a man on probation.”
“Two days’ probation.” His eyes sparkled. “Could make ’em holy or make ’em worth repentin’.”
You glanced back at Steve; he’d stopped, one hand braced on the auger, head dipped like a man praying for composure. A smirk curved your mouth. “Your boy looks ready to burst.”
“My boy’s got eyes.” Bucky lowered his voice. “Bet he’s thinkin’ the same dirty things. Just afraid to name ’em.” He leaned in until his lips almost grazed your ear. “Maybe we should show him sin ain’t so scary.”
Heat spiraled low in your belly at the promise. You slid a fingertip over the tops of Bucky’s work gloves, tracing the crease where leather met skin. “Maybe I like watching men wrestle temptation. Makes the reward sweeter when they finally give in.”
“Careful, angel. I’m a simple man once the rules come off.”
“So take ’em off,” you whispered, stepping back with a tease-slow smile. “When the work’s done.”
Your gaze drifted past the fenceline, toward the shimmer of water where the bayou curved like a dark ribbon through cane and cypress. Bucky’s eyes followed, hungry for whatever had your attention—even hungrier when they slid back to him.
“Pretty out there at night,” you murmured, thumb idly tracing the crease of his glove again. “Moon hangs low, fireflies float so thick it looks like somebody scattered diamonds over the water.”
“Sounds downright romantic,” he said, voice roughening on the word. His fingers twitched as if they’d rather close around your waist than the post-hole digger. “You a fan of romantic things, sweetheart?”
“Mm-hmm. When they’re done right.” You stepped just close enough that your skirt brushed his thigh, letting him feel the heat that lived in the inches between your thighs. “Question is—do you like romance, or are you all talk and no follow-through?”
“Oh, I follow through.” His grin tilted wicked. “Give me a porch swing, bit of night air, someone worth sittin’ close to? I’m a poet.”
“A poet?” You teased, but the word sparked a pleasant thrum low in your belly.
“Maybe more a—” His gaze dropped to your mouth, then lowered, lingered at the neckline of your tank. “—hands-on storyteller.”
“Then maybe I’ll tell Daddy I’m takin’ the skiff after supper.” Your voice stayed soft, but the promise in it was as thick as the noon heat. “Could show you that view once your better half’s asleep.”
His breath hitched. “And what view would that be?”
“The one where moonlight paints the bayou silver…” Your fingers ghosted up the inside of his bare forearm. “…and nobody’s around to see if I dip my toes into the water.”
He swallowed hard. “Could be dangerous out there.”
“Only if you scare easy.” Your lips curved. “You strike me as the kind that doesn’t.”
“Saint back there might beg to differ,” he said, jerking his chin toward Steve, who was still hammering like salvation depended on it.
“He’s busy saving souls. I’m busy tempting sinners.” You stepped back, leaving the faintest drag of your nails along his wrist before the distance sealed. “Finish your posts, handsome. Meet me by the dock after dark. We’ll see if romance fits you.”
Bucky’s voice was just a rasp now. “Yes, ma’am.”
You turned toward the barn, hips swaying like slow jazz. Behind you, the clink of wire and rasp of shovel sounded suddenly frantic—as if the devil himself told him every nail he sets is one minute closer to sin.
Across the pasture, Steve finally looked up, sweat-slick hair falling in his eyes. He watched Bucky watching you and couldn’t quite name the tightness curling in his gut; couldn’t decide if it was jealousy, dread, or something hotter than either.
The loft was heavy with darkness—rafters lost in shadow, only a ribbon of moonlight sneaking through the cut-out window. Steve rolled onto his back, blinked, and blinked again. The couch beside him should’ve been groaning under Bucky’s long sprawl, but the cushions sat empty, quilt folded neat as a flag.
“Damn it, Buck,” he muttered.
Boots in hand, he eased to the ladder, the barn’s hush broken only by the soft drip of night dew through the roof tin. Outside, the world glimmered silver—pasture brushed in moon-pale grass, house lights long since snuffed. Steve angled toward the porch first, nothing. He circled the truck, checked the tool shed, found only his own irritation sharpening.
Last option, water.
He followed the narrow path that cut between cane rows, the air warm and wet against his skin. Crickets chirred in lazy chirr-chirrs; now and then a bullfrog belched from some hidden hollow. The bayou opened ahead, black water reflecting slices of stars.
That’s when he heard it—soft at first, a breathy hum sliding into a low, bitten-off moan. Another, higher, drenched in pleasure and muffled by sleepy dark. Steve stopped dead. The sound floated from the dock where the skiff rocked, a rhythm that was distinctly human, distinctly intimate.
He swallowed, pulse thumping in his throat. A rustle followed, then a hushed male laugh—Bucky’s, unmistakable, husky with mischief. Another sigh answered him, velvet-sweet. Steve’s cheeks flamed; every warning he’d given rattled back in his skull.
He stepped closer, shoes silent on damp earth, but stayed behind the screen of cypress trunks. The voices blurred but the tone was clear—slow, wet kisses; a whispered “you like that, darlin’” that tightened his gut. Wood knocked softly, a back hitting the dock, maybe, then a tremor of breathy laughter, yours, sliding straight beneath Steve’s skin.
Steve’s boots sank into the soft mud as he edged forward, the cypress shadows cloaking him like a guilty secret. The air hung heavy, laced with the musky tang of the bayou and something sharper—sweat, skin, raw need.
His heart hammered against his ribs, each step pulling him deeper into the forbidden pull of those sounds; the slick glide of bodies, the creak of the dock under shifting weight, your gasps weaving through Bucky’s low, filthy murmurs.
He parted the low-hanging branches, breath held tight, and there it was—laid bare under the fractured moonlight. The old wooden dock stretched out over the inky water, a threadbare blanket rumpled beneath you, your body arched and exposed in stark naked glory.
Legs splayed wide, knees hooked over Bucky’s hips, you lay on your back, skin flushed and glistening, breasts heaving with every ragged inhale. Bucky loomed above you, just as bare, his muscled frame glistening with effort, driving into you with relentless force—like a piston hammering home, hips snapping forward in a brutal rhythm that made the skiff bob gently against the pilings.
“Goddamn, angel, you’re so fuckin’ tight,” Bucky rasped, voice gravel-rough and dripping with heat, his arm braced beside your head, the other gripping your thigh to spread you wider.
He plunged deep, cock thick and veined, disappearing into your slick folds with each savage thrust, the wet squelch of your cunt taking him echoing softly over the water.
You encouraged him, nails raking down his back, leaving red trails that made him hiss and buck harder.
“Yeah, just like that… fuck me deeper, honey, don’t stop,” you moaned, voice husky and demanding, hips rolling up to meet him, chasing the friction that had your toes curling against the blanket.
Steve’s gut twisted, a vicious knot of jealousy coiling tight. That smug son of a bitch—breaking their word, claiming you right here where anyone could stumble on it.
Part of him wanted to storm the dock, drag Bucky off you, demand answers—Why you? Why him? Why not…?
But his feet stayed rooted, eyes glued to the obscene union where Bucky’s cock stretched you wide, emerging slick and shining with your arousal before slamming back in, balls slapping heavy against your ass.
He couldn’t tear away. Watched, transfixed, as Bucky’s ass clenched with every drive—muscles bunching tight, flexing under the moonlight as he powered forward, burying himself to the hilt.
Your pussy lips clung to him on the outstroke, puffy and soaked, the connection a filthy, mesmerizing sight that sent heat surging through Steve’s veins. Jealousy warred with the fire building low in his belly, his cock swelling hard and insistent against his pants, throbbing with a need that shamed him even as it gripped him tighter.
Bucky leaned down, capturing your mouth in a messy kiss, tongue thrusting in time with his hips, while his hand slid between your bodies to circle your clit, making you arch and cry out into his mouth.
“Come on, pretty girl, squeeze me—milk this cock like you own it,” he grunted against your lips, pace turning frantic, the dock groaning under the onslaught.
You bucked beneath him, moans spilling free, body trembling on the edge, and Steve’s hand drifted unconsciously to his zipper, palm pressing against the rigid length straining there, breath coming in shallow pants as arousal drowned the anger, leaving only the pounding urge to watch you shatter.
His resolve cracked like dry earth under the relentless pull of what was unfolding before him. His hand trembled as it fumbled with his belt, the zipper rasping down too loud in the humid night, but the bayou swallowed the sound.
Shame burned hot in his chest, a sick twist of disgust at his own weakness—spying like some pervert, palming his aching cock free into the cool air. It sprang out, thick and heavy, veins pulsing with the blood roaring through him, pre-cum already beading at the tip as he wrapped his fingers around the shaft, stroking slow at first, then matching the brutal rhythm Bucky set.
Bucky shifted, his thrusts deepening, hips grinding forward with a force that buried him balls-deep, your slick walls clenching around his length in greedy pulls. Steve’s eyes locked on the way your body yielded, pussy stretched taut around Bucky’s girth, juices coating him shiny and wet with every withdraw.
He pumped his fist tighter, breath hitching, hating how the sight made his balls draw up, how the jealousy gnawed deeper when Bucky dipped his head to your chest.
Bucky’s mouth latched onto one breast, sucking hard on the swollen nipple, tongue lashing the peak while his teeth grazed just enough to make you whimper.
Your back bowed off the blanket, fingers tangling in his hair to hold him there, and Steve’s gut clenched like a fist—fuck, he wished that was him, his lips sealing over that pebbled flesh, tasting the salt of your skin, drawing those desperate sounds from your throat.
“Harder, handsome—suck ’em like you mean it,” you gasped, voice raw and pleading, and Steve’s strokes quickened, imagining those words spilling for him, your body writhing under his weight instead.
He leaned against the cypress trunk for support, the rough bark biting into his palm as he jerked himself off in frantic pulls, the wet schlick of his hand mirroring the obscene slap of Bucky’s hips against yours. Every encouragement you tossed out—“Yes, just like that, fill me up”—twisted the knife of envy, but he devoured them, pretending you meant him, that your heat was clenching around his cock, not Bucky’s.
Then it hit—you shattered with a loud, keening moan that sliced through the night, body convulsing as your orgasm ripped through you. Steve watched your pussy spasm, milking Bucky’s shaft in rhythmic squeezes, walls fluttering visibly around him.
Bucky groaned low and guttural, the sound vibrating from his chest as he felt it, your release soaking him further.
“Fuck—yeah, cum all over me, sweet thing,” he grunted, pace turning savage, hips pistoning faster, chasing his own edge with short, brutal drives that made your tits bounce and the dock shudder.
Steve’s vision blurred, the coil in his gut snapping as he stared at the frenzy—your nails digging into Bucky’s shoulders, his ass flexing with each punishing thrust, cock slamming home through your climax.
It was too much; his balls tightened, and he came with a stifled grunt, hot spurts erupting over his fist, splattering the mud at his feet. Ecstasy flooded him in white-hot waves, cock twitching in his grip, but as the peak crested, shame crashed down like a Louisiana storm—disgust churning in his veins, sticky and vile, for getting off to his best friend fucking, to you choosing Bucky’s roughness over whatever Steve might have offered.
Bucky kept going, mouth claiming yours in a sloppy, devouring kiss, tongues tangling as he rode out the aftershocks, hips still rolling deep.
Steve’s hand shook as he tucked himself away, cum-smeared fingers fumbling the zipper up, heart pounding with the need to vanish before the guilt swallowed him whole.
He backed away silent as a ghost, retreating into the cane rows, the sounds of your shared breaths fading behind him, leaving only the bitter ache of what he’d seen, and what he’d done, in the humid dark.
Morning sweated slowly into afternoon, the sun floating white-hot behind a gauze of haze. Down in the west pasture the fence line rattled beneath the steady thunk of a post-hole digger, but today its rhythm belonged to only one pair of hands.
Steve drove the iron blades into the soil again and again—shirt plastered to his back, jaw set so tight the tendon jumped. Every few minutes he straightened, wiped the grit from his palms, and turned the next section of wire without so much as a glance toward the barn.
Bucky tried talking first thing, an easy joke about cane toads croaking love songs, but Steve answered with a curt nod and buried himself in work. Now, hours later, Bucky was done pretending it didn’t sting. He stalked up the fenceline, boots crunching weeds, sweat glistening on his forearms.
“Alright, punk, what crawled up your ass?”
No answer. Steve slammed another staple home, muscles flexing under sunburned skin.
“Come on, Rogers. Usually I can’t shut you up about alignments and load-bearing angles. Now you’re growlin’ like a kicked dog.”
The hammer paused mid-swing. Steve’s eyes cut sideways, bruised with sleeplessness. “I’m working.”
“Yeah, and ignoring me like I shot your horse.”
“You’d have to own a gun first,” Steve muttered, turning away.
The hammer came down hard, bending the staple sideways. Steve cursed under his breath, pried it out, tried again. Bucky leaned on a fencepost, arms folded.
“You gonna keep this up all day?” he asked, softer now. “Or tell me what I did.”
Steve’s shoulders heaved once, twice. Finally he tossed the hammer into the grass and faced him. “I saw you.”
Bucky blinked. “Saw me what?”
“Last night.” The words grated out like gravel. “By the bayou. With her.”
Silence sucked the air from between them. A cicada screeched somewhere overhead; the wind died.
Bucky’s mouth opened, shut, then set in a thin line. “You spying on me now?”
“I came looking because your dumb ass snuck off.” Steve’s voice cracked with heat—not anger alone, but something raw beneath it. “We agreed, Buck. No screwin’ around with Mr Moreau’s girl.”
“She’s not a girl, Steve. She’s a woman. And she made the first move.”
Steve barked a humorless laugh. “So that clears your conscience? She offered, you took, and the rest of us be damned?”
Bucky pushed off the post, expression hardening. “Don’t pretend it’s about conscience. It’s about you bein’ jealous I got there first.”
Steve flinched as if struck. “You think this is a competition?”
“Isn’t it?” Bucky stepped closer, voice dropping. “I’m tired of tip-toeing around you so you can pretend you’re above wanting her.”
A flush crawled up Steve’s neck. “This isn’t about me. It’s about respect—”
“It’s about you not knowing what to do with what you feel,” Bucky shot back. “So you call me reckless to make yourself feel righteous.”
Steve’s fists clenched. “Reckless? You call sneaking out to fuck the farmer’s daughter on the dock responsible? You risked us getting thrown off the property.”
“Worth it,” Bucky said, and the word was all challenge, “I’m not ashamed of wanting her. She sure as hell wasn’t ashamed of wanting me.”
Steve’s breath hitched; the memory flashed—moonlight on skin, your voice breaking open. Shame burned inside him like lye. “We’re guests here,” he managed. “We owe Mr Moreau respect.”
“I didn’t touch her where he could see.”
“That’s not the point.” Steve turned away, picking up the wire as if work could armour him. “You never think past the next thrill. And I’m always the one patching whatever you tear up.”
“So patch this,” Bucky said, jaw tight. “Or admit the real reason you’re mad is because you wanted to be where I was.”
Colour surged up Steve’s throat. He took a half-step back, fists clenching, then exhaled hard. “You don’t know what I want.”
“You think I can’t see it? You stare at her like she’s Sunday salvation—then play saint when she looks back.” Bucky shook his head, frustration edging his tone. “I’m not sorry, Steve.”
Steve’s gaze flicked toward the house, shutters still closed and curtains fluttering soft. His jaw worked. “If you cared half as much about respect as you do about getting off—”
“Respect?” Bucky scoffed. “I asked her what she wanted. She said yes—loud enough the gators could hear.”
Steve’s eyes flashed, hurt bleeding through. “You don’t get it.”
“What I get is a partner who can’t decide if he’s my brother or my warden.” Bucky’s voice dropped, rough. “If you wanted her, you should’ve said so.”
Steve spun, eyes blazing. For a heartbeat words tangled unsaid—about loyalty, about how long he’d followed Bucky into trouble and how this, somehow, hurt worse than any fight in a back alley. Instead he grabbed the digger, drove it into the ground with a grunt.
“Go inside,” he muttered. “I’ll finish the line.”
Bucky took a step, but not back. His voice dropped to a thread. “You gonna tell her you watched?”
The tool froze mid-lift. Steve’s gaze snapped up, raw panic flickering before he masked it. “Don’t.”
Bucky’s anger faltered, replaced by something like wonder. “Jesus, you did more than watch, didn’t you?”
Steve’s face went white, then red. The digger slipped; he caught it, palms stinging. “Shut up.”
Bucky exhaled, disbelief softening into a rueful smile. “Saint Rogers,” he murmured. “Guess halos tarnish after all.”
Steve’s eyes glinted, hurt and humiliated. He dropped the tool, stepped past Bucky, shoulders stiff. “I’m done talking.”
“Steve—”
But Steve was already striding toward the cane rows, boots kicking dust, jaw clenched so hard it hurt. The sky boiled with late-day clouds, thunder rumbling somewhere distant. Bucky watched him go, chest tight with something that wasn’t victory at all.
The stall smelled of clean straw and warm horsehide, lantern light pooling soft over the cedar boards. Steve stood at the far end, shirt stuck to him, shoulders working a curry brush over the sorrel mare’s flank. The rhythm was steady, measured—every stroke a word he couldn’t speak.
You eased between the stalls, plate balanced on your palm, hips brushing the half-open doors as you passed. “Skipped lunch,” you said, “Figured a man could use somethin’ besides self-reproach for fuel.”
He turned, blue eyes wary until they landed on the sandwich, then gentled. “Ma’am, you didn’t have to—”
“Didn’t ask if I had to.” You held the plate until he took it, fingers grazing his knuckles, a quick spark you pretended not to notice. “Eat before you faint and scare my horses.”
Steve managed a crooked smile, sank onto an overturned feed bucket. The first bite broke the tension in his shoulders; you leaned against the stall door, arms folding under your breasts, watching him chew like it was the most interesting thing in Louisiana.
“You work too hard,” you said after a moment. “Makes me nervous—like I’ve gone and offended you.”
His gaze flicked up, guilt flashing. “You haven’t. I’m… just wired tight today.”
“Wired tight.” You tasted the words, slow. “Could loosen you, if you’d let me.”
He focused on the sandwich, and cleared his voice, despite colour creeping up his throat. “Wasn’t raised to pester a lady while I’m a guest under her roof.”
You hummed, unconvinced. “Feels more like you’re dodgin’ than mindin’ manners. You won’t hardly look at me unless I corner you.”
Steve set the plate on his thigh, thumb worrying the edge. “I—” He paused, swallowed. “You make it hard to keep my thoughts straight.”
“That so?” You pushed off the door, closed the distance until your boots touched his. Fingers slipped beneath the collar of his damp T-shirt, brushing the salty line of his neck. His breath caught hard.
“You ain’t doin’ anything wrong, sugar,” you whispered, letting your nails trace a half-moon before sliding away. “Least not with me.”
The mare huffed behind Steve, but neither of you moved. Your palm skimmed the line of his shoulder, slow and coaxing, to where the muscles knotted beneath damp cotton. “Tell me what’s eating you, pretty boy,” you murmured, thumb easing up the column of his throat to the sharp square of his jaw.
Steve’s lashes flickered. He tried to keep his eyes on the half-eaten sandwich, but the gentleness in your touch tugged his gaze up—and once he met your stare, whatever dam he’d built cracked. “I— last night,” he rasped, voice scraping raw. “I went looking for Bucky. I saw you two… by the bayou.”
Heat rushed to his cheeks. “I stayed. Watched. Should’ve turned around, but I—”
The confession spilled in a tumble of guilt and want. “I hated how jealous I felt. Hated that I couldn’t stop.”
“Oh, baby.” The words were a hush, almost a lullaby. You slid your fingers into the short hair at his nape and guided his head forward until his brow rested against the fine cotton of your shirt just above your navel. He inhaled, sun-warmed linen and honeysuckle, and shuddered.
“You didn’t do wrong by me,” you whispered, stroking the back of his neck. “Feelings aren’t sins.”
Steve’s hands hovered, uncertain, then settled at the backs of your thighs, big and tentative. You stroked his hair once more, let the silence breathe. Outside, the afternoon cicadas blurred into a single shimmering note.
“You can want something without tearing the roof down,” you said, voice low. “All that goodness in you doesn’t disappear ‘cause your body woke up.”
He nodded against you, and the movement, the trust in it, pulled a soft ache in your chest. You tilted his chin, thumb brushing the stubble-rough corner of his mouth. “Look at me, Steve.”
He did, eyes ocean-deep and storm-tossed at once. Your pulse skipped. “Let me show you it’s all right,” you breathed.
You bent, brushing your lips to his—a feather’s kiss, barely there. Steve’s exhale trembled, lashes falling shut as though the simplest touch was sacred. You tasted salt and sun and something sweeter before you lifted away a sliver. His eyes opened, dark with wanting, but he waited, polite even here, and that patience lit a spark low in your belly.
So you kissed him again, surer this time. The soft drag of mouths lingered, then opened; tongues met in a slow glide that tasted like a promise. Steve’s grip tightened at your thighs, thumbs sweeping small circles against your skin as though mapping sacred ground. You inched forward a fraction, pressing him back onto the overturned feed bucket; the move stole a breathy groan from him, swallowed into the kiss.
The stables seemed to narrow around you—lantern glow pooling honey-thick, dust motes floating like sparks in the slanted light. Somewhere a horse stamped, but the world had fallen to heat, straw, and the soft slick slide of lips.
You pulled back just enough to speak against his mouth. “Still feel like you’ve done wrong?”
His eyes opened; blue storm clearing to summer sky. He shook his head, a dazed smile ghosting. “Feel like I’m still figuring out what right feels like,” he murmured.
Your thumb traced the edge of his lower lip, swollen now, beautifully kiss-bitten. “Right’s easy,” you said. “It’s what makes you breathe easier, not harder.”
Steve’s gaze dipped to your mouth, then to the stretch of skin exposed where your shirt rode up. Courage flickered. One big hand slid higher, fingertips brushing the curve just beneath your hemline—a question more than a claim. You answered with a slow nod, lowering your weight a breath closer until his knuckles pressed warm between your ribs.
You slid the half-eaten sandwich and tin plate to the floor with one careless sweep, then eased a knee onto Steve’s lap, settling astride him. The overturned feed bucket creaked; Steve’s hands darted automatically to steady your hips, then froze as if he touched fire.
“Wait—” His voice was a husky scrape. “What about Bucky?”
You leaned in, thumbs brushing the fine blond stubble at his jaw. “Bucky’s not here, sugar.” Your hips sank a fraction, finding the thick shape straining beneath his work jeans. A tremor ripped through him; his eyelids fluttered.
“I can feel how bad you want it,” you murmured, amusement curling in the words like smoke. “Been feelin’ it since I met you. You think I didn’t notice?”
Heat bloomed crimson along Steve’s cheekbones. “I— I keep tryin’ to be respectful.”
“You are.” You cradled his face between your palms. It was steady and reassuring. “Respect doesn’t mean pretendin’ you don’t ache.”
His fingers finally unclenched, sliding up your thighs, rough thumbs stroking slow circles that raised gooseflesh. You rocked once, lazy and testing, and the low sound that spilled from his throat made the lantern sway on its hook.
“I want you too,” you confessed, voice just above a breath. “Want to hear you forget every polite word you know.”
Steve swallowed hard. “That might… take some coaxin’.”
You smiled, nose brushing his. “Lucky I have time.”
Storm-cloud light flickered through the high slats; somewhere beyond the stables a first fat drop of rain hit the tin roof with a hollow ping. You tilted his head back, claiming his mouth again—slow at first, letting him taste the yes in every slide of your tongue. His hands gripped your waist now, anchoring you as though the whole building could spin away.
“Tell me,” you whispered against his lips, “does this feel wrong?”
“No,” he exhaled, breath shivering through the single syllable.
“Then let it feel right.” Your fingers threaded into his hair, guiding him to the soft hollow of your throat. He pressed his mouth there, and the sharp sigh he let out bloomed heat low in your belly.
Rain pattered harder, drumming steady on the roof—cover for any sound you might choose to make. You rolled your hips once more; Steve answered instinctively with a slow lift of his own. The friction dragged a gasp from you both, tangled in the humid air.
You ground against him harder, hips circling with deliberate pressure, the denim barrier between you doing nothing to dull the rigid heat of his cock pressing up into your core. Steve’s mouth yielded under yours, the kiss turning rough—tongues clashing wet and urgent, his lips bruised from the depth of it. He looked utterly lost in it, eyes half-lidded and glassy, like a man three shots deep into whiskey, chasing the burn of your flavor.
Your teeth nipped his lower lip, drawing a ragged inhale from him as you murmured against the corner of his mouth, “That’s it. Touch me, honey. Feel how wet you’re makin’ me already.”
His palms hesitated for a split second, then surged upward, callused fingers digging into the swell of your ass, kneading the flesh through your skirt with a grip that bordered on desperate.
“Good boy,” you breathed, nipping his earlobe before sucking it between your teeth, the vibration of your praise humming into his skin, “pull me down harder. Make me ride that thick length of yours.”
Emboldened, Steve’s hands clenched tighter, yanking you flush against him with a low groan that rumbled from his chest. The force of it slammed your clit right over his bulge, friction sparking white-hot through your veins, your pussy throbbing with the need to be filled.
He bucked up to meet your rhythm, the overturned bucket groaning under the strain as you rutted rougher, denim grinding cotton in slick, heated drags that had slickness soaking through your panties.
Steve’s breaths came in hot pants against your neck, his confidence blooming like the storm outside—fingers spreading wide to cup your cheeks fully, thumbs pressing into the cleft, urging you to grind faster, deeper.
“God, you feel so good,” he rasped, voice thick and broken, finally shedding that polite shell as his hips rolled up hard, chasing the pressure building between you both.
The storm raged fiercer, rain lashing the roof like a thousand frantic fingers, drowning out the world beyond these weathered walls. Impatience clawed through you, a hot coil tightening low in your gut—you needed more than this teasing grind, needed him bare and buried deep.
With a frustrated sound against his lips, you lifted your hips just enough to break the contact, the sudden absence making your clit ache from the loss of friction.
Steve chased it instinctively, a desperate buck of his hips upward, his bulge straining toward you like it had a mind of its own.
“Easy, baby,” you soothed, voice a husky purr as you pressed a palm to his chest, feeling the rapid thunder of his heart beneath sweat-damp cotton. “I got you… gonna take care of that ache right now.” His eyes were wild, pupils blown dark with lust, but he stilled under your touch, breath ragged and waiting.
Your fingers fumbled hastily at his belt buckle, the metal clinking sharp in the humid air before you yanked the zipper down with a swift tug. Steve’s mouth never left your skin, latching onto the pulse point at your throat with hot, open-mouthed sucks that sent shivers racing down your spine—teeth grazing just enough to sting, tongue lapping greedily like he was starving for your taste.
His hands, bold now in their roaming, shoved up under your shirt, palms rough and seeking as they cupped your breasts, thumbs circling your hardening nipples through the thin lace of your bra. He squeezed , rolling the peaks until you arched into him with a sharp gasp, the dual assault of his mouth and hands making your cunt clench with raw need.
Diving into the open fly of his jeans, your hand slipped past the waistband of his boxers, fingers wrapping around the thick, velvety length of his cock. God, he was huge. Hot and heavy in your grip, the foreskin sliding smooth over the swollen head as you gave him a testing stroke.
Excitement surged through you, a fresh gush of wetness soaking your panties. “Fuck, Steve,” you breathed, as you pumped him slowly, feeling the way he throbbed and leaked pre-cum against your palm.
He pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, his blue eyes hazy and uncertain, searching your face for that green light—like a man on the edge, waiting for permission to shatter.
You smiled, thumbing over the flushed tip to smear his slickness down the shaft. “I love uncut men,” you murmured, low and filthy, watching heat flood his cheeks even as his cock twitched harder in your fist.
“Makes ’em feel so damn good… sensitive and real. Yours is perfect, honey. Thick and ready to stretch me wide.” Confident, you stroked him firmer, twisting your wrist at the base where veins pulsed hot under your fingers, drawing a guttural groan from deep in his chest.
You released him just long enough to hike up your skirt, bunching the fabric around your waist to expose the damp lace clinging to your thighs. Hooking your fingers into the crotch of your panties, you shoved them aside roughly, the cool air kissing your slick folds for a heartbeat before you positioned yourself above him.
His cock stood rigid, flushed and glistening from your touch, the head nudging insistently at your entrance as you hovered there, teasing the tip through your wetness—letting the anticipation build until his hands gripped your hips like iron, urging you down with a plea in his eyes.
Slowly you sank down onto his cock, the thick head parting your slick folds and stretching you inch by agonizing inch. A sharp hiss escaped your lips at the burn of it—uncut skin gliding smooth against your inner walls, every ridge and vein dragging delicious friction as you took him deeper.
You watched him like a predator savoring prey, drinking in the way his jaw clenched, brows furrowing in overwhelmed bliss, those blue eyes fluttering half-shut before snapping back to yours. The power of it surged through you, your pussy clenching around him just to feel him twitch inside, the sight of his restraint cracking making your clit throb with wicked satisfaction.
“That’s it,” you murmured, voice a sultry rasp laced with filth, leaning in close enough for your breath to ghost his ear. “Feel how wet I am for you? Squeezin’ this fat cock like it belongs in me. Tell me how it feels—c’mon, baby, use those words.”
Your hips settled fully, grinding in a lazy circle to seat him to the hilt, his balls pressed snug against your ass, but you held still for a beat, teasing him with the velvet grip of your heat. The rain might as well have been a memory; all you heard was his ragged breathing, the wet sounds of your bodies joined.
Slowly, you started to move—lifting just enough to let half his length slide free before easing back down, the drag pulling a low moan from your throat.
“Take what you want, sugar,” you encouraged, nails digging into his shoulders for leverage, voice dropping to a husky whisper. “Grab my ass, my tits—fuck me like you’ve been dreamin’ about. I ain’t fragile; I want it rough, want you to ruin me with this thing.”
He answered in groans at first, deep and guttural, vibrating through his chest as his hips jerked up to meet your descent. “God... so tight,” he murmured, the words tumbling out low and broken, like they were dragged from some hidden place.
“Feels... too good... can’t—” Another thrust from below cut him off, his cock spearing deeper, hitting that spot that made stars burst behind your eyelids. His hands roamed hungrily now, one sliding down to grip your thigh, the other tangling in your hair to pull you into a messy kiss, his tongue thrusting in time with his subtle bucks.
The pace quickened as impatience won out; you bounced a little harder, the slap of skin on skin echoing, your juices coating his shaft and dripping down to soak his jeans. Steve’s control frayed further; he shoved your tank top down with a rough yank, the fabric bunching at your waist and dragging your bra along with it.
Your breasts spilled free, heavy and bouncing with each rise, nipples peaked and begging for attention in the humid air. He stared for a split second, awe flickering in his lust-glazed eyes, before his hands were on them—palms cupping the soft weight, thumbs flicking over the sensitive tips.
“You’re beautiful,” he breathed, voice sweet and polite even in the haze, like a gentleman undone. “These... perfect. So full, so soft—wanna taste ’em, if that’s alright.”
The contrast hit you like lightning, his polite words amid the filth of what you were doing, making your core clench tighter around him. You arched into his touch, moaning as he leaned up to latch onto one nipple, sucking hard while you bounced faster, the dual sensations coiling that heat low and fierce.
The rhythm turned frantic as you picked up speed, hips slamming down harder onto Steve’s cock. Your ass slapped against his thighs, the wet smack mingling with the creak of hay beneath you and the thunder rumbling outside. He thrust up to meet you now, powerful bucks from below that jolted through your core, his body finally surrendering to the instinct you’d been coaxing out.
You reveled in it, a smile splitting your face as you caught him still fixated on your tits—bouncing wildly with each bounce, nipples grazing his chest when you leaned forward, flushed and heaving from the effort.
“Yeah, that’s it baby,” you murmured, voice breathy, threading your fingers through his hair to tug his head back just enough to force his eyes to yours.
“Fuck me back like you mean it—tell me, Stevie, you like poundin’ into me? Like how my pussy milks this cock?” Your words were a filthy prod, urging him past the groans into something more, wanting to hear that polite facade shatter completely.
He groaned louder, the sound raw and desperate, but he managed words this time, spilling them between gritted teeth as his mouth returned to your breast—sucking the peak hard, teeth grazing just enough to sting.
“Love it... shit, love how you take me,” he rasped, voice muffled against your skin, one hand squeezing your ass to pull you down firmer.
“These tits drivin’ me crazy, so damn perfect, bouncin’ like that. And you... tight, hot, beggin’ for it without sayin’ a word.” The sweetness laced his filth, his blue eyes locking on yours mid-thrust. It fueled you, that mix of gentlemanly sweetness and primal drive, making your walls flutter around his length as you rode him relentlessly.
Eventually, you reached between your bodies, fingers finding your swollen clit amid the slick mess where you joined. You rubbed in firm circles, the pressure building fast under your touch, chasing that edge while his cock stretched you full.
“Keep talkin’, sugar,” you gasped, bouncing even more furiously, the pace turning punishing, your juices soaking his balls with every slap. “Tell me what you like about me—my tight little cunt? How I ride you like I own this cock?”
Steve’s response was a guttural curse, his free hand joining yours briefly to press your fingers harder against your clit, like he couldn’t help but take over even there.
“Everything... your fire, the way you squeeze me—god,” he murmured, thrusting up with a force that nearly unseated you, his cock throbbing inside.
The words tipped you over; your orgasm crashed through like lightning, walls clamping down in rhythmic pulses around him, milking his shaft as waves of pleasure ripped cries from your throat. You shuddered through it, grinding down to ride out the bliss, clit pulsing under your touch while your body trembled atop him.
He followed seconds later, the vice of your release undoing him completely. “Shit—cummin’...”
Steve groaned, hips snapping up one last time, burying himself to the root as he erupted. Hot spurts flooded you, his cock jerking with each pulse, filling your spasming heat until it leaked out around him, mixing with your own wetness.
His hands gripped your hips bruisingly, holding you in place as he rode the high, face buried in the crook of your neck, breaths ragged against your skin. The stables seemed to spin for a moment, the rain’s roar returning as your pulses slowed, bodies slick and spent in the humid aftermath.
Steve stayed where he was, like he didn’t quite trust his own limbs yet—face pressed into the warm softness of your chest, breath still uneven against your skin. His hands hadn’t moved either, still anchored at your hips like if he let go too fast you might disappear on him.
You smoothed your fingers through his hair, slow and steady, easing him down from that sharp edge he’d been riding. “Easy, baby… breathe,” you murmured, voice soft, coaxing. “That’s it.”
He let out a shaky exhale, shoulders finally dropping a fraction. The tension in him didn’t vanish, but it softened, melted under your touch instead of snapping tight like it had all morning.
“I didn’t—” he started, then stopped, words catching somewhere between guilt and something softer. “I didn’t think I’d… be like that.”
You tipped his chin just enough to look at him, thumb brushing the flush still high on his cheek. “Like what?” you asked gently.
“Needy,” he admitted, quiet. “Rough. Thought I was better at keepin’ things… under control.”
You huffed a quiet little laugh, not mocking, just warm. “Control’s overrated.” Your hand drifted down his arm, tracing the muscle there, feeling the last little tremors still working through him. “Ain’t nothing wrong with wanting somebody. Ain’t nothing wrong with taking what’s given, either.”
His eyes searched yours, still unsure. “Even… like this?”
“Especially like this.” You leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. “You’re a man, Steve. You feel things. You want things. That don’t make you bad.”
He swallowed, something easing in his expression, though a crease of doubt lingered. “Doesn’t feel like the way I was raised.”
“Maybe the way you were raised ain’t the only way to live.” Your fingers slid back into his hair, nails lightly scratching his scalp, coaxing another quiet exhale from him. “You keep tryin’ to fit yourself into something too tight. No wonder you’re all wound up.”
His grip on your hips loosened, hands shifting instead to rest like he was finally allowing himself to just be there with you instead of bracing for what came next.
“You didn’t look like you thought it was wrong,” you added, a teasing lilt slipping back into your tone, eyes flicking to his mouth. “Not when you took me like a rowdy bull.”
A faint, embarrassed smile tugged at his lips. “No… guess I didn’t.”
“There you go.” You nudged his nose with yours, playful now. “Honest for once.”
He let out a soft breath that almost sounded like a laugh, the sound low and a little disbelieving, like he wasn’t used to feeling this light after something that intense.
Outside, the rain had started to ease—softening from a roar to a steady patter. Inside the stall, the air stayed thick and warm, the kind that made it easy to linger. Steve shifted slightly beneath you, one hand coming up to your back, resting there more confidently now.
“Thank you,” he said, quieter this time.
You tilted your head, studying him for a beat, then smiled. “Don’t start getting all polite on me again,” you warned lightly. “We just fixed that problem.”
That earned a small huff from him, the ghost of his usual composure returning, but looser now, less rigid. Your fingers traced idly along his shoulder again, slow, absentminded, like you had all the time in the world.
“Better?” you asked, softer.
Steve nodded, eyes lingering on your face—then dipping, just briefly, before coming back up. There was still heat there, still want, but now it sat easier on him. Less like something to fight. More like something he was starting to understand.
“Yeah,” he said. “Better.”
Rain sheeted against the loft’s tin roof hard enough to rattle the rafters, a steady percussion that should’ve lulled tired muscles to sleep.
Instead, Steve lay flat on the thin mattress pulled beside the couch, eyes fixed on the low slope of the ceiling where moon-gray water stains mapped the wood. The darkness felt thick, scented with damp hay and the copper tang of dying storm, but it was the silence between the two men that really pressed on his ribs.
Across the narrow space Bucky shifted, springs creaking under the old couch cushions. Not asleep. Steve could tell from the rhythm of his breathing; too shallow.
They’d worked the afternoon in tense near-silence, traded a few practical words over supper, then climbed to the loft when Mr. Moreau doused the lanterns downstairs. Since then… nothing.
Steve’s guilt gnawed as loud as the rain. All the righteous bullshit he’d thrown at Bucky that morning felt paper-thin now, ripped by the memory of your thighs bracketing his hips, the slick pull of your body around him. He’d sinned in the very place he’d condemned… maybe deeper. Bucky had broken a promise, sure, but Steve had broken it twice. First by watching, then by taking.
If he spoke first, will it sound like confession or a challenge? He imagined Bucky’s face if he admitted what happened in the stables—those bright blue eyes narrowing, that crooked grin folding into something sharp and hurt. Bucky was reckless, yes, but he was proud; jealousy cut him close to the bone. Steve couldn’t blame him. He felt the same knife when he’d watched Bucky with you, a sick cocktail of envy and desire he still tasted on the back of his tongue.
A board popped in the loft floor; Steve flinched. Bucky exhaled, a quick huff that could’ve been a sigh… or a laugh, it was hard to tell.
“Storm’s loud tonight,” Bucky muttered into the dark.
Steve swallowed. “Yeah.”
Another beat. Rain drummed harder, then softened in waves. Steve could picture the bayou swelling, black water rising under the dock where everything had changed. He tried not to think about how your moans had sounded layered over the water, how his own had answered hours later in a dusty stable.
“You finish that west line tomorrow,” Bucky said finally, voice low, almost casual. “We’ll have Moreau paid up.”
“Almost done,” Steve answered. He wet his lips, searching for something, anything really, to ease the weight in the room. The apology caught behind his teeth.
Bucky shifted again, the couch springs squealed. “Punk, you gonna stew all night?”
Steve closed his eyes. I don’t want to fight you. I don’t want to lie either.
Outside, lightning flashed white through the high window slats, illuminating dust motes and the curve of the telescope aimed at dripping darkness. The quick burst etched Bucky’s silhouette; hands behind his head, stare fixed on the rafters, then vanished.
Steve drew a breath, let it out slow. “We should get some sleep,” he managed. “Finish early.”
Bucky’s chuckle was soft, humorless. “Sure.” A pause. “Night, Stevie.”
“Night, Buck.”
The rain settled into a gentle hiss, but sleep stayed distant. Steve lay listening to the space between heartbeats, wondering how long secrets could hang in rafters before they dripped down like stormwater, soaking everything beneath.
Dawn slipped through the loft slats in gauzy stripes, lighting dust motes and the tired curve of two backs turned on one another. Steve sat on the edge of his mattress, boots half-laced, guilt thrumming like an ache in his teeth. Across the aisle, Bucky tugged yesterday’s shirt over his head, humming nothing in particular, almost normal again after a night of storm-soaked silence.
Steve cleared his throat. “Mornin’, Buck.”
Bucky flicked him a sideways grin. “Look who’s talkin’ to me.”
Steve managed a huff of a laugh, tension easing a notch. “Didn’t mean to be a bear yesterday.”
“Figured you were just hungry.” Bucky stretched, joints popping. “Or constipated.”
“Yeah. Something like that.” Steve stood, wiped his palms on his thighs. “Listen—there’s somethin’ I gotta say before we head out.”
Bucky’s brows lifted, but the grin stayed. “Alright, preacher. Floor’s yours.”
For a heartbeat Steve couldn’t find air; the loft felt too small for the words. He ran a hand through his hair, stared at the warped floorboard between them. “Yesterday… after the rain started… I was in the stables.” He forced his gaze up, blue meeting blue. “She came by to give me some lunch and— and things got… outta hand.”
The smile died on Bucky’s mouth, shoulders stiffening under crumpled cotton. “Outta hand how?”
Steve swallowed. “We— I—” The confession lodged, then fell. “I slept with her.”
Silence crashed heavier than the storm. Bucky’s jaw ticked once, twice… his eyes flared a darker shade. “You mean right after you tore me a new one for fucking her?”
Steve winced. “Yeah.”
Bucky laughed. It was short, sharp and no humour in it. “That’s rich, Stevie. Real righteous.”
“I know it’s hypocritical,” Steve said, voice clipped. “But it happened.”
“‘Just respect Mr. Moreau,’” Bucky mocked, pitching his voice higher. “‘We’re guests, Buck.’ Then you go and fuck his daughter in the hay like a damn barn animal.”
“Wasn’t like that.” Heat licked up Steve’s neck. “It wasn’t planned. We—talked, and—”
“And you forgot all about your sermon.” Bucky crossed his arms, biceps bulging. “Tell me, did you watch yourself grunt and moan the way you watched me?”
Steve’s cheeks flamed. “Don’t make this dirtier than it is.”
“Dirtier? Brother, the mud’s already up to our knees.” Bucky stepped closer, anger bright and brittle. “You wouldn’t even let me feel good of what I had with her. Now you want me to swallow this and play nice?”
“I’m not askin’ for forgiveness.” Steve’s voice rose. “But you deserved the truth.”
“Truth is you’re jealous as hell and didn’t want to admit it,” Bucky shot back. “So you took your turn and still wanna be the saint.”
Steve’s fists clenched. “You think this feels right to me? I don’t think I can even look her father in the eye.”
“Good. Maybe you’ll choke on that guilt.” Bucky pivoted, pacing a tight line, boots thumping. He stopped, spun. “Fine. Let’s skip the guilt. Let’s ask her straight out who she wants. Winner keeps the girl, loser keeps their mouth shut.”
“That’s childish,” Steve snapped.
“Better than self-righteous,” Bucky muttered.
They stared each other down, breath quickening with a frustration edged in something hotter. Outside the loft, a rooster crowed. The tension held, buzzing like a live wire between their chests.
Steve exhaled first, the fight draining to weary honesty. “We can’t turn her into a prize, Buck. That ain’t right, and you know it.”
Bucky’s shoulders sagged, but the jealousy still smouldered in his eyes. “Then what? We keep sneakin’ behind each other until Mr. Moreau shoots one of us?”
“I don’t know.” Steve scrubbed a hand down his face. “But we finish that fence today. After that—figure it out with her, together. No more secrets.”
Bucky studied him, jaw working. Finally he nodded stiffly. “Finish the fence,” he echoed. “Then we talk.”
The afternoon never quite decided if it was rain or sleet; it just hurled water sideways until the posts sagged in the muck and both men were soaked to the bone. By the time they slogged back to the barn, the sky looked like a dull bruise and the west line was still three rails short. No one said it, but they were glad for the excuse to quit early.
Up in the loft, Steve kicked off his mud-caked boots and dropped onto the couch, hair plastered to his forehead. Bucky lingered at the hatch, stripping and changing out of his drenched shirt, drops tapping the floorboards. He found a rag, swiped at his face, then tossed the cloth aside.
Tense didn’t begin to cover it. They moved around each other the way soldiers do when the truce is thin—careful, eyes sliding away after the briefest glance. Steve rummaged for dry socks, Bucky fished for a cigarette he never lit. Rain pattered on the roof, steady as a clock.
The ladder creaked.
You appeared with a bundle of quilts over one arm, hair damp, skin glowing from kitchen heat. “Thought y’all could use somethin’ dry,” you said, voice gentle, eyes flicking from Steve’s rigid shoulders to Bucky’s tight jaw.
Neither man answered right off, and the hush sharpened until even the rain felt awkward. You crossed to the couch, shaking out a faded patchwork, the cotton smelling of starch and chamomile. Steve took it with a muttered thanks, knuckles brushing yours; his gaze skittered away before it could catch.
“Fence fight back?” you teased, hoping to coax a smile. It earned only a grunt from Bucky and a shrug from Steve.
You laid another quilt over the couch arm, slower this time—testing the air, feeling the edge in it. “Storm’s supposed to clear by dawn,” you offered, smoothing a corner that didn’t need smoothing. “Plenty of time to finish tomorrow before ya’ll leave.”
Still the silence. Bucky’s cigarette twirled restlessly between his fingers; Steve’s fingers dug into quilt batting like he might wring the tension out of the fabric.
You straightened, eyes narrowing just a touch. “The weather ain’t the only thing foul up here,” you said softly, but there was firmness under the honey. “Y’all gonna tell me what’s crawled between you, or am I supposed to guess?”
Neither answered, but their gazes finally met. It was brief, charged… and you felt the spark skip the space between them like summer lightning.
Bucky broke first, voice rough. “Y’know what this is, sweetheart? A game. You’ve been playin’ us—fuckin’ us both and watchin’ which dog growls louder.”
You propped a hip against the couch arm, arms loose across your chest, unbothered. “Playin’? Honey, I just like good company. Can’t a girl enjoy both flavors without pickin’ a favourite?”
Steve’s tone came gentler but no less raw. “Why, though? If you care for either of us, why throw a match on gasoline?”
“Why not?” You lifted one shoulder in an easy shrug. “World’s big enough for more than one kind of want. I didn’t hear either of you complainin’ at the time.”
Bucky’s jaw clenched. “’Cause I thought it meant somethin’—til I find out you rode him next like a county fair row-pony.”
You arched a brow. “Meanin’ like you cared about Stevie’s feelin’s when you waited ‘til he was dead asleep to slide into my bayou and make me holler? Glass houses, James.”
The barb hit; he flinched, fingers whitening around the cigarette he still hadn’t lit. Steve opened his mouth, a protest half-formed, and you cut him a sidelong glance. “And you—moral high ground looked real pretty till you let me grind it to dust in the hay. Hypocrite suits you about as tight as those jeans did yesterday.”
Colour scorched Steve’s ears. “I won’t deny it,” he said quietly. “I was jealous. Still am.”
“Same,” Bucky snapped, softer now, wounded pride bleeding through. “Feels like we’re bein’ measured for sport.”
You blew out a breath, voice dropping to something low, coaxing. “I’m measurin’ the way I measure ripe peaches—by taste, not by pit. Didn’t reckon either one of you wanted claim-stakes hammered down.”
Bucky ran a hand through his hair, restless. “Can’t keep splittin the difference. Not without someone gettin’ cut.”
You let a slow breath roll out, smoothing the air like a hand over rumpled sheets.
“Alright—enough chest-thumping,” you murmured, voice a lazy drawl meant to soothe. You pivoted first to Bucky, stepping in just close enough that the lantern light caught the silver flecks in his eyes.
“Y’know what I like about you, Bucky?” Your fingers brushed the inside of his forearm—just a ghost of touch, but it made his shoulders ease a notch. “It’s that wildfire charm. You see somethin’ you want, and you grab it like life’s too short for second thoughts. Had me tremblin’ on that dock, remember? You move like you own the night, and for a minute I believed you did.”
A faint, reluctant grin tugged at the corner of his mouth despite the hurt still smouldering there.
Then you turned to Steve, reaching to smooth a wet lock from his forehead. “And you? Gentleman on the surface, but lord—the heat underneath once you let it out.” Your hand slid to cup his jaw; Steve leaned into it without meaning to, “You made me feel wanted in every sweet, filthy way a woman craves. Like I was worth every ounce of that control you dropped.”
Their gazes flicked to each other, some of the sharpness dulling with your words.
“You boys’ve been best friends forever, ain’t that right?” you asked, stepping back so you could see them both. “Shared bruises, shared bottles… but you never learned to share a woman?”
Bucky’s brows knitted. “Ain’t exactly the way we were taught.”
Steve rubbed the back of his neck, eyes darting to Bucky, then you. “Not sure how that even works.”
“Works however we want it to,” you said with a shrug. “Could be one night. Could be more. Only rule is nobody’s feelings get shoved in a dark corner.”
They traded another look. This one was longer, uncertainty warring with curiosity. Rain pinged softly on the roof, a gentler rhythm now, like the storm itself was catching its breath.
You smiled. “Me? I’d rather see the two of you side-by-side than at each other’s throats. Twice the fun, half the guilt.”
Silence hovered, but the tension had shifted, no longer a taut wire ready to snap, more a low hum in the rafters. Bucky wet his lips, gaze dropping briefly to your mouth. Steve exhaled, shoulders softening, as if the idea wasn’t as impossible as it had sounded a minute ago.
Lantern-light flickered across the loft as you stepped between them, storm-tamed curls brushing Steve’s cheek. One hand found the back of his neck, guiding him down; your mouth covered his in a slow, coaxing seal. At first he held himself still, surprised, then his hands rose, steadying at your waist while he answered, tongue sweeping to taste the invitation you offered. The kiss went deep, unhurried, a warm pull that drew a hum from somewhere low in his chest.
Across the narrow space Bucky watched, arms folded but jaw tight, jealousy flashing bright before he masked it. You felt the weight of his stare; when you finally let Steve breathe you kept your gaze on those blue eyes gone hazy, then pivoted without missing a beat.
Your free hand snagged the front of Bucky’s T-shirt, knuckles brushing the hard plane beneath, and you tugged him forward.
“C’mere, hotshot,” you whispered.
He came, like the magnet he’d always been, meeting your mouth with none of Steve’s hesitation. The kiss landed hungry, teeth grazing, his hand sliding to cup the side of your throat. Where Steve’s earlier sweetness lingered, Bucky’s heat sparked bright, and you let both flavors mingle on your tongue a heartbeat longer than strictly fair.
When you broke away the air felt thicker, three sets of breaths stirring the dust motes. Your lips, plush now and tingling, curved into a satisfied smile.
“See?” you murmured, voice lazy as molasses. “Turns out sharing ain’t so hard.”
Steve stood rooted, wide eyes flicking from your mouth to Bucky’s. Bucky’s stare, darker now, drifted to Steve, sharp edge softened by the flush riding both their cheeks. Rain pattered gentle drums on the roof above, the storm’s worst anger spent, leaving only a hush that felt charged rather than tense.
“You pull us in opposite directions long enough,” Bucky said, half-grin creeping back, “might find we land in the same place.”
“Wouldn’t that be a sight,” you answered, giving his shirt a playful tug before smoothing the crumpled cotton flat. You turned, letting your knuckles brush Steve’s knuckles—an invitation to stay right where he was. “The three of us could keep warmer than any blanket in this loft.”
Neither man moved to argue. Steve’s throat bobbed, eyes searching Bucky’s. Bucky’s shoulders shifted, like he was trying on the feel of standing this close without bristling. A tentative thread of curiosity stretched between them stronger than the jealousy that had ruled the morning.
You stepped back just far enough to see them both, palms open. “Fence can wait,” you said. “Weather looks set to keep us indoors.” Outside, thunder rumbled a soft bass note, agreeing.
The air in the loft hung heavy, thick with the scent of rain-soaked earth and the raw edge of anticipation. You stood between them, Bucky and Steve, their breaths syncing in ragged pulls, eyes locked on you like you’d become the only fixed point in the dim lantern glow.
Your fingers hooked under the hem of your damp shirt, the fabric clinging to your skin from the earlier drizzle. You peeled it up slowly letting the cool air kiss your ribs before it whispered over the swell of your breasts still trapped in lace. Their gazes followed every inch, darkening as you tossed the shirt aside onto the couch.
Then came the bra—clips snapping free with a flick, straps sliding down your shoulders. Your breasts spilled out, full and heavy, nipples tightening into stiff peaks under the weight of their stares. Bucky’s tongue darted over his lips, a low sound rumbling in his throat, while Steve’s jaw clenched, his eyes dropping straight to the soft curves, tracing the way they rose with each breath you took.
Not done yet. Your hands moved to the button of your jeans, popping it open with a soft click that echoed in the charged quiet. The zipper rasped down, and you shoved the denim over your hips, hooking your thumbs into your panties and dragging them along for the ride. They pooled at your ankles, and you kicked them free, standing bare before them—skin flushed, thighs slick with the ache building between them.
Bucky’s breath hitched, his cock straining visibly against his jeans, and Steve shifted, a flush creeping up his neck as he drank in the sight of your naked body, every curve and shadow laid out like an offering.
“Who wants to touch first?” you purred, voice husky, letting the words drip like honey over the tension.
It took barely a second—Bucky, of course, moving like he’d been coiled for it. His hand shot out, fingers tangling in your hair to yank your head back, crashing his mouth against yours. His tongue plunged deep, fucking into your throat with a possessive thrust that made your knees weak, tasting of salt and coffee and that unashamed want.
He hauled you flush against him, your bare tits mashing into the rough cotton of his shirt, nipples dragging against the fabric as his free arm banded around your waist, grinding his hard length into your belly through his clothes.
You melted into the kiss, moaning around his invading tongue, but then—hands. Warm, callused palms sliding onto your waist from behind, tentative at first, then firmer as Steve pressed his body against your back. His chest was a solid wall of heat, his cock throbbing hot against the cleft of your ass even through his jeans.
Those hands trailed up, slow and careful, cupping your breasts with a gentleness that contrasted Bucky’s roughness—thumbs brushing the undersides before squeezing soft, kneading the flesh until your nipples ached under the pressure.
A shiver raced down your spine as his mouth found your throat, lips parting to suckle the pulse there, teeth grazing just enough to send sparks straight to your clit.
Bucky didn’t let up, his kiss turning sloppier, wetter, tongue battling yours while Steve’s breaths fanned hot against your neck, his squeezes growing bolder, rolling your breasts in his palms like he couldn’t get enough of the weight, the give.
The kiss with Bucky lingered like a brand, his tongue retreating with a final, teasing swipe that left your lips swollen and slick. You twisted in his grip, turning your head to capture Steve’s mouth instead, and he met you halfway—eager, almost desperate, his lips crashing into yours with a hunger that stole your breath.
His tongue delved deep, exploring with a fervor that matched the way his hands still cradled your tits, thumbs circling your hardened nipples until they throbbed under his touch.
Bucky didn’t yield an inch, his mouth shifting to the curve of your neck, hot and insistent, teeth nipping at the sensitive skin as he sucked a mark into place. One of his hands slid down, palming the swell of your ass with a firm squeeze, fingers digging in to guide your hips forward. You ground against him instinctively, feeling the rigid bulge of his cock press into your belly through the denim, thick and insistent, pulsing with every roll of your body.
Steve’s kiss deepened in response, turning rougher, his free hand tangling in your hair to angle your head just right, devouring your mouth like he needed to erase Bucky’s taste.
“Fuck, you feel so good,” Bucky rasped against your throat, his voice a gravelly vibration that sent shivers racing down your spine, his breath fanning over the damp spot he’d left behind.
You hummed into Steve’s kiss, the sound vibrating between your pressed lips.
Steve broke the kiss to trail his lips along your jaw, whispering hot against your ear, “You’re perfect... so soft, so sweet,” his affirmations spilling out like confessions, voice thick with awe and need as he nuzzled into your shoulder.
You pushed at their chests, firm but playful, breaking their hold. “I want both of ya’ll to eat my pussy,” you said, eyes flicking between them as you backed toward the small mattress piled with worn blankets on the loft floor.
You sank down onto the makeshift bed, the rough weave scratching your bare skin just enough to heighten the thrill. Spreading your legs wide, you exposed yourself fully—the swollen folds of your cunt glistening with arousal, clit peeking out begging for attention.
Bucky and Steve froze mid-step, their eyes locking onto the sight between your thighs, breaths catching in unison. Bucky’s jaw went slack, that smirk faltering into raw want, while Steve’s flush deepened, his cock tenting his jeans obscenely as he swallowed hard.
Then, like a dam breaking, they lunged,both scrambling forward in a tangle of limbs, shoulders bumping as they vied for position.
“Move over, punk,” Bucky murmured, shoving at Steve’s arm, trying to wedge in closer.
Steve pushed back, his voice a strained mutter, “There’s room—back off a sec.” They bickered like that, half-hearted jabs and elbows, but neither stopped advancing, knees hitting the mattress as they crowded between your open legs.
Their argument dissolved into action, mouths descending on your pussy in a frenzy of heat and hunger. Bucky got there first, his tongue lapping broad and flat up your slit, collecting your wetness with a groan that rumbled against your sensitive flesh. Steve wasn’t far behind, angling in from the side to suckle at your inner thigh before dragging his lips to your clit, enveloping it in wet suction that made your hips buck.
They jostled for space, Bucky’s shoulder knocking Steve’s as he delved deeper, tongue fucking into your entrance with sloppy thrusts, while Steve latched onto your nub, flicking it relentlessly with the tip of his tongue.
The dual assault overwhelmed you—Bucky’s mouth devouring your hole, slurping noisily at the gush of arousal leaking out, his stubble scraping your thighs raw; Steve’s lips sealed around your clit, sucking hard enough to pull whimpers from your throat, his hands gripping your hips to hold you steady.
“Taste so fuckin’ sweet,” Bucky mumbled between licks, the words vibrating into you, while Steve hummed agreement, his tongue circling faster, teeth grazing just enough to teeter on the edge of pain.
Their mouths battled over your dripping cunt like starving men, tongues and lips a chaotic symphony of slick heat that had you mesmerized. You watched through half-lidded eyes, pulse hammering in your ears, the way Bucky’s tongue plunged deep into your hole, fucking in and out with obscene wet sounds, only for Steve to shove in closer, latching onto your clit with a fierce suck that made your toes curl.
Their faces were inches apart, cheeks brushing, breaths mingling hot and ragged, and fuck, the sight of it twisted something filthy in your gut. You imagined it—their tongues slipping free from you, tangling together in a messy, saliva-slick kiss, tasting you on each other, and the thought alone shoved you toward the edge.
“God, yes—right there,” you gasped, hips grinding up into their faces, fingers yanking at their hair to hold them in place.
Bucky groaned low, the vibration humming straight through your core, “You like watchin’ us fight over this pretty pussy, huh?” Steve mumbled something incoherent against your thigh, too lost in the feast to form words, but his tongue flicked faster, relentless.
It hit you like a storm surge, that orgasm sneaking up fast and brutal—your walls clenching on nothing, release gushing out in hot waves that soaked their chins. You cried out, back arching off the mattress, thighs quaking as pleasure ripped through you. Bucky and Steve didn’t pull back; if anything, they dove deeper.
“So damn good,” Steve finally rasped, voice muffled as he licked a stripe up your seam, sharing the taste with a quick, accidental brush of his tongue against Bucky’s.
The intensity bordered on too much, sparks of overstimulation prickling like needles as their mouths kept working, tongues still probing and sucking without mercy. “Wait—fuck, too much,” you panted, hands flying to their heads, trying to shove them away, but your pushes were weak, body still humming from the high.
They lingered a second longer, reluctant, before Bucky’s eyes flashed with that predatory glint. In a blur, he shouldered Steve aside, “My turn, Stevie”—the bigger man stumbling back on his knees, jeans strained tight over his erection.
Bucky didn’t waste a beat, fingers fumbling with his belt, the clink of metal echoing in the loft as he yanked it open. His jeans shoved down just enough, his cock sprang free—thick, veined, the flushed head already leaking pre-cum, curving up with a slight leftward tilt.
He gripped the base, stroking once, twice, before dragging the length through your soaked folds, coating himself in your release. The friction teased your entrance, bumping your clit with each pass, and you bit your lip, doing nothing to stop him—hell, you spread your legs wider, inviting the invasion.
“Yeah, just like that,” Bucky muttered, voice rough as gravel, lining up and sinking in slow, inch by torturous inch, your pussy stretching around his girth with a burn that blurred into bliss.
He bottomed out with a guttural groan, balls slapping against your ass as he started thrusting—deep, claiming strokes that rocked your body against the mattress. “Still so tight... takin’ me so good,” he grunted, hands pinning your hips as he set a punishing rhythm, the wet slap of skin filling the air, mingling with the rain’s fury outside.
You took it, moaning with each plunge, walls fluttering around him, but your gaze flicked to Steve, who knelt there looking adrift—lips shiny with your juices, chest heaving, cock throbbing untouched in his pants, a mix of uncertainty and need in his blue eyes.
“Aw, c’mere, sugar,” you cooed softly, voice breathy from Bucky’s relentless pace, reaching out a hand to beckon him closer. He hesitated for a split second, then crawled forward, drawn like a moth to flame.
You pulled him down, crashing your lips to his in a messy kiss, tasting yourself on his tongue. Bucky’s thrusts didn’t falter, each one jolting you into Steve’s mouth, making the kiss deeper, hungrier. “Mmm, don’t look so lost,” you murmured against Steve’s lips, nipping at his bottom one before pulling back just enough to meet his eyes. “I want you in my mouth—wanna taste that big cock of yours while he fucks me.”
Steve’s breath hitched, a flush creeping up his neck, but he nodded, fumbling with his zipper as Bucky chuckled, hips snapping harder. “You heard her, pal. Feed her that dick.”
Steve’s fingers trembled on his zipper, the metallic rasp cutting through the humid air as he finally freed himself—his cock springing out, thick and heavy, the head already flushed and glistening with pre-cum. You watched for a beat, heat pooling fresh in your belly, but then impulse hit like lightning. With a hum, you planted your hands on Bucky’s chest and shoved hard. He blinked up at you, confusion flashing in those blue eyes as his cock slipped free from your clenching heat with a wet pop, leaving you achingly empty for just a second.
“What the—” Bucky started, but you didn’t let him finish, pushing him sideways until he toppled onto his back, jeans still bunched around his thighs, legs splayed. The mattress creaked under his weight, and before he could protest, you swung a leg over him, straddling his hips. His dick slapped against your inner thigh, hot and insistent, as you gripped it at the base and sank down in one fluid motion, taking him balls-deep with a satisfied moan.
“Fuck yeah, angel,” Bucky rasped, hands flying to your waist, thumbs digging into your skin as he bucked up once, testing. “Ride me like one of them horses out in the pasture—hard and wild.” His voice was all gravel and hunger, that smirk creeping back as he watched you take control.
You laughed breathlessly, rolling your hips in a slow grind before lifting up and slamming down, “You’ve got a real dirty mouth on you, handsome,” you teased, picking up the pace, bouncing steadily now, the rough denim of his jeans scraping deliciously against your thighs with each drop. The friction added a bite to the bliss, making you hiss through your teeth.
Bucky groaned, head tipping back against the mattress, but his eyes stayed locked on you. “Shit, just like that. Tighter, darlin’, squeeze me.”
Your gaze shifted to Steve, who hovered there, cock in hand, looking equal parts left out and starved. You flashed him a soft, encouraging smile, slowing your rhythm just enough to beckon him with a crook of your finger. “C’mon, honey. I want you right here.”
He swallowed hard, adam’s apple bobbing, but he shuffled closer on his knees, positioning himself near Bucky’s head, close enough that the scent of his arousal mixed with the musk of sweat and rain-soaked hay.
You leaned forward without missing a beat, your breasts swaying with the motion, and wrapped your lips around the tip of Steve’s cock. He was pretty—long and girthy, the foreskin peeling back as you sucked gently, tongue swirling over the sensitive head to taste the salty bead of pre-cum. “Mmm,” you hummed around him, the vibration pulling a choked gasp from his throat.
Steve’s hand tangled in your hair, not pushing, just holding on as you licked a broad stripe up the underside, tracing the thick vein before taking him deeper, cheeks hollowing with the suction.
“God, your mouth... feels so damn good, beautiful,” he murmured, voice rough and genuine, hips twitching forward instinctively.
Bucky’s thrusts didn’t let up—he drove into you from below, one hand sliding up to cup your breast, thumb flicking over your nipple until it pebbled hard under his touch.
“Look at you, takin’ us both like a champ,” he panted, pinching lightly, sending sparks straight to your core.
But then his rhythm faltered for a split second, eyes darting sideways as your head bobbed right next to his face, the wet sounds of your sucking filling his ears. Steve’s cock glistened with your saliva, inches from Bucky’s cheek, and you caught the way Bucky’s gaze lingered, a flicker of something strange and curious in his expression.
“Hey, eyes on me,” you pulled off Steve with a pop, grinning down at Bucky as you clenched around him on purpose, making him curse under his breath. “Or you wanna join in? Taste him too?”
Bucky chuckled hesitantly, squeezing your other breast in retaliation. “Temptin’, but I’m good buried in this pussy for now.” He bucked harder, the scrape of denim biting into your skin again, urging you back to work.
You obliged, moaning around Steve’s length as you took him to the back of your throat, nose brushing the unkept hair at his base. Steve’s free hand braced on Bucky’s shoulder for balance, the accidental touch making both men tense, breaths syncing in the charged air.
“Fuck, I’m not gonna last,” Steve warned, fingers tightening in your hair, but you just hummed encouragement, riding Bucky faster.
Bucky’s eyes gaze flicked back up, locking onto the way your lips stretched around Steve’s throbbing dick, slurping and sucking with greedy abandon. Steve’s face was a mask of pure ecstasy; eyes squeezed shut, mouth parted in a silent groan, and Bucky couldn’t resist. “Hey, punk, she’s got you leakin’ like a damn faucet.”
Steve’s breath hitched, his hand flexing in your hair, but he shot Bucky a glare through half-lidded eyes. “Shut it, Buck,feels too good to argue.”
You hummed around Steve’s length, the vibration making him buck forward, your free hand cupping his heavy balls, rolling them gently in your palm, feeling them tighten as he teetered on the edge.
Bucky hummed, spreading your ass cheeks wider, his thumbs brushing dangerously close to where his cock pistoned in and out. “Nah, saint, you’re blushin’ like a virgin. Gonna blow already?”
“Screw you,” Steve panted, but there was no heat in it, just desperate need as his cock twitched against your tongue. You could feel him swelling, the salty pulse of pre-cum flooding your mouth, he was seconds from exploding.
But you weren’t ready to let him go over yet. With a deliberate pop, you pulled off, your hand still stroking his slick shaft lazily, denying him that final push. Steve’s eyes flew open, pained and pleading, his chest heaving as he stared down at you.
“Please... don’t stop,” he begged, voice cracking, hips jerking futilely into your grip.
You paused your bounces on Bucky, clenching around him to keep him buried deep but holding still, the ache of denial making your thighs quiver. Leaning up slightly, you cupped Steve’s jaw with your free hand, thumb tracing his lower lip as you met his gaze softly. “Shh, pretty boy. I want you to finish inside me… fill me up proper. Not like this.”
Bucky stilled beneath you, his hands loosening on your ass just a fraction, brows knitting in confusion as he glanced between you and Steve. “You kickin’ me out now?”
Steve mirrored the look, his cock bobbing neglected in the air, still rock-hard and dripping. “But... Buck’s already...”
You grinned, sweet and reassuring, “Fellas, I’ve got room for two. Plenty of space in me.”
Your words hung in the humid air like a challenge, that smile still playing on your lips as you picked up the pace, bouncing with renewed vigor, your ass slapping against his thighs, the wet sounds of your pussy devouring him echoing in the dim loft.
Steve shifted behind you, his uncertainty clear in the way his hands trembled slightly on your waist. He was rock-hard, tip leaking and flushed, but his mind raced ahead—assuming you meant something else entirely. With a hesitant nudge, he pressed the head of his cock against your ass, the pressure firm but tentative, like he was testing uncharted waters.
A soft laugh bubbled out of you, light and teasing, cutting through the tension as you twisted your head to glance back at him. “Oh sweetheart, that’s not quite what I had in mind.”
Steve froze, cheeks burning even in the low light, his cock twitching against your skin. “I... thought... shit, sorry. You said—”
Before he could finish fumbling, you reached back with one arm, your fingers wrapping around his thick shaft—hot and pulsing in your palm. You stroked him once, firmly, drawing a sharp hiss from his lips, then guided him downward, angling him right toward your soaked entrance where Bucky was already buried deep.
The tip brushed against your folds, slick with your arousal and Bucky’s pre-cum, nudging insistently at the stretched opening.
Steve’s eyes widened, confusion etching deeper lines on his face as he stared down at the impossible sight. “Wait, but... how the hell—?”
You paused your grinding just enough to lean forward, bracing one hand on Bucky’s chest, nails digging into his skin for leverage. “There’s enough room in this greedy little pussy, honey. Stretch me wide, fill me up until I can’t think straight.”
Your words were a sultry command, eyes fluttering half-shut in anticipation, but you shot Steve a reassuring wink over your shoulder.
Bucky’s head snapped up, his blue eyes meeting Steve’s in a shared look of stunned disbelief. “You serious, darlin’? Both of us... in there? Shit, that’s—”
“Insane,” Steve finished, voice hoarse, but his hips inched forward anyway, the tip of his cock pressing against your entrance alongside Bucky’s girth. They exchanged another glance; uncertain, a flicker of worry in Bucky’s eyes and Steve’s furrowed brow. This wasn’t some quick tumble; it was pushing boundaries they’d never imagined.
“Yeah, insane,” Bucky echoed, but his voice dropped an octave, laced with a sliver of excitement as he held still inside you, letting you feel the throb of him. “You sure you can take it, angel?”
“Mm, more than sure,” you murmured, rocking your hips experimentally, which only wedged Steve’s tip a fraction deeper, the dual pressure making your breath catch. “Come on, Stevie—push. I want to feel you both sliding in, rubbing against each other in me.”
Steve swallowed hard, resolve flickering to life in his gaze as he nodded, hands steadying on your hips. “Alright... alright, if that’s what you want, sweetheart.” He started pushing in slowly, inch by agonizing inch, the stretch burning sweet and intense as your walls accommodated him.
You breathed in deep, eyes squeezing shut, a shudder rippling through you as you balanced on Bucky’s chest—fingers splaying wide over his pounding heart, grounding yourself in the heat of his skin.
Bucky groaned low, his cock twitching inside you as he felt Steve’s length pressing in against him.
Steve’s breath stuttered, his forehead beading with sweat as he sank deeper, the sensation overwhelming—your pussy clenching around them both, hot and velvety, while Bucky’s cock pulsed right against his own. “It’s—tight as hell. You okay?”
You nodded, biting your lip to stifle a whimper, the fullness bordering on too much but tipping straight into ecstasy. “Keep goin’... just like that. Oh, fuck. Yeah, both of you, right there.”
The stretch was exquisite agony, your body locked in place between them, every nerve ending firing as Bucky and Steve filled you to the brink—two thick cocks wedged deep in your pussy, pulsing hot and insistent against each other through your slick walls.
You could barely shift, let alone move, the overwhelming fullness pinning you like a vice, your thighs quivering from the strain. A hazy fog clouded your mind, cockdrunk and drifting in the haze of sensation, every shallow breath pulling a whimper from your lips.
“F-Fellas,” you gasped, voice slurred with lust, fingers clutching at Bucky’s shoulders for any semblance of control. “I... I can’t—move for me. You gotta fuck me like this.”
Bucky’s eyes darkened, a feral glint cutting through the sweat beading on his brow. He nodded once, rough and sure, his hands clamping harder on your hips. “Yeah? You want us to use you, sweet thing? Pound this greedy little hole till she breaks?” His voice was gravel, hips shifting first—tentative at the start, pulling back an inch before slamming upward, the drag of his shaft grinding against Steve’s in the tight confines of your cunt.
Steve mirrored him a beat later, hesitant but hungry, his broad chest heaving as he withdrew slightly, then thrust in—the dual motion sending sparks exploding behind your eyes. “God, it’s... too much,” he groaned, voice cracking on the edge of a moan, his cock sliding against Bucky’s.
They found a rhythm, tentative thrusts syncing into something primal, back and forth like a seesaw of pure heat—Bucky pushing deep as Steve eased out, then reversing, their groans mingling with the wet slap of skin and the creak of the mattress beneath.
You were their plaything now, jolted between them like a ragdoll, body bouncing on the wave of their cocks, the pressure building in your core until it bordered on delirium. Lost in the rhythm, Bucky’s hand snaked up your back, fingers tangling in your hair to yank you down, crashing his mouth against yours in a bruising kiss—tongue plunging deep, tasting the salt of your shared sweat, devouring you like he owned every gasp. You melted into it, moaning into his mouth as their cocks speared you harder.
But Steve wasn’t going to be left out anymore. As Bucky released you, Steve’s strong arm hooked around your waist, pulling you upright with a possessive tug, his free hand cupping your jaw to turn your face to him. As he sealed his lips over yours—kissing you slower but no less fierce, tongue tracing the seam of your mouth, drawing out a needy whine as his hips snapped forward, grinding deeper alongside Bucky.
Your mind spun, pleasure dazing you into a stupor, words tumbling out in a breathless haze. “Kiss... kiss each other.”
Bucky faltered for a split second, his blue eyes flicking up to Steve’s, surprise flashing before lust swallowed it whole. “What—darlin’, you—”
You didn’t let him finish, one hand snaking behind Steve’s head, fingers threading through his damp hair and pushing down firmly, guiding him toward Bucky’s waiting mouth. “C’mon, hotshot, kiss your golden boy for me.”
Bucky’s breath hitched, resistance crumbling under the weight of your words and the relentless pump of his hips. They kept moving, cocks buried to the hilt, sliding in tandem as their faces drew closer—lips brushing tentative at first, then crashing together in a passionate lock. Bucky’s tongue darted out, claiming Steve’s mouth with the same hunger he fucked you with, a muffled groan escaping them both as the kiss deepened.
You watched, transfixed, the sight of their mouths fusing; tongues tangling, breaths mingling, pushing you over the edge. The coil in your belly snapped, orgasm ripping through you like lightning, your pussy spasming wildly around them both, walls fluttering and squeezing in rhythmic pulses.
“Fuck—yes, oh god, I’m cumming!” you cried, body arching as waves of ecstasy crashed over you, soaking their cocks in your release.
Their kiss broke on a shared gasp, Bucky pulling back first, eyes wide and wild as he felt the vice-like grip of your climax. “Fuck—baby, you’re squeezin’ me so goddamn tight,” Bucky grunted, voice strained, his grip bruising your hips as he drove up into the slick chaos of your pussy, feeling the hot flood of your release coat him. “Gonna make me—”
Steve beat him to it, a choked groan tearing from his throat as his body seized. “Oh shit—can’t hold—”
His cock throbbed wildly inside you, swelling against Bucky’s before unleashing thick ropes of cum, pulsing deep and flooding your core. The warmth spread instantly, mixing with your own juices, the sensation of his load spilling out around their joined shafts pushing Bucky right to the brink.
That was it—the wet heat of Steve’s release seeping through your walls, drenching Bucky’s cock in the messy proof of his friend’s orgasm. Bucky’s eyes squeezed shut, a guttural moan ripping free as he slammed home one last time. His shaft jerked violently, erupting in heavy spurts, pumping load after load into you until it overflowed, the combined seed sloshing with every twitch.
They emptied everything, cocks twitching with brutal oversensitivity, veins pulsing against your fluttering insides. You shuddered between them, body limp and quaking, every nerve raw from the overload.
Bucky’s hands roamed your sweat-slick skin—tracing the curve of your spine, cupping your ass, kneading your thighs—as if grounding himself in the aftermath, his breaths coming in harsh pants against your ear. “Easy, angel... we got you,” he murmured, voice hoarse, fingers digging in just enough to soothe the lingering ache.
Steve, still buried deep, pressed his lips to the pulse at your neck, kissing softly at first, then with more urgency, tongue flicking out to taste the salt on your skin. “So good... you feel so good, sweetheart,” he whispered, nuzzling closer, his chest heaving against your back as he fought to steady the tremors racking his frame.
Steve was the first to stir, reluctance clear in the way his hands lingered on your waist. With a careful shift, he eased back, his softening cock slipping free with a lewd, wet pop. The rush hit immediately—a gush of warmth spilling from you, their mingled cum trickling down in thick rivulets, soaking the denim of Bucky’s jeans beneath.
“Ah—sorry,” Steve muttered, flushed and spent, collapsing onto the mattress beside Bucky, his arm draping loosely over his eyes as if to block out the intensity.
You let out a shaky breath, muscles protesting as you lifted yourself off Bucky next, the drag of his cock pulling a sharp whine from your throat. More seed followed, sliding hot and sticky down your thighs, pooling where you’d been joined. Bucky hissed through his teeth, hips bucking involuntarily at the loss.
“Fuckin’ hell—that’s... messy,” he rasped, a low chuckle rumbling out despite the sensitivity, his hand coming up to swipe at the spill on his jeans.
Exhausted, you collapsed between them, body sinking into the rumpled sheets, limbs twitching with aftershocks. Silence fell, broken only by the trio of heaving breaths syncing in the humid loft air, thick with the musk of heat and raw sex, undercut by the distant patter of rain on the roof and the faint, the sweet trace of your honeysuckle lotion clinging to sweat-damp skin.
Then Bucky’s voice cut through the hush, like he was trying to toss a joke over something that felt too big to stare at.
“Well… guess we learned how to share after all.”
You let out a small huff that might’ve been a laugh if you’d had more air in your lungs, eyes half-lidded and unfocused. Your body still felt like it was humming—too warm, too wrung-out, like you’d been shaken up and put back together wrong in the best way.
Steve made a sound that could’ve been a chuckle, “S’pose that’s one way to put it,” he murmured.
Above your head, Steve turned his head towards Bucky. That familiar, easy glance they’d shared a thousand times in their lives, the one that always said you good? and yeah, I’m good, the one that had carried them through worse than a Louisiana storm. Only now it didn’t land the same.
Because now “you good?” had more weight.
Steve’s eyes flicked to Bucky’s mouth, just a fraction too long, and something tightened in his chest, warm and confusing. A flash of it, all over again, the wet press of tongues, the wrongness-turned-rightness of it, the way it had sparked through the whole loft like lightning.
The two of them had spent their whole lives calling it brotherhood because that word was safe. Best friends. End of the line. A story you could tell people without watching them look too closely.
But you had made them look too closely.
Bucky broke eye contact first, like he felt the heat of the thought and didn’t want to stand in it, his gaze dropping to you like he needed somewhere safer to look. His hand came up, fingers warm and careful at your throat, thumb resting at your pulse like he could feel your heartbeat still stuttering there. He tilted your face toward him with a gentleness that didn’t match his normal charm at all.
“You’re somethin’ else,” he murmured, and there was no swagger in it, no performance. “One hell of a woman.”
“Not so bad yourself, handsome,” you breathed back, a lazy little smile tugging at your mouth.
He kissed you, slow and lingering, like he was claiming the moment for himself. You let him. Let him have the softness. Let him taste the last traces of you on your own lips without making it a fight.
And you felt Steve’s attention sharpen across your skin.
At first it was just presence. Then it became something else, that ugly twist of jealousy rising in him again, quick and hot, like he’d hated it earlier and still couldn’t stop it now.
Only this time it wasn’t simple.
It wasn’t just Bucky’s kissing you and I’m not.
It was tangled up with the memory of Bucky’s mouth against his, with the fact Steve had felt it… felt how it changed the air, how it changed the shape of his chest when he thought about it too long. It was the unsettling realization that what he wanted wasn’t cleanly separated into categories anymore.
He didn’t want to name that.
So he did what Steve always did when he didn’t want to name something, he acted.
His hand came up, palm warm against your cheek, and he guided your face toward him with a firmness that bordered on petulant—like he couldn’t stand being left out even for a breath anymore.
“Hey,” he muttered, as if the word could justify what he was about to take.
Then he kissed you.
Deeper than Bucky had, because Steve kissed like he was trying to anchor himself, like if he could taste you hard enough, he could drown out every complicated thought trying to rise. His mouth was hot and sure, tongue slipping in with a confidence he hadn’t carried before the stables, before the loft, before you pulled all the polite restraint out of him and taught him what he looked like without it.
You hummed into the kiss, letting it be messy, letting him be greedy.
Bucky watched, jaw tightening, though not angry exactly, not anymore. Just… lit up. Like he didn’t know where to put his hands, his pride, his hunger. Like the sight of Steve taking something he wanted did something ugly and thrilling to him at the same time.
You pulled back just enough to breathe, lips swollen, eyes heavy. Your voice came out soft and unhurried like you weren’t about to let either of them pretend this was simple.
“You boys keep lookin’ at each other like you don’t know what you’re seein’,” you murmured, eyes flicking between them. “Ain’t like you didn’t already cross the line.”
Steve’s throat bobbed. His gaze cut away for half a second, reflex and denial, then returned.
Bucky’s mouth twitched. “She’s got a point, punk.”
Steve shot him a look. “Don’t start.”
“Oh, I’m not startin’,” Bucky said, almost too calm. “I’m just… takin’ inventory.”
That made Steve’s brow furrow, something wary and pulled-tight in his expression.
You shifted between them, the movement small but enough to draw both their eyes, enough to remind them you were still the center of gravity here, whether they wanted to admit it or not.
Steve felt it in the quiet seconds after, watching you push yourself upright, stretching like a cat that’d just had its fill. The lamp on the little trunk threw a golden wash over you, catching the curve of your shoulder, the soft hollow at your throat, the confidence in the way you didn’t rush to cover yourself.
And in his head, Steve hated how perfectly Bucky’s pet name fit you now. Angel.
He had always thought angels were meant to guide you back toward the straight path. You were the opposite kind. The kind that smiled sweetly and led you off the road on purpose, deeper into the dark, deeper into want, like sin wasn’t something to fear but something to finally stop lying about.
He should’ve hated that.
Instead it felt… like relief.
It felt like coming home to a part of himself he’d kept locked up tight, because being Steve Rogers meant being good, meant being steady, meant being the one who held the line. Out here… on this farm, in this heat, with your hands on him and your mouth on his—he didn’t have to perform holiness. He could just be a man. Hungry, human and wanted.
And Bucky, reckless, charming and always halfway out the door, had been tempted into stillness for once. Steve could see it. Even now, with Bucky sprawled beside him, breathing slower, eyes heavy, there was a calm in him that didn’t usually last longer than a cigarette.
You’d done that. To both of them.
Then you spoke again, and the words hit like cold water.
“Shame you boys’ll be leavin’ tomorrow.”
You said it so goddamn easy. Like you were talking about weather. Like you hadn’t just cracked something open between them that didn’t fit back the same way.
The warmth in the loft went cold.
Steve’s throat tightened. He glanced at Bucky without meaning to, like he needed confirmation he hadn’t imagined the sting. Bucky’s face had gone still, brows drawn together, mouth set in a line that looked almost… hurt. Just that faint pout of a man who didn’t like realizing he’d started wanting something he couldn’t have.
Steve recognized the expression because it was sitting on his own face too.
Leaving had always been the plan. Finish the fence. Get the gas. Roll out. Keep moving. That was Bucky’s rhythm. That was the only rhythm Steve had been able to follow for months without losing him.
But now, hearing you say it out loud, Steve felt something stubborn rise up in him. Possessive in a quiet way. Not of you exactly… though that was in it. Of the whole thing. The strange little pocket of peace this place had offered. The way his shoulders had stopped riding his ears. The way he’d slept deeper here, even on a hayloft mattress.
He could feel that same resistance in Bucky, of all people.
Steve swallowed, voice coming out quieter than he meant. “Who says we have to leave tomorrow?”
“My daddy’s got you on a job. Fence gets finished, you take your gas, you go,” you said. “That was the arrangement.”
Bucky shifted beside you, shoulder tightening. “Arrangements can change,” he muttered, rougher than necessary.
Steve’s eyes snapped to him, surprised by how fast the words came out of Bucky’s mouth. Bucky didn’t meet his gaze. He stared at the sheets instead, jaw working like he was annoyed at himself for saying anything at all.
Steve felt a tug in his chest.
You tilted your head, studying them both. “Y’all don’t like bein’ told when to leave, huh,” you murmured, almost amused. “Thought drifters lived for the road.”
Bucky’s laugh came out flat. “Usually.”
Steve looked at you, really looked, and he didn’t like what he saw. You didn’t look afraid of losing them. You looked like you knew exactly what it did to men to feel wanted, then be reminded it had an end date.
Steve’s voice dropped, honest without meaning to be. “This place… it’s been good for us.”
Bucky’s fingers flexed against the quilt. “Don’t start getting sentimental,” he muttered, but there was no bite in it. Only discomfort.
Steve glanced at him again, then back at you. “If we asked, again, would your father consider letting us stay a few more days?”
The question hung in the air, heavier than the rain outside. Bucky finally looked up, and for a second their eyes met again.
You let the silence sit just long enough for it to sting. The lamp warmed your skin into gold again, turning you soft around the edges, almost holy if a person didn’t look too closely. But Steve knew better now. Bucky did too.
Two grown men were lying on either side of you like you were the altar and they were the ones who’d come to kneel.
Your mouth curved. “I’ll talk to Daddy,” you said, voice lazy, sweet as iced tea. “If he’s in a good mood.”
Bucky’s brows lifted, hope and irritation tangled. “And what puts him in a good mood?”
You hummed, rolling a shoulder in a shrug that made Steve’s throat go dry. “Could be the fence looks right. Could be he slept decent. Could be the Lord whispers in his ear.” Your eyes flicked to Steve. “Could be the sun decides to shine.”
Steve felt his chest tighten on a rough breath. He didn’t know whether to laugh or grit his teeth.
“Mm-hmm.” You let your lashes lower. “Seems y’all are good at waitin’ when you want somethin’ bad enough.”
Steve had been stuck his whole life being the good one, the noble one, and you’d given him freedom not to be. Bucky had waited his whole life for something to matter enough to make him stay. And now here they were, both acting like it was anything but your hand on the leash.
You didn’t even have to tug it.
You simply settled back down between them, shoulder brushing Steve’s arm, thigh sliding against Bucky’s, casual contact that made both men go quiet. You fit there too easily, like you belonged in the seam between them.
You lay between them like a secret, like a blessing, like a sin dressed up in honeysuckle and honeyed words.
Angel, Steve thought again—then corrected himself. No. Not an angel. A temptation that looked like one.
Your hand drifted lazily up Steve’s chest, fingers splaying over his heartbeat as if counting it. Your other hand found Bucky’s wrist on your waist, thumb stroking once, absentminded.
You sighed, content, as if the question of tomorrow didn’t matter nearly as much as the fact that tonight was still yours.
“If the morning’s kind,” you murmured, voice soft as prayer, “maybe I’ll keep you boys a little longer.”
And you didn’t say anything else. You didn’t promise, didn’t explain, didn’t give them the comfort of certainty. You just settled deeper between them, warm and wicked and impossibly at ease, like the devil himself could’ve learned a thing or two from you about patience.
And outside, rain kept whispering its steady sermon against the roof.
a/n | hope ya'll enjoyed my freakiness, tell me what you think, also im thing abt starting a fresh new taglist, so let me know. and i had to a lotttt of research, so i hope my potrayal of New Orleans, Louisianna is the tiniest bit accurate. the title is based on the movie Wild Things, obviously this fic has no relation, except for the very heated sex and erotica
also the barn loft was based on my man, Clark Kent's favourite spot
✦summary: You know Steve doesn't see you like that. You know because you asked him, and he said no. So it's not really fair, that he'd reject you and keep making you love him after, is it. ✦
✦warnings/tags: steve rogers x female!reader, modern!au, no use of y/n, pining, rejection (at the start, off page, and steve's a liar about it), no description of reader (pictures for aesthetic only), fluff, angst, love confessions, some plot to get to all that porn, feral level smut, (dry humping, teasing, making steve lose control, fingering, light spanking, praise kink, manhandling, big dick steve, squriting, p in v sex, creampie, breeding kink, soft!dom steve), soft!steveoutside of smut✦
✦wc: 10.9k✦
✦Author's Note: this one hit ME too hard bc i based it on real life too much. oops. all the better for the horny ig. Enjoy!✦
You’re not looking for him in the crowd. And if anyone says you are, they’re a big, fat liar.
Active scanning is not looking. It’s a part of the job, to see who’s here. What kind of interviews you’re going to be able to get, who’s already closing in on who, who’s snuggled up and gossiping and might not notice you eavesdropping. If you’re smart about this—and you always are—you’re going to walk away from tonight with a comment from Secretary Ross, Pepper Potts, or even an Avenger themselves.
But not him.
You have no interest in walking away with a comment from him.
“They’re here.” Your coworker Stacy bumps your shoulders, her eyes wide and fixed across the room. “Holy shit, they’re actually here-“
“It’s their fundraiser.” You mutter, keeping your attention on a senator bumbling about near the drinks. “It would be crazy if they weren’t here.”
“Yeah, but- It’s all of them. I’ve never seen all of them-“
“Yes, you have.”
Stacy glares at you. “Well, not so close.”
You glance over, pointedly only looking at their feet. “They’re not that close.”
“I could touch one.” Stacy breathes, and you snort.
“You should go try that.”
That earns you another glare, and a smack on the arm. And you deserve it, but you just laugh and look back to your target. The tipsy, red-eyed senator who’s going to have a few more drinks, and tells you all about that bill congress is trying to pass about the Enhanced. You’ve read it three times, and it’s a disgusting invasion of privacy, but those documents were off the record. If you can get a Senator, talking about how he wants to force all superheroes to either be sterilized or record their sex lives-
Stacy pinches your arm, and you squeak so loudly it echoes off the domed, ballroom ceiling. Some attention darts in your direction, but everyone quickly loses interest when they realize it’s nothing all that interesting. Your face is burning as you smooth your dress, and it doesn’t stop burning. It feels like someone is tending to the hot embarrassment, fluttering in your tummy and restless in your fingers. Like someone is looking right through you, monitoring you, watching you-
“He’s looking at you.” Stacy hisses in your ear, buzzing with so much excitement you’re sure she’s about to turn into glitter and explode like fireworks, and you’re going to throttle her.
“He is now, because you,” you shove her shoulder. It doesn’t do anything to stamp out her thrill at your worst nightmare. “Fucking made him notice-“
“No, he was looking before-“
“No, he wasn’t-“
“Yes, he was-“
“No, he wasn’t-“
“Who wasn’t what.”
You freeze, and Stacy looks over your head with a fawning, dazed expression. You’re going to kill her. You’re going to cut her up into tiny pieces and burn them all in separate furnaces, and then you’re going to steal her dog and make it forget all about her, and marry her husband and make her cute little kid your Cinderella as bloodline punishment-
“Hi, Mr. Captain Sir.” She giggles, looking back down to you with a wide-eyed it’s him expression.
I’m going to kill you. You mouth. She doesn’t seem all that bothered by the threat.
“Uh- Hi. You don’t have to-“ You hear him shift on his feet behind you. “Steve is alright.”
You can picture him rubbing the back of his neck, trying to look smaller. More humble and approachable, when he’s a modern walking Hercules. A better version, who doesn’t kill his wife and kids. Who gets you drinks and tries to be your friend and is so stupidly polite and kind and you hate him, you hate him so much-
He says your name. You plaster on the widest, most plastic and sickly sweet smile you can manage. You want him to feel like you’re a bit of plastic that’s stuck between his teeth. To give up talking to you, because it’s not fair.
Steve’s just as handsome as the last time you saw him. And the time before that. And the time before that. If anything, he’s more handsome. You don’t know how he does it, changing absolutely nothing about his appearance and looking hotter every time you get eyes on him. His hair is styled the same as always, but it looks so soft. You could run your fingers through it and it would probably feel like a cloud. His stupid, sharp jawline is slack as you glare up at him, and he’s so tall it makes you dizzy, and he’s fixing you with that puppy look that makes you feel like you’re important to him.
And you’re not. You know you’re not.
You went down that road once. You tried to be important to him, and he said no. And he’s Steve, so he was sweet and perfectly kind about it, and still wanted to be your friend, and you’d thought you were already over it so you’d said yes.
You thought you could just be his friend. He hadn’t made anything weird. Neither of you had ever even brought up your failed attempt to ask him out again. And at the time, you’d thought you were over it.
But Steve is Steve. And he’s got some titanic hold over your heart that’s left finger marks dug in through the landscape. There’s a depression over the cavity of your chest, and your ribs have molded to fit it, and now it’s far too late to go back. You only know how to have feelings for him. You’ve tried to get over it. To ignore it. To forcibly re-mold your love into something platonic, or clawed your way through some relationships in the hope they’d help you move on.
They don’t. They won’t. Nothing can.
The big stupid boy-scout standing over you owns you completely, and you can’t even tell him without making it a problem.
Your new strategy had been to ignore him. Stacy ruined that.
She thinks he secretly has feelings for you. You tune her out every time she starts to crow and preach about it, because you know your heart is going to take it as gospel and not parody, and you can’t afford false faith. All you have is what’s grounded between your fingers.
Steve’s right here. He’s smiling at you, all pretty and nice, and you have to smile back or else it will make him feel bad. He’s got a drink in his massive hand for you. You’ve had a million wet dreams about that hand around your throat or cupping your pussy.
You’re aching thinking about it. In an ideal world, this would be the part where you ran without looking back.
In an ideal world, you’d be standing on his arm right now, instead of all stiff and weird in front of him.
You need to get a fucking grip.
“Hi.” You say, and it’s sounds lame and idiotic and pathetic-
Steve’s face splits into a big, happy smile. “Hi. How’s the night going for you, do you have your victim picked out?”
You scowl. “It’s not- They’re not victims-“
“You treat them like they’re victims.” His grin widens. “Sometimes I feel like I should be saving them.”
“They’re all fine. It’s not like I’m drugging them or something.”
Steve’s brows raise. “That makes me think you are drugging them.”
“Nuh uh.” You stick out your tongue, and he laughs under his breath.
“One day you’re gonna say something that actually gets you in trouble, you know.” He holds out the drink he brought you.
It’s your favorite. It’s always your favorite.
You told him what your favorite drink was, the very first time you attended one of these parties. He’s never forgotten since, and it makes you love and hate him all the more.
“I don’t think I will.” You mumble, both trying and desperately failing not to brush his fingers. His skin is warm. He’s warm. He’s like a walking furnace, and you’d like to just bury your face in his pecs and breathe him in and-
“Kid, you already have.”
Steve looks at you like you’re the only thing in the room. His eyes are sparkling, and in the background you think Natasha Romanoff is circling like a shark, trying to get his attention, but if he notices he pretends he doesn’t. He just looks at you and calls you kid, and the word plummets like a cold stone into your gut.
Kid. That’s all you are to him. Kid.
“But if I got in trouble, you’d save me.” You take a long sip of your drink, and you like to torture yourself.
With his presence. His closeness.
How fast he nods. How certainly he answers.
“’Course I would. Already saving you by pretending I don’t see you getting all those Senators drunk.”
You laugh softly, but the sound hurts. When you look over your shoulder, Stacy’s abandoned you for the food table. You catch her eye, and she shoots you an excited thumbs up. She probably thinks this is going great.
“Are you feeling alright?” Steve says suddenly, and he sounds like he really, really cares. “You been looking kind of sick- Not that you look bad- You look good, uh- Really good, but-“
“I’m fine.” You turn back to Steve, and you wonder if he can see it.
The pain, leaking down like a toxin from your eyes. Everything kind of blurry. You’d throw up, if you didn’t think he’d take care of you after.
“Everything’s fine.”
Steve’s lips twitch. You’re not sure he believes you.
But it doesn’t really matter anyway. You’re not his to get an answer out of. He decided that.
And you’re just doing exactly what Steve wants, all the time.
“You do look nice.” He mumbles, taking a sip of his own drink, as if it could even do anything to him.
You smile, and there it is again. The shameful, unrelenting heat in your stomach. “Thanks.”
I dressed up for you.
“I think he’s in looove with you.” Stacy says, spinning around in her chair. You flip her off, not looking up from your computer.
“Is the printer out of paper still?”
“I don’t know, you print everything for me.” She pokes your chair with her foot. “Pay attention to me, I said Steve’s in love with you-“
“No, he’s not.”
“Yes, he is.”
“No, he’s not-“
“Yes, he is-“
“Is this the same thing you were fighting about last time?” Steve’s voice comes from over your shoulder, and you freeze. “Or is that just… How you two talk.”
Stacy looks awfully fucking pleased with herself for a dead woman. “It’s the same fight as last time.”
“Oh.” He pauses. You can hear his concern, and it makes you want to vomit. “Is everything okay?”
“Mhm.” Stacy beams. “Hi, Steve.”
You glance up, and Steve looks properly bemused and adorable about her whole demeanor. It makes you want to hold his face and kiss the tiny, pouting frown off his lips. You smack yourself internally. Get it together.
“Hi, Stacy.”
She almost glows. “You remember my name?”
“Yeah.” He glances down at you. “I try to remember most people’s names.”
Stacy swoons. “Of course you do.”
Steve blinks, and you clear your throat.
“What are you doing here?”
“Uh-“ He rubs the back of his neck, giving you a small smile. “Lunch, remember? We planned it last week.”
Oh. You did do that. “I told you to wait outside, my boss is going to try to interview you-“
“Oh, she already did.” He laughs. “But I’m here for you, not a front page.”
You flush, and Stacy giggles like she’s watching TV.
“So…” Steve shrugs. “Lunch?”
Right. Lunch.
“How’d you even get in the building.” You grumble, grabbing your jacket as you stand. He shrugs sheepishly.
“I took a photo with the guards.”
“Steve, I told you to stop doing that-“
“It made them really happy, okay? And I went through all the metal detectors, same as everyone else-“
“I know, but you hate taking the photos, you can tell them no.”
Steve frowns. “It’s not that big an inconvenience for me-“
“But you hate it.”
“I don’t hate it-“
“Steven Rogers.”
You glare at him, arms crossed over your chest. Steve sighs, slumping like a scolded child.
“I don’t love them.” He mumbles, and you nod.
“Next time, tell them no.”
“But then I can’t come upstairs.”
You shrug, starting at the door, your shoulder bumping against his. “You can text me. Like you’re supposed to-“
“Or I can just do the photos-“
“No-“
“Bye, guys.” Stacy calls from behind you, and you look her with wide eyes. You’d forgotten she was there.
“Um… Bye.” You wave awkwardly, and she grins.
He’s here for you. She mouths, and you roll your eyes.
No hope. It just makes everything else harder.
If Steve wanted you, he’d say something. And you’re a big girl. You can handle just being his friend, because he won’t leave you alone long enough for you to properly avoid him. You can handle it.
His hand finds your lower back, when he opens the door for you. You almost trip over your feet from the dizzying touch.
You can’t handle this at all.
The most annoying part about having undying feelings for Steve Rogers is that it’s Steve Rogers. Captain America. Golden Boy Number One. Mr. Perfect Specimen.
You’re in love with the little blond boy with abs and a dopey smile and sweet blue eyes. You’re obsessed with Mr. Muscles. You lose sleep over the guy who looks like he could crush you in a headlock then kiss you to sleep after.
Incredibly original. Groundbreaking, even. The love of your life is the masculine celebrity who’s respectful and kind. Never before heard of stuff. You’re really shattering glass ceilings with that one.
You want to shoot yourself in the face.
It’s impossible to avoid even thinking about him, when he’s everywhere. You go out to the corner store, and he’s on the little TV mounted in the corner. Avengers brand yogurts line the grocery store, and you glare at Strawberries and Cream and Justice until your head hurts. He told you about that. He was pretty proud of how all the proceeds were going to charities.
“It’s a stupid name, though.” You’d said, and he’d shrugged.
“Tony says the name doesn’t matter, as long as it’s got our faces on it. Apparently that’s what people are buying for.”
He’d frowned at that, and you’d given him an affectionate smile. He hates the glory of all of this. You know he does, and you’d told him gently you’re sure people will also buy for charity.
You’d been lying through your teeth, though. When you grab the yogurt and shamefully shove it into your basket, it’s not for cancer research or orphans or to save the bees. It’s because Steve’s face is smiling at you from the plastic, and you’re no better than the fangirls who get all doe-eyed over his every breath.
Not that you’re much better about that, either.
“I could give you an interview.” Steve offers on day, when you’d been complaining to him about slow news. “It can be about whatever you want-“
“I don’t want your pity journalism, Steven.”
He frowns. “It’s not pity. I’m trying to help you.”
You shrug, wrapping your arms around your stomach. “Well, I can’t accept your help.”
“Why not-“
“It’s unethical.”
“I… don’t think that’s true-“
“Well, I didn’t earn it.”
“You don’t have to earn it.” He says, all earnest and sweet and kind, and you want to die. “You work hard, I know you work hard, and if this can help you- Here, we can do it right now-“
“I don’t have questions ready.” You cut in quickly. Flatly.
Steve just shrugs. “Make some up. I know you can.”
You wish he’d stop believing in you. It makes your heart flutter.
“I have nothing I want to ask you.” You mumble hopelessly, and he frowns.
“I don’t believe that.”
“Why not?”
“Because you always have something to ask me. To ask anyone.”
You flush, turning to the side to avoid his gaze. “Maybe I just know everything about you,” you mutter, and he snorts.
“No. You don’t.”
That gets your attention. You snap your head in his direction, and he smiles at you. Like he already knows he won.
“There she is-“
“Shut up.” You lean across the table, and his smile widens. “What don’t I know about you.”
“A lot.”
“Like what-“
“You have to ask me to find out.”
You narrow your eyes. He keeps fucking smiling.
“You suck.” You grumble.
He shrugs. “I know you think that.”
You’re both leaning across the table. If you reached up, just an inch, you’d be able to trace the line of his nose. He’s so handsome. It’s unfair, and you can feel a smile tugging at your lips in response to his.
“I’m going to punch you in the face-“
“I’d like to see you try, kid.”
Kid.
You lean back, ice water feeling like it was poured through your veins. Steve notices the shift. He frowns, but you don’t give him the chance to question it. You just push on.
“I need a napkin.” You mutter., leaning back into your seat. “To write questions.”
“Yeah. Right.” He rubs the back of his neck. Opens his mouth, then closes it again, shaking his head slightly. “I’ll go get that for you.”
Of course he will.
And when he’s talking to the waitress—paper and a pen in his hand—she twirls her hair and giggles. Same as you would, if you got to know him where he didn’t know you. Where he might just find you pretty, and give you a chance, because you were friends first and you think that’s where you all went wrong.
This all might’ve been easier, if he really was just a celebrity crush. If you loved him because he was Captain America and not Steve. Your Steve. Who brings you back two pens in case you don’t like the first, and shares his food with you while you gloss through the interview—feeling little detached from your own body, like he’s a million miles away—and touches your lower back again when you finally leave lunch.
You might’ve gotten to touch him more, if he didn’t mean something to you.
But you wouldn’t trade knowing him for the world.
And that just makes it all hurt even more.
Steve’s been trying to get you out with his team for years. You’ve said no, over and over and over. You don’t need to feel even more mortal than you already are. Don’t need the reminder that he probably rejected you because you’re not even a quarter of what he and his friends are.
Not that you think Steve would think you’re any less because you’re not enhanced. You know he wouldn’t.
Consciously.
But that doesn’t change the reality of it. He wouldn’t want you, when he’s surrounded by other Gods, like he himself, far more worthy of his attention. You can be mean and sharp, but you don’t have the cool, collected, deadly beauty of Black Window. And you’ve heard the rumors about them.
You’ve heard all the rumors. About Steve with everyone, because people like to talk. There isn’t a pair of people on the Avengers that the public hasn’t theorized about secretly dating.
And you know none of it’s true. Steve’s told you himself.
But that doesn’t make it hurt any less, when you think about him with someone else more worthy. Someone he wants.
Which is why you didn’t want to do this. And Steve had always respected that—because he’s perfect, and he respects everything—so you’d thought you’d never have to. He asks. You say no. He doesn’t push it, or demand to know why. He waits months before asking again, and you know he only does that because he thinks you’re just too busy to go out the other times. That you’re saying no because you simply don’t have the energy, and not because the idea makes you feel itchy. And you don’t want to tell him. You like that he asks you. It makes you feel important.
But you still kept saying no.
Until Stacy overheard him ask you, and said yes for you. And Steve beamed, and you couldn’t stand to burst the delicate little bubble of his joy, and now you’re here.
Huddled in the corner of a bar with the fucking Avengers all around you. Hawkeye and Thor are throwing darts in the corner. Hulk, Black Widow, and Falcon are playing pool. The Vision is eating onion rings, and everything feels like a very, very bizarre dream.
Steve hasn’t left your side since you got here. It’s been the only anchor you have. You’d been able to hide in his shadow and duck under his arm, avoiding pressing questions and conversations you don’t really want to have. It’s not too weird for him to bring a civilian friend, at least. None of them have commented on it, besides throwing you passing looks. Steve mentioned that they all do it, from time to time.
But you’re the only one here right now. And if you could, you’d sew your hand into Steve’s so he couldn’t leave you alone.
And that’s always a little true. You want that all the time.
More than usual right now. But all the time.
“I’m going to get drinks.” He mutters, and you grab his bicep like a scared child.
“Wait- I’ll come with you-“
“Don’t worry, I’ve got it.” He grins down at you, patting your head like you’re a dog or something. “You don’t have to stand up.”
You want to shout at him that this isn’t about him being a gentleman, it’s about him not leaving your sight. But you’re weak. And pathetic. So you just nod, and Steve smiles at you before walking away.
You try to hide in the shadows, avoiding any attention. It doesn’t work.
“You’re the journalist.” A cool, lazy voice cuts through the air, and you look up to find Tony Stark standing over your table.
“I’m a journalist-“
“No. You’re Roger’s journalist.” Stark drawls, sliding into the booth. You stiffen, but don’t dare to move away.
That’ll make it seem even more obvious, when Steve comes back and you don’t inch away from him.
“I understand what he’s been going on about.” Stark continues, looking you up and down slowly. “Didn’t know they made them like you anymore.”
Your eyes narrow. “Like me?”
“Mhm.” Stark smirks, and you raise your chin.
“What am I like, Mr. Stark?”
He chuckles, leaning back. “Little spitfire, aren’t you-“
“Only to people who deserve it.”
That makes him laugh louder. Everything feels more and more like a fever dream by the second.
You look out to the bar, trying to find Steve. Internally begging him to come back. He’s by the bar, your drink already in his hand. It’s the same one you always get. He’s holding it close to his chest, like it’s something priceless.
There’s a woman standing next to him. Just another random girl, in a tiny dress with some pretty good makeup, giggling and batting her lashes at him.
And Steve’s entertaining her. smiling at her.
The same way he smiles at you.
You don’t want to be here. You didn’t want to be here. You don’t want to see how it’s not even the Avengers that he’d want more than you, it’s everyone else. She’s getting the same attention you try to drown yourself in, but you’re not the one who might go home with him. His grin is a little tighter with her, because he’s probably restrained and trying to play his cards right. She looks like she’s talking sweet, and he’d probably want that more than you, poking and mocking him all the time. He’s a God. He’ll say he’s not but he is, and what kind of god would want to be worshipped by someone who shows love with insults and eye rolls.
There’s a tight feeling, around your throat like rope. Your eyes are burning, and the world is blurring, and you don’t want to see this. You can’t see this.
You tried to be his friend. You really tried.
But you can’t.
“What’s wrong with you?” Stark asks, and you look over to find him watching with a strange expression.
“Nothing.” You clear your throat, fumbling for your bag. “I just- Remembered something. That I have to go do.”
You glance over to Steve again. He’s laughing at something she’s saying without shaking his head and tipping his head back, without looking away from her. Like he does with you.
“Right now.” You mumble. “I have to go do it right now.”
Stark hums, tapping his fingers on the table. “Right now, huh.”
“Yep.” You stand up, and he gives you an almost amused look.
“What is it? If it’s so urgent.”
“Stuff.” You snip.
Stark chuckles, shaking his head. “Jesus, he’s batting in a whole other sport with you.”
“What the fuck does that mean-“
“Nothing.” Stark smirks again. Like he knows something. “Go on. I’ll tell Cap you had stuff.”
You scan over his relaxed features, and he just keeps grinning, lazy and unworried. You could get an answer out of him, if you tried.
But you look up, back to Steve. And he’s grabbing his own drink from the bar. Still chatting with the girl. If he brings her back to the table, you’re going to vomit.
You have to go now.
“Thanks.” You mutter, giving Stark a tight grin. “Have a good night.”
And Stark laughs, as you turn away.
“Oh. I’m sure I will.”
You avoid Steve for a week.
Properly avoid him.
He calls ten times, just the night you leave the bar. He texts almost every hour for the days after that, and you mute him. If you look at the messages, you’re going to respond to them. If you respond to them, he’ll convincing you to talk to him. If you talk to him, or see him, or even stand near him, you’re never going to get over him.
You’re going cold turkey on him, like he’s a drug.
To you, he is. And you need to get clean. You need to move on.
Steve doesn’t come into the building to steal you for lunch, but he calls you every day. Your fingers fidget, still trying to pick up the phone.
You don’t know how you manage not to, but you do. When you ask the guards downstairs, they say he’s walked through the door and walked back out five times. You force yourself not to think about it, and somehow manage to do that too. And you’re going to be able to do this. You’re finally going to move on.
Moving on means moving. Not staying in the same little pit, waiting for his sun to change its path and shine on you. You have to climb out, and find a new place to be. Someone new to want.
You’ve done this part before. The whole dance of downloading the apps and going on the dates and telling yourself you want them, even though they aren’t Steve. But this time is going to be different. If you tell yourself that enough, it will feel more and more true.
There’s a guy you’ve been chatting with all week, and he seems sweet. He compliments you, and he was polite when you met for coffee, and he’s far from bad to look at. And it’s not like you’re going to marry him. You just need someone to be close to you that isn’t Steve.
And maybe this guy—you can’t really remember his name, but you’ll learn it—is blond haired and blue eyes and broadly built. Maybe you swiped through photo after photo, looking for a phantom of him, but that’s nobody business expect yours, and your pillow’s. It knows better than anyone that there’s only one way you can fake it.
Which is exactly what this game is. Faking it until you make it. Until you’re over Steve, and there’s never any temptation to look back.
You dress up, telling your brain you’re going on a date with Steve himself so you put in all the effort. Another thing that’s nobody’s business. You’re doing what you need to, and it’s going to get you over him. You’ve got lashes and glossy lips and heels that are going to hurt in the morning, and this guy doesn’t seem strong enough to carry you like Steve would, but that’s where you need to shut your brain up. There’s not going to be anyone who’s like Steve. This guy looks like him enough to get you out the door, but it’s not him, and that’s okay. That’s good. It’s going to help you move on. You’ve got your jacket, and your purse, and you’re going to do this and move on-
You yank the door open, and freeze.
Steve stares at you, hands his pockets, mouth hanging open.
This is usually the part where one of you says hi, but you can’t remember how to speak. He’s here. Why is he here. He’s been giving you space, because he’s amazing and polite, and it had been so much easier to pretend it was just because he didn’t care when he wasn’t right in front of you. Looking like you’d just punched him in the face, all pale with sagging shoulders and sad, dull eyes. As if he’s lost sleep.
He scans over you. Over your revealing outfit and makeover. His throat bobs, and you could swear he slouches further. When he meets your gaze, he doesn’t smile. It makes you want to cry.
“Steve-“
“You’ve been avoiding me.” He mutters, the words thick and low. “And- I’m not here to fight about it. I didn’t think you were going to open the door, I didn’t- I wasn’t going to bother you. Just- Never mind.”
You blink. “I- What are you-“
“You got a date?” He nods to your outfit, and something in his pockets shift. He’s fisting his hands.
“Um-“ You glance to his pockets again, then back to his weighted gaze. “Yeah. I do.”
“With whom.”
Shit. You still can’t remember. “Someone I met on an app. Steve, what are you-“
“On an app.” He echoes, the words sounding hollow. He chuckles under his breath. “You know, Stark made me try those once.”
You swallow. You don’t want to hear about his dating life. “How did that go.”
“Bad. And I tried, I just…” He trails off, shaking his head, and you think you can feel his stare burrowing into your heart, shaping it even further in his name.
This is exactly what you were trying to avoid. Seeing him makes you love him more, think about him more, need him more. He’s got a gravity over you, and he doesn’t know it, and why is he here.
“Is he nice.”
Steve’s voice is low. Pained. You don’t understand the question.
“Who?”
“Your date.” He grunts. “Is he nice to you.”
“Oh.” You forgot about that part. “Yeah.”
“Good.”
Neither of you speak for a second. Steve stares at you so hard our head spins, and you can’t look him in the eyes.
“What did I do?”
His voice breaks suddenly, and you feel the crack in your ribs. It yanks your gaze up, and you’ve never seen him so sad. Frustrated and annoyed, sure. Tense, all the time. But never just… Sad. Defeated. Like even he isn’t sure what to do. It feels wrong. Like the world is bleeding together and caving over itself.
“You didn’t do anything-“
“I must have.” He scans over your features, his own so openly aching. “You’ve never been mad at me before, and- Now you’re-“
He waves to your outfit, and you frown.
“It’s just a date-“
“Just a date.” He mutters under his breath, and your mouth falls open.
“I’m allowed to date, Steven-“
“I know you are!” His voice raises for a second, but he quickly pushes it back down. “I- I know, but that’s not- Why are you avoiding me?”
He’s pleading. It’s almost bleeding out of his voice, staining all over you, and you wrap an arm around your stomach like you can stop yourself from bleeding back. This isn’t fair. Steve’s not stupid. He can’t have just forgotten your mistake of expressing your feelings, he’s not nearly oblivious to be unable to put two and two together, and he certainly can’t be dense enough to not tie together that you’re avoiding him, and going on a date. You don’t go on dates. You’re usually too busy trying to steal some love from his shadow.
Yet here he is. Looking at you like he really doesn’t understand. Being so nice about it, when it’s clearly been bothering him. No demanding to understand. No shouting about how hurt he was. Just pleading.
Because he’s golden and perfect. All respectful, like you’re just another lady to him.
Like you’re not worth enough for him to fight a little dirtier for.
A lump is pressing up your throat. It’s a battle to hold his gaze.
“Why do you think I’ve been avoiding you.” You mutter, and he shakes his head.
“I don’t know, that’s why I’m asking.” Steve rubs his face, working his jaw. “I can’t fix it if you don’t tell me what I did-“
“Steve-“
“And I’ll fix it, whatever I did, I’ll fix it-“
“You can’t fix it!” You shout.
He stumbles back like you slapped him, and tears burn at your eyes.
“You- You can’t fix it, Steve.” You whisper, staring down at his shoes. “Just- Stop.”
“Stop what?” He rasps. “I- I know I messed something up, but-“
“Stop being so nice to me.”
He’s silent for a moment. You don’t even know how to justify that one. It sounds pathetic to your ears.
“I... I’d rather not.” He mutters, and you sigh.
“Then please leave me alone.” The words hurt, but you push them out like an apple lodged in your throat. “I- I tried, okay? I really tried, but I can’t.”
“Can’t-“
“Can’t be your friend.” You whisper. The tears burn on your cheeks. “I can’t be your friend, Steve, it’s too hard. I- I-“
You sniff, and Steve rasps your name. You have to shake your head. He can’t talk right now. It’s already too hard.
“I love you.” You say, barely a breath. It doesn’t matter. He’ll hear anyway. “I love you too much, and- It’s not your fault that you don’t- That it’s not the same. But please.” You shift on your feet, hugging yourself tight. “I- I need space.”
Steve doesn’t say anything. There isn’t anything he could say to make it better, not anymore. But something in you still fractures, when he just steps to the side. Giving you a path out.
Letting you go.
You think it’s hope. The hope that one day he might feel the same, the dream that you’d tried so hard not to feed, but tended to bloom on its own. That one day he’d look at you and realize he made a mistake.
But he steps to the side. And that’s all it’s ever going to be.
A dream.
You bow your head and shuffle past him, face burning and skin crawling with shame. You’re going to go on this date and pretend like everything is fine, if you can even make it out of the hallway without breaking down. Your knees are wobbly and tears are coming faster than you can wipe away, but you just need to get out. Out of this hallway with its suffocating air.
Away from Steve, and your heart, broken at his feet.
You’ll get over it. You’ll get over it. It’s hard to breathe right now but you’ll get over it-
“God- Screw it.”
A strong hand wraps around your wrist. It takes you by such surprise you don’t even think to fight.
Steve spins your around, grabbing your jaw and picking you up in a single movement. You gasp as his lips slam over yours, sudden and demanding. He kisses you like he doesn’t know he’s already got a claim on you. Like he’s trying to brand your lips with a bruising, hungry desire. All you can do is breathlessly kiss him back, scraping at his shoulders and trying to keep up with what’s happening. Steve tastes a little like honey and salt, and you’re sure he ate something earlier but you don’t really care what. His hair is just as soft as you thought, and you’re being crushed under the force of him but it’s intoxicating and exhilarating and you feel like you’re being remade-
It’s over. Just as fast as it started. Steve stumbles back, fumbling with his hands like they’re still trying to reach you against his will. He braces them on his hips, staring at you with wide eyes.
You gape at him, trying to catch your breath. You reach up to brush your own lips, trying to make sure the tingly feeling there is real. Maybe press it deeper in, until you can feel it forever.
Steve clears his throat. You blink at him through the slowly drying tears, not really sure what’s happening.
Neither of you dare to speak. Or move. You’re breathing shallowly, like anything too big is going to tip the whole world over, and it will all slip through your fingers.
He takes an uncertain step forward, and you should take one back.
But you’ve never been all that good at moving away from him before. You have no interest in learning that skill now.
This time, you grab him at the same time he grabs you. You stumble into each other, uncoordinated and desperate, unbothered by bumping noses and smushed limbs. You just need to be close to him. To feel him as much as possible, as fast as possible.
He’s never been a drug. You’d been getting a secondary high, but this-
This is a hit.
And you need to have more.
You grab at his collar, pressing up to meet his every kiss, and you’re quickly making out with teeth and tongue in the middle of the hallway. Steve’s arm wraps around your ass, lifting you effortlessly off your feet, and you moan into his mouth.
He trips as he walks back into the apartment, and you end up pressed against the wall at least three more times before you make it through the door. Every time Steve slams you back, devoting all his attention to kissing you until you’re drooling and sloppy and just trying to push further into his open mouth. At one point he slots his knee between your thighs, and you start to shamelessly grind down as he sucks your lower lip between his teeth.
You giggle, dazed and sore with overflowing need for him. He kicks the door closed behind you, and you think you’re going to end up riding his thigh against the wall, but he starts down the hall. To your bedroom.
He makes it about five steps before you rake your nail through his hair and start kissing over his jaw. Steve moans into your ear, lagging a little sideways, and you shriek as you both topple down onto the couch.
It takes you a second to catch your breath, and that’s all Steve needs to get the upper hand. He grabs your jaw, tipping your head back as he starts to suck and nip at your neck. You squeak, grabbing his head, and he moans against your skin. His knee pushes back between your thighs, and this angle is even better than before. You can’t help the roll of your hips, down onto the muscle of his thick leg.
“St- Steve-“ You voice is high, and he hums, licking up your throat before making out with a soft spot under your jaw. “Jesus fucking- God-“
“I know.” He mutters, dragging his hand down your thigh and grabbing under your knee. He squeezes gently, hiking it up to your chest, pushing his knee down even harder than before.
“Fuck- You-“ You gasp, your pussy clenching around nothing as your clit gets rubbed through his jeans, through your panties.
At this angle, you’re almost exposed to him. Your dress pooling around your tummy, the wet spot on your underwear growing bigger and bigger. You grasp at the skirt, trying to tug it down a little. It’s one thing to be riding his knee, another for him to see you.
Steve grabs your wrist, pushing the fabric further down than it had been before. Your eyes almost cross when he starts to rub his knee back and forth, the pressure overwhelming and perfect. You didn’t think you could cum like this, but there’s a familiar pressure building up in your stomach, and you have to bite your tongue to stop a wanton moan from escaping your lips.
He sits up to look at you, and you’re sure it’s a shameful, lewd sight. Your makeup smudged, your hair ruined, a picture of depravity and sin as you chase pleasure on his leg. This isn’t the kind of thing you thought he’d be into. He’s too perfect, too good, and maybe you’ve wanted to be put in a headlock and manhandled and used, but Steve’s all about honor. You’d been so sure that, even if you got to have him, it would be lovely, vanilla sex that was filled with such emotion it would make up for the simpleness.
But that’s not what you see in Steve’s eyes. They’re hooded and black with lust. His jaw is clenched as he watches you, and he pushes your leg further up with a gentle squeeze.
“Oh-“ You gasp, trying to reach up to grab him.
Steve grabs your second wrist without letting go of the first. Holds him in one hand, and leans over you as he pins them both over your head. Your mouth falls open, breathing fast and needy.
His own chest is heaving. He looks down to his knee against your core, and a deep sound rumbles from his chest. You’re wound so tight you’re certain you could snap, sudden and fast like a rubber band. You strain against Steve’s hold, and his attention snaps back up.
“You’re good, doll.” He coos. “Relax for me.”
You blink at him, shaking your head. You can’t stop grinding against him, but you need him close. Need to be under the pressure of his body, to feel like there’s nothing else in the world.
Steve picks up the speed of his knee, almost drilling it down into your cunt without touching you at all. You gape, head lolling to the side, and he grunts.
“Look at me.”
His voice is deep. Not a suggestion. An order.
You blink up at him, almost drooling, and he leans down until his lips are ghosting over yours.
“I don’t want space.” He mutters. “I want you.”
You swallow, still rubbing your pussy up into his knee. “You- You can’t just-“
“Shh.” He pushes further down, until it feels like he’s almost inside of you. You snap your mouth shut. “Is that all I did?”
“Wha- Oh-“
He drags his knee in slow circles, and you make an incoherent, starved sound. Steve doesn’t even break a sweat.
“You and me.” He mutters, studying your every expression. “That’s it. That’s what was gonna make me lose you.”
“You- You didn’t lose me-“
“Almost did.” He squeezes your knee. “You walked.”
You glare up at him. “You let me-“
“No, I didn’t.”
Steve’s lips slam back over yours, and you can’t really argue with that. Your eyes flutter as you give into the kiss, your body sparking with a million, delighted nerves. Steve groans against your lips, fucking his knee against your core, and he’s hitting your clit just right, the fabric soaked and filled with rough friction.
Your back arches off the couch as you cum, and Steve lets go of your wrists. You grab his face, trying to pull his lips closer, and he wraps around your back, holding you up. Your toes curl, body shaking as the pressure becomes sensitive, your pussy gushing and clenching around nothing.
Steve rubs your spine, kissing along your shoulder, up your neck, over your cheeks. You hum softly, floating down and tucked into his arms. He leans back against the couch, taking you with him. You slump over his chest, burying your face in his neck as his hand slips under your dress. Thick, calloused finger pads gently graze your hips and waist, and you squirm.
“I- I didn’t want to ruin something.” He murmurs in your ear, and you pause.
“Ruin…”
“Us.” Steve’s face presses into the curve of your neck, warm breath tickling your skin. “You were my friend, we work in a lotta the same places, and I just- I didn’t want to risk that.”
You swallow, leaning back and waiting until he meets your glossy, sad gaze. You take his face between your hands, and he covers them with his own.
“I was willing to risk it.” You whisper, and he sighs.
“I know. But-“ He looks away, words choked and low. “I thought it was a crush. That you’d get over.”
You laugh weakly. “Well, it wasn’t.”
“I know.” He sighs. “Mine wasn’t either.”
You lips part with a sharp breath, and Steve looks back to you with nervous, hopeful eyes.
“I love you.” He squeezes both your hands, guiding them to his lips. “It is the same. So- Tell me that fixes it. Please.”
It does.
Just as fast as they’d shattered, your dreams weave themselves back together. They’re clearer than before. More colorful. It’s no longer like looking through a mist, or watching a reflection in the water. When you touch Steve, he doesn’t ripple away. And that’s more than enough.
You lean down and kiss him. It’s slower than the other kisses. Steve grabs your hips, but lets you press his head down. You wrap your arms around his neck, tracing his lips with your tongue, and he hums in content. Drags you further forward in his lap.
Something thick and hard presses right against you, and you almost go limp. Like your body is already trying to get ready to take it. To take Steve’s cock that can’t be as large as it feels, straining against his jeans and twitching when you drag yourself slowly back and forth.
“Hey.” Steve grunts, grabbing your hips firmly. You hope he’s holding tight enough to leave a bruise. “Easy.”
You snort, leaning back to give him a pointed look. “Easy?”
“Yeah, that’s what I-“
“I just came on your knee.”
His ears turn a little pink, and he coughs. “I, uh- Fair.”
“Mhm.” You hum, smiling smugly, and you take all the strength in your jelly legs and grind right now onto his clothed cock.
Steve hisses, his fingers digging into your soft skin. “Jesus- Baby-“
You brace your arms on either side of his head, dragging back and forth as slow as you can. Steve’s eyes flutter, his tongue darting over his lips as he watches you move on him. His muscles flex with the effort not to grab you.
You’d very much like to see him give up.
“Does that feel good?” You whisper, making your voice sweet and innocent.
Steve grunts. You’re going to have handprints on your body in the morning. The thought just makes you move faster.
“I don’t want to go slow, Stevie.” You purr, and his chest heaves under you. “I want you to fuck me. Pleeease.”
You whine dramatically, thrusting forward, and Steve’s face drops against your chest.
“Jesus, woman.” He lips graze over your breast, and you moan. “Come on, ‘s not playing fair-“
“Don’t wanna play fair.” You hum, slowly reaching between your bodies. “Wasn’t fair how you turned me down.”
“’M sorry about that-“
“You should be.” You kiss under his ear. “Hurt my feelings.”
“Thought-“ He grunts as you palm his balls through his jeans. “Thought I was helping-“
“You weren’t.”
“I got that now-“
“But you know what would make it better?” You lean back up, holding Steve’s gaze with a lazy smile.
He nods quickly, and you giggle, wiggling down onto his bulge.
“Fucking me.”
Steve looks down, and a rumble echoes through his chest when he sees it.
You’d peeled off your ruined underwear without him noticing. Leaving your bare, sweet and soaked pussy pressed against him. You moan, watching him as you grind down, and he’s so close to snapping. You can see it in the tension of his jaw, feel how his fingers keep twitching on your hips. You smile at him, licking your lips, and that dark look flashes over his features. The same one from earlier, that had him overtaking you like a storm.
Steve’s a good boy. A sweet boy.
He also doesn’t like things that he can’t account for. Used to pick fights in alleys as a kid, always wanted to be the person everyone looked to for help.
You’re sure that, between the two of you, you can let him have a little fun without compromising his moral compass.
He has to, if you’re begging him for it. Not very chivalrous, to ignore a lady in need.
“Pleaseee.” You whine again, ghosting your lips over his. “Fuck me, Stevie, fuck me until I can’t walk-“
He mutters your name under his breath, and you just pout at him.
“Make me yours, make me cry, fuck-“ You throw your head back, the teasing him going straight to your own core. “God, fucking- Please, Steve-“
That does it. The explicit, wet cry of his name seems to snap something in Steve’s resolve, and he’s on you in a blur of hands and lips. Grabbing a fistful of your ass before hauling you up his chest, kissing you breathless as he stands. He keeps carrying like you weigh nothing, and you want to be trapped in his arms forever.
“Steve- Shit-“ Your jaw drops he tosses you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. “Fuck, slow down-“
“You said you didn’t want to slow down.” He reminds you in a deceptively soothing voice, big hands rubbing on the back of your thighs. “Said you didn’t wanna play fair.”
“I- Um- Ooooh-“
You drop your head against Steve’s shoulder, biting at his shirt as thick, strong fingers tease the lips of your pussy.
“Wet fuckin’ pussy.” He muses, spreading you open so the cold air hits your cunt. “Knew you got soaked for me, princess. Didn’t know it was this bad.”
“You- You-“ He needs to stop humiliating you and touching you at the same time. It makes you feel like you’re burning alive in the best way possible. “You knew?” You squeak, and Steve chuckles.
“Always knew. Told you, thought it was a crush.”
You try to twist and glare at him. “And you didn’t tell me-“
“Like you would’ve wanted me to tell you I could smell how badly you wanted my cock.” Steve smacks your ass with a scoff, and you flop right back over his shoulder.
“Fuck-“ You whimper. He’s right. You can barely even stand that right now. “Steve, please- Please-“
You’re not even sure what you’re begging for anymore. Mercy, maybe. More mocking attention. Anything he can fucking give you, because you feel like you’re about to explode.
Steve spanks you again, this time on the other cheek, and you moan.
“’Course you like that.” He mutters. “Dirty girl, testing me every fucking day.”
He drags his thumb through the mess between your legs, and your pussy clenches, trying to drag him in. He laughs, pushing down for half a second before dragging down to your clit and rubbing in quick, tight circle. You gasp, pushing uselessly at his back, already overstimulated and still needing more.
“Felt that.” Steve flicks your clit, and your whole body shakes. “Greedy, princess. You’ve been waitin’ this long, you can hold it a little longer.”
“Ca- Can’t-“ You gasp, pressing your cheek against the broad muscle of his back. “Can’t, Steve- Can’t wait-“
“Yeah, you can.” He grunts. “Christ, you’re dripping all over my hand. Going to take me no problem, aren’t you, baby.”
He’s playing with your clit like it’s just a little button for his whims, and you have to bite your inner cheek to stop yourself from falling apart all over his hand.
“Steve- I- I’m going to- Oh my god-“
Steve slaps right over your pussy, the wet sound echoing in your ears as he shoves those two fingers right into your pussy. He finds your G-spot in a second, crooking his fingers and dragging them over your sensitive walls. You cum with a cry of his name, sudden and harsh. White dancing at your vision, your body seizing up as Steve dumps you down onto the soft mattress.
He presses his wrist further, folding your body up. You grab his neck for an anchor, and he kisses your wrist as he slides a third finger into your dripping mess of a pussy.
“Getting you ready.” He mutters, wiping some hair from your face. “It’s okay, babydoll, you’re doin’ real good.”
You whimper, the orgasm still shaking through you. You’re struggling to breathe when Steve finally pulls his hand away, and the loss makes you whimper.
Steve laughs softly, leaning down to kiss you all sweet and loving, like you haven’t been turned to a puddle under his hands.
“Breathe.” He murmurs, squeezing your breast gently, and you take a loud, stuttering gasp. Steve kisses your nose, smiling like he’s being offered ice cream, and you watch him in a starry-eyed daze.
You hear the click of his belt, and as much as you’d like to reach down and feel him, you can barely manage to hold onto his shoulders right now. Steve pulls slowly up with one last chaste kiss on your lips, and your breath hitches in your throat.
He’s massive. That’s the kind of dick you’ve only seen in cartoons, because even the porn industry can’t replicate it. You’re not sure how he gets around so easily in his tight suit, with that fucking horse cock acting like a third leg. Thick and veined, already beading with pre-cum as he strokes it slowly in his hand, a sheepish expression on his face.
“I was… Endowed.” He mumbles, ears red. “Before the serum. Then…”
He nods to his cock, and you laugh breathlessly.
“Jesus, Steve-“
“It won’t hurt you.” He says quickly. “I know there are those rumors ‘bout be being a virgin, but-“ He sighs, pouting slightly. “God forbid a man tell Tony Stark he doesn’t want to talk about his sex life, suddenly he’s never even touched a boob-“
“Dude.” You smile up at him, and he cuts himself off. “Look me in the eyes and tell me if I still think you’re a virgin after that.”
You tilt your head to the hallway, but Steve just frowns.
“Dude?”
“Um-“
“Don’t call me dude when I’m about to fuck you.” He grumbles, and you’d laugh at him if that didn’t make your heart skip. e
“Sorry, sir.”
You say it half to mock him, half to test something.
Steve’s jaw ticks, and his already rock-hard cock twitches in his hands. You giggle as his eyes narrow, and you’re still laughing as he prowls over you, that dark, hungry look back on his face.
“You think something’s funny?” He grunts, and you shake your head.
“No, sir.”
Steve groans, dropping his face between your breasts.
“Gonna be the death of me.” He mutters under his breath, and you’re still laughing softly.
“Sorry.”
“No, you’re not.”
You laugh again, because you’re really not. It’s hilarious, and he’s adorable, and this is going to yield some fantastic results.
Steve assesses you like you’re a mission to be accomplished. And you know him.
He never does anything halfway.
“Alright, princess.” He mutters, tapping the head of his cock on your clit. “Open.”
You squeak, still giggling, and spread your legs slowly.
The last laugh is pushed from your chest as Steve slowly starts to sink himself into your heat. Your mouth falls uselessly open as you bow off the bed, your body almost unable to rationalize how full you are.
Steve splits you open, his cock slowly driving through you and hitting spots you didn’t even know you had. He grinds slowly down into your pussy, bullying you further open, and you think he’s found a button inside you that just makes you a limp, sensitive fuck-doll, because you whine out his name but it takes everything you have.
“I know.” He grunts, the tip of his cock pressing into your cervix. “You’re taking it, baby, there you go.”
“Steveee-“
“Feels good, doesn’t it.” He presses at sweet kiss to your lips as he bottoms out. His fingers lace slowly through yours, and you nod.
You’ve never had so many pleasure points being hit at once. Steve’s still got a hand on your breast, rolling your nipple between his fingers as you try to breath around him. He’s patient. You don’t want him to be.
“More.” You push out, and he raises his brows.
“Sweetheart-“
“More.” You roll up into him, moaning loudly as he hits even deeper. “Fuck me, Steve- Mmm-“
He kisses you, passionate and messy, and you almost scream in satisfaction as he starts to move.
He’s unrushed. Completely in control of you, and aware of it. His dick pulls almost all the way out before slowly pushing back in, the torturous pace making you feel like a live wire.
“Yeah, that’s it.” He coos, pressing a sweet kiss to your lips. “Pretty girl, you like being stuffed up with my cock, don’t you.”
“Ye- Yes-“ You tip your head back into the pillows, your free hand grasping at the sheets. “Yes- Oh my god, yes-“
Steve’s started to grind against your g-spot whenever he hits it, letting his thickness press and drag over the sensitive, gooey spot until you’re moaning and writhing around him.
“Feel that, don’t you.” He mutters, pushing in a little harder than last time. “Feel my dick inside you, baby, feels so good, doesn’t-“
“So good.” You babble, but who can blame you. “So good, Steve, you’re so-“
Your words turn into a broken moan as Steve drives back into you, and he’s going harder and harder every time. Still pulling almost fully out slowly, letting your arousal gather and drip down your thighs and ass, but then slamming back into you so hard it makes you think the world is shaking.
A breathy sound escapes your lips, maybe a plea, and Steve moves your tangled hands between your bodies, pressing you down into the mattress as he rises up for a better angle.
“You’re so fuckin’ wet.” He growls, pounding into your cunt like he owns it. “If I’d know you wanted me this bad I woulda had you all over this city.”
You whine, squeezing around him. Steve chuckles.
“Oh, you like that. Like the idea of being my good little cockslut, letting me play with you wherever I want.”
Big, steady hands press your knees up, letting Steve hit even deeper than before. A strange, tight feeling is building in your gut, but it feels good. All of this feels so good. You’re spent and cockdrunk, but you feel used in the best possible way. The filth Steve is drawling in your ears makes your brain go all quiet. You’re just a happy, humming bundle of pleasure, Steve’s massive body draped over yours, and you’d probably do anything he wanted, if he just fucked you like this after.
“You were made for me.” He groans, lips wandering all over your face as his cock drills into you. “I’m gonna take such good care of you, baby, swear it, just sing for me, come on-“
You moan, long and loud. Steve grins, kissing under your ear.
“Good girl.” He coos. “There you go, just like that. Come on, doll, I know you’re getting close.”
You are. You’ve been close the whole time, but this feels more and more different by the second. There are wet, sinful sounds filling the room as your skin slaps together, and Steve’s breath is hot in your ear as he starts to lose a little control of himself.
He moans when you start mindlessly humping up to meet him, forcing his cock into the tightest spot into you that makes everything all colorful and hazy. You gasp softly, chasing up from a little more, and Steve wraps and arm around your back.
“Fuck- Fuck- You feel so good,” he groans your name in your ear. “So good, it’s- Christ-“
That strange pressure in your tummy is going to burst. It feels like Steve is driving right against it, daring it come undone.
“Steve.” You breathe out. “Steve- I- I’m gonna-“
He growls, deep in his chest and rolling through you. Steve grabs you and wrestles you down into the mattress, pushing your legs up to your chest and fucking you fast and brutal.
It’s a sight above you. Steve, panting and moaning as your pussy sucks him in, glistening arousal shining all over his cock when he pulls out and smearing on your tummy. Your tight walls are starting to contract, and he doubles over, groaning your name as his thrust become shallow and unmeasured.
Tears start to stream down your face. Steve looks at you like you’re an angel, fucking you like you’re just a toy, and you can’t even remember how to tell him how good it feels.
“Steve…” You wiggle below him, crying out as he just fucks you hard. “Steve- Ooooooh-“
Your eyes roll back, the tears burning on your cheeks from the impossible to handle pleasure. Steve leans down and kisses them off your cheeks, the softness in such contrast with how he’s turning you into a bundle of nerves and tears.
“My pretty girl.” He mutters, kissing your lips sweetly. “Close. We’re so close. You can make it. Make it for me.”
You nod, almost hypnotized into agreeing. And Steve’s abusing that spot inside of you. Sensitive and overwhelming, making your toes curl and eyes cross.
“Steve- I- I can’t-“
“Yes, you can.” Not a suggestion. Steve’s thumb finds your clit, rubbing it back and forth as he ruts into you. “Come for me, now.”
The command rolls through you, and that pressure bursts. Heat washes over you, making you bow off the bed as a funny, wet feeling gushes out between your thighs. Steve groans, slamming his mouth back over yours, groaning your name as you start to milk his cock.
“Fuck,” he groans, and you wrap your arms tight around his neck. Tight enough to strangle him, if he was a normal man. But Steve just splays his hand possessively over your back and moans against your lips, driving home into your cunt as his release rippling through him.
It’s almost as good as your own orgasm. You’re tucked into a shaking, flexing heat of muscle, his deep voice moaning your name in your ear, his cock still thrusting and twitching inside you. Over, and over, and over-
You can barely breathe in the best way. You’ve never had a man cum so much. It starts just hot and sticky, then it’s drooling out, down your ass and onto the sheets. You can feel it in your throat, almost taste it, and even after Steve pulls out it’s everywhere. Painting your pussy creamy and white, branding your abdomen, your tits, your thighs.
Steve stares down at you with a gaping mouth as you both come down from the high. You laugh, hoarse and breathy.
“Woah.”
“Shit.” Steve mutters, grabbing at the remainder of the clean sheets and wiping them over your body. “I- I didn’t- I usually pull out, you just-“
“Steve-“
“We need to get you in the shower, it’s everywhere-“
“Steve-“
“I’m so sorry-“
“Steven.” You smack his shoulder, and he stops dead.
You’re already bridal style in his arms, naked and covered in his cum, some of it dripping all over the floor. You’re going to need to hire a cleaner. Or invest in really, really big buckets that you’ll keep next to the bed.
“Does that happen every time?”
He swallows, and nods.
“Uh- Not that much.” He mumbles. “But yeah.”
Pride glows in your chest. You get the most of him. “Okay.”
Steve blinks. “Okay?”
You nod, and he shakes his head.
“I ruined your room-“
“I liked it.”
He stares. You smile.
Steve rolls his eyes, and presses a kiss to your brow.
“You’re impossible.” He mutters, and you giggle.
“Yeah, but you love me. And you can’t take it back now, you already said it-“
He grabs your chin, turning it so he can fully capture your lips.
“I do love you.” He mutters against your lips. “And no one could make me take it back if they tried.”
You smile. You have no plans to do that.
Steve is somehow more than you ever dreamed. And there’s no way you’re letting him go now.
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a fic about that thing when you get sleepy around the person you love.
WARNINGS/TAGS: reader is a shield agent, reader's gender is unspecified, mentions of canon-typical violence, fluff/soft, the space between friends and something more
Turns out insomnia can be cured, only with very specific ingredients.
One: have Sam Wilson insist on watching Top Gun—again—when it comes his turn for a movie night pick.
This happens every two months or so. You love the man, but he needs to stop trolling at this point. After this rewatch, you’ll probably regurgitate Val Kilmer’s lines while you brush your teeth in the morning.
Wanda rolls her eyes so hard you think they might get stuck like that forever.
“This is the last time, Sam!”
But Sam smiles through the crowd’s boos. Even while the team complains, they take their positions on and around the couch anyway. Yourself included.
Because everyone loves him, and it’s just your fucking luck he loves Top Gun.
Two: find a comfortable surface.
The common room couch? Real nice surface. Of course a government-funded cohabitation facility for their top operatives can afford Egyptian cotton-upholstered furniture.
Three: be extremely tired.
The most recent mission you completed just finished debriefing in the afternoon—a few hours before movie night. It was a track-and-extract of a trafficking ring, except you got assigned the track part, and that was a lot less fun. The stakeouts were long, and the car you sat in had aged leather seats that dampened the already stale air. No air conditioning—can’t risk turning on the engine. No activity around the building you watched, either.
Stretch that out for some days, and naturally, all you wanted upon touchdown was a hot shower and a bed with springs.
Top Gun, a soft couch, and fatigue. Those three variables are enough to force you asleep, but just to be as empirical as possible, you have to list down another.
Four:
Get Steve Rogers to sit next to you.
Technically you didn’t get him to. He sauntered in late, saw the only open spot, and helped himself.
Suspicious, come to think of it. Why did nobody sit next to you? Nat and you would whisper quipped commentaries at each other. Wanda and you are close enough friends to cuddle. Sam would take the opportunity to further grind your gears by manspreading—his hobby is grinding people’s gears.
“Comfy?”
Steve is dressed in gray sweats and a simple t-shirt, its deep blue bringing out his eyes.
He’s the one who looks comfortable, if anything. You’re tempted to thumb at his shirt sleeve and ask about the thread count, but like a normal human being, you nod your yes and watch the opening credits roll.
You can feel his blue eyes on the side of your cheek before he looks at the screen, too.
The moment the movie begins proper, you find yourself muttering the opening line.
“Ghost Rider, this is Strike. We have unknown contact. Inbound Mustang. Your vector zero nine zero for bogey.”
Steve chuckles next to you and the warm sound coaxes your eyes to meet.
What happens next is automatic: seeing him smile makes you do the same.
The movie continues on, but its familiarity begs your attentions to wander. They instead pay dues to the gravity of his forearm, which nearly brushes yours. In the dim, you catch a glimpse of a vein that runs down one side like a river, and file the image away as inappropriate.
That’s Steve Rogers. Captain America. Your boss, good friend, and the entire nation’s moral compass, who keeps a list of the best places to get apple pie. You will direct your gaze with the respect he deserves.
And you do. Except in schooling your vision, your other senses betray you.
He smells good.
That thought feels way more inappropriate than looking at his forearm—which, for the record, you have seen and touched, all in a professional capacity. So you chose to stare at his hand again and hold your brain back from cataloging the scent of his soap, shampoo, or whatever combination of product that has your heart kicking like it wants out of your chest.
Steve Rogers doesn’t cure insomnia. He worsens it—or so you think.
Sleepy is the last thing you are, until the minutes tick by and sleep claims you anyway. You remember yawning while watching the nightclub scene. Iceman wore a pair of aviators indoors.
By the time the flying part of Top Gun rolls around, you don’t get to watch it: you’re knocked out cold.
─ ·✶· ─
When you wake up, cold is the last thing you are. Partly because the common room is designed to bleed with sunlight.
It’s morning, just the top of—yellow rays cut through the windows, no cloud in the sky to block its path.
Your skin feels warm.
It’s really no surprise. Steve Rogers is lying next to you.
How he is lying next to you is a surprise. The man’s broad frame looks cramped on the inside part of the couch, but nothing on his face betrays discomfort. He’s sound asleep, one arm folded under his head, the other slung loosely on your waist—not quite encircling it, just resting. His chest rises and falls slow. You realize this because you have both hands on that exact part of him.
Oh, shit. You’re touching his chest.
It turns out you shifted your palms a little too quickly, because Steve begins to stir. His tendency for alertness quickly revealed blue eyes that blinked once, twice, thrice—before his gaze eventually focuses on you. He doesn’t yawn, perhaps as confused as you are.
“Morning,” you whisper, almost sheepish.
He hums back. “Morning.”
“Uh… What happened?”
It’s quiet for a bit. You’re not sure if his brain has caught up. He’s staring—not the kind of stare you see on the field. Softer. Blue eyes study your face, then the position you’re in, piecing together the scene.
“You fell asleep last night,” he finally says, running his fingers through his hair. They fall across his forehead like the most good-looking bad news you’ve ever laid your eyes on. “Guess I must’ve fallen asleep, too.”
The untangling happens slowly. He lifts his arm away from your waist, props himself up on one elbow. You take the chance to sit and stretch, pretending that a tight neck is your number one concern and not the growing warmth on your cheeks.
“Can’t believe none of them woke us up,” you murmur. “Sam should be banned from picking Top Gun ever again.”
He chuckles. The sound still hits you like it did last night, amplified now by the lack of distance between you. But Steve finally stands up, folds his arms behind his head, then extends them. He repeats the motion a few times. You feel bad—his circulation must be damn near cut off after sleeping weird the entire night on a couch far too small for two.
“Well… at least we’re well-rested.”
You blink, taken aback.
“You slept well?” you ask.
“Yeah,” he nods, “you?”
Now that the question ricocheted back, you realize you don’t feel shitty where you should. Your limbs aren’t particularly sore. Your head feels clear after the initial fog.
Well-rested. Is this what it feels like?
“I think so,” you reply. There’s a smile on his face when you look back at him: small and slightly lopsided. He looks handsome.
Then he extends a hand, as if he knew that smile would make your knees buckle.
“C’mon, I’ll make you coffee.”
The second time happens two weeks later.
The Quinjet’s hum was almost an alien silence after the fight.
It was tough. Only three operatives were deployed: you, Nat, and Steve—top operatives, yes, but still only three. You went up against a swarm of mercenaries, their guns blazing, while the team’s equipment was mostly stealth gear not even half the enemy’s firepower.
You managed by the skin of the edge of your teeth. The word barely doesn’t quite cover it.
After putting the jet on autopilot and complaining about rancid intel with adrenaline-flooded veins, the three of you fall quiet.
Fatigue creeps in.
Last part of the mission: get through a five-hour flight back to New York.
Natasha sits in front of you, rebuilding her usual mask of nonchalance—you can see it in her sigh as she buckles up. The earlier combat chipped at her cool, and reasonably so: being in this line of work for most of her life doesn’t change the fact that it only takes one bullet to end it.
And boy, were there quite the number of bullets.
Steve chose the spot next to you, despite all the empty space in the cabin. You thought maybe he wanted to huddle, talk about the mission, see how you held up. You were the only non-Avenger in this assignment—it was reasonable to assume you wouldn’t be as used to this as they are.
But it’s been a good ten minutes and he hasn’t said a word.
A moment of uncertainty grips you. Post-mission, he’s usually corralling the team, checking morale, doing a small debrief of his own. Granted, there’s only you and Nat, so maybe there’s no need for that, but…
…is he alright?
Just as you look over to your side, concerned, you feel warmth, weight, and a brush of something soft.
You can no longer move.
Because Steve is asleep, and his head was on your shoulder.
His seat isn’t exactly glued next to yours, but close enough for him to bridge the gap. You watch the blonde strands of his hair press against the black of your tac suit and think about all the times you felt his weight on you—the most recent being his back glued to your chest while he shielded you from a bullet hail, just before you managed a rocky takeoff.
Aside from that? Fingers around your wrist during training. “Nice try,” he said once, as if your uppercut wasn’t the most predictable move ever. A friendly hand patting your shoulder after.
But never like this.
It takes a lot of effort for you to stare at something else that isn’t him.
Your gaze unfortunately lands on Nat, less than five feet in front of you.
She’s already smirking.
You look down on your lap, slightly embarrassed and left with nothing you can do. A little less than five hours to go on this flight.
Might as well get some shut-eye.
─ ·✶· ─
“Hey.”
You blink awake, nearly jumping upright. Natasha chuckles, patting her hand on your shoulder.
“Easy, there,” she nods towards the cockpit. You see a familiar sight.
“We arrived. Get some real rest after the debrief.”
You rub the sleep away from your eyes. “Thanks.”
You glance at Steve. He’s already in the middle of getting out of his seat.
You wonder if his head on your shoulder was part of a dream.
At least the third time happens somewhere with a bed, which of course you argue over.
Steve starts it.
“I’ll take the couch.”
You thumb the hem of your tank top. “You know, I was going to say that.”
“That’s kind of you,” he smiles, “but please.”
He gestures to the bed the both of you are ever-so-politely “no, you”-ing over: it’s rickety and is clothed in the thinnest sheets ever, sure, but there’s only one of it, so naturally this battle of politeness has to be fought.
You raise a brow challengingly. “If you take the couch, I’ll take the floor.”
Steve’s expression hardens like he took that personally. “No way am I gonna let you.”
“Then take the bed.”
“Where will you sleep?”
“The couch.”
“But it’ll be uncomfortable.”
“Aha,” your lips curl into a smile, “so you admit that the couch is uncomfortable.”
He looks away. You can tell he’s holding back his face from breaking out into a disbelieving grin.
Eventually, like an overly-used television trope, the inevitable consensus is that you are going to share instead.
Funny how—even during the back-and-forth—it felt like it was always going to come to this. Like you’d surrendered sharing the bed as an eventuality rather than a possibility.
Funny how you could feel him thinking the same.
Which leads you to this point in time:
Two hours past midnight, T-minus five hours before your mission starts. Nothing high stakes—it’s just the two of you—but still, at this rate, you’ll be running on fumes tomorrow.
The night coats the safehouse in darkness, bedroom included: the curtains are drawn and the night light is off to hide you better.
Even in the dim, you can glimpse the outline of him. He’s in a t-shirt and sweats again.
His weight on the bed next to you is unmistakable. You try to recall the last time you didn’t sleep alone—except for the times you fell asleep with him.
You can’t remember.
He breaks the silence thirty minutes after you said your good nights.
You’re counting.
“Can’t sleep?”
You shift from your side to your back.
“You caught me. You?”
He’s seated instead of lying down, spine pressed against the brittle headboard.
“Same.”
You pause. Look at him from your spot on the pillow. His profile is sharp where the dark should dull it, or maybe you’ve just memorized it so well. Still, there’s something unreadable about him.
“Does it happen often?” you ask.
He looks down at you, blue eyes soft. “Sometimes. Often enough.”
You let the answer sink in—Steve Rogers, super soldier, can’t sleep—and shoot him a wry smile.
“Maybe you ought to lie down, if you want to try and sleep?”
He let out a quiet, humorous huff. “Yeah, you’re right.”
Then he makes himself comfortable next to you, head finally touching the pillow. You feel the cotton of his shirt brush against your bare shoulder. His weight is more prominent now, and there’s a faint smell that reminds you of a forest after the rain. The blonde of his hair brings you back to the Quinjet—weeks ago at this point, but your eyes remember.
He’s so close. If your fingers even so much as twitch, they’ll probably kiss his.
“Why can’t you sleep?” he asks, voice low.
You stare at him. The last time you saw him sideways like this was after movie night.
Why can’t you sleep? It’s been such a big part of your life, you forget why.
“It’s just difficult for me,” you start, “but these days… I’m not sure.”
He lets you find the thread, shifting so he’s facing you. You begin to face him, too—like your shoulder blades and his are long lost twins.
You finally tell him.
“I get a feeling that something is going to happen, and I need to be ready for it.”
Something in his eyes shines just then: a mosaic mix of regret and recognition.
Thirty-three minutes since ‘good night’, and in this nocturnal darkness, you see a kind of light.
On the surface, Steve couldn’t be more unlike you. Yet you find that the two of you are more similar than you initially thought.
You’re both soldiers who are good at your job, partly because of this: the alertness in your souls that demands one eye ever-watchful. The spirit of a sentinel that doesn’t know what peace is because it’s never learned.
They say there’s no rest for the wicked. Here he is, the truest heart of them all, not even sleepy.
In his wordless glance is an understanding. You have no need to explain.
But then his eyes start to wander and you wish he would say more, because the trace of his gaze feels too intimate for teammates.
Yet it tastes familiar.
Has he looked at you like this before? Ocean blues drag a path down your face, brushing past your lips in a swoop so secret you’d miss it if you blinked. His gaze veers off the side, but not away from you. Is he studying your cheek? The shell of your ear?
What on earth does he see in you?
You speak because the space between your ribcage hurts.
“We’re gonna be so fucked tomorrow morning.”
His laugh is quiet, more apparent in his face instead of the volume of his voice. There it is, the distraction you needed—except the sensation in your chest tugs stronger. Just once, but enough for you to notice.
Of course you’d fallen for him. There’s no way you wouldn’t.
But you’re a soldier, and so is he, and there’s work to do tomorrow.
To your mild surprise—and his, in the small shine in his eyes—you yawn.
It’s strange. It should keep you up, this proximity with him. Though your relationship with Steve is comfortable, the context around this situation should make you feel more uptight rather than relax.
You think about the man in the meeting room and the man you spar with. He advocates for calm decision-making, but eggs you on with a cheeky “that all you got, agent?” on the training mat. Both versions of him are here with you. In bed. A decision he made calmly.
How is it possible to be nervous and unwind at the same time?
A few seconds pass, and you yawn again.
“That’s your cue,” he smiles wryly. It shoots an arrow through you.
“Yeah. Try to get some sleep,” you smile back, turning to face away from him before he sees the crack in it. “Good night, Steve.”
“Good night.” He says your name, and that’s the last thing you hear.
Your lullaby.
You don’t know he falls asleep right after.
─ ·✶· ─
Steve wakes up first—he has a tendency of doing that. It means he’s the first witness to a softness that wrecks him.
Somewhere in the night, your bodies turned to face each other.
It reminds him of sunflowers.
Unlike that time after movie night, there’s more space between you. A part of him mourns the distance, though sharing a bed already signals a lack of.
Another part of him is happy he gets to see your face.
You look peaceful like this. Not that you look troubled when you’re awake. Just… something about your eyes closed, the space between your brows completely relaxed, your lips ever-so-slightly parted—it’s not a sight he gets to see often, especially not in this sort of terrain.
You might be in a safehouse, and the bed springs might be rusted by age, but the thin line between consciousness and sleep encourages the mind to wander—and for a man of discipline, wandering is dangerous. It tempts him with thoughts that taste more like dreams.
What if you weren’t in a safehouse? What if this was your bed—yours and his—and sharing it wasn’t birthed out of politeness?
What if this is just something he gets to see every morning?
You stir gently. A stray strand of hair falls on your face. He lifts his hand up to tuck it back.
Stubbornly, it slips back to where it landed before. He smiles.
This dream will soon end, he realizes. In a matter of minutes, he feels the sun rising behind his back, a treacherous thing that beckons another fight for someone else’s future.
When you open your eyes, you’ll go back to being soldiers. You’ll call him Cap on the field.
Last night’s memory surfaces. He holds on to the shape of his name in your voice.
The bright morning erases long shadows. For once, he wishes it didn’t.
He allows himself one final thing.
Fingers cradle your cheek, thumb brushing the soft of it. In your sleep, you lean into his touch. His breath snags, and so does his heartbeat.
Then, after the pang’s echoes die down, Steve rests a hand on your shoulder to wake you.
The fourth time happens because you ask for it.
He’s been up reading by the lamplight, only one chapter in when he started, now halfway through—a sign that the hour is later than he thinks it is. The book isn’t a particularly riveting one, either: time passed in a crawling pace with each page. Where he thought his ambivalence towards the subject matter would put him to sleep, here he is.
Wide awake on page 257.
Awake to hear the knock on his door. Three times. Soft, almost imperceptible.
Steve stares like he knows who it is already. The book is placed on the nightstand.
He opens the door to see you.
The sight tears him two ways.
You’re in short shorts and an oversized tee that has seen better days. He would see the print on the front if you weren’t hugging a folded-up blanket against your chest. There’s a sting on his sternum—from how you trust him enough to appear at his doorstep halfway through dawn, and from the look on your face.
It’s the look of someone who’s trying their best to sleep, but can’t.
“I didn’t think you’d be up, I’m so sorry,” you breathe, surprised.
He’s aware of the concern bleeding through his every gesture. You haven’t told him what you needed and he’s already holding the door wide open.
“Hey, no, don’t be. What’s wrong?”
You part your lips, deliberating.
“I can’t sleep.”
It’s as simple as that, but he knows exactly how difficult the battle is.
He nods, feeling his jaw clench. He hides his hands in his pockets—if they had their way, you’d be in his arms by now, but that’d be selfish of him.
Because clearly there’s something you want to tell him. Something more. He watches as you seem to debate for and against yourself: the toll of sleeplessness on you renders your expressions crystalline.
He waits patiently in the doorway. A quiet encouragement that yearns to surround you in louder ways.
You finally find the words.
“The last time I had a good night’s sleep was at that safehouse.”
He remembers. It was the night he wished you weren’t just agents on a mission. It was the night he got to stare at your back, wishing for a world where pulling you against his chest won’t make things complicated.
He swallows. “Me, too.”
In time’s desert, it’s these little memories he shares with you that dot the landscape like oases. You discovered these sacred places together, where you may fix what the journey broke.
But they’re still few and far between. The rest of life is a white noise: all those mission briefs and debriefs used to mean something, now they just chip away at the memory of what sanctuary feels like.
And yet he recalls the details perfectly. Enough to conjure a balm that is his own imagination. He pretends you’re next to him, weight sinking on the bed, hair splayed on his pillow. He pretends some nights. Most nights.
Every night.
“Can I please sleep with you?”
You ask before he can offer, then cut in before he responds.
“Not like that,” you stammer, distraught, “I mean—”
“No, I know what you mean, it’s okay.”
You laugh weakly, gesturing at your blanket. “I don’t want to seem presumptuous, it’s just that my room is—”
“Four floors down, yeah,” he knows the way there because he’s considered it more than a few times.
Steve’s hand lands gently on your shoulder, guiding you inside.
“Don’t worry about it. Come on.”
You cross that hallowed threshold into his room. Steve clicks the door closed before leading you towards the bed. It’s much too dark—and too late—for a room tour, anyway.
He unfurls his comforter, and in doing so notices the way you watch him. In another time and place, he’d be more amused at the way you looked: like you were standing at attention.
You don’t climb into the bed until he does.
“So you brought your own blankie?” There was a hint of a tease in his question, though not at all unkind.
You pout, sitting on the bed. Said blanket is still in your arms.
“It’s not a blankie.”
“Then why’d you bring it?”
“I don’t know,” you shrug, “didn’t want to steal yours from you.”
He smiles, lifting his comforter as if telling you to make yourself at home in it.
“I don’t mind.”
“You sure?”
“Of course. We’ve slept in worse conditions, haven’t we?”
That pulls a smile out of you, and it scares him how pleased he is with himself.
But you settling underneath his blanket and onto the bed pleases him more. He watches on a propped elbow as you adjust your head on his pillow, and he’s grateful that you’re here—in more ways than one.
That you’re here is something he’s always thankful for. That you’re here in his room instead of the other way around is a special occasion to be grateful. Being in your bedroom—in your bed—would mean enveloping himself in you, and there was no way he’d survive that.
The thought alone already makes him want. He’s not accustomed to it.
Soon, the two of you are lying face to face. He catalogs the way you fit into his space: perfectly.
“You okay?” he asks.
You answer with a nod and a quiet “yeah, better now.”
There’s a moment where all you do is look at each other. It suspends the very thing you came looking for, eyes open, expectant.
“Steve?”
“Mm?”
Then you do that thing again when you hesitate with your words, before finally stringing them together.
Like earlier, it’s a request. As if he’d ever refuse you anything.
“Can I hold you?”
He breathes through a sudden wave of emotion, like a dislodged splinter in a dam.
You’re asking him for permission, but in doing so, he feels like he’s been given it—you want the very thing he’s longed to give you since that night on the couch.
So he doesn’t answer with words.
His arm circles around your waist while the other cradles your nape, both pulling you closer. Your legs brush. You let out a sigh of capitulation.
There’s a thrum in his spine as you move, too—you nestle your face in the crook of his neck, both hands resting against his chest. He wonders if you can feel his heartbeat.
How many lines have he crossed by doing this? The list of his transgressions runs long.
For once, he doesn’t give a damn.
He holds you tight. You bury yourself in him. The warmth that has soothed him many times seems to bleed like an open wound—there was no need to hide behind stations or the guise of propriety.
Together, the two of you are broken pieces of different things, laid in a perfect fit. Breathing. Craving the rest only the other can bring.
A hard life melting into a soft place, where he doesn’t have to choose between love and rest.
You bring him both.
“Steve?”
“Mm?”
He likes this refrain: you calling his name, him answering.
You look up at him from the hug. He dips his chin down to meet your gaze.
“Thank you.”
I should be the one saying that, he thinks to himself, but this is no time for emotional revelations. Not yet—you’re too tired for it.
So he pulls you in closer like closer was ever possible. You find shelter in the hollow of his neck again, nose kissing his throat. He strokes a gentle hand down your hair, feeling you sigh warm air against his skin. Your t-shirt is soft against his. His other palm presses steady on your back.
“You’re welcome,” he says.
Soon enough, your breathing evens. You’re asleep.
He remembers the safehouse this time, the peaceful look on your face. He remembers clinging onto those last few minutes of closeness before the call of duty snuffs out peace. The light of day always makes the lines between you that much clearer.
Like tide, you’re further away from him when the sun is up.
For now, he allows himself one small thing.
He leans down and kisses your crown, breathing in your shampoo. His lips press one, two, three more times, wandering further down: your temple, your eyelid, your cheek—each breaching a boundary.
Each bearing a promise.
There’s no assignment come morning. No more reason to run.
Tomorrow, he’ll tell you how he feels.
A thumb brushes your lower lip, careful not to wake you.
That one will have to wait until tomorrow, if you’ll let him. The only thing he can do now is dream of it.
He hopes this is the last night he’ll dream of it.
taglist: @pinksplace @thceseus @theworstwolvie
my first time writing steve...... and i broke my self-imposed ban of no writing in april for him with this idea....... if it's balls, lie to my face
✦Read on a03!✦
✦Masterlist - Bucky Masterlist✦
✦pairing: Bucky Barnes x female!reader✦
✦summary: All you wanted in a roommate was someone not insane, who didn't shift anything in your life who didn't drive you out of your mind. You didn't get either of those things.
You got Bucky Barnes instead.✦
✦warnings/tags: roommates, enemies to friends to lovers, insecurity, jealousy, angst, fluff, pining, shameless smut (fingering, slight body worship, dirty talk, nipple play, softdom!bucky), no use of y/n✦
✦author's note: I'm trying something. Enjoy!✦
“Do you… have any pets?”
The man across from you blinks slowly, then shakes his head. He hasn’t said much at all, despite this being an interview.
But the last girl had asked some very explicit questions about your sex life. Specifically if you were open to threesomes, and—if not—if you’d be really chill about them happening in the living room.
Then there has been the guy who told you that you shouldn’t fall in love with him—despite looking and sounding like the human version of Mickey Mouse—the girl who grabbed your palm and started crying because apparently you were going to be in grave danger by the end of the month, and the couple who told you they were professional Youtubers, but when you looked them up after they seemed to be airing on the aspiring side. The guy had made you sit for twenty minutes to listen to his podcast, and the girl had told you she’d leave him for you in a second before they left.
So quiet isn’t great.
It’s far better than your other options.
And this guy seems sane enough. He hasn’t tried to sleep with you. He doesn’t look like the type to have a podcast. He’s just been staring at you from the couch, sitting a little straighter than you’ve ever seen, his resting causal on his legs. Jeans, hoodie and leather jacket, boots that he’d wiped on the mat before coming inside.
Gloves.
It’s not that cold outside, but he’s wearing gloves. And there’s something about his face that seems familiar, but he might just be that kind of pretty.
He is pretty.
Which doesn’t matter, because you’re interviewing for a roommate and not a boyfriend, but it’s still nice. Especially if, barring he says something that makes you think he’s a serial killer, he’s probably about to be your new roommate.
“What do you do for work?” You ask, tapping your pen against your knee, and his eyes flick to the motion before he responds.
“I clean things up. For people.”
You tilt your head at him. “Like a janitor?”
He huffs a low laugh, and shrugs. “Sure.”
“Sure? Or you are a janitor?”
“I’m like a janitor.”
“So what are you actually?” You raise your brows, and he sighs.
“I clean up bigger messes. Me and my… friends. We take care of things that important people fuck up.”
Fucking Christ, he is a murder. “So you’re a hitman.”
He frowns. “I didn’t say that, doll-“
“You’re either a hitman or a janitor…” you glance down at his application. “James. So which is it.”
James stares at you for a long moment, and it feels like he’s seeing into you. It makes your skin buzz and your legs feel kind of soft, and you’re definitely leaning hitman because a janitor would never need to learn how to make you fold with only a look. It could just be that his eyes are a really clear shade of blue, and it reminds you of summertime.
It’s probably that you’re interviewing a hitman, and you just called him out on being a hitman, and now he’s going to fucking kill you-
“You got my name, on that paper?”
You blink at him. “Yes?”
“Look at it again.”
You hold his gaze, trying to figure out if this is some kind of trick, and he’s going to stab you while you look at the paper. But James just raises his brows and nods to the paper, and you chew on your lower lip, bracing yourself to run, just in case.
He doesn’t try to kill you, as you scan over his application again. James just waits, patiently and when you glance back up at him, his expression is so neutral you’d think he was a statue.
You’d read the application before. You don’t know what he’s expecting you to find. James Buchanan Barnes, previous address somewhere a few blocks away, checked the veteran box, born March 10th, 1917, fairly average income but a good credit score when you’d run his social-
Born in 1917.
You look up at him, gaping and wide eyed, and there’s a twitch to his lips. You’d think he meant 1971, but even then, he doesn’t really look older than his mid-thirties. And he’s staring at you like he expected that reaction.
“Are you a hundred years old?”
“Hundred and six.” He shrugs, still looking vaguely amused. “You ever take a history class?”
You scowl. “Of course I’ve taken a history class-“
“They do a unit on world war two?”
“Of course they-“ You cut yourself off, looking back down to the application. James Buchanan Barnes. He’s a veteran. He’s old, but doesn’t look old, and he and his buddy clean up messes.
You feel like a fucking idiot. You watch the news. You have a subscription to the New York Times that you never fucking read, but you glance at the front page of. It’s not your fault his hair is different, and you also don’t expect superheroes to just walk into your apartment for interviews. You’d always imagined they just had a I’ve saved the world card that they can pull out and flash to get what they need. And-
“Don’t you have a tower?” You blurt, starting to shred the edge of his application paper. “Like, in Manhattan? That’s free?”
“Yep.” James shrugs, watching you carefully. “But if I keep livin’ with John stealing all the food and Valentina ambushing me for staged dates, I’m gonna jump off the roof.”
You frown. “Staged dates?”
“Apparently I need to be more personable.” He mutters, and you sigh.
“Okay, well- Would you actually live here-“
“Yes.”
“And am I going to get a bunch of… super-people trying to get into my apartment. Because I was in the city for the battle of New York, and the Blip, and the Void- Which- Thank you for your service? But I’d really rather just not have that.” You gesture to yourself, and James is looking more amused by the second. “Here.”
“No super people.” He says. “They don’t know I’m doin’ this yet.”
“And when you move out?”
“I’ll make sure they don’t bother you.”
You swallow, and there’s an option to tell him to look somewhere else. That he seems like an okay guy, and this isn’t about the Winter Solider thing, but that you’d just rather not be anywhere near superheroes and the mess they bring.
But it’s either this, or aspiring Youtubers.
And he really is pretty.
It helps.
“Okay.” You take a deep breath, looking back to your list of questions. “Do you drink, smoke, or use any other narcotic substances?”
James shakes his head, and you can still feel his gaze, searing over your skin. “No. They don’t work on me.”
“Because you’re… old?”
“Because of the serum.”
“Oh. Right.” You kind of feel like you have a fever. He needs to stop looking at you. “Good. That’s it, I think. I’ll call you after I look at all the applicants.”
“Alright.” James pauses. “If the superhero thing is a problem-“
“It’s not. I just, um-“ You clear your throat, and his eyes are really blue. “I need to think about it.”
He nods, pushing off the couch and offering out his hand. “Thank you for your time, even if you decide you don’t want any part of it.” He gives you a tight smile. “Can’t say I’d blame you. There’s a reason I’m tryin’ to get away from it.”
You feel kind of dizzy, so you just nod, and shake his hand. He’s using the normal one—you can feel the soft skin and muscled through the glove—and you can’t stop yourself from glancing at the metal one.
“It’s safe.” He says, and you flush.
“I- I know. Sorry-“
“Don’t worry about it.” He takes a step back, and your hand feels like it’s been electrified, but that might just be the nerves. “Have a good day, ma’am.”
“Don’t-“ You wrinkle your nose before you can stop yourself. “You can just use my name.”
James nods, echoing it back to you. “Have a good day.”
“You as well.” You’re still shredding his application between your fingers. You might be about to throw up. “I- Bye.”
His lips twitch again, and he dips his head. “Bye.”
James leaves, and you take a deep, long breath.
Maybe you can sneak in a clause that any superhero stuff means the lease is broken, so you don’t get pulled into all that. But it’s not like you’re rich in alternatives anyway, and he seems like the kind of guy to clean up after himself, and he didn’t try to hit on you once.
You can have him as a roommate.
It’s not the stupidest thing you’ve ever done. You’ll probably never really see him, because he’ll still work at the Watchtower.
It’ll be a nice story, when you’re seventy and have grandchildren, asking if you knew any superheroes. And you’re not prime kidnapping material, because you’d just start crying and you don’t know anything.
You really don’t have that many other options.
So James Barnes is going to be your roommate.
———
He moves in fast. About ten boxes that he carries up himself, one delivery of an Ikea bed frame and dresser that he somehow builds by himself in a single afternoon, and a rug that he carries up by himself. He doesn’t even really speak to you, he doesn’t keep that much food in the fridge, and he shower really fast in the morning, so you still get hot water.
You don’t see him that much, either. After about three days, you realize he’s pretty much always gone before you get up, and back after you go to bed. It’s like you’re still living by yourself, only there’s now a vague smell of leather and pine trees in the living room, a motorcycle parked next to your car, and your rent is cut in half. You see him maybe two times in the first week overall. Once when you get up extra early, and once when he comes home suddenly around four pm, grabs something from his room, and leaves with barely a glance in your direction.
At first, it’s perfect.
Then the second week hits. And James is still never home.
But his presence is everywhere.
You’re not the neatest person. Clothing ends up on the floor of your room, and dishes can pile in the sink. There’s no obvious method to the madness of your fridge or living room, but you understand it. Everything is in its place, and its place may seem insane to anyone else, but it makes perfect sense to you. Nothing ever gets lost, because you know exactly where to find it.
Your keys go under the same jacket every morning. You always pick it up, shove them in your pocket, and shrug the jacket on as you walk out the door.
But you go to grab them, and they’re gone.
The jacket, and your keys.
A lump quickly builds in your throat. You could take a bus to work, but then you’d have to leave the apartment unlocked. Plus your keyring has the keys to your office, and if you don’t have those you’re going to have to beg for a copy from admin, and they’ll yell at you for losing them in the first place. You work for a non-profit, and you really doubt anyone is going to try and steal soup receipts, but they’re still going to yell at you, and you’ll start crying, and it’s going to fucking suck.
You need your keys.
And you rip up half the apartment before you find them.
Your jacket had been hung on the wall, and there’s a new little shelf that has a tiny bowl. A key bowl. It’s cute.
You’re going to be fifteen minutes late for work.
It will be fine. You’ll tell your boss that you just ran into worse traffic than usual, and you’re almost always early, so she’ll let it slide. You’ll ask James not to move things without telling you, the next time you see him, or just text him if he keeps barely actually living in the apartment.
Overall, it’s not even the worst thing about the day, because you go out on a date with a guy your friend introduced you to, and he tries to get you to chain smoke with him.
But it only gets worse from there.
You forget to text James. Between the date, being overflowed with work, and putting back everything you’d torn apart in your frantic search, it just slips through the cracks.
So it doesn’t stop.
The cleaning.
Something is in a new spot, every time you step into the living room. You’re not sure he ever sleeps, because if he did there’s no fucking way he’d have the time to do all this. The dishes are all cleaned and in a neat order. The fridge has been classified by food group. He got coasters instead of napkins, and he fixed the broken cabinet hinge, and there’s no more dust on the floor, and all the towels in the bathroom are color-coded. You feel like you’re living in a fucking hotel.
It needs to stop.
You keep forgetting to text him. The only time you see him is after you get back from another failed date, and you’re too tired to yell at him, so you just stumble past him with a grumble and slam the door to your room. When you wake up in the morning, coffee is already waiting for you, and this feels like a waking nightmare.
James must think you’re a fucking mess. A disaster of a woman, who can’t clean, can’t organize, can’t take care of herself enough to make her own coffee. You’d seen the frown on his face when you’d kicked off your heels and tossed your jacket onto the couch. You know you hadn’t looked your best—you’d walked home in the rain, and your hair was stuck to your face and lipstick smeared with your too-small dress clinging to your body—but it had been a shit date. The guy had asked how many kids you wanted, and when you said you weren’t sure, he’d told you that you’d have six.
“Six?” You’d laughed, swirling the wine in your glass. It was easier to play that type of comment as a joke. “That’s gonna hurt.”
“You’ll get through it.” He’d shrugged, winking at you. “You’ve got birthing hips.”
You’d left early. He’d tried to stop you, and you’d punched him in the face because you can take care of yourself.
So this cleaning you up shit is going to end, now. You’re not a pet project. And James doesn’t get to just barrel into your life, move everything around, and then never even fucking talk to you.
You stay up, tonight. It’s a Saturday, and you’re talking to him, whether he likes it or not.
The door clicks open after midnight, and you stand up, rubbing your eyes. You’d only managed not to fall asleep with coffee and a lot of alarms, and every nerve in your body feels wired to snap. You don’t know why the fuck he’d been out so late—it’s Saturday, and if it’s superhero stuff he should have just stayed with the other New Avenger’s—but you just want to go to sleep.
If you go to sleep, you’ll forget to have the conversation again. You’re barely going to be able to keep it together as it is, to not scream at him and do this like an adult.
So you take a deep breath, cross your arms over your chest, and clear your throat as he kicks off his shoes.
“I see you.” He drawls, and you dig your nails into your arm. “What’re you still doing up?”
You raise your chin, keeping your voice level. “We need to talk.”
James glances at you, features impossibly neutral. “Do we?”
“Yes.” It might be an intimidation tactic. You won’t let it get to you. “Stop moving all my shit around.”
“Your… what?”
“My stuff.” You snap. “My jacket and my key and- Everything. Stop changing everything without asking me.”
He frowns at you. “I’ve been cleaning up.”
“You did ask me to clean up.”
“I didn’t think I had to,” he says slowly, still watching you carefully. “I live here as well, and this place was a fuckin’ mess-“
“It wasn’t a mess!” Your voice is rising. You push it back down with a deep breath. “I had a system, and I- I was late to work because of you moving my fucking keys-“
“The keys that were under the jacket? They were about to fall on the floor-“
“And I would have known they were on the floor! You don’t just get to come in and change my whole life-“
James snorts, shaking his head. “I’m not changing your life. I’m barely even here-“
“So you have no right to move everything around.” You hiss, and he blinks at you. “If you wanted to live somewhere neat and perfect or whatever, you should have chosen that. You saw my place before you moved in, and it’s still my place. Touch my stuff again, and I cut off your other hand.”
He stares at you for a second. “You’re a lot more than you want people to think, huh.”
It’s like he’s punched you right in the gut. Knocked your right in the windpipe, make you choke on your own words and stare at him, your head grabbing his words and grounding them into a toxin for your blood. He’s still looking at you. It’s still burning all over your skin. There’s a lump forming in your throat, and your nails are going to leave little indents on your arms, and he doesn’t know what the fuck he’s talking about so why is it burning in your gut-
“I’ll stop moving your shit.” He says, walking right past you with a bored tone, and his eyes are still a pretty, clear shade of blue that seems to shine in the dark.
White-hot. Sparking through you in a hot, furious way that makes your head spin and fingers curl into fists.
“Good.” You manage to mutter, and he snorts.
“Yeah, well, if you start makin’ a big mess again, I’m cleaning it. My ma raised me better than that.”
Before his words can sink in, he’s gone, the door to his room closing behind him.
His mother raised him better than that.
Than you.
You whip around, ready to bang your fists on his door and snap that your mother raised you just fine, you just have bigger things to worry about than installing fucking shelves. The only thing that stops you is another alarm, going off on your phone and snapping you out of your thoughts.
Even if he’s a shit roommate and you should have gone with the sex-life girl—at least you might be getting laid—he still signed the lease, and is at least pretending he wants to be here.
You still don’t understand why the fuck he’d do this at all, if it’s so disgusting for him. The New Avengers have to have a cleaning crew.
Hopefully, by the end of the month, he’ll give up on you and return to the watchtower.
Until then, you’ll just pretend he doesn’t exist.
It won’t be that hard. He’s barely around anyway.
——
You need to stop making predictions. You’re really fucking bad at them.
He’s around. A week passes, and you don’t see him at all, then suddenly you go out into the living room and he’s there. Sitting on the couch and reading a book, a mug of coffee on a the side table.
He’s wearing a long sleeve shirt, sweatpants, and the gloves. It’s the closest you’ve seen to him looking normal, and it feels wrong. Even when he’d just been interviewing, there had been a rigid, careful aura around him of someone more than a man. But there’s a half-eaten apple in his hand, and his hair is still mussed from sleep, and he’s so settled into the couch it’s clear he’s not moving any time soon.
You don’t know what you’re supposed to do with that.
For today, you settle on ignoring him. Pouring the coffee—already made again, but maybe he’s just really bad at estimating proportions—and pulling on your shoes, walking out the door without a glance back. You’ve got work, and if he wants to sit on the couch, he does technically live here. He’ll probably be gone when you get back, anyway.
But he’s not.
You’re home around six, and James has moved to the kitchen. He’s making dinner, like he’s a person. Who eats.
It feels like you’re intruding on something. Like you’re watching Thor take a shit.
You elect to keep pretending he isn’t there. He probably just had a day off, and tomorrow will be back to normal. You close yourself in your room for the rest of the night, watching TV on your laptop and messaging with a few friends about going out this weekend. It might be a trap to make you go on another date, but you don’t really care.
All your friends are married, and they really do mean well. They want you to have what they found. One of them just had a baby, and she’s been sending you the least photos because she feels bad. You’ve stopped complaining to them about not having a partner. It’s not that you don’t want one.
You’re just really really bad at dating. At going out and meeting people, showing them all the best angles of you to adore, then holding onto them. It might just be something you can’t do. That you’re not meant for, no matter how bad you want it.
And you want it. You want it when you watch stupid romcoms, and when you walk your friends dance around with their partners, and when you think about your future there’s always someone there. A faceless silhouette, who may never get to have a name.
If they do, you doubt it will be Keith, the blond-haired guy who’s had a suspicious amount of his photos texted to the group chat. You’ll give him a shot, just to say you missed. If nothing, it can be a good night at his place.
Not your place.
Not with James changing all his habits, and actually living with you. He’s even more inescapable, now. He’d stopped touching your things, but the little bowl on the shelf now holds his keys, and you feel like a bitch if you don’t put yours in as well. Your clutter stays organized, because it would be petty to scatter it everywhere just to get back at him. Petty and childish.
And you’re not petty and childish. You’re a grown woman, and you’re going to force yourself to behave as one. Even if it would be satisfying to keep your shoes just off the mat he bought, and put your food wherever you’d like in the fridge, instead of according to James’ system. But you’re going to be mature. You’re going to follow the vegetable and fruit drawer designations, and you’re going to put the dishes on the stupid drying rack.
And you will not admit to him that it all makes your apartment feel nicer.
James can just silently be smug about that himself. With his stupid books and gloves and thick thighs on your couch. He’s still pretty.
You still want to strangle him.
“I like the candles.” You mutter a few nights later—well into the sudden shift into him being a person instead of a ghost—and you’re trying to be sweet. You can be sweet. That’s a gear you can have. “Apple cinnamon is nice.”
“They’re your candles.” James doesn’t look up from his book. “You’d left them in the closet, figured you weren’t touchin’ them anymore.”
You bite the inside of your cheek. It’s not bait. You won’t take it. “Oh? How’s that?”
“They were covered in dust, doll. Like half the shit in-“ James’ cuts himself off, and you turn with a small frown.
He’s staring at you. Scanning over your body in a way that makes you think you’re covered in some kind of fucking goo. Your legs, your arms, your dress-
Oh.
Your dress.
Somehow, in just two sentences with James, you’d forgotten that you were out in the living area for a reason. To get the heels, and test if they went with the outfit. You’re about to head out, to meet Blond Keith and hopefully at least get laid. So you’d dressed like you’re trying to get laid.
James’ eyes are pushing a little out of his head, his jaw is clenched, and his fist is curled on his leg. He’s acting like you’re a 14th century noblewoman who just showed her ankle.
To a hundred-year-old, you might be.
It’s the biggest reaction you’ve gotten out of him yet.
“You’re going to get cold.” He mutters, voice stuttering slightly, and you smile at him.
This kind of sweet you can actually do. Full lips and batting eyelashes and a crude, mocking tone under all the sugary fluff. “Really? Why do you think so?”
His jaw ticks. “No jacket.”
“I have a jacket, though.” You shrug, turning around to walk back into your room. “And I’ll be getting a ride home tomorrow.”
You can hear the frown in his voice. “Tomorrow.”
“Yep.” You grab your jacket, and—even though you weren’t going to leave for ten more minutes—shrug it on. “Bye, James.”
He doesn’t respond. Just watches you walk out the door, all the way until it slams closed behind you. He hadn’t snapped and told you to change, but he had stared. Had acted like more than the tauntingly neutral statue that’s been sitting in your living room all week.
You’re not childish.
As long as he keeps acting like he knows what’s best for you, you’re going to milk this for all its fucking worth.
——
“Where are you going?”
You hum, focusing on your mascara in the mirror.
You could be doing it in the bathroom. But James isn’t in the bathroom. And half of this is just doing a show to get a rise out of him.
So you’re doing it in the living room.
“Out.”
“Out.” He repeats, voice low. “You just got back.”
“That was from work, it doesn’t count.”
He grunts, and you can feel him staring. “Last night count, as well?”
You just shrug, running your tongue over your lips to test the lipstick. He doesn’t need to know that this is most you’ve gone out, ever, in your life. That most of the nights are just spent with your friends, and only one or two have been with Blond Keith. Then you’d met Dan the bodyguard, who you never managed to sleep with, and Miles who wore a thousand-dollar watch, and tried to fuck you in the bathroom after the second date.
But those are all just normal date failures. The hanging out with friends all the time is getting exhausting, and they do keep trying to set you up with people, but you’ll eat glass before you hang out with Thousand Dollar Miles again.
It’s all exhausting.
Work is exhausting. Putting so much effort into pissing James off is exhausting. Dating is exhausting.
You still give him another sweet smile, before you walk out the door for your next date. It should be casual, with a guy from a dating app who had a nice face and fairly normal opinions about things. James doesn’t say anything, but—just like every night before—you can feel him watching you leave. It makes you stand a little taller, sway your hips a little more. Rushes a hot, sparkling feeling through your veins before you close the door.
It’s the high point of the night.
Dating App Henry does have a nice face. His opinions are normal.
He also won’t stop asking you for your opinions about things, then cutting you off before you can actually give them.
“Can you see yourself having kids?”
You almost choke on your shitty wine. Not again. “I-“
“I’ve thought about having, four or five? You seem like you’d be a good mother, like you organize your cabinet by colors or whatever.” Dating App Henry laughs to himself. “That’s good, because I can’t clean at all. I don’t even know how to do laundry.”
You blink at him. “You don’t know how to do laundry?”
Dating App Henry shakes his head, grinning at you like that’s supposed to be cute, and you shake your head.
“Then… I’m sorry, who does your laundry?”
“My ex did it for a while.” He shrugs. “Lately I’ve just been buying new stuff, whenever I run out. I got another raise at work, so I can afford it.”
Later, you learn that Dating App Henry is a lobbyist for AI companies.
He asks if you want dessert.
You shake your head politely, and call a cab.
Maybe it’s you, is all you can think as the dark of the city rushes by. Maybe you really can’t date, or there’s something about you that screams weirdos only. You might have to be one of those women who really focuses on their career, and retries early to paint birds.
You press your brow against the glass and squeeze your eyes shut. You already really focused on your career.
You’re going to die, and nobody’s going to come to your funeral. Sure you’ll have friends who will attend, but no one who’s going to talk about how they love loved you. Work is going to name a conference room after you, and in twenty years you’ll be nothing more than that room on the third floor, where the boss boned her secretary, because it’s being rubbed in your face from beyond the fucking grave.
James is still up, when you shove the door open and kick off your shoes.
“How was going out.” He drawls, and you shoot him a glare.
“Dogshit.”
He chuckles to himself. “Sorry, doll.”
“Shut the fuck up.” You shuffle across the room, and he looks up with raised brows.
“She bites back.”
“I’ll bite your fucking cock off.” You mutter, and it’s probably too far, but you’re so tired. “I know you’re on superheroing sabbatical or whatever, but I’ve got some work due tomorrow, and if you do anything to distract me, I’m going to put shit in your shampoo.”
James stares at you for a second, then says, “How do I distract you?”
You flip him off, and slam your door behind you.
You’re not going to die alone.
Fucking James Barnes is going to die right next to you, in this stupid apartment, and you’re going to turn into soil that shoves his further down because you hate him. And his stupid small grin, and jawline, and smooth voice, and pretty blue eyes that light your skin on fire.
And it’s not anyone’s business how—after a long day of pure frustration, working until three in the morning, and his handsome face being the last one you saw before bed—you fall into bed with your hand between your thighs and his name in tiny moans on your lips.
He’d be rough. Or soft. And he’d wrap fully around you, and only look at you. Never cut off any of your moans. He’d tease and pry them out you, and kiss your neck with slight scruff brushing sensitive skin, and a deep drawl in your ears, and everything in a neat, easy place.
You cover your mouth with a pillow, as your body shakes through your orgasm.
He’s still pretty.
A hate fuck might you. The idea of having him sneer and tease you until you cum in his big arms is a good one.
But you’re tired of just sex.
So you fall asleep, and dream of that faceless man, dancing you around in the kitchen.
———
You finished all your work. Your feet hurt from standing and giving the same presentation, over and over and over, to different rich people who still only might give you money. But you did it.
And now you get to shuffle home, order food because you don’t want to talk to James, and sleep for a hundred million years.
You push open the door, keeping your attention away from his spot on the couch—you really don’t want to see him, don’t have the energy to fight—and kick off your shoes. They land off the mat.
With a soft groan, you lean down, pick them up, and place them on the mat.
You draw back up, ready to walk right into your room, but there’s a chest blocking your path. A chest with legs, and arms, and gloves, and-
“Are you hungry?”
You slowly drag your gaze up to James’ and he’s staring at you in the way you can feel again. You swallow, and shake your head.
“No-“ Your stomach cuts you off with a deep grumble, and James huffs softly.
“No, huh.”
You scowl. “I’m not going out, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“I’m not worried about it.” His brow draws, and that’s a point for you. “I just think- Shit-“ He runs a hand over his face, and you frown.
“What-“
“I made food.” His words are fast, but strained. Like he’s trying to push them out as fast as possible. “You are welcome to it, if you want.”
He must have fallen and hit his head. There’s no possible reason for him to be making you food. You didn’t even know he could cook, and honestly, smelling the air, you’re still not sure.
“What did you make?” You ask wearily, and he shrugs.
“Tortellini.”
“And it’s… good?”
His lips twitch. “I’ll let you be the judge of that, doll.”
You could tell him no. Could shove past him and storm into your room, and just keep fighting forever.
But he’s trying.
He made you dinner. You’ve been ordering out too much this week, solely to avoid him.
You really are far too tired to fight. Even if it is some kind of trap, at least you’ll get food out of it.
“Fine.” You mumble, crossing your arm over your chest. “Where is it.”
He tilts his head to the kitchen. “C’mon. Should still be warm.”
It is still warm. More than warm. James pushes the bowl towards you, and steam is rising from the pasta.
“Are you not going to eat?” You ask as he passes you the fork, and he shakes his head.
“Ate at the Watchtower.”
“Oh.” You pause. “Then why did you make this-“
“Just eat it,” he drawls your name, and you roll your eyes, but listen. There’s something in his voice that makes you want to poke at it, to see it snap, but not now. Not when you can feel the weight of your eyelids, and the pressure of James’ stare.
You hold his gaze, taking the slowest, most dramatic bite you can manage.
It tastes like salt. Salt and slightly burnt vegetables. You don’t spit it out—you’re stronger than that—but you lean back slightly, wrinkling your nose.
“Have you ever made tortellini before?”
“No.” He grunts. “Followed the instructions on the packet thingy. Is it-“
“It’s shit.” You shrug, and go for a second bite.
James frowns. “You don’t gotta eat it-“
“I’m hungry.”
He nods slowly, and there’s about a minute before he clears his throat, and his gaze somehow burns deeper into your skin.
“There’s no superhero sabbatical.”
You glance up from the bowl, mouth full, and all you can make is a hurh? sound in response. James’ sighs, looking up to the ceiling before continuing.
“You said I was on superhero sabbatical. I’m not. Right now there are just no imminent threats, so I only have to work normal hours. That’s why I’m home.”
Home.
You don’t love how he says that so casually. Or how it makes your skin buzz a little, because home is the same place for you both. Even if you’re trapping yourself in your room, and he still won’t take off his gloves.
It’s even worse how that makes you feel sore, something twisting in your gut.
It’s easier to pretend you don’t feel any of it, and swallow your pasta.
“Okay.” You tap your fork on the edge of the bowl. “What are normal New Avengers hours?”
“Changes every day.” He mutters, words slow. “I’m doin’ whatever Yelena tells me to, and she’s trying to help, so it’s not much. Paperwork. Saved a cat from a tree a few days ago. Busted into a nightclub that was dealing some heavy drugs. Nothing important.”
You hum, taking another stab of your pasta, and James braces his hands on the table, leaning over you with that intense, impossible to ignore gaze.
You don’t flinch, or move back, but you don’t think he’s trying to be intimidating. So just tilt your head at him, keeping your voice semi-sweet and casual. “Do you want me to say something?”
“No.” James grunts, letting out a long, slow exhale. “I’m just- I think we got off on the wrong foot or something.”
“Did we?”
His nostrils flare slightly. “Yes, we did.”
“Okay.” You look back down to your pasta. “Are you asking to start over?”
“Uh-“ He coughs, and you focus on keeping your foot from bouncing under the table. You’re really not sure what’s happening, if he’s being serious, or if this is going to be some kind of trick. “Yeah?”
“Why?”
He pauses. “Because we live together.”
“People live together and hate each other all the time.”
“Well, do you hate me?”
You let out a slow breath, and look up at him. He’s still pretty. His face is still that almost unreadable mask.
But his words sound sincere.
And not fighting anymore sounds okay. He doesn’t have to be your best friend. But if you decided to ignore him, then you’re certainly being a petty bitch, and that’s too exhausting to keep up.
“No.” You sigh, and his eyes flash slightly. “I don’t.”
“Good.” His tongue flicks over his lips, and he leans a little further forward. “I don’t hate you either.”
You hum, and whatever evergreen shampoo or cologne he uses is starting to invade your sense, making you feel a little drunk. If he kisses you, you’re not going to have the willpower to shove him away. He’s too pretty, and there’s a lot of heat radiating from him body, and it won’t be a hate-fuck or making love or whatever, but a stress-fuck also sounds pretty fucking nice-
“My therapist tells me I can be off-putting and controlling.” He mutters, and you blink. No kiss.
You don’t know why the fuck you thought he would.
You take a large bite of the pasta as he continues, before you can say something stupid.
“I’ve been focusing on interpersonal skills. I used to be pretty damn good at them, but- Things change.”
You mumble an agreement through your food, not really sure what you’re supposed to be contributing to the conversation here.
“I am going to ask you a question.” He keeps staring at you, and you swallow your bite.
“Oh- Okay.”
He nods, jaw clenching slightly before he speaks. “Why do you call me James.”
You blink at him. “Because it’s your name?”
“Most people call me Bucky.”
“How am I supposed to know that?”
“Yeah. Alright.” He sighs, giving you a weak, slightly strained smile. “If we’re startin’ over, you should mostly call me Bucky.”
“Mostly?” You frown at him. “When would I call you James?”
He shrugs. “I dunno. You’re smart. You’ll find it.”
A softer heat rises in your cheeks. “I’m smart?”
“Yeah. You are.” He runs his hand over his face, jaw ticking as his voice drops. “Might have Googled that place you work at. They do good work. Not for stupid people.”
That’s making your chest glow. You try to push it down, and keep your voice even. “What jobs are for stupid people?”
He snorts. “My job. Jumpin’ on bullets and saving the world when it keeps trying to kill itself.”
“Do you not like your job?”
“It’s complicated.” Bucky mutters, something like caution crossing his features. “Am I allowed to ask you another question?”
“Is it something stupid?”
“Nah.” He huffs a low laugh. “But it might piss you off.”
You hum, and give him a small smile. It’s not forced.
None of this is forced.
And it’s a little terrifying, how quickly you went from ready to mock and shove him to eating a little slower in order to keep talking to him.
It probably doesn’t mean anything. Bucky is just easy to talk to, when you’re not trying to think of insults or picking apart how he might be calling you a mess. And he really is nice to look at.
So this is easy.
“I think you should ask me anyway.” You hum. “Just to see what happens.”
Bucky nods, he does the tongue thing again. You don’t know if he’s been doing the whole time you’ve known him and you just never noticed, but you can’t stop noticing now. His lips are full and pink. They move so smoothly when he talks.
You might be losing your mind.
“When you go out.” He says slowly, and you raise your brows. “Where are you actually going?”
He doesn’t sound as if he’s judging you. Just that he’s curious.
And you refuse to be ashamed about it, even if you’re still feeling like there’s grime growing over your heart, and there’s a tiny voice in the back of your head reminding you that you’re unlovable. That’s not Bucky’s problem.
So he gets the simple, bored, casual answer, and he can do whatever the fuck he wants with it. You don’t care.
“Mostly out with friends. But sometimes dates.”
“Dates,” he echoes, frowning at the air—most with what seems to be confusion—and you give him an amused look.
“Yeah. Like, we get dinner or a drink and talk. See if we’re compatible. Learn about each other, then maybe have sex-“
“You’re havin’ sex on dates?”
He seems shocked, and you snort. It’s not judgment. Bucky just seems truly baffled by the concept, and you have bite your cheek to stop yourself from laughing more.
“Yeah. Casual sex. Don’t tell me you’ve never had sex, dude, I know you’re from the 40s or whatever, but-“
“I’ve had sex.” He mutters. “But it was with girls I liked. Knew for a while.”
“What, all two of them?”
He shoots you a dry look. “You got a mouth on you, you know that?”
You give him a sweet smile. “I’ve been told it’s one of my best qualities.”
Bucky’s hand curls on the table as he snorts, and his gaze is going to brand you. “Could say that, yeah.”
Before you can ask what that means, he’s pushing on.
“Stevie called me a ladies man. But that just meant I got dates easy. Never really just fucked in a backroom. Not my style.”
“Yeah?” You’re saying it before you can stop yourself. “What is your style?”
He chuckles, and it’s a deep, rich sound that makes your head spin slightly. He’s smiling. At you. And laughing, and this is so much fucking better than fighting with him. You don’t even know why you were so determined to fight with him to start, when it could have been like this.
And he’s still pretty. In the soft-edged light of the kitchen, every shadow is gentle on his face, and it makes his jaw seem sharper, the pace of his face more rugged, and you want to trace your hand over his jaw.
That might be too far.
You just started liking him.
You’re not going to turn this into something it’s not. He can be your friend.
But he’s so handsome. And you think you could live in his face, frozen in time under his gaze and small grin.
Shit.
You’re just horny. You’re thinking like this because you’re horny, and nothing else. It has nothing to do with how he leans closer when he speaks, and lets you speak, and made you food to try and talk something out. Like an adult, instead of two bitter teenagers.
You’re just horny.
“I’m an old man,” he drawls your name, and it makes that glow in your chest bloom, but you’re just horny. “I don’t think people my age do casual.”
“Old people fuck.” Your voice is more breathless than you want it to be. “And- I don’t think there are people your age.”
He snorts. “Fair point. You like casual?”
You shrug, looking back to your bowl, because you can’t look at him while you say this. “I don’t know.”
Bucky just makes a low sound of agreement. “Well, you at least bring pepper spray, right? Men can be creeps.”
“Okay, dad.” You roll your eyes, kicking his shin under the table. “I bring pepper spray and a pocketknife. I’m not dumb.”
“I didn’t say you were dumb. Just want to make sure you’re being safe.”
“Thanks.” You mumble, and he said that like it was obvious. As if you should have assumed that he’s worried about your safety.
As if you’re something that matters.
It feels nice. The glow in your chest is moving over your ribs, and it makes you sit a little taller, all while making it harder to look him in the eyes. If you do, you’re certain you’ll get trapped in them.
That wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.
“No problem, doll.” You can hear the small grin in his voice, and the heat rises again. “We good?”
“Yeah, Bucky.” You poke at your tortellini. It really does taste like shit.
But he made it for you.
“We’re good.”
———
It’s happening so fast.
You stop fighting with Bucky—not James anymore, Bucky—and everything falls into an odd, perfect place.
He still can’t cook, but he cleans the apartment, and it doesn’t feel like he’s trying to invade anymore. He knows with things to leave in their strange places because you tell him to, and you follow all the new, small rules without thinking about it. In exchange, you make him food, and you take turns doing each other’s laundry.
Which means you’ve touched his boxers.
And maybe you’d stared at them for a few minutes, trying to not think about the part of Bucky the fabric had touched. If the size of the boxers in any inditement of the size of… other things.
You won’t think about it. That would be a violation of his privacy, and he is now your friend. You don’t think about your other friends underwear, of it they think you’re cute when you shuffle around in too-big shirts and smaller shorts.
You’ve got something good here. Something easy. If you ruin it, you’re going to have to reach out to orgy girl and see if she’s still in the market, and you really don’t want to do that when you can have Bucky.
Because you do have Bucky. You’ve learned all his favorite foods. You watch TV together, at the end of the night, and you’ve started exchanging book recommendations. He even showed you his motorcycle.
“You can ride it, if you want.” He’d nodded to the seat, giving you the half grin that sort of set you on fire, and you’d flushed, shaking your head.
“Pass. I’m not trying to die, Buck.”
“I wouldn’t let you die,” he’d drawled your name back in a teasing tone. “I need you. Without you here, I’d starve to death.”
You’d rolled your eyes. “Well if that’s your only reason for keeping me around-“
“It’s not and you know it.” He’d held out his hand, the metal glinting into the flickering garage lights.
He’d taken off the glove a couple of weeks ago. Walked into the living area wearing a t-shirt, the black and gold vibranium on full display, and you hadn’t said a word. There wasn’t anything to be said. He was comfortable enough around you to show his arm. That made you feel like you were floating up, up, up into the sky.
You’d smiled at him, passed him a bowl of cereal, and that had been it.
In the garage you’d backed away, shaking your head, spinning around what other reasons he might want to keep you around.
And you really hadn’t wanted to get on that motorcycle.
“Well, what if- The engine could blow up-“
“No, it couldn’t.” He’d flexed his hand, giving you a firm look. “You’ll like it, doll, promise.”
“Maybe, but I think I’ll like it, and then I’ll die when the engine blows up-“
Bucky had grabbed your hand, his mouth curved into a small, gentle grin, and you’d swallowed. He’s always so fucking handsome. You might have been about to drool.
“We don’t gotta do it today.” He’d said. “But I do think you’d like it. Offer stays on the table.”
You’d nodded, voice breathy again. “Okay.”
“Okay.” He’d pulled you forward slightly, and suddenly you were holding his hand as you walked out of the garage.
And it just kept escalating. Higher and higher. Bucky stands with you while you cook every night, and touches your lower back whenever he has to reach over you to grab something from the top shelf. You stop going on all the dates, because so, so fast, you don’t want to do anything but hang out with Bucky.
But your friends don’t about that. They know you’re complaining about your roommate less, but you never told them it was the Winter Solider. Or anything about him as a person.
You’re keeping it like that. If not for yourself, and all the millions of questions you’ll have to endure, for Bucky.
He doesn’t love being a public person. It’s easy to tell whenever you’re reading the news and he leans over your shoulder, seeing a New Avengers photo where he looks like he’s trying to figure out the best way to kill the person behind the camera.
“What’re they sayin’ now.” He’d asked this morning, putting on the coffee, and you’d made a dramatic look of mock thought.
“That you’re a hero. A god among men. That we should elect you king, and every street in Brooklyn should be called Saint Barnes road.”
Bucky had rolled his eyes, but his glare had been soft. “I’m not a saint, doll.”
It’s not fair how deep and smooth his voice always is, when he says that. It makes you feel fuzzy.
“You’re not.” You’d hummed, giving him a small grin. “They just misprinted Sargent.”
Bucky had snorted. “Alright. What are they actually sayin’?”
“About you?” You pretend to check the article, even though it’s the first thing you’d looked for. “The hair again.”
He’d groaned, voice dropping under his breath. “Always the fuckin’ hair.”
You’d shrugged, but you understood it. He has really nice hair. You’ve been having fantasies about running your fingers through it, or petting his head, or yanking on it as his face dove between your legs-
Not going to ruin it.
This is a good thing, so you’d taken a deep breath and dug your nails into your wrist, because you wouldn’t fucking ruin this.
That’s why you agreed to go out at all. Bucky isn’t really an option on the table, and you still want to have that. The love. The faceless man, spinning you around and around, kissing your neck and holding your hand and whispering with you in the dead of night.
You’ve been whispering with Bucky. He sits with you on the couch until the silent hours of the morning, sometimes just to be there while you work.
He’s not an option.
So you took a date with Polo-Shirt Michael, and really, really tried.
But he keeps telling you about his gains. And how many female friends he has, and how they all want him but he’s looking for true love.
“They’re going to try and scare you off, ‘cause I gave them one hit and they got addicted.” He winks at you, and you swallow a little bile. “You the tough kind of woman? You gonna be able to take it, babygirl?”
You gave him a sweet smile, folding the napkin in your lap, and stand up. “I need to shit.”
It’s not worth seeing his reaction. You head straight for the bathroom and pull out your phone, scrolling for who can pick you up. You could call an Uber, but you don’t get paid until next week, and you’re not sure getting away from Polo Michael will be that easy without backup. All your friends have date nights or vacations.
Your thumb hovers over Bucky’s contact for a minute before you bite your thumb, and call him.
He picks up in two rings.
“Hey,” he says your name and you swallow, pressing your back against the wall. “What’s up?”
“I need your help.” You mumble, playing with your skirt. “If I send you an address, can you pick me up?”
“Yeah, of course.” There’s some shuffling on the other end of the line. “What’s goin’ on, doll, are you-“
“I’m safe.” You sigh. “Bad date.”
He grunts. “Pepper spray bad?”
“Not yet. I just really want to go home.”
“Alright. I’ve got you. Be there in,” there’s a pause, then, “ten.”
You nod, the line drops, and you start to pace. You should go out and say goodnight to Polo Michael. Lie that something came up, and you’ll text him to reschedule. But he also said his girlfriend was a crazy bitch.
That’s enough of a reason to slip out without any words. You hadn’t ordered yet, so you’re not leaving him with a bill. You’d even only gotten water, so at worst he’s paying for his $90 wine.
You glance over your shoulder as you stand on the curb, to check if he’s still waiting at the table. Bucky should be here soon, and as long as you’re not spotted, everything will be-
Michael looks at you. Right at you, as Bucky’s headlights appear down the street. He stands as Buck pulls up to your side.
“Hey, what-“
“Drive.” You climb on the bike without a thought. “Fucking drive, Bucky, go-“
Bucky turns, drops an oversized helmet onto your head, and buckles it. His knuckles brush over your chin, you mouth falls open with a soft breath. By some miracle, you don’t think he hears it.
He turns back around, speeds off without anything else, and you let out an exhale of relief.
Then it hits you.
You’re on the motorcycle. The world is rushing past you and you’re on the motorcycle and you’re going to die-
Bucky pulls off to the side and you squeak at the movement, pressing your face into his back.
“It’s fine, doll.” His voice is clear as the engine turns off, but you don’t let go. “You’re gonna strangle me, you know.”
“No, I’m not.” You don’t let go. “Thank you, Bucky, I- I can walk home-“
“You are not walking.” He grabs your wrist, keeping you against his chest, and you shake your head.
“I’m okay-“
“You get dinner?”
“I-“ You lean back. “What?”
“Look like you were gettin’ dinner.” He mutters, turning to look at you. “You eat?”
You shake your head, and somehow, let Bucky talk you into one of those 24-hour diners. Your date outfit and makeup a little messed up from the motorcycle, his shoes slip-ons that make him look like an actual old man.
Bucky glances at you across the booth, and you give him a weak smile, playing with some of your jewelry.
“You wanna take this home and eat there?”
You let out a soft breath. “Yes, please. My feet feel like they’re being stabbed and vomited on.”
He snorts. “Gross, doll.”
You shrug, and your smile feels a little more real.
Then you’re at home. Bucky somehow talks you into taking the motorcycle back, and he gives you a few minutes to change and clean while he put out the food. You join him on the couch, kicking up your feet with a dramatic moan, and Bucky rolls his eyes.
“So what was wrong with him?”
You turn to look at him with a frown. “What?”
“The date.” Bucky shrugs. “What was wrong with him. He not up to your standard.”
“I guess, yeah. But my standard isn’t really that high.”
He raises his brows, and you sigh.
“I just want someone that doesn’t, like, hate me.”
“That’s it?”
You nod, and Bucky snorts.
“Jesus, that is a low bar. This guy-“
“He didn’t hate me. But he seemed to not love women in general.”
“Ah.” Bucky pauses, looking down to his food. “Don’t know how you could hate women. All the women I know are the best.”
You nudge his calf with your foot. “Even me?”
“Yeah, doll, even you.” He gives you a small, real smile.
He’s being serious.
So you smile back. “Thanks, Buck.”
“No problem.” He pokes your food with his fork. “Eat, doll. I didn’t spend twenty dollars for nothing.”
You focus on your food, but your fingers are shaking a little. You rode on Bucky’s motorcycle and didn’t die. But you’re also sitting still on the couch, and you can feel your heart at the top of your chest, hear it in your head.
It’s a bigger rush, just sitting with Bucky and eating.
And maybe it’s how Polo Michael looked like he was going to strangle you, or how busy you are with work, but you might be done with dates for a while.
It’s not a hard choice to make, when Bucky starts to tell you about how he worked on the shower while you were gone, and laughs at all your pipe jokes. Or Bucky’s low, rough version of a laugh, which you like better.
Not one date has ever even gotten to hear a sex joke.
So you’d really rather stay here.
———
You’re wasted.
It was a celebration. Someone just got engaged. Or broke up. Or had a baby. Or broke up and had a baby.
You’re not sure anymore. And you don’t really care. Someone had something good happen to them, and you’d wanted a reason to drink.
So you drank.
And now your head is spinning, and all your effort goes into swallowing down the vomit rising up your throat. Your skin feels like it’s lighting on fire, but it’s also freezing cold, and there’s a harsh wind but it’s not enough to shock you out of the colorful hazy lights dancing over your vision.
The hallway is spinning, and you giggle as you walk, arms out like you’re on a tightrope.
Bucky sighs from behind you.
You don’t remember calling him.
It’s making you feel bubbly, that he’s here at all.
“James.” You sing, spinning around to smile at him. “You have a funny face.”
Bucky raises his brows, catching you easily. Grounding you down to the earth, because you might have been about to float away. “Do I.”
“Uh huh.” You keep walking as he moves you, moving your fingers to trace over his features. “It’s all serious and pretty. Like a magnetic painting of a handsome person.”
His voice remains flat. “You mean majestic?”
“I dunno.” You turn again, but Bucky keeps holding you, keeping your back to his chest. “Like a… wolf.”
He hums. “I was called White Wolf in Wakanda.”
“In…” You trail off, squinting at the wall, then gasp as the word reach through the fog. “You went to Wakanda?”
“Yeah, for about two years.”
“Were there stars?”
Bucky sighs, kicking the door shut behind you. “There- Shit-“
A rush of nausea sweeps through you, and you double over, covering your hand to stop the vomit.
Big, strong arms wrap around you, and one of them is nice and cold. You hold that one, as you’re carried through the air and into the bathroom. The world spins as a toilet comes into your vision, and you let your dinner spill out into the bowl.
Your hair is somehow moved from your face, and you groan, slumping to the ground. The cold hand tries to leave, but you grab it. Press it against your brow as you take a ragged breath.
Bucky mutters your name. “I need my hand-“
“No.” You mumble, moving it to press on your cheek. “’S nice.”
He sighs, but doesn’t argue with you. Keeps sitting with you, when you surge back up for another round with the toilet. Bucky rubs your back with that cool hand, then let you nuzzle into it when you get a break. He hums, deep and smooth, and the sound is easy to hold onto, keeping you from flying out of your skin as it prickles. When you’re finally run out, he gets you water. Helps you move against the wall, and stays at your side.
Your voice slowly comes back, and you turn to look at him, only one thought managing to stay in your head.
“Were they pretty?”
“What?”
“The stars?”
He blinks, then lets out a long, slow sigh, turning back to look at the wall. “Yeah. They were beautiful.”
That’s the answer you wanted. And you’re sort of done for the night.
You let your eyes flutter shut and tip your head back, making a soft noise of content.
Everything drifts in and out, morphing between Bucky, carrying you to bed, and that dream. The one where you have someone, and it’s easy.
The light leaks through your blinds in the morning, but you don’t remember falling asleep. There’s a glass of water on your nightstand, but you didn’t put it there.
You know Bucky did.
And when you close your eyes again, you can see it again.
The faceless man isn’t faceless anymore.
You giggle in the fantasy, spinning around and around and around, only coming back down when a smooth voice hums your name.
Blue eyes watch you with a look that you might have seen before, but can’t remember.
Bucky sways you back and forth in his arms, but only in your head.
And you never want to do anything but sleep again.
———
You did something stupid.
You offered to teach Bucky how to cook. Not told him about a video or blog or book to teach him. Offered yourself. Because you like being around him too much. And when he focuses you’ve noticed he gets an adorable expression on his face, and you want to see it more.
Tonight you could have gone out on one last date, because your friend had practically begged you to. This one had a six-pack and knew three languages.
All you could think what that Bucky knows at least five.
And that’s how you ended up here.
“I know you don’t want any part of the superhero shit.” Bucky says as you ride up the elevator. “But it’s the weekend. None of the idiots are working, which means they’re all doin’ their own thing. No one will even know you’re here.”
You swallow, but nod. “I still think we could’ve done this at home-“
“We got more options here.” He bumps your shoulder, and it makes your body rush with heat. “Plus if I fuck up, nothing important gets burned.”
You give him a flat look. “How much is this building worth, James.”
“’bout a billion.” He shrugs. “Means they got the money to replace things. Come on.”
The elevator doors open, and Bucky starts to herd you through the halls of the Watchtower. You don’t know how he talked you into this, but you’re also hitting a strange, foreign point of doing almost anything Bucky asks you to do. You trust him. He’s usually rational, and always has a logical reason for things—even when that thing is why the cheese needs to go in this drawer—and it makes your brain do a funny kind of static drawl.
You don’t know if he feels it the same, with you. If he feels anything at all.
But you’re not going to ruin it.
So you won’t ask.
“Here.” He turns you into a massive, glossy kitchen, and your mouth falls open.
“Are you saving the world with cooking?”
Bucky snorts, and moves you further into the room. “No, we’re just overfunded. What’re we making?”
“I-“ You stare around the room, trying to force yourself out of the daze of Bucky right behind you and the majesty of the kitchen. “I was going to do pizza?”
“Alright.” His voice is right in your ear. It’s distracting. “Tell me what to do, doll.”
You flush again, scanning over the cabinets. “I’m just going to give you all the instructions, but you’re going to do the actual work yourself, okay?”
Bucky hums, and you start to list off the ingredients. You’re expecting to have to run out for some things, but this miracle kitchen has everything. Even if this building does get attacked by terrorists and supervillains all the time, you sort of want to stay here forever. There’s soft music playing over speakers, and everything smells like cookies, and you’ve never seen so much space in your life.
But Bucky chose to leave.
And you still don’t really understand why.
“Bucky?” You say carefully, watching him roll the dough from your seat on the counter, and he glances up with raised brows.
“What, am I rollin’ it wrong-“
“No, you’re- You’re doing fine. Can I ask you something?”
He nods. “Shoot.”
“Why’d you decide to move out of here? It’s… really nice.”
Bucky sighs, stopping his rolling, and you swallow.
“You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to-“
“No, it’s fine.” He lets out a slow breath. “Guess I just got sick of it. My family wasn’t the worst off, in the 40s, but I haven’t been used to… this.” He waves to the kitchen. “In years. Feels wrong.”
You nod, swinging your legs back and forth. “The luxury?”
“All of it.” Bucky does the tongue thing. He does it all the time. It’s never helpful in making you focus. “Never really wanted any of this. Just sorta happened. Valentina wanted me to walk this weird fuckin’ line of being down to earth and normal, after the news broke about John’s divorce. I told her I’d quit if she made me parade around like a monkey.”
“But…” You frown. “You didn’t quit.”
“No. Got a deal. I’d keep workin’, but I’m allowed to live normally otherwise.” He chuckles to himself, resuming his work on the dough. “Least I don’t have to be in congress anymore. I nearly punched about fifty people a day.”
You giggle, rolling your eyes, and before you can respond, a bellowing, thickly accented voice echoes through the room and nearly starts you out of your skin. You fall off the counter.
Bucky catches you around your waist, and his face is oddly tight—almost apologetic—but you don’t really have the brainpower to think about it.
He’s touching you. You’re pressed right to his chest. And he really is warm.
It’s taking a tremendous amount of effort to not press yourself into his chest. You won’t ruin the only easy thing in your life.
Certainly not in front of other people.
“Bucky Barnes!” A large, bearded man walks into the kitchen with spread arms, and a wide grin on his face. “You have returned!”
Bucky lets out a slow breath, and he’s still holding onto you. You’re not sure he’s going to let go. “I’m not back, Alexei, we’re just using the kitchen-“
“We?” The man—Alexei, the Red Guardian, you’re meeting a second superhero and Bucky promised this wouldn’t happen and you’re going to kill him—leans around, his eyes landing on you. “You have brought a girl!”
Bucky tenses. “No-“
“Yelena!” Alexei calls over this shoulder, voice echoing through the halls. “Bucky Barnes has returned with a girl! Ava- Ava, look-“
Alexei grabs someone from the hall, and a terrifyingly beautiful woman walks into the kitchen, shoving his arm away.
“Do not grab me, Alexei-“
“I did not know if it would work.” He shrugs. “You might have vanished, was a fifty-fifty. And this is important, Barnes-“
“Brought a girl. I know, I saw them enter the building.”
Alexei gapes at her. “And you did not tell me such important news?”
“No, she didn’t, because she respects privacy.” Bucky glares between them, and you’ve started to hold his arm. You don’t really want him to let go. “I told you, we’re just using the kitchen, we don’t all have to-“
“What is so urgent that we are screaming.” A shorter, equally scary and pretty blonde woman appears, growing around the small group. “It is loud, Alexei, you could have texted me-“
“There is no time for texting.” Alexei waves her off. “Bucky Barnes has brought a girl to meet us.”
“I don’t think she’s here to meet us.” Ava drawls, looking more amused than anything. “He’s been avoiding the hall cameras. And he would have told us, if he was bringing someone, he cared about enough for us to know.”
“Really, Ava?” Bucky glares at her, his grip on you tightening, like he thinks you’re going to run. “It’s not a matter of caring, I was just trying to avoid this happening.”
He waves his hand to Alexei, and Ava grins.
“I know. You’re cooking.”
“He is cooking?” Yelena frowns at Bucky. “You do not cook, Bucky Barnes. You burn everything.”
Bucky’s words sound like he’s pushing them through his teeth. “I know. That’s why we’re practicing here.”
“Why would you practice here, Bucky.” Ava hums, still grinning. “Why not at your apartment.”
Alexei gasps, and the glare Bucky shoot Ava probably would have made you start crying, but she just grins.
“This is the roommate?” Alexei claps his hands, and suddenly they’re all looking at you. Every inch of your body wants to move closer to Bucky—see if he can shield you from all of it—but you don’t think that would help your case. “You work for charity, yes? Very good cause, I believe we could talk about an opportunity. Red Guardian sponsored vaccines-“
“Alexei.” Bucky grunts, and his glare is somehow scarier than before. “How the fuck do you know where she works.”
“Because I ran a background check on her.” Another person, a blond man with a beret, materializes next to Yelena, and you’re starting to think they’ve just been hiding in the walls. “You think I’m just going to let a member of our team go and live with some random woman? She might have been a murderer.”
Bucky’s jaw tics. “She’s not a murderer, John, you’re an idiot.”
“That’s hurtful, Bucky. I could have saved your life.”
“I do not think you saved his life, Walker.” Yelena says flatly. “Look at her, she is like a baby bird.”
“Well, we didn’t know that before- Hey, wait.” John frowns at you. “This is the roommate, Bucky? The girl that you-“
“John.” Bucky hisses. “I will take your taco shield, and turn it into pieces of a taco shield.”
John sighs. “Look, I’m trying to help you, man. Unless you want Ava to be your wingman.”
“I don’t need-“
“Hey, guys.” Another blond man—why are they all blond—appears from behind Alexei, and if you’re up to date on current events, that should finally be all of them. “Why are we all in the kitchen?”
“Bucky is back, Bob. He has brought a girl, but not to meet us.” Yelena sighs. “John is being an idiot. Alexei needs to take a walk before he begins to ask stupid questions.”
Alexei frowns. “I am not asking stupid questions, Yelena-“
“What was the next thing you were going to say?”
There’s a long silence, and Alexei heaves a long, dramatic sigh.
“I will take my walk.”
He starts to shuffle away, Ava following him with a mock pat on his back.
Bob clears his throat and raises his hand. “Bucky, as long as you’re back, can you please fix the toilet? I don’t want to bother Valentina, and I’m pretty sure John would just make it worse-“
John cuts him off with a scowl. “Hey-“
“Yeah, I can fix the toilet.” Bucky turns back to you, squeezing your arms. “Stay here. If anyone starts to be a dick or bother you, ignore them. I’ll be right back.”
“Oh- Okay.” You give him a small smile. “Bye.”
He does the tongue thing again, then nods and walks out into the hall, taking a nervous looking Bob and annoyed John with him.
Leaving you with Yelena.
She stares at you, and you fidget with your fingers, trying to work out if you should smile at her or not. Probably not. She doesn’t seem like the type to love smiling. All you can really think about is what just happened. How Bucky’s told them about you. Which means you’re not just his roommate. You’re at least his friend. A good enough friend to mention to other friends. The girl that-
Something.
John hadn’t finished his sentence.
And it’s going to fucking eat at your every thought, until it’s all empty except for what John going to say. What does Bucky tell them about you. Is it good. It should be good, or they probably would’ve been acting differently.
But you need to know.
Yelena’s right here.
And when you look up at her, she’s still staring at you.
So you swallow, trying to stand a little taller, and give her a small smile.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Me?” Yelena blinks at you, and you nod nervously. “Is it something about the New Avengers? Because I do not know any of the approved press answers, Valentina thought we should be memorizing them, but I think that is stupid, so I have not-“
“It’s not about the New Avengers.” You cut her off, rubbing at your arms as you speak. “I, um- I just wanted to know what Bucky’s told you guys about me?”
Yelena nods slowly. “Why?”
“I-“
“You know, I do not actually care.” Yelena moves across the kitchen, starting to sort through a cabinet. “He has only said good things about you.”
You flush, and the glow spreads down to your toes. “Really?”
“Yes. Are you who he is texting, all the time?” Yelena turns back around with a bag of chips, and you blink.
“I- I don’t text him all the time.”
“Yes, you do. All he does now is smile at his phone. Like a puppy. I did not know he could make that kind of face, but now he will not stop making it.”
“I’m sorry?”
“You should be.” Yelena mutters, taking a large bite of a chip. “He is all soft now. Like a-“ She cuts herself off with a frown. “All I can think of is puppy. But that is what Bucky Barnes has become. It is adorable, and annoying.”
You bite the inside of your cheek, trying to figure out a proper apology, but you can’t really think outside of he says good things. And he smiles at his phone. And-
“It is nice.” Yelena sighs to herself, cutting through your thoughts. “He is more focused now, on a mission. No more brooding, like a-“
“Puppy?” You finish for you, and she stares at you for a long, tight second before smiling.
“I like you. You are funnier than Bucky. If he breaks your heart, you can call me and I will steal his arm and hide it where he will never find it.”
You open and close your mouth a few times, then shake your head. “No, Bucky doesn’t- We’re not-“
“I know, it is not worth ruining.” Yelena rolls her eyes, taking another chip before starting out of the room. “It isn’t anything, Yelena, and we’re supposed to be focusing on the mission, so shut the hell up.” Her voice has dropped to a deep, mocking tone similar to Bucky’s. “Like he does not smile all the time.”
“He-“
“I had seen Bucky smile three times.” She snaps, holding up her fingers. “That is a pathetic amount of times. But yes.” She turns to walk out of the kitchen, voice echoing behind her. “Keep acting like it is nothing. I am sure that will be very fun and fulfilling for both of you.”
———
The ceiling hasn’t changed in hours. It won’t. It’s a static object, it’s white with all the same little popcorn dots, because this is a nice apartment but it’s not that nice.
You don’t stop staring at it though.
Maybe, if it starts to shift, that will be a sign. A clear green light from the universe, that you should do something about this.
About you and Bucky.
There is no you and Bucky. There shouldn’t be a you and Bucky. It wouldn’t make any actual sense. He’s a hundred-year-old superhero, and you’re you. Nothing about you screams superhero’s girlfriend. Nothing about you screams girlfriend in general, because you have horrible streaks of luck in love, and you don’t want to hit Bucky with any of that.
You don’t even know if Bucky would want to date. He’s got other things going on, like being a New Avenger and trying to reintegrate into civilian life. You can’t really be worth that much time over the world, over something that he’s been trying to do since before he met you. And he might not even like you like that.
He smiles all the time.
Bucky’s always sort of smiled at you. It had been a crude, slightly mocking smile at the start, but you’d also screamed at him a lot. When you’d met him, he’d let out that low, amused noise that was basically a barking laugh in Bucky-words.
But he’s also talked about you, with the other people that—despite what he might grumble on the drive back home—he considers friends. And they’d all tried to keep talking to you, after he’d fixed the toilet, because they’d seemed to think you’d have information for them.
You don’t.
All you know is that Bucky is Bucky. He’s the first really good thing you’ve had in a while. It easy to come home to him and harder to leave him in the morning, and when he texts you, it always makes that glow in you rush right down to your core and toes and fingers. He’s pretty, but he’s always pretty, even when you want to rip out his stupid, handsome throat.
And maybe you’re in love with him. The longer you stare at the ceiling, the more it remains the same, the more you feel the same.
Like you love him.
There’s not much more to say.
Every time you close your eyes, he’s lingering behind them. You can still feel every place he’d touched you all day. He’s scattered all over your apartment now, but you’d never want a single trace of him to go away.
He went to work today, even though it’s the weekend, and you’ve spent most of the day glancing at the door or your phone for an update.
You don’t know why he’d give one to you. It’s probably some big, fancy classified mission.
But you’re still rolling to the side, just to text that you haven’t missed the buzz of your phone.
Your screen remains dark.
The ceiling doesn’t change.
When he gets home, you should tell him that you love him, so he can text you safety updates.
No, you shouldn’t. That’s a stupid fucking reason to tell someone you’re in love with them. Especially when you’re not sure they love you back.
He smiles all the time.
He could just be more relaxed, when he’s not doing superhero things.
He hadn’t been relaxed the first month of you living together.
This is going to drive you insane. You won’t sleep until Bucky is home. Until you know that he’s safe, or you get a sudden text from him saying I love you, in case you were wondering. But Bucky wouldn’t type like that. He wouldn’t just tell you over the phone if he loved you, either.
You can’t picture him telling you that he loves you. That might be a bad sign.
Or you just haven’t had someone say that in so long that you’ve forgotten what it sounds like.
Bucky might not even be coming home. He might have had the mission run late enough that he decided to crash at the tower, and he could stay in all that luxury and decided he’d rather have that over cleaning up after you and eating dinner on the couch, and the text is going to say he’s moving back out and you’re never going to see him again-
There’s a loud bang out in the living room, and the ceiling shakes. You shoot up in, grabbing for your pepper spray, and slide quietly off the bed. Bucky’s told you, if you ever did have a break-in, you should barricade your room or go out onto the fire escape, while he deals with it.
But Bucky isn’t home. So it’s just you and the pepper spray.
You keep your steps light across the floor, carefully taking the doorknob and pulling it open, holding the pepper spray far in front of you as you scan over the dark.
No one is there. The door is even closer, but-
A little off its hinges. The wood looked sort of splintered. And you definitely heard a bang.
There’s a low groan of your name from across the room, and it sounds like-
“Bucky?” You grab for the light switch, wincing slightly as you’re blinded by the lamps. “Bucky what-“
Your mouth falls open as you round the couch, and he’s lying on the floor, eyes half open, breathing heavy, and a lot of red staining his clothing.
Blood.
That’s fucking blood.
“Oh my fucking- Bucky-“ You kneel down, tossing the pepper spray off to the side and taking his face between your hands. “What the fuck happened, I- We need to go to a hospital-“
“No.” He grunts, grabbing one of your wrists. “No hospital, doll- ‘m fine-“
“You’re bleeding-“
“Not mine.” He starts to push up with a low groan, and your hands move frantically, trying to find some way to help him. “Just tired, doll, I’ll be alright- Fuck-“
He groans, slipping back slightly, and you only manage to catch him with your full body weight to his back.
“You’re not fine, Bucky.” Your voice isn’t strong, but you’re either about to stop crying or throw up. It’s like a small, waking nightmare. You’re not going to lose him because of luxury. He’s just going to pass out on the floor and not wake up. “Can I at least get you to your team?”
“Don’t need ‘em.” He starts trying to sit up again. “Not injured, nothin’ they can do.”
“Not- You’re obviously fucking injured, you idiot-“
“I don’t get injured, baby.” He squeezes your hand, and your eyes are stinging too much to really register his words. “We got any food-“
He groans, slumping against the couch, but at least he made it upright this time.
“You’re not eating until I figure out what’s wrong with you.” You mutter, settling yourself between his legs, and he groans.
His hand is resting on your waist. You’d bet a lot of money he doesn’t know he’s doing it.
“Nothin’ is wrong,” he mutters your name, but doesn’t fight it as you turn his face, trying to find some sort of writing that says infected wound on leg or something. “I told you, I don’t get hurt, would take a fuckin’ bomb to get me.”
“Was there a bomb?”
“No, doll, just some assholes shootin’ bullets.”
You glare at him. “Did you get hit?”
“No.” His lips twitch slightly. “You’re worried about me, huh?”
“Yes. I am.” You grab his jaw, turning it up, and he hisses. “Does that hurt.”
“No.” His words are through his teeth. “I swear, I’m just tired. Everything is spinning, if I go to bed it’ll be fine in the morning.”
You pause, your hand dropping to rest on his chest. “Everything is spinning?”
He nods, reaching up to cover your hand with his own. “Not you, though. You look like you’re glowing.”
“Thanks.” You mumble, flushing slightly as you scan over his features. “Bucky, did you hit your head at all?”
“Uh…” He pauses, and you can see it now. The lack of focus behind his eyes. “Maybe.”
“How hard?”
“Don’t know.”
“You don’t-“ You let out a slow breath. “Well, what hit you?”
“Pipe.” He mutters, suddenly avoiding your gaze. “Big pipe.”
“Big-“ You sigh, bowing your head. “God, fucking- You have a concussion, dummy.
“No-“
“Yes.” You grab his hand, slowly pulling him to his feet. “Come on, you need to get to bed.”
Bucky groans, but lets you help him up. His arm tosses around your shoulders, his face pressing into the back of your neck, and you bite the inside of your cheek to stop the shiver it sends up your spine.
“You smell nice.” He mutters against your skin, nose nuzzling against a soft spot, and you take a deep breath.
“Thank you, Bucky.”
“Look nice, too.” He’s a deadweight over your shoulders, and it’s an effort to keep him moving when he doesn’t seem to want to contribute all that much. “Like a flower.”
“I look like a flower?”
“Yeah. Pretty.”
You’re not going to let yourself think about that. He’s basically drunk right now, so it doesn’t really mean anything. Your only job is to get him into his bed—which, through an almost herculean effort, you do—and make sure there’s no serious brain damage with the limited knowledge of concussions you have.
“I think you’ll be okay.” You mumble, watching his eyes dazedly follow your finger. “But if it’s still this bad in the morning, we’re going to the Watchtower so your team can look at you, okay?”
“Fine.” He grumbles, his hand still resting over yours. “I’m sorry, doll.”
You blink at him. “What?”
“You didn’t want any of this heroing shit in your life. I dragged it in with me.”
“You didn’t mean to. And it’s not like you wanted any of it, either.”
“Doesn’t matter what I want-“
“Yes, it does.” The words fall out of you before you can stop them “And it’s not like aliens are invading my bathroom. I think that would be the line.”
He sighs. “I bled on the floor.”
“We’ll clean it in the morning.” You shrug, smiling softly. “I’m just glad you’re safe, James.”
Bucky’s jaw twitches, and he’s still holding your hand. His eyes scan over you, almost blindingly blue through the dark, and a little more focused than even a second ago.
Time seems to slow to a drizzle like honey, slipping through your fingers but sticking to them at the same time. It can’t go slow enough, but it’s still too fast to give you the chance to think.
Bucky pulls you gently down, his free hand cradling the back of your head. His tongue does the little flick thing, and you swallow, settling a little further over him. He’s warm, but his metal thumb is sweeping over the back of your hand, and it’s just enough to tell you that this isn’t a dream.
You let out a small, soft gasp as Bucky kisses you, and it’s lazy. His lips move perfectly against yours, his touch on your careful and tender. He tastes a little like sweat, but it’s hard to care when his tongue presses between your lips, and he groans down your throat.
It’s easy to deepen it. To push a little further, and run your fingers through his beard, maybe lean further down and try to feel him everywhere when he nips at your lower lip, and you whine.
Then he pulls back suddenly. Without warning. Leaving you still lightheaded, but falling back to earth far too fast.
Bucky shakes his head, pulling away with a low groan, and it starts to sting. Your eyes, your throat, your skin.
He didn’t want that.
He didn’t mean it, or you took it too far, or you took advantage of him in a vulnerable state, and now you’ve ruined it.
“I- I’m sorry.” You move off the bed, wrapping your arms around your stomach and staring up at the ceiling. It’s the same as before.
But everything has changed.
“I’ll check on you in the morning,” you whisper, and Bucky grunts your name.
“Wait, let me-“
“It’s okay. You don’t have to-“ You swallow, and you’re not going to cry in front of him. “I understand. I’m sorry.”
Bucky tries to call after you, as you walk out of his room, but he’s hurt. He shouldn’t have to deal with your feeling being hurt right now. You can wrap your head around just friends later, right now you just need to sit in the pain. In what you destroyed, in all the lies you’d been quietly telling yourself that maybe this time it would be different.
It won’t be.
It never is.
But when you cry in bed, the man in your fantasies is still Bucky. Because you love him, and that’s not going to be as easy to brush off as a meaningless date.
You hope it will pass.
But there’s a chance he’s going to linger in your head for the rest of your life.
You fall asleep with muffled sobs into your pillow.
And your brain is cruel.
Because you dream of Bucky all night long.
———
You’re have a plan to avoid him. You spent the bleak hours of the morning, thinking about it. You’ll give it just enough time and space for Bucky to understand that you’re not hurt by it—he never needs to see the tears staining your cheeks, or the swell of your lips from chewing them into oblivion—and then everything will go back to normal.
Your heart hasn’t stopped beating for him, no matter how hard you’ve grabbed your throat and tried to force it down. Bucky doesn’t love you back, and that’s okay. It’s in line what you know. How painfully aware you are that you’re just not the type of person who gets to have that. Which can be fine. You have good friends. A good career. Maybe to make up for the gaping hole splitting through your chest, you can talk Bucky into getting a cat.
Or he’ll just move back into the tower, to avoid the awkwardness. Which means you’d get that cat.
But lose him.
You’ve sort of already lost him. You’re not sure you ever actually had him.
Which is what you’d thought. So you were right.
You’d never wanted so bad to be wrong in your life.
It’s easy to avoid Bucky, for most of the day. You poke your head into his room while he’s sleeping, just to make sure he’s still alive. He’s snoring, his hair mussed and face smushed into his pillows, and it takes a lot of effort to pull yourself away. He doesn’t want you. You have absolutely no right to watch him in this vulnerable state, when he’s very obviously already feeling better.
After that, you dance around him. Put on the coffee, and leave enough for him to have before you go out to get some food. Sit in a cafe and turn off your notifications, but still glance at your messages every few minutes, just to see if he’s messaged you.
It’s an hour before the first text comes through.
Where are you?
You sigh, quickly type back, out working, and close the thread. You’re only telling him, so he doesn’t worry about kidnapping or something. If you keep talking to him, you’ll just miss him more, or he’ll bring up last night and you’ll have to act like everything is fine.
Finishing work happens too fast, so you go for a walk. Then another walk. Then get lunch, and stare at your phone. At the little 3 notification on your calls, and the 10 on your messages. It might not even be Bucky. It’s still better to not look.
You only go home once the Sun starts to set, and you have it all rehearsed. If he stops you, you’re going to tell him that it’s not a big deal. It was only a kiss. You never have to speak of it again, and nothing has to change. If he pushes it, you’ll keep your head level, because you’re an adult. You’ve had a lot of failed romances, and this wasn’t even an actual relationship. So it’s not a big deal.
One failed kiss hurts more than any previous break-up, though. Feels like your heart is being split in half, and you’re never going to put it back together quite the same.
But that’s not Bucky’s problem.
So you’ll stick to your lines, and recover in your room, where he can’t hear your tears.
You open the door slowly, close it silently, and yelp as Bucky grunts your name from right behind you.
“Jesus fucking- James-“
“Where were you.” He snaps, and he’s standing really close. His arms are cross over his chest, eyes narrowed, and all the carefully practiced words are dissipating in the heat from his body. He sounds angry, his eyes boring into you like he’s going to pull the answer out of you with only a glare.
He might be able to.
You feel lightheaded again.
“Out working-“
“All day?” Bucky narrows his eyes, and you swallow.
“I had a lot of work.”
“Enough that you couldn’t pick up the damn phone?”
Your eyes are starting to blur again. “I was busy,” you whisper, and Bucky lets out a slow, heavy breath.
“Well don’t fuckin’ do that. I came home from a mission, someone coulda followed me, and if you-“ He shakes his head, glowering at the air. “Just tell me. Okay?”
“Okay.” You give him a small smile, rubbing your wrists behind your back. “Is that it?”
Bucky’s jaw tics. “Is it?”
“I don’t know. You’re the one who cornered me-“
“And you’re the one who’s been ignoring me all day.”
Shit. “I wasn’t ignoring you-“
“Yes, you were.” He grunts, taking a step forward, then freezing as you take a smaller one back. Something like hurt flashes over his features, and it drives right into your heart.
“Bucky-““No, it’s-” His voice is low, and it doesn’t sound fine. “I’d never hurt you, doll. Nothin’ could make me hurt you-“
“I know.” You say quickly, and you want to cross over to him, so he knows, but your knees feel like they’re about to give out. “I just- I’m sorry, I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, I’m trying to give you space-“
He cuts you off with a frown. “Give me space?”
You nod weakly, and he stares at you like you’ve lost your mind.
“I don’t want space.”
“But-“
“No, I was callin’ you all fucking day, and you think I want space?” He takes another step forward, eyes driving into some raw, needy part of you that’s pulling to him like a magnet. “You’re the one dodging me, doll. Do you want space?”
You take a deep breath, trying not to sound like every thought in your head isn’t melting into Bucky. “I just don’t want it to be weird-“
Another step. “Why would it be weird.”
“Because I kissed you.” You mumble. “And- It’s just a kiss-“
“It wasn’t just a kiss.” He grunts, and it’s getting harder to remember what you’d told yourself you’d say.
“Well, it doesn’t have to be a big deal-
“No, it doesn’t.” Bucky stops, right in front of you, but he’s not touching you at all. It’s a small, strange torture. You can smell him, see twitch of his jaw and breath. But he’s not touching you. “But I kissed you, doll. So it’s up to you if we want to make it a big deal or not.”
The world does a stutter-stop. Time slows back to that honey, and his words take a second to skin under your skin. Another second for you to understand them.
When you speak, your voice is just a whisper. “What?”
“It’s fuzzy for me.” He mutters, and you’re trapped under his attention and low voice. “But I know I kissed you. So we can forget it, if that’s what you’re telling me to do. Is that what you’re tellin’ me to do?”
You shake your head. “You- You stopped kissing me-“
“I didn’t want it to happen like that.”
“Like… What?”
“Casual.” He mutters. “Just because you felt bad for me or some shit.”
“I-“
“If you want to keep doing your casual thing, I’m not going to stop you.” Bucky leans down as he says your name, and his breath is hot over your lips. “But I’m not going to be a part of it. I’m takin’ all of you, or none of you. Again, your choice.”
You feel dizzy. “You- You want me
Bucky chuckles, his lips curling into that handsome, teasing smile. “I’ve wanted you since I saw you, doll. You were the prettiest thing I’ve ever fuckin’ seen. Smart, too. Spent a lot of nights wondering what mighta happened if I just asked you out instead of moving in.”
“What might have happened?” You’re half echoing, because your brain is caught in a loop of whatever Bucky is saying. But the other half is a question. Because he can’t mean what you think he means.
That would mean you hadn’t ruined it.
That would mean there was a chance.
“Between us.” He mutters, just his metal hand moving on trace over your wrist, sending small shivers up your spine. “We could’ve skipped all the fighting, doll. Just gone straight to spending time together. Doing crosswords. Makin’ dinner.” He gives you a small grin, something teasing behind his eyes as his voice drops. “I might be bendin’ you over the couch right now, instead of trying to convince you that I wanted that kiss more than I’ve wanted anything in eighty goddamn years.”
He’s still looking at you. It’s making your tongue loose, your core molten. “I wanted it to.” You whisper, and he nods.
“I know, babydoll. But,” one last step, and you’re almost pinned to the door by his weight above you. “You need to tell me what you want. I’m not old-fashioned enough that I won’t touch you, but if we’re doing this, we’re doing it for a while. I-“ He takes a long breath, looking down to where he’s still stroking your wrist. “I don’t get to keep things I love, usually. So I’m not just gonna mess around.”
The world is definitely blurry. It doesn’t hurt anymore. “You love me?”
Bucky’s throat bobs, but he looks back up, and nods.
You take his face between your hands, and give him a wide, bright smile, the glow from your chest seeming to burst through your whole fucking body as time comes rushing back. It’s going to keep moving.
You’re not going to be alone.
“I love you too,” you keep smiling, and Bucky’s eyes shine on yours. “And I don’t want it casual, I- I just want you.”
Bucky’s voice is hoarse, as he drops his brow to yours. “I want you, too.”
You hum, standing up a little taller, just enough for your lips to brush. “Can you show me?”
Bucky makes a low, deep sound from his throat, and time isn’t dripping anymore. It’s flying, rushing through you and sweeping you away, and it doesn’t matter if it’s the dead of night or the middle of the day or the end of the world.
All you can feel is Bucky.
His mouth crashes over yours, and this isn’t a soft, slow kiss like last night. It’s hungry. Rough and possessive, with his hands groping at your ass and hips, his pelvis pressed right against yours, and your grip on his shirt the only thing keeping you upright. Every single second the kiss only gets deeper, until you’re gasping against his lips for air and scratching at his chest for more, you can feel him pressing right into your leg, thick and big, and you need more-
“You have no idea,” Bucky almost growls, starting to kiss—open mouthed and wet—down your neck. “What you do to me, pretty girl. How hard it’s been,” he thrusts his hips forward, and you let out a high squeak as he sucks on a soft, pulse point. “To be a gentleman, to not get on my knees and fuckin’ beg you to give me a shot.”
“You- You wouldn’t have had to-” You let out a needy moan as his hand slips under your shirt, playing with your nipples as he kisses over your shoulder. “God, you wouldn’t have had to beg, Bucky, I’ve been thinking about it too-“
“I got that now.” He hums, grinning at you as he draws back, and you only gape at him as he slowly pulls your shirt over your head. “Fuck, you’re perfect, doll. Look at you.”
He leans back down, kissing your open mouth with an almost mocking sweetness, and unhooks your bra in one motion. You melt into him as he kneads at the skin of your hips, his cool, metal hand groping and squeezing at your breasts. His thumb runs over your nipple and starting to roll it, and you arch into him with a whine. The groan that rumbles from his chest is animalistic, and it vibrates right into your core, making your thighs rub together for a little friction.
“Oh, Bucky, I- Fuck-“
He pulls you up, keeping you trapped between the wall and his body. Your pants are quickly shed by your own frantic hands, and Bucky tosses them away, rubbing your pussy over your panties. You moan as his fingers tease your slit, then whine when they move away. He grabs your ass, lifting you a little higher, and your legs manage to wrap around his torso, your chest level with his face. He looks up with a hooded awe as you grind against his body. You throw your head back, a coil starting to build in your core, and Bucky groans your name.
“You’re like a fucking painting, baby.” He mutters, and you whimper as he kisses over your breast. “Think I could watch you try to fuck yourself on me forever.”
You shake your head, your hips rutting up as another needy sound leaves your throat, and Bucky chuckles.
“You want a little more, though, don’t you.” He takes one nipple into his mouth, sucking and flicking his tongue against the sensitive bud. You writhe above him, thighs starting to get sore as he doubles his efforts.
“Oh my- Ohmygod-“ Your words start to slur, and Bucky’s teeth graze against you.
He pulls back with a lazy grin, the metal hand slowly starting to tease back over your panties. “You’re soaking,” he says your name, a low reverence in his voice. “This for me?”
You nod weakly, and his gaze drops down to where you’re spreading your legs. You try to use your grip around him to pull him closer, but he pinches your inner thigh, and you squeak.
“Patience, baby.” He mutters, kissing your neglected breast as he slowly pulls your ruined underwear to the side. “I’ve got you. Gonna make you feel so good, treat you right.”
Two metal fingers drive right into your core, curving right against a bundle of nerves deep inside your cunt, and his mouth wraps around your nipple once again. Your mouth falls open in long, loud moan as he starts to pump in and out of you at an unforgiving rhythm, always crooking at that same spot, twisting slightly every few thrusts. His tongue plays over your nipple, taking the peak between his teeth before his tongue presses flat.
Your fingers fly into his hair, and you tug hard.
Bucky fucking moans around you, and the vibrates against your tit, shooting right down to your core. You yank again, grinding down onto his hand, and he grunts. Bucky pulling his fingers fully out and leans back, licking his lips as he glares up at you.
“You get bratty.” He mutters, spanking your clit once—just enough to make you shake and send a rush through your body—and kissing your neck softly. “Keep doin’ that and I’m gonna get you in bed before we even get a proper date.”
“A- Oh-“ Bucky’s fingers push back into you, now going at a torturous, taunting pace. “A date?”
He hums against your skin. “I’m taking on you on a date before I fuck you, baby. I told you, we’re not doing casual.”
You nod, voice breathy as his thumb presses over your clit. “But- We can still- Fuck-“
He chuckles, starting to rub slow, firm circles over the bundle of nerves. “Not until the date. But don’t worry.” His fingers start to rub fast against that spot inside of you. “I’m still gonna make you cum on my hand.”
Bucky’s mouth moves back to your breast, and you take a sharp breath as release threatens to snap in your core.
“James-“
“Shit,” he mutters, kissing on a bruise he’d left on your collar. “Keep saying my name, babydoll. Make all those sounds I’ve dream about.”
You moan, loud and lewd, and Bucky grunts, his fingers picking up the pace. You tug at his hair again, and his thumb starts to flick your clit.
“I- James, I’m close-“
“I know.” He growls, returning his to your almost abused nipple. “Play with your tits for me, baby, c’mon-“
You cry out, grabbing your free breast and pinching your nipple, pulling at Bucky’s hair as you fall right over the edge. Your vision goes white as you clench around Bucky’s fingers. He presses in further, every shake of your body only seeming to make him work harder. Your thighs press together, when his finger finally pull out, but then he refocuses on your clit. Gives it small, rough hits that make your breath short and eyes roll back.
You try to squirm away from him, but he’s stronger, and into not until you’re a shaking, soaked and panting mess that he pulls away.
Bucky grins, leaning up to press at sweet, gentle kiss to your lips, and you melt over him. It’s just a kiss.
But it feels like everything.
Like you’re right where you’re supposed to be.
Eventually you find your voice, murmuring against his lips. “Do you have to pay my father a dowery now?”
He chuckles. “I’m not that old, baby. And,” he nips the of your nose. “We aren’t gettin’ married right now.”
“Right now?”
Bucky hums in acknowledgment, you lean away with small grin, playing with his hair.
“If we do…” You focus on his lips, swollen from touching you. “What would it be?”
“Your dowery?”
You nod, giving him a small smile, and he rolls his eyes.
“How about I just get you a cat, doll.”
Oh.
He’s perfect.
You beam at him, moving back down for another kiss. Bucky meets you halfway, his hand rubbing gently against your still-sensitive skin. Holding you carefully.
Holding like he never plans to let go.
“You like that?” He mutters, and you smile.
“Yeah. I do.”
✦End note: I need those metal fingers to do unspeakable things to me okay. Please join me on that journey ✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦✦Buy me a coffee!☕️✦
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ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ › bucky moves into your spare room expecting nothing more than four walls and a place to sleep. instead, he finds floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, sticky note conversations, late-night takeout, and a girl who always puts herself last.
ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ › roommate!bucky x female reader
ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ › roommates trope, post tfatws, sticky note communication, friends to lovers, roommates to lovers, slow burn, domestic fluff, many many hot dog mentions, anxiety, work stress/burnout, author has mini geek speak moments, anthropology reader, emotional intimacy, quiet romance, self-doubt, mild emotional hurt/comfort, sticky note love language, reader insecurity, loneliness, not beta read we die like men.
ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ › 11.3k
ᴀᴜᴛʜᴏʀꜱ ɴᴏᴛᴇ › and they were roommates.... oh my god they were roommates
The number sits in his phone for three days before he uses it.
Three days of bad apartments and worse brokers. Places with paper-thin walls and windows that looked directly into brick. Places that smelled like mildew and old cigarettes. Places so expensive they made his jaw lock before the realtor even finished speaking.
He tells himself he's only looking because he has to. Not because he misses hearing another person in the next room. Not because going back to the apartment in Brooklyn every night feels too much like walking into a museum exhibit dedicated to a man he doesn't know how to be anymore.
Louisiana had almost made sense for a second.
He can still picture the dock at sunset, the water catching orange light, the sound of Sam's nephews shouting somewhere down the road. He can still hear Sam leaning against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, pretending not to look too concerned.
“You could stay here for a while,” Sam had said.
“No.”
“You don't even gotta stay with me. The VA's offering assistance out here now. They can help you get your own place.”
“No.”
Sam had looked at him for a long second then, the kind of look people get right before they decide whether or not to push.
“You know, accepting help doesn't mean you're weak.”
Bucky had laughed once under his breath, sharp and humorless. “Not taking charity.”
“It ain't charity.”
“Feels like it.”
Sam had sighed through his nose, digging through a kitchen drawer before pulling out a scrap of paper with a number scribbled across it.
“I know somebody in New York. Friend of mine has a spare room.”
Bucky remembers immediately opening his mouth to refuse, Sam had beaten him to it.
“You won't be coddled or given the sugar treatment,” he said. “You'll pay rent, keep your mess clean, same as anywhere else. I bet you'll like it too.”
That had been the only reason Bucky took the number at all.
Now, three days later, he stares at it again from the edge of a too-small hotel bed in Queens. The room hums around him. Old air conditioner rattling in the window. Pipes knocking somewhere in the walls. The smell of industrial detergent trapped in the sheets.
He types the message before he can talk himself out of it.
Sam Wilson gave me your number. He said you had a room for rent.
The response comes less than ten minutes later, not much text, no small talk. Just a picture. The room is simple. Bigger than he expected. A bed frame without a mattress, a dresser by the wall, a window overlooking the street below. Hardwood floors. Clean lines. Nothing flashy.
Underneath the picture is the address and rent amount. Reasonable, more than reasonable, honestly.
Then another message.
He told me you'd message. If you're interested, you can come look at it tomorrow. I work late tonight.
What would probably seem forward to others Bucky sees as efficient, Sam's recommendation is starting to make sense now. The building is in Brooklyn, far enough from the center of everything to be quiet but not isolated. The brick outside is old, the kind that has survived decades without anybody bothering to make it prettier.
There is a sticky note taped to the front door when he gets there.
Spare key is under the plant. Let yourself in.
He stares at the note for a second longer than he needs to. Something about it feels strangely normal. The kind of thing people do when they trust that the world isn't always waiting to hurt them.
The apartment is quiet when he steps inside, his shoes echoing off the walls. It's not empty per say, just still.
There are a pair of sneakers and loafers by the door lined up neatly on a tray. A light jacket tossed over the back of the couch, s mug sitting in the sink, a blanket folded over the armrest like somebody had smoothed it down before rushing out the door.
The place is nice. Not too fancy, not overly cluttered. There are soft colors everywhere. Cream walls. Warm wood floors. A kitchen with magnets on the fridge and a bowl of fruit on the counter. It feels lived in in small ways, like somebody exists here just hardly.
The bedroom at the end of the hall is bigger than he expected. Master bedroom with a bathroom attached, an amenity he hadn't lived with in too many years to count. Enough room for his duffel bags and the few boxes he still carries from place to place without unpacking.
But it isn't the room that makes him stop.
It's the hallway.
Bookshelves run from floor to ceiling along both sides of it, turning the narrow stretch between the living room and bedrooms into something else entirely. There are hundreds of books. Maybe more. Old hardcovers with cracked spines. Paperbacks with folded corners. New glossy editions wedged beside books that look older than he is.
His eyes catch on familiar titles. The Great Gatsby, A Farewell to Arms, The Hobbit. A worn copy of The Catcher in the Rye sits crooked on a shelf near the middle. Some of the older books have faded cloth covers, titles nearly rubbed away with time. He reaches out before he can stop himself, fingertips brushing the spine of one that looks like it has been opened a hundred times.
It reassures him in a way he can't explain. For the first time in weeks, maybe months, he can picture himself somewhere without immediately wanting to leave.
He pulls his phone out.
Nice place. I'll take it if it's still up for offer.
The reply comes before he even reaches the kitchen.
It's all yours. Lease is on the kitchen counter. Bring your stuff in whenever. I won't be back until late again.
He looks over at the stack of papers sitting beside the fruit bowl. A little strange and fast, maybe. But he isn't complaining. The lease is simple. Month to month, rent due on the first. No smoking inside, clean up after yourself. No coffee grounds down the drain.
That last one almost makes him smile.
He signs his name at the bottom then he goes back downstairs to start bringing his things in. Which, after a century of life, turns out to be less than he thought it'd be. It only takes him three days to move in.
Three days of hauling boxes up narrow stairs and carrying duffel bags that feel heavier than they should. Three days of unpacking only half of his things because there isn't much point in settling too deeply into anywhere anymore.
He never sees you once.
The first night, he hears the front door unlock sometime after midnight, quiet footsteps, the soft rustle of a jacket being hung up. Cabinet doors opening and closing in the kitchen. He stands frozen in the doorway of his room for a second, listening.
Then he hears the bathroom door shut down the hall and waits for some awkward introduction that never comes. By the time he wakes up the next morning, you're gone again.
There is a sticky note on the fridge.
Working late all week. Feel free to use anything in the kitchen except the leftover Chinese food. Learned that lesson already.
He pulls the note off the fridge after reading it, folding it once before sticking it in the pocket of his sweatshirt without really knowing why.
The second note comes two days later, left beside the coffee maker.
Heading upstate for work tomorrow. Back Friday night.
Then another on the kitchen counter.
If the sink in the kitchen makes that awful screeching noise again, jiggle the cold water handle.
It's strange, living with someone he has never met.
You exist in pieces to him. A mug left drying by the sink, a pair of shoes by the door one night and gone again by morning, a blanket folded on the couch in a different way than he remembers leaving it.
The faint smell of shampoo lingering in the hallway bathroom after he knows you've been home.
Sometimes he catches the sound of you moving around at night. The creak of floorboards in the hall. The soft thud of something being set on the kitchen counter. Once, half asleep, he hears quiet music drifting from somewhere in the apartment before it disappears again.
You are becoming something blurry around the edges, more presence than person, a ghost.
Not that he's one to complain. The arrangement works and for the first few weeks, he mostly keeps to his room anyway. He gets used to the attached bathroom. The way the pipes knock whenever somebody runs hot water. The patch of afternoon sun that lands across the floor by the window around three o'clock every day.
He unpacks slowly. One shirt at a time, one book at a time. He leaves most of his things in boxes because it feels safer that way. Temporary. Like if he has to leave suddenly, he can.
He still goes out most nights, he doesn't cook much.
The kitchen feels too personal somehow, like crossing into territory that belongs more to you than him. So he eats at diners, cheap takeout places, little delis with too-bright lights and menus that haven't changed in twenty years.
Eventually he starts stopping at the same hot dog stand three blocks from the apartment. The guy who runs it is older. Loud, talks too much, calls everyone sweetheart regardless of age or gender. The first time Bucky goes there, the guy takes one look at him and says, “You look like you need two hot dogs and a nap.”
By the third visit, he doesn't even have to order.
“Mustard, onions, no kraut,” the guy says, already reaching for the buns. “And a Coke.”
“You're getting too comfortable,” Bucky tells him.
“You keep showing up, that's on you.”
He reminds Bucky of Sam if Sam were louder and somehow even more annoying.
The guy asks questions constantly.
You got a girl? No. Job? Sort of. Why do you always look like somebody just kicked your dog?
Bucky never answers half of them, still, he keeps coming back. Mostly because the hot dogs are decent. Partly because it is nice, sometimes, to have somebody expect you to show up somewhere.
Back at the apartment, another sticky note waits for him on the kitchen counter.
Sorry for basically haunting the place. Work has been insane lately.
He stares at it for a second, then longer than that. A ghost with good handwriting, at least now he knows you know it too.
The first time he sees you, it feels a little like walking into the wrong apartment.
He comes back later than usual, the city already washed in blue evening light, a paper tray from the hot dog stand balanced in one hand and a soda in the other. The apartment door sticks a little when he pushes it open.
He hears your voice before he sees you. It's soft, firm yet an edge of exhaustion to it.
“You can tell them whatever you want, but I'm not driving six hours for a meeting that could've been an email.”
He stops just inside the doorway.
You're standing by the living room windows with your back to him, one arm folded across your middle, phone tucked between your ear and shoulder.
For a second, he just stares. Because he had almost forgotten, not completely, but enough. Enough that your existence had turned into sticky notes and moving shadows in the hallway. Coffee mugs in the sink. A coat that appeared on the hook by the door and disappeared again before morning.
He had built you into something abstract in his head.
Not a real person.
Certainly not a woman.
Not because Sam had said otherwise. Sam hadn't said much at all.
Just because there had been nothing obvious about you in the apartment. No perfume bottles cluttering the bathroom counter. No makeup bags. No floral blankets or pastel throw pillows or whatever other lazy stereotypes his brain had apparently reached for without him realizing it.
The place is sparse, practical. Books and soft lighting and a single plant by the window that looks one missed watering away from death. He mentally scolds himself for the assumptions.
You don't turn around right away, you're still talking and Bucky begins to wonder if he should walk out. Keep to the ghostly sticky notes and mugs in the sink.
“Yeah, well, that's not my problem,” you say into the phone, quieter now. “I sent everything over already.”
Then your eyes flick toward the entryway. Toward him.
You freeze.
It happens so quickly he almost misses it. The slight widening of your eyes. The way your mouth parts for a second before you catch yourself. It's clear you hadn't expected to see him either.
“Hold on,” you murmur into the phone.
For a second, neither of you says anything.
You are not what he expected either. You're standing barefoot on the hardwood floor with your heels kicked off next to you, hair a little messy like you've been running your hands through it all day and a suitskirt that's been smoothed down one too many times.
There are tired shadows under your eyes that make you look… real. Not like the blurry version of you he'd made up from scraps. He realizes, distantly, that this is probably the first time you've really seen him too. Not just the sound of boots in the hallway or the evidence of him in the sink.
The metal arm. The size of him. The way he takes up space without meaning to.
You recover first.
“Sorry,” you say, pulling the phone away from your mouth. “I didn't know you were coming home.”
“Yeah.”Brilliant move.
You blink at him once, then glance down at the hot dog tray in his hand. “Hope that's not dinner.”
He looks down too. “It was the plan.”
You huff a laugh through your nose, small and tired. “You eat like a divorced dad.”
He doesn't know why that almost makes him smile. Into the phone, you say, “I have to call you back,” before hanging up without waiting for an answer.
The apartment goes quiet, not awkward exactly. Well it's a little awkward but it's more unfamiliar than anything. Up close, he notices things he couldn't piece together from the notes. You look younger than he expected. Softer too, somehow. Not fragile, just... warm around the edges, like somebody people trust without thinking about it.
“Sorry about that,” you say, gesturing vaguely with your phone. “Work call, you know. I, uh... didn't expect it to go like this.”
There's something awkward in the air still, that strange lingering feeling of two people trying to fit reality over the outline they'd already made of each other.
“Don't worry about it.”
You shift your phone into one hand and hold the other out toward him.
“I don't think we've actually been properly introduced.” You say, offering your name. He looks down at your hand for a second before taking it carefully.
“No. I don't think we have.” His hand slips from yours after only a moment. “I'm Bucky.”
“I know. I suppose that's mainly my fault.” You give him a small apologetic smile. “I'm sorry. My job is very… time demanding and that won't really be changing anytime soon. But I'm glad to meet you, Bucky.”
“Yeah,” he says. “Good to meet you too.”
Silence settles between you again, not uncomfortable, just unsure. Then both of you speak at once.
“So what do you do?”
“How are you liking the place?”
You stop. He stops.
“Sorry,” he says, motioning for you to go first.
“I was just asking how you're liking the place.” Your arms fold loosely over yourself again. “Have you settled in well?”
“Oh, yeah.” He nods once. “Place is great. Thank you.”
And it is.
He likes the quiet. The neighborhood. The bookshelves. The fact that the apartment feels like somewhere a person could stay for a while without being swallowed by it.
You smile a little at his answer. “Good.”
More silence, then you clear your throat slightly.
“And you? Were gonna say...?”
“Oh.” He glances down for a second like he'd forgotten his own question. “I was just wondering what you do... that's so...” He makes a vague motion with one hand. “Time demanding.”
“Oh. Right.” You shift your weight against the windowsill. “I work in the anthropology division at the American Museum of Natural History.”
He blinks once. “Wow.”
You laugh softly at the look on his face.
“That sounds awesome.”
“It used to be,” you say with a wry little smile. “Now it's mostly a thousand phone calls and endless trips upstate to deal with the collections.”
He leans back slightly against the doorframe.
“If you work down there, why live in Brooklyn?” he asks. “Nasty commute.”
You glance around the apartment like you haven't looked at it properly in a while.
“I got this place before I got that job,” you say. “And I liked it.” Then, quieter, “Still like it.”
Your eyes move briefly toward the hallway. Toward the bookshelves, the kitchen, the little corners of the apartment that feel soft even when no one's in them.
“That's actually why I wanted a roommate,” you admit. “I love this place, and I want it to be loved, but...” You shrug one shoulder. “I just don't have the time to do that.”
Something in his chest shifts a little at that, because he understands. More than he wants to. What it feels like to care about something and still not know how to be present for it.
“Well,” he says, voice quieter now, “I'll... I'll do my best.”
You smile then, not the tired, polite kind you've been giving him all evening. Something warmer. Something that catches him off guard a little, like maybe you believe him.
“I'm sorry I've basically been living here like some weird cryptid,” you say. “Work's been insane.”
“You leave good notes.”
The second the words leave his mouth, he wants them back.
Your eyebrows lift. “That's maybe the weirdest compliment I've ever gotten.”
You open your mouth, like you're about to say something else, then your phone rings. The sound cuts through the room sharply. You look down at the screen and make a face.
“Sorry,” you say, already answering it. “I have to take this.”
“Yeah. Sure.”
You offer him one last apologetic smile before turning and disappearing down the hallway toward your bedroom.
A second later he hears your door close softly, then your voice again through the wall. Professional, calm and little tired. He stands in the entryway for another minute after that, hot dog gone cold in his hand. The apartment feels different now, smaller somehow. Not because there is less space. Just because now, finally, you are real.
The apartment feels different after he meets you.
Not immediately and nothing dramatic.
You still leave before sunrise some mornings, slipping out with your bag over your shoulder and your hair still damp from the shower. You still come home long after dark, moving quietly through the apartment like you're trying not to wake someone even when he isn't asleep.
But now there is shape to your absence. Before, the apartment had just been quiet, now it feels empty. Bucky notices things he shouldn't. Whether your shoes are by the door, whether the light under your bedroom door is on.
The difference between the sound of the upstairs neighbors moving furniture and the sound of you dropping your keys onto the kitchen counter.
He lingers in the kitchen longer now too. Sometimes with coffee growing cold in his hands while he leans against the counter pretending not to listen for the front door. Sometimes he catches himself glancing toward the hallway whenever the building creaks.
You still leave notes. One waits for him on the fridge Tuesday morning, tucked beneath a magnet shaped like a pear.
Upstate again. Back Thursday night. There's soup in the fridge if it hasn't gone bad.
He stares at it for a second, then longer than that. Before he can overthink it, he grabs a pen from the junk drawer and flips the note over.
Soup is still alive. I think.
He leaves it on the counter and immediately regrets it. Wondering if it's too weird, or too familiar. But when he gets back from a walk later that night, the note is gone.
Thursday comes, then Thursday night. He is standing in the kitchen making coffee he doesn't need when he hears the front door unlock. You walk in looking exhausted. Hair messy, tote bag slipping off your shoulder, coat half falling down your arms.
You stop when you see him.
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
Your eyes land on the counter and you laugh. It's quiet, tired around the edges, but real.
“Soup still alive?” you ask.
“Barely.”
You drop your bag onto a chair.
“Well.” You glance toward the fridge. “Soup can't technically expire if you're brave enough.”
Bucky blinks, you smile a little wider and something warm settles low in his chest.
After that, the notes become something else. Not just reminders but conversations. You leave one on the coffee maker.
Radiator makes weird banging noises around midnight. Ignore it unless it sounds haunted.
He leaves one by the fruit bowl the next morning.
Upstairs neighbors were fighting at 2 a.m. Pretty sure someone threw a lamp.
Another day:
Please water the plant by the window before it starts holding a grudge.
He forgets. Two days later, there is another note waiting beside the drooping leaves.
You had one job.
Bucky snorts to himself, then digs out a pen.
Sorry. It does kinda look like one bad day away from death.
You leave back:
So do I.
He folds that note into the pocket of his jacket and carries it around for three days. Slowly, without either of you meaning for it to happen, the notes stop being practical.
One afternoon he comes home to find one waiting by the sink.
New coffee filters are under the sink. Also, if you ate my leftover pad thai I forgive you because it was probably bad anyway.
He smiles before he can stop himself, then writes back underneath it.
Didn't eat it. Thought about it though.
The next morning there is another note sitting beside the coffee pot.
I appreciate your honesty in this difficult time.
And just like that, the apartment doesn't feel quite so empty anymore.
As great as everything else is, Bucky gets tired of hot dogs eventually.
Not completely. He still goes to the stand a few times a week, still listens to the guy behind the cart talk too loud and ask too many questions, but after a while the thought of another hot dog starts to make him feel vaguely ill.
So one night he cooks, nothing complicated. Just pasta.
Too much of it, because he has never quite figured out how to cook for one person and because some part of him has started thinking in twos without permission.
The apartment smells different afterward, warmer. Like garlic and tomato sauce and something softer underneath it.
He leaves you a bowl in the fridge with a note stuck to the top.
Made too much. There's pasta in the fridge if you want it.
You don't come home until after midnight. He's already in bed when he hears the faint sounds of you moving around in the kitchen.
The fridge opening, a plate clinking against the counter. Silence. Then the microwave.
The next morning, he wakes up to a note sitting beside the coffee maker.
This is the first non-takeout meal I've had in two weeks. Marry me?
He stares at it for an embarrassing amount of time. Long enough that his coffee goes cold. Long enough that he folds the note once, then again, before sliding it into the drawer beside his bed with the others.
After that, you start seeing each other more. Not on purpose exactly. Just in the little spaces between everything else. Six in the morning in the kitchen while the city outside is still gray and quiet.
You standing in one of his sweatshirts that got mixed up in the laundry over leggings, blinking sleepily into your coffee cup while he leans against the counter waiting for toast to pop up.
Passing each other in the hallway at night. Your shoulder brushing his as you move around each other in the narrow space between the dining room and kitchen.
Once, on a rainy Thursday, you both end up home at the same time. You sit on opposite ends of the couch, you with your laptop balanced on your knees, him with a book open in his lap.
The television hums quietly in the background, something neither of you is actually watching. At some point, without looking up from your screen, you stretch your legs out until your socked feet bump lightly against his thigh.
You don't move them away. Neither does he and slowly, you become easier around each other. You stop apologizing every time you leave dishes in the sink. He stops retreating to his room the second he hears you come home.
One night he brings back burgers and fries from a diner down the street.
You appear in the kitchen halfway through, hair damp from the shower, looking at his takeout bag like it personally offended you that he didn't ask if you wanted anything.
“Rude,” you say.
“You weren't home yet.”
“You could've texted.”
He tears the bag open and slides the fries toward you. You grin immediately and steal three before he even sits down.
“You're lucky you're cute,” he mutters.
You freeze for half a second, then keep eating like you didn't hear him. He fixes the sink handle one weekend after it starts making that awful screeching noise every time you turn it.
You come home to find him under the sink with a wrench in one hand and his sleeves pushed up to his elbows.
“What are you doing?”
“Fixing it.”
You lean in the doorway watching him for a second. “You know, normal people usually just call maintenance.”
“Normal people don't have metal arms.”
That makes you laugh. “Fair point.”
Then one evening he comes home and finds you asleep on the couch. The apartment is dark except for the lamp in the corner, there are papers everywhere. Open folders spread across the coffee table. A legal pad on the floor. Your laptop still glowing beside you, your glasses sit crooked on your face, one hand is still wrapped loosely around a pen.
You look exhausted. Like you've simply run out of steam halfway through existing. He stands there for a second longer than he means to, then quietly sets his keys down.
He grabs the blanket folded over the arm of the couch and drapes it carefully over you.
You stir a little, brows furrowing, but you don't wake up. His hand lingers for half a second near your shoulder before he pulls it back. Then he turns off the kitchen light and disappears down the hallway.
The next morning, the blanket is folded neatly over the back of the couch again. And beside the coffee maker, there is a note.
Thanks for the blanket.
Below it, in smaller handwriting:
That was very disgustingly nice of you.
A few nights later, Bucky wakes up thirsty. The apartment is dark except for the light over the stove.
He can hear pages turning before he even reaches the kitchen.
You're sitting at the table in one of your giant sweatshirts, laptop open, papers spread out around you in messy little stacks. There are sticky notes stuck to the edge of your screen, a half-drunk cup of coffee by your elbow, and your glasses are slipping down your nose again.
You don't notice him at first. Your mouth is moving slightly while you read through something under your breath.
He leans against the doorway. “Do you ever sleep?”
You jump a little in your seat, then you look up at him and huff out a tired laugh.
“Sometimes.”
“You sure?”
“Not particularly.”
He moves farther into the kitchen, grabbing a glass from the cabinet. “You know it's two in the morning, right?”
You glance down at your laptop clock. “Oh.”
“You didn't know?”
“I thought it was maybe midnight.”
He shakes his head a little as he fills his glass. “What are you even doing?”
You look down at the folders spread around you and for a second, you seem like you're deciding whether or not to tell him. Then you let out a breath.
“I'm… up for a promotion.”
Bucky looks over at you. “What kind?”
“A curator position.”
He leans back against the counter. “At the museum?”
You nod.
“In the anthropology division.” Your fingers start absently straightening the edge of one of your papers. “If I got it, I'd oversee acquisitions, exhibits, research trips. Most of the collections work too.”
As you talk, something about you changes, your shoulders loosen and your face softens. There is something brighter in your voice than he's heard before. You look almost younger like this, less tired, more like the version of you that exists underneath all the stress and late nights and rushed mornings.
“That sounds...” He shakes his head once. “That sounds awesome.”
“It would be.” You smile a little, staring down at your notes. “I mean, it would be everything.”
You glance around at the papers spread across the table. “I've wanted it for years.”
Then, just as quickly, you pull back from it. You shrug one shoulder like it doesn't matter as much as it clearly does.
“But it's probably unrealistic anyway.”
Bucky frowns. “Why?”
You laugh softly to yourself.
“Because you don't just get the job to be a curator at the American Museum of Natural History,” you say. “It's something holy that gets bestowed upon you with the anointed oil they gave Queen Elizabeth II.”
That gets a surprised laugh out of him. You smile faintly, but it doesn't quite reach your eyes.
“It's just wishful thinking,” you say quietly. “Then you die trying.”
He hates how fast you do that. How quickly you take something you want and turn it into something impossible before anyone else can.
He sets his glass down on the counter. “That sounds like exactly the kind of job you'd be good at.”
You look up at him, really look at him. Like you're waiting for the joke, but there isn't one.
“You know that, right?” he says. “The way you talk about it.”
Your expression shifts a little, because most people do not usually say things to you that plainly. You look down at your hands.
“I don't know,” you say after a second.
“Yeah, you do.”
The kitchen goes quiet, the radiator knocks somewhere in the wall. You sit there with your hands wrapped around your coffee cup, staring at him like he has said something far more important than he meant to.
Then you smile. “Thanks, Buck.”
And for some reason, it feels like being handed something fragile.
A few days later, Bucky finds himself standing in the hallway again.
It happens more often now. He'll be on his way to the kitchen or coming back from the shower and suddenly stop in front of the bookshelves like he forgot where he was going.
The shelves are uneven in places.
Some rows are organized by author, others by size or color or absolutely no logic at all. There are books stacked sideways on top of other books, faded bookmarks sticking out between pages, cracked spines and bent corners and little slips of paper tucked into random places.
It feels lived in, it feels like you.
He stands there for a minute, eyes tracing over the titles. Then he grabs a sticky note from the kitchen and presses it onto the edge of one of the shelves.
You actually read all of these?
He forgets about it after that. Until later that night when he gets home and notices something tucked into the spine of a book halfway down the shelf.
He pulls it free.
Used to. A lot. Some are mine, some were my dad's, some I found secondhand. I used to collect old editions too before work swallowed my entire personality.
He reads it twice. Then, without really meaning to, he starts paying closer attention. Not just to the titles, to the books themselves.
There are old clothbound covers with gold lettering worn thin at the edges. Tiny notes scribbled in pencil in the margins. Bookstore stamps from places all over the city. One copy of a novel has a dried flower pressed between the pages.
Some of them are old enough that even he remembers when they were new. One night he pauses in front of a shelf near the living room and pulls out a familiar green book.
The cover is faded, the spine is worn soft from use. He turns it over in his hands, then glances down at the copyright page. 1942. He stares for a second, then reaches for another sticky note.
You have a 1942 copy of The Hobbit.
The response is waiting for him when he wakes up the next morning, tucked beneath his coffee mug.
I know. Found it in a shop upstate for twenty dollars because the owner didn't know what he had. Second greatest moment of my life.
He smiles despite himself, and there is another note beneath it.
You can read whatever you want, by the way. And if there are books you like, you can add them.
He stands there in the kitchen holding that note a little longer than he should. Because nobody has said something like that to him in a very long time. To make yourself at home, that there's room for you here. It's such a small thing, just books, just shelves.
But it feels like more than that. That night he pulls one of the older novels from the shelf and reads half of it sitting on the couch while rain taps softly against the windows.
A few days later, when he finishes it, he leaves it on the coffee table. When he comes back from a walk the next morning, there is a sticky note tucked inside the front cover.
Well?
He snorts quietly to himself and grabs a pen.
Liked it. Ending was more depressing than I remember.
The next day:
That's because you have bad taste and no appreciation for tragedy.
He leaves another book out after that, then another. And you start leaving notes inside all of them. Little questions in the margins. Favorite character? Did you cry? Be honest, did you skip the boring parts? And without really realizing it, the shelves stop feeling like just yours.
They start feeling like something the two of you are building together.
One evening Bucky comes back from a walk and stops in the hallway without meaning to. Something looks different. It takes him a second to realize what it is. Wedged between two thick hardcovers near the end of the second shelf is one of his books, old and worn.
A history book about the forties that he'd unpacked weeks ago and left sitting on the edge of the end table next to the couch because he never knew where to put it. Now it's there between the others like it has always belonged.
Like you made room for it without asking. He reaches out and pulls it from the shelf. Inside the front cover, there's a sticky note with your handwriting:
Thought this looked lonely.
Something in his chest aches a little. Because it's such a small thing, nobody has made space for him somewhere in a very long time, but it shifts something inside of him. Something warm and soft blooming beneath his ribs as he slides the book back onto the shelf.
After that, you start spending more actual time together. Not just in passing, not just in notes and hallway conversations. Real time. He brings home takeout and the two of you end up sitting cross-legged on the living room floor because neither of you feels like cleaning off the coffee table.
You steal pieces of chicken off his plate. He lets you. You start walking to get coffee together on mornings you're both free, slow and sleepy and still half wrapped in hoodies.
Sometimes you don't talk much, sometimes you talk about everything. The museum. His nightmares. Books. Childhoods. Things that happened too long ago and things that happened yesterday.
One afternoon he comes back from the hot dog stand carrying two paper trays instead of one. You're in the kitchen when he gets home.
“You got me one?”
“You looked tired.”
You smile at him in a way that feels dangerous.
The hot dog guy notices eventually.
“Where's the pretty museum girl?” he asks one day while handing Bucky his usual order.
Bucky frowns. “Who?”
“The roommate you said you have.” The guy grins. “I wanna meet her.”
“No. Not happening.”
The guy laughs. “Oh, so that's what we're doing now.”
Bucky grabs the food and leaves before he can say anything else. You notice his mood immediately when he gets back.
“What happened?”
“Nothing.”
“Mm.”
You take the hot dog from his hand. “You have a very specific face when you're annoyed, you know.”
He mutters something under his breath that makes you smile. That night the two of you are sitting on the floor in front of the couch, books spread around you, some old movie playing in the background.
Bucky glances over at the shelf. “You said finding that copy of The Hobbit was the second greatest moment of your life.”
You look up from your book. “Yeah.”
“So what was the first?”
You smile immediately.
“There was this used bookstore in Queens,” you say. “I was seventeen. They had this old locked case near the register and inside was the first book from a vintage set of The Canterbury Tales.”
He watches your face change as you talk.
“The cover was all cracked leather and gold leaf and completely falling apart. It was beautiful.”
You tuck your legs up closer to yourself.
“I used all the money I had to buy it.”
“And then?”
“And then I spent the next ten years trying to find the rest.” You laugh softly. “That was kind of it. That was the start of the whole problem.”
“You found all of them?”
“Almost.” You shake your head. “Never found the last one.”
There's something quietly sad in the way you say it. Like it's less about the book and more about what it meant to give up looking. Bucky watches the way your face slowly changes, something in the edge of your eyes shifting until you're looking at the floor. It hurts, and it makes him think that he would do anything to see you smile.
In a weak attempt he pushes the last of his fries to you, claiming they're too salty for him. You both know they're not but the small quirk of the corner of your mouth makes it worth it. The rest of the night passes in between condiements and bubbled laughter at the QVC channel, listening in to the televised conversations like they're the next hit reality show.
After a few days Bucky notices the calendar in the kitchen. Not because he is looking for anything in particular. Just because he is waiting for the coffee to finish brewing and his eyes drift to the wall.
The square for next Thursday is crowded with your handwriting.
Your own birthday is written last. Small enough that it almost disappears between everything else. Something about that sits badly in his chest. Because of course it does. Because even on your birthday, you have managed to make yourself the least important thing on the list.
He knows immediately you're going to forget it.
And you do. The morning of, you're rushing around the apartment before sunrise with one shoe on and your phone wedged between your ear and shoulder.
“I already sent the file,” you say into the phone, trying to shove your arm through the sleeve of your coat. “No, I know, but if they wanted changes they should've said that yesterday—”
Your bag slips off your shoulder and your keys hit the floor making you curse under your breath. Bucky is standing in the kitchen holding a mug of coffee when he says it.
“Happy birthday.”
You stop and blink at him.
“Oh,” you say after a second. “Right.”
You laugh softly, but it sounds tired. “I completely forgot.”
Then the person on the phone says your name and you hurry out the door with a quick apology before he can say anything else. It bothers him more than it should because birthdays are supposed to mean something. Yours especially.
So after you leave, he decides to do something about it. He remembers the bakery on the corner had a strawberry shortcake in the display case. Just something small, nothing flashy, whipped cream and strawberries layered across the top.
It reminds him of you somehow. Soft-looking and sweet to the core. He buys candles too. Then he spends the rest of the afternoon searching for the perfect gift. It takes him a few blocks of wandering around to think of what to get, but when it hits him he knew he found his mission.
He spends hours going from used bookstore to used bookstore. By the sixth one, he's almost ready to give up. Then, in a dusty little shop that smells like old paper and mildew, he finds it. Old leather cover, gold embossing faded at the edges a slight water stain on the back. Perfect.
That night, the apartment is dark except for the kitchen light. Bucky stands awkwardly by the counter with the cake in front of him, candles lit, the wrapped gift sitting beside it.
He has no idea what he's doing. But there's no going back now.
The front door opens a little after ten. You walk in looking exhausted, shoulders slumped, shoes dragging. Your hair falling out of whatever messy attempt you made to keep it back this morning. You stop dead when you see him. Then the cake lit with candles, the small box beside it.
Bucky shrugs one shoulder like he suddenly regrets all of it.
“You forgot your birthday,” he says.
You stare at him for a second too long. Nobody has done something like this for you in a very long time. Maybe ever. You don't look like you know what to do with being cared for.
“Bucky...” is all you manage.
He gets flustered immediately.
“It's not a big deal,” he says quickly, motioning vaguely toward the cake. “I just...” He looks down for a second. “Figured somebody should celebrate you.”
The look on your face almost undoes him. You set your bag down slowly and walk over.
“You got me a cake?”
“Yeah.”
“With candles?”
He glances at the little crooked row of them.
“That's usually how birthdays work.”
You laugh then. A little watery around the edges. You walk farther into the kitchen like you're afraid if you move too quickly the whole thing will disappear.
The candles flicker softly between you.
“You didn't have to do this,” you say quietly.
“I know.”
“But you did anyway. Why?”
He doesn't know what to say to that. So he just shrugs again.
You look down at the cake then back up at him.
“Okay,” you say softly. “Then I guess I should make a wish.”
You lean down and hover there for just a moment, the golden glow of the flames casting a light across your face that highlights features he doesn't think he's ever seen. A small beauty mark tucked under your eyebrow, a slight jagged silver scar down the bridge of your nose. He'll never not see them now, a gift of his own he thinks. You close your eyes and hum quietly to yourself before letting out a short breath to blow out the candles.
The apartment goes dark for a second after the smoke curls up into the air. He flicks the stove light on, then Bucky reaches for the wrapped book beside him and holds it out awkwardly.
“And this is... also a thing.”
You blink. “You got me a present?”
“You don't have to sound so surprised.”
You take it from him carefully, with a growing smirk on your face. The paper crinkles softly beneath your fingers as you unwrap it. Then you go still. Completely still. He watches your eyes move over the cover. The old leather, the faded gold lettering.
Your fingers hover over it like you're afraid touching it too hard will make it disappear.
“The last one,” you whisper. Your voice sounds a little broken around the edges. “The last volume of The Canterbury Tales.”
Bucky shifts awkwardly on his feet as you look up at him. Your face is fallen with a joy he's never seen, as if he just hung the moon and painted the stars.
You shake your head in disbelief. “Where did you even—”
“Just found it.” He shrugs.
“Bucky.”
“Took a couple bookstores. Made a deal with the owner once I found it, he was an old history buff on WW2 so…” he admits.
You look up at him then. And there is something in your face he has never seen directed at him before. Something soft, something overwhelming as a clear line starts to well at your eyes. You clutch the book to your chest like you don't know what else to do with it.
"Thank you, Bucky," you whisper, shaky lip tucked betwen your teeth.
A warm silence blooms between you two and Bucky is stuck under your stare, watching the soft dialtion of your pupils. Entranced by them he didn't even notice you had gotten so close, not until he felt the gentle brush of your lips against his cheek.
Words have never failed him like now, stuck and jumbled in the back of his throat only to come out like a garbled hum.
“What'd you wish for?” Bucky asks abrutly as he starts pulling the candles out one by one.
You smile a little, wiping quickly beneath one eye.
“Can't tell you,” you say. “State secrets now.”
He snorts quietly and grabs two spoons from the drawer. You end up on the couch sharing the cake straight from the container, knees brushing every so often in the small space between you. The television is on, though neither of you is paying attention to it. You eat strawberries off the top first and work your way down and Bucky follows suit.
You stay on the couch long after the cake is gone.
The empty container sits forgotten on the coffee table, two spoons abandoned beside it. The book never leaves your lap. At some point, you curl your legs up beneath you and start telling him about the first time you found one of the volumes. How you were seventeen and awkward and had spent an hour pretending to browse because you were too nervous to ask the owner to unlock the glass case.
Bucky laughs.
“So you've always been weird about books.”
“That's rich coming from a hundred-year-old man who still reads history books for fun.”
“Those are different.”
“They're really not.”
You grin when you say it. That soft, sleepy grin he thinks he could spend years chasing. Eventually the conversation drifts. To old bookstores, to the hot dog guy, to Sam, then to terrible movies. You insist he has never properly experienced bad cinema until he has seen Attack of the 50 Foot Woman.
He insists there is no way it can be as ridiculous as you are making it sound. Twenty minutes in, he realizes you were underselling it. By the middle of the movie, you're both laughing. Not polite little laughs either, real ones. The kind that make your stomach hurt and your eyes water and force you to pause because neither of you can hear the dialogue over the sound of the other person losing it.
He can't remember the last time he laughed like this.
By the time the movie is ending, your head is tipped against the back of the couch and your eyes are half closed.
He notices you fighting sleep before you do.
“You're falling asleep.”
“No, I'm not.” You yawn immediately after saying it.
He smiles. “You absolutely are.”
You make a soft noise of protest, but it doesn't have much conviction behind it.And a few minutes later, when he glances over again, you're out completely. Your head has tipped against his shoulder at some point, one hand still loosely wrapped around the book in your lap.
For a second, he just sits there. Listening to the sound of your breathing, the soft hum of the television, the city outside the windows. Then he carefully takes the book from your hands and sets it on the coffee table. He slips one arm beneath your knees and the other around your back.
You stir a little when he lifts you, brows furrowing for a second before you settle again against him.
“Buck?” you mumble sleepily.
“I got you.”
You make another quiet sound and let your head fall against his chest as he carries you down the hallway and into your room. The bedside lamp is still on, there are clothes draped over the chair in the corner and papers stacked haphazardly on your desk, everything is so utterly you.
He sets you down carefully on the bed and pulls the blankets up around you. You don't wake up, not really, you just shift a little beneath the covers and settle. He brushes a piece of hair back from your face and his hand lingers there for a second longer than it should.
Something overcomes him and he leans down, and presses a kiss to your forehead.
“Happy birthday,” he whispers.
As he walked out of you room he saw the book on the table, with a gentle hand he picked it up, brushing a thumb over the pages as he walks down the hall. The rest of the set is on the second highest shelf, lined up together. He slides in the last edition, eyeing the aligned spines with a ghost of a smile before walking off to his room.
The call comes on a Tuesday.
Bucky knows because you walk into the apartment looking vaguely shell-shocked, still clutching your phone in one hand.
You don't even make it all the way into the kitchen before blurting it out. “I got an interview.”
He looks up from where he's sitting at the table. “What?”
“For the curator position.” You blink at him like you still don't believe it yourself. “Next week.”
For a second, all he sees is the excitement on your face. Bright and hopeful, then it disappears almost as quickly as it came.
“Oh,” you say quietly. “Oh no.”
The spiral starts immediately after that. By the end of the week, the apartment is covered in notes. Practice questions taped to the bathroom mirror, flashcards on the kitchen counter, museum reports spread across the couch cushions.
You pace while talking to yourself, you stop sleeping, you definitely stop eating properly. The night before the interview, Bucky finds you sitting cross-legged on the living room floor in sweatpants and one of his old shirts, papers spread around you in uneven piles.
Your glasses are slipping down your nose and your hair is a mess. You look like you're about ten minutes away from a complete breakdown.
“You okay?” he asks, already knowing the answer.
“No,” you say immediately.
He sits down across from you. “What's wrong?”
You stare down at the papers in your lap. “What if I embarrass myself?”
“You won't.”
“What if they ask me something I don't know?”
“You'll know it.”
“What if I freeze?”
“You won't.”
You glare at him a little. “You don't know that.”
He leans back against the couch.
“I know you.”
That quiets you for a second.
Only for a second. Then you start rambling after that. About the anthropology wing. About acquisitions. About field research and exhibit planning and the exact kind of curator you would want to be if anyone ever actually gave you the chance. You talk about preserving history, about wanting people to care. About how every object in the museum used to belong to someone. How every piece of history was once just somebody's normal day.
Bucky listens every time. He listens while you talk yourself into circles. Listens while you explain all the reasons you think you aren't good enough for this.
“I didn't go to the right schools,” you say finally. “I don't know the right people. Everyone else interviewing for this is probably smarter than me and more qualified and—”
“They're gonna be lucky if they get you.”
You stop and the apartment goes quiet around you, scattered notes and pages from your journal fluttering in the air current. Bucky looks at you from across the floor, expression calm like he hasn't just said something that cracked you open right down the middle.
“You mean that?” you ask softly.
“Yeah.” He doesn't even hesitate. “I do.”
You stare at him for a second. Then you move before you can think too hard about it. You lean across the space between you and kiss him. It's quick and impulsive, your hand catches against his shoulder and your mouth brushes his once, soft and startled.
Then you freeze.
“Oh my God,” you whisper, pulling back immediately. “I'm sorry, I shouldn't have—”
Bucky cuts you off by kissing you again, this time slower. Deliberate. His hand comes up to cup your face and suddenly the whole world narrows down to the warmth of his mouth and the way he is holding you like you're something precious.
You melt into it, your hand tangles in the front of his shirt and a soft hum slipping past your lips against his as his thumb brushes softly along your cheek.
When you finally pull apart, both of you look a little stunned. Like neither of you knows what to do with the fact that this has been here all along.
“Okay,” you say softly.
“Okay,” he echoes.
After that, the air between you changes, not in some huge dramatic way. Just softer. He starts brushing his hand against your back when he passes you in the kitchen. You lean against his shoulder on the couch without thinking about it. He kisses your forehead when you leave for work. You steal his hoodies and stop pretending they're yours.
Sometimes you fall asleep together on the couch with the television still on and your legs tangled beneath the blanket. Somewhere in the middle of all of it, Bucky realizes he's stopped thinking of the apartment as somewhere he lives.
Now it just feels like home.
Bucky tries to wake up before you the morning of the interview.
He fails.
By the time he walks into the kitchen, you're already there in nice clothes, standing in front of the coffee maker with your arms crossed and that thousand-yard stare people get right before something important. You look beautiful, terrified and a little bit sick. Your hair is done. Your makeup is subtle. There is a necklace at your throat he thinks he's seen maybe twice before.
You don't notice him at first. You're staring at the coffee pot like if you look away it'll stop working.
“You okay?” he asks softly.
You blink. “No.”
He smiles a little. “You're gonna do great.”
You snort quietly and reach for your mug. “You legally have to say that because you live with me.”
“No,” he says. “I have to say it because it's true.”
That makes you look down for a second as you take a sip of coffee.
“Still feels like I'm gonna throw up.”
“You'll throw up after,” he says. “Like a professional.”
That earns him a small laugh. By the time you're ready to leave, you're standing by the front door shoving things into your bag with shaky hands.
“Keys,” you mutter to yourself. “Wallet. Phone. Museum badge—”
“Hey.”
You look up. Bucky steps closer and reaches for the necklace at your throat.
“It's crooked.”
“Oh.”
His fingers brush softly against your skin as he straightens it and your breath catches a little. So does his. For a second, neither of you says anything. Then he leans down and kisses you. It's quick and soft but it leaves your cheeks warm when he pulls away.
“You got this,” he says.
You nod once then you're gone.
The whole day, Bucky is restless. He tells himself he isn't waiting for you but he definitely is. He tries reading, and ends up readin gthe same page three times. He almost goes to the hot dog stand twice. He paces around the apartment, reorganizes the fridge for no reason, checks the clock so many times it starts to feel personal.
By the time the front door finally opens that night, he looks up so fast it nearly gives him away. You walk in looking different immediately. Not upset exactly, just strange and quiet. Very quiet. Like your thoughts are somewhere else entirely.
He assumes that means you got it. That you're in shock, that you're already halfway out the door toward whatever comes next.
“Hey,” he says carefully from the couch. “How'd it go?”
You stop in the doorway. You still have your bag over your shoulder, coat still on. You look at him for a second before letting out a slow breath.
“I didn't get it.”
The words land strangely between you, it makes Bucky sits up a little straighter.
“Oh.”
You laugh softly, but there isn't much humor in it. “Yeah. They said they wanted to move in a different direction.”
He doesn't know what to say to that. Because he knows how badly you wanted it, knows how much time and sleep and pieces of yourself you've poured into this thing.
But then you shrug one shoulder.
“But...” You look down for a second. “They gave me a raise.”
He blinks, surpised. “Okay.”
“And they're opening a new assistant position to ‘lessen my workload.’”
That takes him a second to process.
“So...” He leans forward a little. “You still got something?”
“I guess.” You look exhausted more than anything. “I don't know if I'm supposed to be happy or devastated.”
Bucky nods slowly.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I get that.”
Because he does. Because sometimes life gives you something almost-good and you don't know what to do with that. He watches you for another second, then he stands.
“Come on.”
You look up. “What?”
“Let's go get hot dogs.”
You stare at him for a second. Then, finally, you smile.
“Okay.”
The hot dog guy takes one look at the two of you and immediately points his tongs in your direction.
“Uh oh,” he says. “This feels emotional.”
You laugh for the first time all day. Real laughter. Bucky feels something unclench in his chest at the sound of it.
“Don't encourage him,” he mutters.
“Too late,” the guy says. “I like her.”
Bucky rolls his eyes and you smile into your sleeve. He pays before you can argue about it, and when you open your mouth to protest, he just gives you a look.
“You had a bad day.”
“So?”
“So let me buy you a hot dog.”
You don't fight him after that.
On the walk back, you stop for ice cream too. Now you're both carrying melting cones down the sidewalk, the city quieter around you than usual. Streetlights glow gold against the pavement. Somewhere in the distance, somebody is playing music with their windows open.
It feels a little like being kids. Or maybe just people who don't know exactly where their lives are going yet. It warms your chest either way. You walk beside him in comfortable silence for a while.
“Hey, Buck?”
“Yeah?”
“You ever hear that whole ‘rejection is just redirection' thing?”
He glances over at you. “...No?”
You laugh softly under your breath. “It's just this thing people say.”
“Okay.” He nods once.
“But that's not what I was getting at.”
He waits as you look down at your ice cream for a second before looking back up at him.
“You know on my birthday you told me to make a wish?”
“Yeah?”
Your smile is smaller now.
"I think it just came true.”
He frowns a little. “You… wished to get passed up on the promotion?”
“No,” you say with a breath of laughter. “No.”
You look at him then, really look at him.
“I wished...” Your voice goes quiet. “That I could spend more time with you.”
Everything in him goes still.
The city. The sidewalk, the half-melted ice cream in his hand. All of it. For a second, neither of you moves. Then Bucky smiles, small at first then bigger.
He ducks his head, shaking it a little.
“State secrets, huh?” he teases softly.
You blush immediately. “Shut up.”
But you're smiling too. You slip your arm through his as you keep walking and Bucky thinks maybe this is what happiness feels like. Small and warm and a little sticky from melted ice cream.
A week later, you come home before sunset.
Bucky is in the kitchen making coffee when he hears the front door open.
“You're home early,” he says, glancing over his shoulder. You lean against the doorway with your bag still hanging off one shoulder.
“I know. Weird, right?”
He smiles a little. “You get fired?”
“Not yet.” You step farther into the kitchen. “I actually have tomorrow afternoon off.”
“Wow.”
“I know,” you say again. “I'm trying not to be overwhelmed by all the free time.”
He laughs quietly and you watch him for a second, seemingly contemplating.
“Do you wanna come by the museum?”
He looks up. “The museum?”
“Yeah.” You shrug one shoulder, suddenly looking a little shy about it. “I could show you around. My favorite exhibits and stuff.”
He tries to act casual. “Sure.”
But secretly, he's thrilled. Because this is your world. He's seen pieces of it before in papers spread across the table and half-finished stories told at two in the morning, but this is different. This is you handing him something important.
The next afternoon, he meets you outside the American Museum of Natural History.
You're waiting near the steps in your work clothes with your ID badge around your neck. You look different now, more awake than he has seen you in weeks, more comfortable.
Like this place fits around you in a way most things don't.
You smile the second you spot him.
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
You take him inside to see the old fossils first. You tell him which dinosaur skeletons kids always lose their minds over and which exhibits people walk right past even though they're some of the coolest things in the building.
You talk with your hands when you're excited.
You move quickly from one thing to the next, almost tripping over your own thoughts because there is so much you want to show him.
“And this one,” you say, pointing toward an old display case, “people never pay attention to, but it's one of my favorites.”
Inside are old tools and worn pieces of pottery. Tiny, simple things. You tell him where they came from, who used them, how old they are. Every exhibit comes with a story.
Bucky spends half the time looking at the displays and the other half looking at you. Because you light up here. Your voice gets faster, your smile gets bigger, you stop apologizing for caring too much. It's the happiest he has ever seen you.
At one point, you take him into the giant blue whale room. The enormous whale hangs suspended overhead, casting soft shadows across the floor below. You tilt your head back to look up at it.
“Every museum employee has a designated crying-under-the-whale moment at least once,” you say.
Bucky looks over at you. “Yours probably happened after a meeting.”
You scoff. “No. Mine happened because somebody mislabeled a Bronze Age artifact.”
He laughs harder than he should an you grin.
“I'm serious. It was humiliating.”
“You cried over a label?”
“I care deeply about accuracy.”
“You're insane.”
“Maybe,” you say, smiling up at the whale. “But I'm right.”
He shakes his head, still laughing quietly, standing there beneath the whale with you smiling beside him, he thinks he has never seen anything more beautiful. Eventually, you take him into the Milky Way exhibit.
The room is dark and cool, lit only by thousands of projected stars stretching across the ceiling and walls. Soft bands of white and blue curve overhead, and everything echoes slightly. Your footsteps, his breathing, the sound of the door shutting quietly behind you.
You lead him to one of the benches in the center of the room and sit together. For a while, neither of you says anything. The quiet feels different here. Not empty but peaceful. Bucky leans back and looks up at the stars overhead.
They're beautiful.
But not as beautiful as the look on your face when you stare up at them.
“I used to come here when I first got the job,” you say softly.
He looks over at you, your eyes stay fixed on the ceiling.
“I'd get so stressed and overwhelmed and convinced I wasn't cut out for it.” You smile faintly to yourself. “So I'd come sit in here.”
You lean back a little farther against the bench.
“It helped me remember how small I am.” A pause. “How insignificant everything is.”
You glance over at him. He looks down at his hands for a second before looking back up.
“You're probably the most important thing...” He swallows a little. “To me.”
The room goes quiet again. You blush immediately and turn your face back toward the stars and Bucky does too. For a second. Then he looks back at you, the way the light from the projections catches in your eyes and across your face. It softens every edge of you.
You turn toward him slightly, feeling the gaze from him.
“It's pretty, huh?”
He smiles.
“Yeah...”
But he isn't looking at the stars, you realize after a second, and the mood shifts. Like all the air between you changes. He leans in first this time, a soft breath fans across your face before you meet him halfway. The kiss is slow and gentle, the kind that feels like something settling into place. Your hand finds his without thinking about it, his thumb brushes softly across your knuckles.
When he pulls back, you're both smiling a little and he looks up at the stars again, then back at you.
“What are you gonna do now?”
You blink. “With what?”
“No promotion on the horizon. New assistant to keep you free. What's the future have in hold now?”
You let out a quiet breath, thinking.
“You know,” you say, “I have no idea.”
You lean your head against his shoulder. “For as long as I've been doing this, all I've ever wanted was that job.”
He tilts his head lightly against yours. “What do you want now?”
You look up at him and smile softly.
“You.” Then, after a second, "and a hot dog.”
He laughs and the sound echoes quietly through the stars, you both lean into each other, and suddenly the future doesn't feel so frightening. Because whatever it looks like now, you'll be in it together.
pairing | Massage Therapist!Bucky Barnes x f!Reader
summary | While on vacation, your best friend books a spa day for you to loosen up. A luxury spa, the hottest masseuse you've ever laid eyes on, and the slip of a sound lead to a very not normal massage. But in your defense...he had very good hands and a flexible definition of tension relief.
warnings | MDNI 18+ Barbies only, please | female reader, no use of y/n, vacation fling, porn with a sprinkle of plot, open ended, inappropriate use of towels + massage oils (literally don't...don't do this at home), fingering, dry humping, unprotected p in v, pussy pronouns, exactly one (1) clit smack, soft dom Bucky if you squint, slight Romanogers if you squint even further and hold the phone at the right angle, reader is briefly described as being smaller than Bucky (if I missed anything please let me know)
word count | 5.6k
phoenix chirps | Hi Barbies! It's time for my first installment for the Barbie collab put on by the @stantastic-association. It's been so fun watching this come together that I can almost hardly believe it's my turn to post. I don't have much to say about this one, except that I feel the need to remind you that this is fiction. Please don't engage with massage therapists in this manner out in the real world. Even if they do suspiciously look like Bucky Barnes.
dt | Literally everyone who had to listen to me bitch about needing to lock in since...January? Y'all know who you are, and I'm giving you all a big forehead kiss through the screen. I hope you can feel it. Though a very special dt to @miraclediviner who made sure the collab ran as smooth as butter and didn't let me slack off. You're a real one Mecca ❤️
"We should do a girls trip!"
A dreaded six word sentence among friend groups. It always felt like something elusive that would always get talked about, but never actually get planned. In the history of your particular circle, those words were carelessly thrown around during Pinterest searches or doom scrolls after too much wine more times than you could count, but never once made it out of the group chat.
That was until the self appointed leader of the group, Natasha Romanoff, decided that enough was enough. In her own words, she was tired of the drab concrete buildings in which you worked soul sucking desk jobs and wanted to explore. But she didn't want to go alone. So, she planned. She made itineraries that the group was excited about. A few helped narrow down the field to a destination of the Amalfi Coast. But somewhere between the planning stage and the plane taking off for a two week trip to Positano, only you and Natasha had actually managed to buy the airfare and split the cost of an ocean front hotel room in the picturesque town.
Arriving in a landscape dotted with colorful cliffhanging houses on the bluest waters you had ever laid eyes on should have been enough to decompress. Yet the first thing out of Nat's mouth when you had barely unpacked a bag in the small hotel room you would be sharing was: "You look like you need to relax." Evidently the charm of being in another country without having to think of emails and spreadsheets for two weeks was not enough to bring your shoulders down from where they had permanently bunched at your ears.
And that is how you found yourself herded to the five star spa attached to your hotel. The air was tinged more prominently with orange blossom and citrus oils here, mixing with the salt air of the sea that seeped in through the windows. There was a soft melody of instrumental music along with water bubbling from a few rock fountains that dotted the reception area, granting a relaxing atmosphere from the bustling of the hotel lobby just beyond the entrance.
You had been directed to a pair of plush armchairs by the receptionist and offered a glass of cucumber water along with a list of services that were outrageously priced, even for a tourist town. You supposed that the main focus of stepping into a place like this should have been the ease of which it was to relax. But what really wasn't relaxing were the prices on the laminated sheet.
"Nat I - " you began in a hushed tone, but were cut off by the wave of her hand.
"We're on vacation," she sighed taking a small sip of water. "Just charge everything to my card, and you can pay me back when you can. I need the miles anyway." It wasn't so much of an offer as it was a request to just treat yourself. Like innately, she knew that you would argue over spending an exorbitant amount of money on a ninety minute massage.
Slumping back in your chair, you knew it was futile to argue when Natasha put her mind to something. The receptionist approached shortly after, getting you both on the schedule. Her voice had a distinct charming Italian lilt that you supposed was meant to be calming, though it felt performative in a way; like everything in this over priced spa. Maybe that's how they were able to charge such high prices. If clients were lulled into a false sense of comfort at every turn, it hurt less when money changed hands.
Natasha's name was called first by a tall, muscular blonde man wearing dark blue scrubs. Before she disappeared behind the frosted glass doors flanked by two lemon trees, she gave a sly wink, her nose scrunching slightly. A secret girl code that loosely translated to her likely coming back out with her masseur's personal phone number.
Good for her, you thought. Though you dreaded if she actually did get it that you'd be spending the rest of the vacation playing tourist alone.
That left just you and the incessant dripping sound of water in the reception area, which truthfully wasn't all that relaxing when it had you debating if you had time for a bathroom break. In the middle of your deliberation, you heard your name called.
When your eyes lifted to see who your appointment was with, you now had a concrete reason as to why services here were so expensive. A six foot, broad shouldered muscular man with chestnut hair, and blue eyes that could rival that of the ocean waters of the coast was looking at you expectantly. Your gaze drifted down to the clipboard that held your assessment form you had filled out while waiting. And you were sure it was a normal sized clipboard, but it looked dwarfed being held in his hands. Hands that would soon be on your skin.
His smile was warm, and looked to be the most genuine form of soothing in the spa as you walked up to him on unsteady legs. "I'm Bucky, looks like I've got you for the next hour and a half," he introduced himself, and you immediately noticed he did not carry the same Italian accent of anyone you had encountered at the hotel.
He held the door open for you into a warmly lit hallway, with more greenery and a stronger scent of lemons. "Do you have any problem areas you'd like me to address?"
The only problem that came to the forefront of your mind - aside from your sore back muscles - was that your mind was now…blank.
And yet he patiently waited for an answer as he directed you to a small dim room. Likely having rendered so many women speechless, that this was just part of his routine when he introduced himself to someone new.
The room he showed you to only held a massage table, a small cart with various oils and towels, and the same plinking music that had been playing in reception could also be heard in here, albeit much softer. "Uh, my back kind of? It was a long plane ride," you said, finally finding your voice.
Bucky nodded, jotting something down on the clipboard he still held. "Taking care of yourself on vacation? Good girl, sitting that long can cause unneeded stress on your muscles."
The praise coming from his mouth seemed to slip out so naturally, your brain almost didn't register it. But the rest of your body sure did.
He's probably like this with everyone, he's just trying to get a bigger tip from you. You reminded yourself.
"If you'll just undress to your comfort level," he pulled the drape of the massage table back, "I'll be back in five minutes."
And with that, he was out of the room with the door closing behind him with a soft click. Truthfully your comfort level with a strange man in a foreign country should've been to add more clothes and walk out of here. Especially with the way your thoughts were racing as you pictured his hands on your body.
Perhaps you should go request a different masseuse. One that you didn't want to do things with he probably wasn't allowed to charge for. But with the way your back ached and the crick in your neck from an eight hour flight, you didn't want to wait for a different masseuse. Nor did you want to explain to Natasha why it was necessary and get teased relentlessly.
Deciding you'd like the full experience, you stripped bare and folded your clothes in a neat pile on the chair in the corner. Sliding into the cocoon of soft sheets on your stomach, you shifted the drape over your backside and as soon as you made yourself comfortable with your head on the rest, a knock sounded at the door.
"Alright sweet girl," Bucky's smooth voice reached your ears once more as he stepped into the room. "Let's see if we can't get you to relax."
This was already a bad idea, you surmised. Your body was reacting to the baritone of his voice in ways you hadn't even considered when Nat suggested a massage. Like it was reminding you of the dry spell you had currently been in with your dating life and that something or someone needed to rectify that soon.
He peeled the sheet away from your back to begin, the sudden rush of air hitting your nerves and sending a shiver down your spine,
"Cold?" He asked from somewhere above you, concern lacing his words.
"A little?" Your voice squeaked the lie piling on to your mortification. You weren't really cold, more like your nerve endings you long thought dormant were reacting to any form of provocations.
You heard the click of a button somewhere and a sudden wave of gentle heat flowed from a vent on the wall next to you. "There we go," he murmured. "I want you to be as comfortable as possible."
Some more shuffling occurred while you watched his shadow cast by the dim amber lights dance around the dark floor. A click of a cap being flicked open almost had you peaking over your shoulder to see what was going on, but eye contact would likely only heighten this one sided awkwardness you felt for the next ninety minutes.
A warm sensation dripped over your skin, and you felt goosebumps rise in its wake. Bucky's palms were on you next with a firm pressure that already had the tension floating from your body and into his palms. Deft fingers kneaded the muscles along your spine first, pausing to roll among your shoulders.
Sinking further into the table, it was almost easy to forget who was on the opposite end of the hands that you could describe as harbingers of magic. Your eyes slipped shut, finally letting out a deep breath you didn't remember inhaling.
"Good girl, keep letting go," Bucky whispered, knuckles digging into your shoulder blades and working your muscles loose. There was that praise again, made all the more intimate by the fact that you were now naked and his hands seemed to be working overtime to pull every bit of tension out of your body.
He made it so easy to relax. More so than anything out in the reception area. The aura around his person inviting and safe in a way that made it easy to let go. From the warmth of the room, the slide of his fingers, the gentle praise, a floaty kind of feeling rushed to your head. It was then he found a knot just to the right of your spine that was worked out with enough pressure for an involuntary moan to slip past the barricade you'd been carefully crafting.
And it really wasn't even something you could pass off as a momentary lapse of judgment, especially if he kept skillfully working your muscles out like he was.
But Bucky, professional as he was, never wavered even when he felt the tension rising back to your body like you had done something wrong. "Happens more often than you think," he reassured. "Make all the noise you need to, sweetheart. You don't need to hold back on my account," he said evenly, and you could hear the ghost of a satisfied smile in his tone.
With permission granted unlocking something in your brain, you sighed, letting whatever slightly pornographic sounds come out. It wasn't like you would see him again anyway to be embarrassed about it. And as you fully let go, both of Bucky's hands continued working lower now to where the drape covered the last bit of your decency.
"Your lower back is really tense…" he muttered, hands wrapping around your waist, your attention flaring to the point of contact. "Desk job?"
Your mind momentarily stuttered as you tried to get your mouth to form words that weren't 'you can bend me over a desk'. "Uhm, yeah, unfortunately. I try to stretch but…"
"I can put a towel under your hips if you'd like?" he interrupted whatever your thinly veiled excuse was going to be for not getting up and stretching for ten minutes every hour. "May help me work out some of this discomfort."
You spied him already rolling up a piece of fabric into a tight cylinder. His hands and fingers glistening in the low light looking like a sin you'd love to commit.
You nod in agreement, and shift so he can wedge the towel under your hips. In doing so, the drape covering your ass narrowed, now just barely keeping you concealed.
More oil was added to your skin and Bucky's hands returned to your lower back. You had to give it to him, the added cushion under your hips did help your spine stretch, and the oil was already seeping into your muscles, aiding in the relaxation. But now you had a different problem entirely. The towel had been placed in such a way it pressed right against your clit, the texture of terrycloth mixed with the oil dripping down providing a delicious friction you hadn't been expecting.
And just why had you decided it would be a fabulous idea to get naked? As if the heat pooling between your thighs the second you laid eyes on your masseuse wasn't bad enough, you now had to deal with the fact that every time his thumbs pushed from the swell of your ass to the middle of your spine he unknowingly rocked you just right to send sparks shooting through your limbs.
If you thought keeping your noises to a minimum before was a challenge, it was certainly about to be an even bigger struggle. Screwing your eyebrows together, your fingers gripped the face cradle harder, you dared to let out a much more breathy exhale than before. Slightly worried that if you held any further noises in, Bucky would catch on to the lewd activities happening under the drape.
It would be so embarrassing to come like this, you thought for a brief second, another airy moan traitorously leaving your lips.
That time, Bucky's hands did pause, ever so briefly, on their upward trajectory. Enough that it was obvious he noticed your sounds had changed. But he didn't draw attention to it verbally. Instead, he moved…slower.
His hands trailed down, past your hips to your thighs. Thumb digging just a touch more into your muscles as he moved with leisure.
You barely noticed the drape that had still been covering your ass was being pushed up, too focused on the way he seemed to know when to press on your lower back to get another inappropriate sound out of your mouth. On the next pass, Bucky's fingers grew bolder, dipping between your thighs and nudging your legs apart.
It eluded you that his thumbs were getting closer and closer to where you were now dripping on every pass. Rational thought had long since flown out the window with the way he was slowly rocking you against the towel.
At least…until he drifted experimentally. Two fingers slowly and precisely slipped directly between your thighs ever so slightly relieving the ache that had been building since you had put your body in his very capable hands. It was too deliberate, yet slightly timid to be considered an accident. Much like the soft moans he had elicited from you moments earlier.
Your eyes flew open, breath catching as he did it again. Two fingers mindfully stroking your clit like he was testing your reaction. "I can stop," he said easily once you met his piercing blue eyes over your shoulder, pausing his ministrations but not taking his fingers away. "But I am very good at my job."
You were aware that you could say no. Surely such a posh and highly rated establishment would not survive if such acts were being performed under duress.
You were also aware that while you could…you had absolutely no intention of asking him to stop. Much like when you gave yourself grace by letting your mouth fall open, moans flowing freely, you rationalized that you were on vacation. You were never going to see this man again, and your body was wordlessly begging your mouth to just say yes. Shifting to tilt your hips in a silent dare for him to keep going, you both performed a staring contest in the soft light. But you realized quite quickly that he wasn't going to move again until you said something verbally.
Letting out a shuddering breath, and throwing all caution to the wind along with the last of any rational thought, you imperceptibly shook your head and gave a shaky whisper of "don't stop."
A slow grin spread across his face, a spark of delight as he gingerly tossed the drape to the side. There was no use for it now, considering it had turned into a small sliver that covered nothing.
"Turn over for me, sweet girl, if we're doing this, let's do this right," he murmured, giving a slight tap to your clit before withdrawing, a gentle hand coming to your hip to help maneuver you to your back.
With shaky arms and his guidance, you adjusted. The towel you had been grinding against was also discarded quickly, all the better so you didn't see the mess you had likely caused. Bucky's hands were on you again, steady, but sure, working their way slowly back up your thighs like he was still giving you the chance to back out.
"Beautiful," you swore you heard him whisper above the low music that was still faintly playing in the background. Heat spread from your chest to your ears as you chanced a glance at him while his fingertips made their journey back between your thighs. But his eyes, dark and hooded, were fixated on the dance of his hand moving closer to your center.
You let out a small 'oh' the second he circled your clit, thighs parting further — an invitation to keep going while your fingertips dug into the table. Eyes falling closed, your body arched into the movement, rocking without abandon now that it wasn't something you were trying to hide.
He had not been over exaggerating, he was very good at his job. Executing just the right amount of pressure on the bundle of nerves, every so often dipping to gather the slick now freely dripping from your cunt and tease your entrance. Like he was a lover made just for you, and had learned every single way to provide the highest amount of pleasure to make your head spin.
"When's the last time she was taken care of, hmm?" his voice was closer than it had ever been, your eyes flew open again to see he had moved so his torso was hovering over yours, hand that wasn't performing magic between your thighs braced next to your head.
Fuck, his eyes were more disarming up close. Two shimmering pools of bright blue reflected what could only be described as starlight from the ambient lamps.
Did you really want to admit to a stranger how long it'd been since the last time anyone touched you like this?
"Uh…" you stammered, "haven't really…been awhile."
Real smooth. But what were you meant to say when words were drowning before they had a chance to form?
A gentle, compassionate look crossed his features. "Tsk, you can't neglect something as precious as this sweetheart."
With that, he finally pushed a long finger past your entrance, the stretch sudden causing a needy whine to travel up your throat.
"There you go. Just relax for me…" he whispered the command right against the skin of your cheek, and to your credit, you really did try. But the coil in your lower belly was tightening further and further.
Another unabashed moan slipped past your lips as he added a second finger, your jaw going slack from the sudden stretch while your fingertips dug further into the table to the point your knuckles ached. "I'm trying," you protested, though several parts of your body were continuously clenching.
Above you, a deep rumble vibrated from Bucky's chest. His hand that had been planted next to your head reached for yours, working your grip free of the table. Your fingers interwove with his creating a far more intimate connection than you had been braced for.
"Keep trying sweetheart, you can do it," he coaxed, leaning further in until his lips were right next to yours. While his hands and words were confident, there was a hesitation in the movement of his lips. Like he was a man who was afraid of pushing too many boundaries.
Your fingers squeezed his once his thumb pressed deliberately onto your clit, back bowing off the table while your thighs spread further, one ankle falling carelessly over the edge. "You're so close," he whispered, lips finally meeting the corner of yours. "Can feel it in the way she's squeezing me."
"Mhm," you managed to whine, lips chasing his automatically when he went to pull away.
There was barely a second of hesitation and his mouth was on yours, greedily drinking in the sounds of pleasure as he pushed you closer and closer to release. He tasted of bergamot, lemon and sea salt, like the personification of the small town itself.
It was like something snapped between you the second your lips collided. Something untamed finally being set free after being unfairly caged. Your hand flew to the nape of his neck, drawing him in closer, enough that with the angle, he had to withdraw his fingers from your cunt so he could steady himself above you.
You wanted to grumble at being denied, body clenching desperately around nothing. Until Bucky adjusted, knee finding the bare space of table between your legs. With a slight bounce, his large form soon eclipsed yours as he settled into a comfortable position. All the while, his lips never really ceased contact with yours. Exploring parts of you that you hoped he never dared venture with other clientele.
But any unfounded jealousy you may have stumbled upon exited your mind the second he pressed his hips to yours. The hard, throbbing ridge of his erection had your mind reeling. It hadn't really even occurred to you that he could be as affected as you were, needing his own form of tension relief. Perhaps the soft dark blue scrubs he wore were intentionally chosen to hide such things.
Your legs bent at the knees, drifting to either side of his torso until you cradled his lower body with yours. A sound came muffled from his throat, his teeth sinking into the plush flesh of your lower lip when your hips twitched upwards, bare pussy dragging across the outline of his cock that sent fire rushing through your belly.
Your free hand fisted into the hem of his top, thoughts running rampant of how you planned on daydreaming about ripping this very top off when you got back to your hotel room to now being able to experience the real thing. His hips moved in needy, urgent circles, the head of his cock catching your clit every so often causing your thighs to clench around his frame harder. His movements were so delicate, so restrained, you wondered if he was reconsidering.
Testing the already flimsy boundaries, your hand released his top, moving to rest on the warm skin of his abdomen. A shudder radiated from where your palm was placed as the weight of him sunk deeper onto you. Your hand explored further, your own hips canting up to meet his; soaking the front of his pants with your slick. Fingernails scratched into the hard wall of muscle, contracting like claws with each slow grind.
When you reached his shoulder, Bucky released his grip on your hand, yanking the fabric off and discarding it. It had been one thing to imagine what he looked like underneath the navy blue top. It was another thing in itself to see it in the ambient lighting of the massage room. The flickering candles on the shelves reflected shadows on every crevice that had to have been honed by hours in the gym. Both hands now moved of their own volition, traipsing up the dips until they smoothed over the light dusting of hair along his chest.
"Seems only fair I suppose," he chuckled softly, watching your hands explore. "That you get to feel me up now instead of the other way around."
You felt your cheeks heat once more, moving to withdraw your touch. But, Bucky moved quicker, gripping your wrist and placing a soft kiss to the delicate inside with a smirk.
"Knew you were going to be special the minute I laid eyes on you," he whispered, tugging your wrist until your hand landed at the nape of his neck again, your fingers carding into the soft hair.
"Bet you say that to every girl who walks in here," you mumbled, gaze darting to where his other hand was palming his erection through his pants that were slick from where you had been grinding against him.
A short laugh flitted from his lips, pulling the waist of his pants down further until his thick cock was freed. "I do, but none of them have ever gotten to do this though," he admitted gently, running the tip of his cock already leaking with precum through your folds.
The meaning behind his words barely registered when your eyes were still glued between your bodies. His large hand was wrapped around the thick shaft as he fucked into it, tip gliding through your aching pussy until it kissed your clit and withdrew again.
The motion continued, teasing away what little self restraint you had left with each dip that barely caught at your entrance. A frustrated exhale escaped your lips, looking back up to meet Bucky's eyes. "Can you just - " you huffed as he slid through even slower, like he had all the time in the world yet you knew the ninety minute session would have to end sooner or later.
The corner of his mouth pulled up again, head dipping so his nose brushed yours. "Patience sweet girl," he murmured against your lips. "Don't wanna rush this."
Your leg wrapped higher on his hips wondering if your strength could out match his. But his grip found your thigh, fingers digging into your flesh to keep you from using your muscles in an attempt to get what you want. His hand released his cock, letting it fall heavily onto your hip so he could cup your jaw.
"Breathe with me, okay? In," he inhaled, your lungs expanded on command, chest rising to meet his.
"And out," he exhaled, lips brushing yours intimately while your breaths mingled, his hips adjusting so you felt the nudge of his tip at your entrance.
You really should have expected him to press in the next time he coaxed you to inhale, yet the stretch of him finally filling you completely and slowly was something no amount of breathing exercises could've ever prepared you for.
A loud whimper tore through from your throat while you adjusted to his size, the hand at the base of his neck gripping a bit tighter to steady yourself. Bucky hiked your leg up further, hooking it around his hip — freeing up his other hand to completely cradle your face, elbows tucking under your shoulders while he settled his weight onto you. An intimate gesture you least expected, from someone who was a stranger a little more than an hour ago.
He hadn't even really moved yet, letting your bodies get acquainted; muscles clenching around his throbbing cock while his thumbs slowly brushed over your cheekbones. Every breath leaving your mouth was shallow, attempting to get air to your lungs while every other nerve ending was just concerned with pleasure.
Your fingernails found solace digging into the taut muscle of his bare back, clinging to reality as he finally buried every inch in. Eyes watered as you held his stare of concern marred behind feral need. "Breathe sweetheart," he reminded you once again, thumbs never ceasing the calming movement against your skin.
The table swayed gently with the start of his hips rocking. The ridges and veins of his cock massaging the most intimate and sacred parts of your body.
Needy deep grunts and soft breathless moans soon filled the room, articulated by the whisper of your skin connecting and the nature sounds that were once meant to be relaxing. They now only fueled a delirious fantasy, mixing with the heat rising. Where the room melted into something far more primal and less composed than anything the upscale spa had offered in their list of services.
His strong hands continued to keep your head tilted up. Every desperate thrust into your already fluttering pussy, still aching for the release he denied you earlier had your eyelids dropping. But his hypnotizing eyes that watched every flicker of pleasure on your features were hard to stay away from for long.
"Come on now, darling, let go of that last bit of tension," he breathed softly, head dipping to your collarbone so his lips were right next to your ear with another deep thrust that had stars bursting in your vision.
Words seemed fleeting, as much as you wanted to say for the umpteenth time that you really were trying, but the bliss washing over your body in waves was hard to release. Nothing would have made you more content than to stay in this haze of citrus scented oils.
"So stubborn." You swore you heard him huff, trailing a hand between your bodies where his thumb found your clit, massaging gently.
Entire body locking from the jolt caused a gasp to punch out from your lungs. Thighs and arms wrapped tighter around him, nails digging further into his skin until you were sure the half moons would become a permanent feature to his otherwise flawless body.
"There you are, now let it all go." Bucky's teeth grazed the column of your neck, thumb picking up speed in time with his pace that was becoming erratic. Pleasure finally crested through your nerve endings, flowing to every limb and ligament as you fell over the edge. Saliva pooled on your tongue, eyes finally falling closed to surrender to the sensations. His lips found yours again, an intimate gesture designed to bring you back to the present. He groaned deeply, a tremor rumbling through his entire body as you felt the throb of his own release flare into yours.
Bucky pulled back from the crook of your neck, hair that had been perfectly styled now fell in front of his wild eyes while realization crashed down on both of you. A sudden dawning of what just happened probably…should not have happened. Your limbs were still limp, muscles melting into the table in a sensation you had missed for too long.
"Am I - uh - going to have to pay extra for that?" you asked in an attempt to diffuse the situation, breath still ragged.
He laughed, low and genuine, brushing a piece of your hair back from your forehead. "Nah, we'll keep that off the books."
You giggled in response as he carefully maneuvered off of the table. You propped up on your elbows, accepting a clean sheet he handed in your direction, like he knew your body was already growing colder without his to keep you warm.
"When do you leave?" he asked sincerely, donning a fresh scrub top. Eyebrows drawn together in earnest.
You really hadn't been expecting him to all of a sudden seem so vulnerable, for someone who got you to the position you were currently in with such quiet confidence. "Oh, we're here for two weeks."
He nodded, looking now at a planner that was splayed open on the small counter. "Do you…want to come back tomorrow? I can take you to dinner first and then I can get you another…more appropriate session."
He tripped over his words as he asked, endearing in a truly charming way. "Yeah," you agreed easily, swinging your legs off the side of the table. "I'd like that."
Bucky's shoulders dropped, relief flooding over his features. "Great," he smiled, handing you a business card. "I've, unfortunately, got another appointment I need to get ready for, but I'm looking forward to it."
"Hope it's not one just like this?" you asked, turning the card around in your fingers to see what you assumed was his personal cell phone number scribbled in a margin.
"No," he chuckled again. "This was a…uh…first for me."
Natasha was already in the reception area when you drifted through the frosted glass doors. Everything that had first annoyed about the corporately saccharine decor was muted, the only thought on your mind was when you would get to see it again.
"So?" Natasha asked, a perfectly manicured eyebrow raised as she scrutinized your sudden glow. "How was it?"
You accepted another small glass of cucumber water, settling beside her. "Amazing. I'm coming back tomorrow."
The redhead's eyes narrowed at that, her tongue swiping over her bottom lip. "Is that so? And here I thought this was meant to be a girls trip?" she teased, nudging your foot with hers.
"Weren't you the one who said I needed to relax?" you shot back, briefly flashing the business card before tucking it back into your pocket with a playful smile. "Not my fault the relaxation method doesn't fit your definition of a girls trip."
After Chirps: Okay, maybe I did have more to say??? I hope you liked this one! But I'd be remiss if I didn't link the masterlist post for the collab, and let y'all know that along with all of the other scrumpdillyumptious fics coming, my veterinarian Bucky fic comes out in less than a week! As proud as I am of this one, that one is my baby and I can't wait to share it ❤️
pairing | pre-infinity!war!bucky x fem!reader
word count | 19.1k words
summary | it becomes your responsibility to help the winter soldier heal—not just his body, but the fractured remnants of his mind. what begins as stern guidance slowly grows into something deeper, as you teach him how to be a man again, not a weapon.
tags | 18+ (MDNI), EXPLICIT SEXUAL CONTENT, canon-compliant post–civil war, inspired by Avatar, reader inspired by neytiri, piv sex, unprotected sex, riding, mating press, missionary, desperate touching, body appreciation, emotional sex, breast fixation, lowkey carnal sex, bucky goes primal, creampie, ONE-ARM!BUCKY, fierce!reader, cheeky/playful!reader, shy!reader, angst with comfort, slowburn, lotssss of yearning and longing, mutual pining, bucky healing, emotionally repressed idiots, shuri&t'challa cameos, death of an animal, mythical creatures, wakandan religious and culture practises, meditation, buckys literally whipped, very very emotional aftercare
a/n | kms if this flops, deadass
likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨
MASTERLIST
“…He is a grown man,” you said flatly, arms folded, gold rings catching the light. “Why must I look after him like an orphaned sheep?”
T’Challa exhaled through his nose, pacing slow, as if you were all still discussing this with grace. Shuri, on the other hand, already looked ten seconds from strangling you with her bare hands.
The courtyard was warm with sun, but the three of you had been at it so long the tea had gone cold.
“You’re not looking after him. You’re—”
“—babysitting him,” you cut in. “A man who has killed how many people? But no, let me put aside my entire life and move back to the outskirts so I can make sure he eats his vegetables.”
Shuri’s eyes rolled so hard you thought they might stay back there.
“It is not babysitting. It’s helping him adapt,” she bit back, flicking her fingers in the air like she could swat your sarcasm. “The recovery process is not just about breaking trigger words. He has to be among people. Real people. And you are the only one who will not try to fix him.”
You scoffed, looking between them.
“You two clearly do not value my life. You should say it plainly. You want me to die at the hands of a haunted white man with one arm.”
T’Challa sighed through his nose. “He is not haunted. You are someone who understands silence. Who moves with intention. Who—”
“Who can babysit the winter beast?” you snapped, pushing to your feet. “No. No, this is not fair.”
“You are being dramatic,” Shuri muttered.
“I am being honest,” you bit back, tone sharp but low. “You want me to drag a man out of his nightmares and into the sun like it’s my duty. Why me?”
“Because you can,” came the voice from the stone archway—regal, steady, commanding.
You all turned at once. Queen Ramonda stood framed in gold and violet, hands clasped neatly before her, face composed but clearly unimpressed.
“I could hear your arguing from the throne room, for Bast’s sake,” she said mildly. “Must you bicker like wild dogs every time a request is made?”
All three of you stilled. Like children caught misbehaving.
You spoke first, pointing a hand toward the siblings. “Queen Mother, you must listen to what outrageous things your children are asking of me. They wish to exile me to the outskirts with a half-frozen foreign soldier who wakes with blood on his breath.”
Ramonda gave you that look, the one she’d perfected over years of dealing with all three of you. Calm. Measuring. Ever so slightly amused. “Perhaps the soldier needs someone who will not flinch from the truth. And perhaps you need someone who reminds you the world is larger than your comfort.”
You stared at her, mouth parting, “Once again I say, that is not fair.”
She stepped closer, eyes softening, eyes softening, brushing a hand down your arm. “It would be good for him,” she added gently. “And it would be good for you.”
“Why must everything be good for me when it is inconvenient?”
Ramonda moved her hand, cupping your cheek like she was softening you for the kill.
“He is not the same man they froze,” she said quietly. “We have done much. And we will continue to do more. But he cannot learn peace if he is surrounded only by the memory of war.”
You let out a long, annoyed breath. “So you say, ‘Come do this, come do that. Come leave your bed and your garden and your spirit work to go look after the American white man who—reminder—is an infamous serial killer.’”
There was silence. Then Shuri muttered, “He’s not technically a serial killer, it’s more—”
“Do not finish that sentence.”
“I’m just saying there is a legal distinction—”
“Shuri.”
“I’m just—”
You lifted a hand, silencing her.
Ramonda pressed a kiss to your cheek, knowing it meant you were already halfway convinced. “Let him learn from someone who still speaks to the land,” she murmured. “Someone who still knows how to listen.”
You didn’t answer, but you sighed loud enough for everyone to hear.
T’Challa smiled. Shuri leaned against the railing, victorious.
You walked away mid-eye-roll, calling over your shoulder, “If he so much as breathes wrong near me, I will send him back to the ancestors myself.”
The first thing he felt was air.
Cool, real air—not the sterile chill of cryo, not the chemical weight of lab filters—but air that moved. That breathed. There was birdsong in it. Dry earth. Smoke from a far-off fire. Something floral he couldn’t name.
Bucky blinked, slow and dry-eyed, the light too warm, too gold. His body felt sluggish, heavy with sleep. He was on something soft. No wires, no restraints. His chest rose unevenly, breath catching against the strangeness of… quiet.
And then he heard them. Giggling. Whispering.
He turned his head—sharp pain blooming at the base of his skull—and found three children crouched beside him, their faces painted with thick lines of white and yellow, watching him like he was some museum piece come to life.
The youngest one leaned closer, nose nearly touching his.
“Who—” His voice cracked like dry leaves.
The kids shrieked with delight and bolted for the doorway in a blur of bare feet and swinging beads. One lingered just long enough to poke his knee before running.
“Nakana! I told you not to touch him!”
The voice snapped across the room like a whip—sharp, feminine, unfamiliar.
Feet on packed earth. Cloth shifting. A figure moved past the curtain of the doorway—tall, confident, annoyed in that particular way adults were when children ran just fast enough to escape consequences. She stepped into the light, brushing the curtain aside with the back of her hand. And he saw you.
Painted wrap slung around your hips. A loose tunic tucked at one side. Earrings glinting like fireflies. You were barefoot, one brow raised like this was the mess you’d been warned about.
Bucky’s mouth parted, but nothing came out.
You didn’t introduce yourself. You didn’t ask how he felt. You just tilted your chin toward the door, where the last light of day was spilling gold across the dirt floor.
“Come watch the sunset,” you said, like it was the only thing worth doing.
Then you turned and walked out—as if he’d follow, like that choice was his to make. And he made it.
The ground felt strange beneath his feet. Coarse, sun-warmed dirt. Fine dust that clung to his soles as he stepped out of the hut, squinting into the light. The doorway yawned behind him like a throat he’d just crawled out of. No fences. No guards. Just wind and open air.
He hadn’t seen the sun in—
He didn’t know.
Ahead of him, a narrow path wound gently uphill, flanked by thatched roofs and smooth clay homes, smoke curling from chimneys, cloth lines dancing between poles. A child darted past with a kite made of paper and string. Somewhere a woman laughed, deep and unbothered. The village breathed in rhythm. It felt… alive.
He turned, slow and aimless, until he spotted her.
You.
At the far edge of the clearing, your back to him, already walking—effortless, upright, that same piece of bright cloth now pulled across your shoulders. Your earrings flashed once in the sun before you passed into shadow.
You didn’t look back.
Others were walking, too—small groups, elderly men, a mother with a sleeping baby slung across her back. All of them moving in the same direction. Toward the slope. Toward the horizon.
Bucky didn’t think. Didn’t ask.
He just followed. Barefoot, steps uneven, like the ground might swallow him if he hesitated. The air was too clean. His body felt foreign—stiff, lighter, missing something. His arm…
He glanced down. Still gone. Just skin and metal and a quiet absence where something used to be.
But you were still moving. Up ahead, you slipped between two trees, and he picked up his pace without meaning to. The wind tugged at your top. Your hands stayed loose at your sides, steady, sure.
You heard his footsteps before he spoke—uneven, a little slow, like he hadn’t used his legs in months. (He hadn’t.)
The slope had leveled out by the time he reached you. You were already seated on the flat rock at the ridge, legs folded beneath you, elbows resting on your knees. The view stretched wide below, the village glowing in the last of the sun, children chasing goats through the paths, smoke rising from cooking fires.
He hovered a few feet behind you, hesitant.
“Where... am I?” His voice was scratchy, like rusted hinges. You didn’t turn.
“A village on the outskirts of Wakanda,” you said simply.
There was a pause. He stepped a little closer, slow and careful. “How long was I out?”
“Six months.”
“Six—?” He let out a quiet breath, and you heard him shift his weight like the number knocked something loose in his ribs. “And the Avengers?”
You lifted a shoulder. “I don’t keep up with Western affairs.”
Another pause. He didn’t take offense. You weren’t offering any. “Right,” he muttered. “’Course.”
The wind picked up slightly, carrying the smell of stew and sun-warmed stone. You felt him settle into a crouch beside you, not close enough to touch, but close enough to see the tension still tucked into his posture—like he didn’t know what to do with his limbs now that they weren’t weapons.
“Can I get your name?” he asked after a moment.
You tilted your head, half-glancing at him, not quite meeting his eyes. You said it clear and even, shaped by your tongue the way it was meant to be. No pause. No simplification. You didn’t shrink it down for him.
He winced. “Could you—sorry—can you say that again?”
You sighed, “Listen closely this time.”
And you said it slower, more deliberate, each syllable resting in the air between you like a stone placed carefully on sacred ground.
He nodded, repeating it under his breath, not quite right—but trying.
You didn’t correct him. The two of you just watched as the sun dipped low behind the hills, casting the sky in molten gold, when the rest of the villagers began to arrive—a slow trickle of movement from behind, soft chatter and rustling feet.
Children in linen wraps. Old men with carved walking sticks. Women with bowls of roasted groundnuts, passing them between gentle hands. They settled across the slope in small clusters, all facing west, as if the sun itself had summoned them.
It did this time every month.
You scooted slightly to one side on the flat stone, patting the space beside you without looking at him.
“Sit.”
Bucky hesitated only a moment before lowering himself beside you, still stiff, still quiet, the kind of quiet that held years in its throat. You didn’t watch him. Just kept your gaze on the fading orange sky.
“You were taken out of cryostasis a few days ago,” you said, voice even. “Your body was... overwhelmed. Princess Shuri gave you a sedative to keep the transition gentle. Let your muscles wake slowly. Let your heart catch up.”
He didn’t say anything, but you could feel his eyes on you. Listening.
“You’ve been asleep for three days. Not unconscious—just... resting. Floating.”
Another pause.
“Once a month, we will go into the city. Shuri is still working to untangle what they did to you. She wants to... what did she call it...” You squinted slightly, mimicking Shuri’s tone. “Rewire the synaptic trauma. Remove the trigger pathways.”
Bucky blinked slowly. “So... you’re here to babysit me.”
You didn’t smile, but something near it tugged at your mouth.
“Do not say that in front of King T’Challa. I said the same thing and he got very defensive.”
That got a sound out of him—a small huff. Almost a suprised laugh, if you squinted at it hard enough.
The sky shifted deeper into indigo, casting long shadows across the rocks. The villagers behind you fell quiet. It always did when the last light left the ridge.
You glanced at him then, properly.
He looked... tired. Older than the last time you'd seen him—which, technically, was when he was still asleep in Shuri’s lab. But now, in the open air, the hollows beneath his eyes spoke more clearly.
“You are safe here, Sargeant Barnes,” you said, steady. Not soft, not firm. Just true. “The outside world will not touch you while you are in Wakanda.”
He didn’t look at you. Just kept his gaze on the horizon, jaw tight. “It’s James,” he said, low. “But most people call me… Bucky.”
You nodded once, tucking the name into your chest like a small seed.
“Alright then, Bucky.”
Neither of you spoke again.
The sun disappeared, and the sky gave way to stars.
The spot was quiet—further out than most dared to walk alone. You liked that about it.
You sat beneath the same tree every morning, where the grass grew uneven and the air stayed cooler longer. The village lay behind you, just out of sight, and in the distance, birds called to one another in a rhythm older than memory.
He was supposed to be meditating.
You cracked one eye open.
He wasn’t.
The soldier sat across from you, legs folded, posture tight like someone was going to shoot at him any second. His expression was too still, jaw too tense. Eyes closed, yes—but not in the way they should be. Not present. Not breathing. Not with you.
You could see the truth in his mouth. A kind of practiced stillness—the kind you learned when the only time you closed your eyes was to pretend you were human. You exhaled through your nose and let the quiet drag a little longer.
Then, plainly, “You are faking.”
His eyes opened—guilty, but not surprised, “What?”
“You are faking,” you repeated, sharper now. “You are not in your body. You are just... sitting there, pretending.”
He rubbed his hand down his face—his only hand—and gave you a tired shrug, “I don’t see how this helps. I’m not exactly a breathe deeply and find your center kind of guy.”
You stared at him. “You don’t have to believe in anything,” you said. “It is not magic. It is awareness.”
He didn’t say anything.
“Your nervous system is still reacting to things that aren’t there. Your heart still jumps like someone else owns it. Your mind doesn’t know your body’s awake yet. That is what meditation is for.”
“I’m just—” he started, then stopped. “It feels pointless.”
“It is not,” you said, firmer now. “Because if you ever want to get those demon words out of your head, if you want Shuri to rewire the damage, you have to give her something to work with. Your brain is still running Hydra’s script, and if you’re not even willing to sit with your breath, how do you expect to undo any of it?”
His mouth opened slightly. Nothing came out.
“I cannot help you,” you said, quieter now, “if you don’t want to be helped.”
You looked away, letting your hands settle back into your lap. He was quiet for a while—long enough for the wind to shift, pulling a few dry leaves across the packed earth between you.
When he finally spoke, his voice was low. Uncertain. “Can we try again?”
You looked at him—properly this time.
His eyes weren’t guarded now. No walls. Just tiredness. Willingness, maybe. Something softer.
You gave him a long, unreadable look, then nodded once. “Alright.” You closed your eyes, slowly, and this time... you felt him do the same.
No pretending. Just breath.
He wasn’t sure when it changed.
At first, it was just meditation. Eyes closed, back straight, breathing in rhythms he didn’t believe in. But then it became more.
Sweeping the dirt path that led down to the well. Carrying baskets of grain. Hauling stones for someone’s new roof. Lifting crates with his one arm while the villagers watched in quiet silence, like they couldn’t decide if he was a guest or a tool.
You never told him it was for his benefit. You just handed him the rope and pointed. “Pull,” you’d said, tossing a bundle of dried grass at his chest one morning. “You are not made of glass.”
You never coddled him. Never flinched around him. You didn’t offer long-winded speeches or hold his hand through the work. Mostly, you barked instructions and walked away.
He liked that. More than he wanted to admit.
You snapped at him when he did something wrong—called him slow, unobservant, unfocused. Two days ago, he dropped one of the ceramic bowls from the communal kitchen, and you’d stared at him for five seconds before muttering, “Ignorant child.”
And then walked off.
He almost smiled. He hadn’t been called that in decades. Maybe ever.
But hey—at least it was better than being pitied. Better than being looked at like he was something shattered and fragile, waiting to cut whoever came too close.
You didn’t look at him like that. You looked at him like a chore. Like a reluctant task assigned to you by fate and family. And strangely, that made him try harder.
You didn’t ask about his past. You didn’t hover when he had nightmares. You didn’t whisper to the other villagers behind his back—or if you did, you never did it where he could hear.
What you did do was offer him work. Direction. Stillness. A quiet place to sit when the tremor in his fingers wouldn’t stop. And somehow, that mattered more than anything anyone had said in years.
He wasn’t sure what they were celebrating this time.
From inside his hut, the sound bled in slowly—the steady pulse of drums, laughter rising and falling like a tide, children yelling each other’s names across the courtyard. Someone sang near the firepit. A voice he didn’t recognize. Several hands clapping along, rhythm sharp and fast.
It wasn’t unpleasant. Just... too much.
He sat on the edge of his mat for a while, trying to breathe through the heat that settled behind his ribs. It wasn’t panic, not really. But it wasn’t comfort either. His skin felt too tight. The air too loud. His thoughts too sharp around the edges.
Eventually, he pushed to his feet and stepped outside.
The sky was dark—stars blinking through the smoke trails drifting from the fire. Lanterns hung from the wooden beams, casting soft yellow light across the center of the village, where people were gathered in loose clusters. Dancing. Eating. Singing. Moving like their bodies belonged to the moment.
And there you were—almost dead center.
Bright cloth wrapped around your waist. Dozens of tiny golden hoops hanging from your ears. Your hands clapped in time with the drumbeat, your mouth moving with the lyrics of a song he didn’t know. You weren’t the loudest or the most noticeable—but the way people naturally made room around you told him everything.
He crossed the space slowly, cutting through laughter and firelight, until he was just close enough to speak without being overheard.
“Think I’m gonna go for a walk,” he muttered, voice low, almost under his breath.
You didn’t turn your head. Didn’t stop clapping. Didn’t even miss a beat. “I am not your keeper,” you said easily. Not unkind. Just matter-of-fact.
He huffed softly—the closest thing he ever got to a laugh—and gave a small nod you probably didn’t see. And then he turned, slipping past the edge of the celebration like smoke, heading off into the night.
He didn’t know how far he ended up walking.
The ground changed gradually beneath him—the soft packed dirt near the village giving way to stretches of dry veld, low grass brushing against his ankles, warm and clean underfoot. The sky above was still wide, scattered with stars, but out here, the air tasted different. Earthier. Older.
Bucky exhaled through his nose, letting his shoulders drop for the first time all day. He kept walking. No path. Just instinct.
The veld slowly thickened—shrubs first, then low trees, then taller ones that curved toward the moonlight like they were reaching for something. The sounds changed too. The distant hum of the village faded behind him, replaced by the rustle of leaves, the call of some bird he didn’t recognize, the chirping of something small and fast darting through underbrush.
And beneath it all, steady and sure, the sound of running water. He moved toward it.
Every now and then, he’d slow—not because he was tired, but because something would catch his eye. A strange patterned insect climbing a tree trunk. A glowing flower the size of his hand. A lizard with golden eyes that watched him like it understood something he didn’t.
He didn’t touch anything. Just looked. It was quiet here. But not empty.
When he reached the water, it was shallower than he expected—a smooth stream cutting through the trees, tumbling over dark stone in gentle cascades. He crouched down by the edge, dipping his fingers into it. Cool. Clean. Real.
He sat there a while. Just listening. Not thinking. Not fighting anything. Just… being. No boots. No guns. No Winter Soldier. Just him, the wind, the pulse of water moving like a second heartbeat through the dark.
He didn’t hear it until it was too close.
At first, just the shuffle of leaves, the breaking of a branch—then the low, guttural snort that made every muscle in his body lock.
Bucky stood slowly, rising from the streambank, eyes scanning the trees. The light was dim out here, moonlight filtering through thick canopy, casting long shadows over the underbrush.
Another snort. Then another.
He turned.
A warthog stepped out of the trees—broad and low, tusks curling like ivory hooks. It stared at him, twitching its head slightly. Then another emerged beside it. And then two more. Snorting, circling. The ground vibrated faintly beneath their feet.
Shit.
He backed up a step.
One of them growled—an ugly, wheezing sound—and lunged.
Bucky reacted instantly, sidestepping as it charged past, kicking a loose stone at its flank. Another came from the side. He ducked, moving fast, breath short, arm raised.
He didn’t have his left arm. No weapon. No metal. Just instinct.
They weren’t mindless—they were testing him. Flanking. The kind of animals that learned how to bring down bigger things.
He moved toward the stream again, keeping it at his back, trying to funnel them. He landed a solid kick against one’s shoulder, stumbled, pivoted—
And then the big one came. It was almost silent, massive, barreling through the trees like it had been waiting for its moment. Bucky turned too slow.
The impact knocked the breath from his chest, sent him crashing backward into the dirt. His head hit the ground hard enough to blur his vision. He grunted, legs kicking, trying to push it off—its tusk caught his side, not piercing, but grinding hard into his ribs.
Then—
THWIP.
A sound cracked the air. The warthog stilled. Another second passed before it collapsed sideways, heavy and limp. Blood pooled quick and dark beneath its belly.
The others froze. And then, as if obeying some silent command, they scattered. Back into the underbrush. Vanished like ghosts.
Bucky lay there on his back, blinking up at the canopy, breathing hard. Then he turned his head.
You stood between the trees, bow still half-lowered, another arrow notched loosely between your fingers. The celebration wrap still clung to your waist. Your hair was mussed, cheeks flushed like you’d run here fast.
Bucky blinked up, dazed, ribs aching.
You didn’t rush toward him. You didn’t say anything. You just stood there, framed by the trees, breathing a little hard.
He looked back at you. Mud on his back. Shirt torn at the shoulder. Dirt on his face. One arm pressed to the ground.
And the two of you just... stared at each other.
His breathing hadn’t even steadied yet. He was still flat on his back, arm aching, ribs sore, heart drumming uneven against his spine. The warthog’s body slumped a few feet from him, blood pooling from its flank where your arrow had pierced through clean.
He looked at you again, still standing just beyond it. “Thanks,” he managed, voice rough.
You turned your head sharply toward him. “Don’t thank me.”
The words came fast. Not cruel, but firm. Your jaw was tight. “Do not thank me for this.”
You pointed to the dead creature between you, with weight, like you needed him to see it. To really look. “This is sad,” you said, kneeling slowly beside it. “Very sad only.”
He pushed himself upright, wincing a little as he leaned on his arm, dirt still stuck to the side of his face. “What was I supposed to do?” he asked. “Let it maul me to death?”
You didn’t look at him right away. Your hands moved quietly, efficiently—fingers brushing through the coarse bristles of the warthog’s fur, your other hand gripping the arrow still lodged in its side.
You pulled it out in one motion. Clean. No hesitation. “Would you not protect your home,” you said softly, still not meeting his eyes, “if a stranger wandered in?”
He blinked, saying nothing.
“He wasn’t evil. He was defending what he knew.”
You laid your palm flat against the animal’s neck, eyes lowered. “We are not like your western people,” you said. “We do not kill for fun. Or pride. Or sport. All life has value in Wakanda.”
There was no judgment in your voice. Just truth. Plain and unmoving.
You lowered your head slightly and whispered something low under your breath—a few words in Xhosa, voice soft and unhurried, almost like a lullaby. A parting gesture.
Bucky watched you, lips pressed together, jaw tense with something that wasn’t quite shame, but lived near it.
You finally glanced at him—your eyes skimming his shoulder, then down his arm. The fabric was torn just above his bicep, and there, beneath the edge, blood. Not much. But enough to pull your mouth into a thin, unimpressed line.
You didn’t sigh. You didn’t roll your eyes. You just reached down, placed your palm gently over the warthog’s neck once more, a slow farewell, then stood.
“Come,” you said simply, brushing your fingers against your thigh to clear the dirt. “Let me help you.”
He didn’t argue. He rose behind you without a word, steps a little slower now, and fell in step as you turned back toward the path. You didn’t speak. Neither did he. The trees closed behind you like a curtain, muting the sounds of the forest—leaving only the soft rhythm of your feet in the grass, his breathing just behind yours, and the hum of crickets filling in the spaces where conversation might’ve gone.
By the time the village came back into view, the celebration had mostly fizzled out.
The fire still smoldered low in the pit, casting orange light across scattered baskets and half-finished plates. A few villagers moved quietly between the homes, collecting things in tired silence. Someone’s laughter drifted faintly from behind one of the larger huts, but even that was subdued. The pulse of the night had passed.
You didn’t slow as you reached the center, only shifted your path slightly—guiding him past his own hut, toward yours.
He followed.
You held the beaded curtain aside as you stepped through. The interior was warm, dimly lit by candles spread out. Neatly arranged baskets lined the shelves, bundles of herbs hanging from the ceiling in fragrant clusters. There were folded cloths stacked in a corner. A clay bowl of water sat near a wooden stool.
You crossed the space, already moving with purpose. “Sit.”
He did.
The cloth was warm now—soaked in water and crushed herbs—when you pressed it to the scrape on his upper arm. Not deep, but messy. You didn’t flinch when he winced. Just kept working.
The paste came next—a thick mixture, greenish-brown, smelling faintly of aloe and dried mint. You scooped a bit with your fingers and began to smooth it over the broken skin, slow and deliberate.
He watched you. Didn’t speak at first. But then, softly, without looking up, “I’m sorry. For the warthog.”
You didn’t answer right away. Your fingers paused just slightly before you pressed a little more paste into the wound, careful. “It is finished now,” you said after a breath. “In the past.”
You met his eyes, steady but not sharp. “And… I doubt T’Challa would be pleased if you got killed under my care.”
That earned a small huff from him. You almost smiled. Almost. You set the bowl down.
“Still,” he said, quieter now, “you’ve done a lot. I haven’t exactly given back the same.”
You tilted your head, watching him.
His face was serious. Not guilty—not exactly. Just... honest. And unsure. Like he wasn’t used to naming these things out loud.
You wiped your fingers on a cloth, then folded it neatly. “I don’t need much,” you said. “You try. That is enough.”
He looked at you like he wasn’t sure how to respond.
You didn’t wait for one. You stood and moved to rinse your hands at the small bowl near the corner, shoulders relaxing slightly now that the adrenaline had passed. The room smelled like ash and herb oil, and you could feel the weight of the day starting to settle into your back.
The lab always smelled faintly metallic—polished, too clean, like it had never seen real dirt in its life.
Bucky sat on the edge of the diagnostic table while Shuri adjusted something near his temple, wires trailing from a slim headset and disappearing into the projection panel above him. His shirt was off. The room was cool. The back of his neck itched.
You were standing at the foot of the table, arms crossed, watching everything with narrowed eyes like you were trying to make sense of it through sheer observation alone.
A holographic projection hovered above him—a soft blue outline of his brain lit up in faint pulses, scattered red flickers trailing across certain regions.
“What does that do?” you asked, pointing at a blinking node near the center.
“It maps neural response patterns,” Shuri said, without looking up.
“But why is it glowing like that?”
“Because it is active.”
“What kind of activity?”
Shuri exhaled—not exasperated yet, but on the edge.
“It just is, alright? Can you please not do this right now—”
“Do what?” you asked. “Ask questions? I thought this was a lab. Are you not supposed to love curiosity?”
“I love informed curiosity,” Shuri muttered, moving to the display console. “You are just pointing at things and saying ‘what’s that?’ like a child.”
“If you were really that smart,” you said under your breath, “you’d be able to focus through a few questions.”
That did it.
“You are distracting me.”
“Then maybe you should be better at multitasking.”
“Maybe you should go sit down.”
“Maybe you should say please.”
Bucky lay back against the table, a slight smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He wasn’t laughing—not really—but there was something easy about the way he exhaled. Something lighter.
He’d never seen you like this.
Not still. Not sharp. But familiar in a way he didn’t expect. Comfortable enough to annoy someone. To be annoying. There was a rhythm to it—not harsh, not for show.
Shuri flicked through a few data fields, ignoring you now. You were muttering under your breath about how you’d name the next hologram just to bother her.
“Don’t you have anything better to do?” she asked.
“This is my better thing,” you said. “Watching you stress about brainwaves.”
You watched the blue projection pulse gently above Bucky’s head, those same red flickers darting across the map of his mind like warning signs. You didn’t understand all of it—the readings, the frequencies, the cortical tracking—but you understood what mattered. The shape of a wound. The parts that still lit up when they shouldn’t.
“When can you take them out?” you asked, eyes still on the light.
Shuri didn’t look up from the console.
“Take what out?”
“The demon words.”
That earned you a slow, deliberate blink from across the table. “They are called trigger words,” she said, enunciating each syllable like you were hard of hearing. “And you know that. Don’t act brand new.”
You rolled your eyes. “Demon words sounds more accurate.”
“That’s not how science works.”
“That’s not how trauma works either.”
Shuri gave you a flat look, but didn’t argue.
Behind you, Bucky shifted slightly on the table, adjusting the way his head rested against the padding. You hadn’t noticed how you’d leaned in—just a little closer to where he lay. Not hovering, not touching. Just there. Like your body had moved on its own. Like you were with him now, instead of just watching from a distance.
Bucky didn’t say anything. He just noticed.
The faint change in your voice when you asked the question. The crease between your brows when Shuri answered. The way your elbow nearly brushed the edge of the table now, when ten minutes ago, you were standing by the console.
Shuri sighed and ran a hand down her face.
“It’s been two months,” she said. “These things take time. I cannot erase conditioned trauma with a switch. I’m working on a way to reroute the neural spikes when the words are spoken, but his system is still adapting to being stable.”
You nodded slowly, absorbing the answer. You didn’t press further. You just looked back up at the display—not with confusion, but with focus. Like you were trying to memorize something that couldn’t be learned in words.
The lab went quiet again, save for the soft hum of the monitors and the occasional clack of Shuri’s fingers across the console.
A Few Weeks Later
The river water was warm beneath your hands. You wrung out the cloth and snapped it once, sharp, before folding it over your knee to scrub the next piece.
The women around you moved with easy rhythm—buckets sloshing, fabric slapping stone, idle conversation drifting between them in patches. One of the elders was humming, her voice low and tuneless, but steady. A child ran past the edge of the clearing barefoot, laughing at nothing.
You dipped your hands into the basin again, reached for another wrap, and glanced up without thinking.
He was further down the slope, maybe twenty or thirty steps away, near the bend in the river where the trees curved in tighter and the bank dipped. Not with the other men hauling baskets of cassava or arguing about whose turn it was to carry the grain. Just... there. A little separate. Like always.
He had one of the wide clay basins hoisted against his hip, arm hooked under it to steady the weight as he moved slowly across the uneven ground. One-armed. Careful. Determined. His shirt clung damp to his back, sweat darkening the fabric between his shoulder blades. His jaw was tight with focus, but not frustrated—just focused.
You didn’t mean to keep watching. But you did. Just for a second.
There was something about the way he moved now—less guarded than before. Still cautious, still scanning his surroundings like it was habit, but not shrinking from it. He wasn’t waiting for approval. He was just working. Sweating. Trying.
He looked up mid-step—maybe sensing your eyes on him—and met your gaze before you could shift it away.
It wasn’t a long look. No lingering. Just a beat. A pause. His expression didn’t change. Yours didn’t either. Then you looked back down, hands moving automatically over the fabric in your lap.
You didn’t smile. You just kept scrubbing.
But you were still thinking about it long after he passed out of your eyeline.
The air had cooled, but the stone beneath you was still warm.
You sat across from him again, legs folded, palms resting against your knees. The same tree overhead. The same quiet rhythm of crickets starting up for the night. The wind carried the faint smell of cooked grains and herbs from someone’s home nearby. A dog barked once. Then quiet again.
He had his eyes closed. Jaw relaxed. Shoulders looser than they used to be. Not completely still, but close. “The kids,” he said quietly, breaking the silence, “they keep calling me something.”
Your eyes stayed closed, but a faint crease touched your brow. “What do they say?”
“It's hard to say,” he murmured, a little sheepish. “It starts with... an 'N'? Ends with something like ‘lope’?”
You opened your eyes slowly. “Ingcuka emhlophe.”
He looked over at you, “What does it mean?”
“White wolf.”
He was quiet a second. Then, “Why?”
You shifted slightly, your fingertips brushing against the ground beside you as you spoke. “Because that is how they see you.”
He turned his head toward you more fully now, just enough to really listen.
“You are not a monster here,” you said, voice calm. “You are a wounded predator. One who was forced to kill. One who now needs healing. And structure.”
You let the words settle. Gave them space. “And,” you added, “because you are not one of us.”
His eyes dropped at that. Not sharply. Just a quiet motion—a flicker downward, like he’d already known, but it didn't mean he liked hearing it said aloud.
But you weren’t finished. You turned toward him more fully now, arms still resting loosely across your lap. “That does not mean you are alone,” you said. Softer. Measured. “You may not be of us. But you are ours to protect.”
His gaze lifted again, meeting yours.
You didn’t look away. You didn’t mean it as a comfort. Or a promise. It was just the truth. Offered, plainly. Without condition.
He didn’t respond right away. Just blinked once, slow. And let his shoulders drop a little more.
The silence had stretched comfortably now, not heavy but full. Somewhere in the distance, an owl called once, low and rhythmic.
Bucky shifted where he sat, thumb tracing over the inside of his palm—a nervous habit you’d started to recognize when he was thinking about how to say something.
“They, uh…” he cleared his throat slightly. “The villagers. Some of them call you something too.”
You looked over at him, but didn’t interrupt.
“I… don’t know how to pronounce it.” He scratched the back of his neck. “Ooh—moy… ya?”
You blinked once, then ducked your head—not fast, but quiet, like you were hiding a smile before it got too visible.
For a second, Bucky wondered if you looked… shy? Not embarrassed. Just unguarded in a way he hadn’t seen before.
“Umoya,” you said, gently. “Almost.”
He watched you, carefully. “What does it mean?”
Your fingers brushed a leaf off your knee. You weren’t looking directly at him now, but your voice softened a little when you spoke.
“Windsister.”
The word sat in the space between you, light and deliberate.
“Why do they call you that?” he asked.
You glanced at him, smiling—a small, close-lipped smile. One that felt like it came from a private place. “I’ll tell you that in time.”
He didn’t push it. Instead, after a beat… “Will you teach me?”
“Teach you what?”
“Your language,” he said. “Xhosa.”
Except he said it wrong—"Kosa," too flat, no shape to it. You smiled again—this time openly—and shook your head a little. “Not ‘kosa.’ It’s Xhosa.” You made the click sound with ease, like it belonged to you. Which it did.
He tried to mimic it, but it came out awkward and slightly too sharp.
You huffed a quiet laugh through your nose. “Better,” you said, almost kindly. “But not quite.”
“You’ll teach me,” he said again, like he meant it this time.
You tilted your head, thoughtful, but still smiling. “If you keep trying,” you said, “then yes.”
And then you both went quiet again—but it wasn’t like before. It was lighter now. Settled.
The stars overhead said nothing. But something between you had already shifted
He woke up with the taste of metal in his mouth.
His chest heaved once, twice—sharp, uneven. Like he’d surfaced too fast and the air hadn’t caught up yet. The room was dark, his mat damp beneath his back. The blanket stuck to him, sweat down his spine. His fingers dug into the fabric at his side.
The dream was already slipping.
Just flashes now—hands holding him down, voices in languages he didn’t speak, the jolt in his skull as something snapped in place. A cold room. A number instead of a name. Commands like teeth.
He sat up slowly, pressing his palm to the center of his chest, counting each inhale until the tightness started to loosen. His mouth stayed closed. No sound came out. The kind of panic that was practiced—not new, not rare, just managed.
The hut was still. The village beyond it quieter than usual. Even the dogs weren’t barking.
He stood, movements automatic. No shoes. No wrap over his shoulders. Just stepped outside into the cool night air, his arm curled close to his body like it still expected the other to be there. His breath steamed slightly, fading quick.
He didn’t think about where he was going. His feet knew before he did.
Past the firepit, long since burned out. Past the old tree with the hollow near its roots. Through the side path where the lanterns weren’t lit. The gravel shifted beneath him, cool under his soles. The beaded curtains on the doorway ahead barely moved in the breeze.
Your hut. The one with the low-burning lamp always left on near the far wall. The one that smelled like sage and something citrusy he hadn’t placed yet.
He didn’t pause.
Just stood outside for a beat, the beads brushing faintly against his chest as he breathed once—then lifted his hand to gently part them.
Inside, it was quiet. He knew you weren’t awake. But that wasn’t why he came.
The beaded curtain fell shut behind him with a soft rattle, barely louder than the candle burning low in the corner—its flame guttering in the draft, casting a faint, trembling glow across the walls. The room smelled familiar now. Like oil and wood smoke.
You were lying on your side, one arm curled beneath your cheek, your breathing slow and even. A woven blanket rested low on your hips, the edge of your shawl slipping slightly off your shoulder. Your face was relaxed in sleep in a way he hadn’t seen while you were awake.
Bucky hovered near the doorway for a beat too long. His breath still hadn’t fully leveled out. Sweat clung to his chest, cooled now, uncomfortable. He hadn’t brought anything with him—not a cloth, not even his sandals.
He should’ve left. He almost did.
But his legs carried him forward, slow and quiet. He lowered himself down beside where you lay, not close enough to wake you, but close enough to feel your warmth off the floor. He didn’t say anything. Didn’t move, not at first. Just let the silence hold him.
You stirred before he realized you were awake. Not startled—not fully. Your eyes blinked open, heavy with sleep, brow creasing faintly as you took in the shape beside you.
Him.
Your gaze moved over his face. His chest. His breathing. You didn’t say his name. You didn’t ask why he was there. You just saw him—flushed, sweaty, jaw tight like he hadn’t fully come down from whatever it was that woke him.
Your hand moved before you spoke. You reached out, resting your fingers gently against his upper arm. Your palm didn’t press or grip. It just touched, soft and grounding, like you were reminding him where he was.
You moved without saying a word, the beads at the entrance rustling faintly as a breeze crept in behind you. The candle in the corner had nearly drowned in its own wax, flickering low and dying out just as you lit another.
Bucky stayed crouched, watching as you crossed the room—still quiet, bare feet brushing over the cool mat as you retrieved a small carved bowl from a shelf near the wall. You reached for the small bundle of dried herbs beside it, crumbling some between your fingers.
He caught the scent even before you struck the match, sharp and earthy, almost bitter, like crushed bark and smoke and something floral buried deep.
“Lie down,” you said simply, nodding to the mat you’d been curled on. Your voice wasn’t soft, exactly. It just wasn’t up for debate.
He hesitated.
You glanced at him, already moving to light the herbs. “Where I was,” you added, as if that would help.
And strangely—it did.
He laid back slow, muscles tense, still shirtless. The mat was still warm from where your body had been. His eyes followed as you knelt beside him, with the bowl between your hands, smoke beginning to rise in soft ribbons.
“What’re you doing?” he asked, voice low, rough-edged.
“I’m going to ease you,” you said simply.
He blinked. “Ease me?”
Your brow lifted faintly as you shifted closer, the bowl now resting just beside his chest. “Breathe it in.”
He gave you a look—wary, frozen. “… You tryin’ to get me high?”
That earned him a slow eye-roll, the first of the night. “Do I look like I have time to poison you?”
You reached out and tilted his head gently sideways, your palm warm against the back of his skull as you lowered him slightly toward the smoke. It curled around his face, slow and sweet, sinking into his lungs before he could second-guess it.
He didn’t resist. Didn’t speak again either.
Your thigh was firm beneath his head as you held him steady, a quiet rhythm to the way your thumb absently moved behind his ear. His eyes fluttered, the tension in his chest loosening incrementally with each inhale.
It didn’t feel like getting high. Not quite. But the weight in his limbs was shifting. His breathing evened. The pounding in his skull—that leftover echo from the dream—finally began to fade.
He felt it first in the weight of his limbs. Like gravity had changed its mind about him—pulled him lower, slowed everything down. Bucky blinked slowly as you guided him back, your hand pressing flat against the center of his chest. Not pushing, just steady. Coaxing.
He let himself fall flat.
The bowl still smoked somewhere nearby, but all he could see was you. Leaning over him now, your silhouette catching candlelight in your hair, your palm cupping the side of his face as your fingers moved to his temple in slow, circular strokes.
His eyes fluttered again. Lulled.
Your thumb skimmed along his brow. You were saying something—not to him exactly—a soft murmur in Xhosa that moved like song under your breath. He didn’t know the words, but the cadence alone sunk into him like warmth. A lullaby hummed in a language he didn’t speak.
He swallowed thickly.
You stayed close, your face just above his, eyes downcast in focus as you massaged around the edge of his skull, careful with the ridges of scar near the base of his hairline.
He sighed. Not because he meant to—it just… escaped. “This is nice,” he mumbled, voice heavy with haze.
Your hands didn’t stop moving.
His eyes cracked open again, barely. “…Your hands are warm.”
Still, you said nothing. Just kept tracing his temple, like drawing a map of him you already knew.
He let out a slow breath through his nose. “They used to tie me down,” he murmured. “Did you know that?”
The question wasn’t really a question.
He closed his eyes again. “They thought it was easier. When I was screamin’.”
You didn’t flinch. Not once. Instead, your fingers moved to the edge of his jaw. Gentle. Respectful.
“I hated that room,” he said faintly. “Hated how it smelled. Burnt wires and metal. Like blood and cold sweat.”
Another breath. This one caught a little. He didn’t open his eyes. “You’re the only thing that’s smelled… good. In a long time.”
It was so quiet, you almost thought he’d fallen asleep—except his eyes blinked open again, glassy and half-lidded. Staring straight at you.
“They told me I was a weapon. Like I wasn’t supposed to feel anything.”
You didn’t stop touching him.
“They lied,” he whispered.
His head turned into your palm just slightly. Seeking. Grounding.
“They fucking lied.”
You didn’t mean to linger. But something in his voice—low, cracked open, more confession than conversation—held you in place. Your thumb brushed just under the curve of his cheekbone, and you felt it then, the smallest shift in him.
A lean. A sigh. His body loosening under your hands like a knot coming undone thread by thread.
“I know,” you murmured, so softly you weren’t sure if he heard.
But your hand remained at his face, thumb tracing that same quiet path. His skin was warm now—flushed from the herbs, from the still-fading fear.
“You are not that anymore,” you whispered. “You are not theirs. Not here.” Your words felt like breath. Like they were meant to stay close to him.
He didn’t respond at first. Then, slowly—almost unsure—his right hand lifted. Calloused, scarred, rough. He hesitated before his palm settled lightly over yours. Not holding. Just touching. Covering your hand with a kind of care that startled you.
And then… his lashes lifted. And in that moment, the weight of his gaze hit you like a rush of wind—not cold or cutting, but steady. Deep.
Blue. Honest. Exhausted.
He looked at you like he didn’t know how not to.
You swallowed, suddenly too aware of how close you were, how the candles flickered against the curve of his jaw, how your knees were pressed into the woven mat beside his hip. But you didn’t move.
You couldn’t.
“I see you,” you said, and it slipped out before you could decide whether or not to say it at all.
His brow twitched—not a frown, not confusion—just a quiet ripple of emotion you didn’t have words for.
“You are not a weapon,” you added, a little firmer this time. “You are not lost. You are here.”
And he was still staring. Not blinking. Not speaking. Just looking at you like maybe—just maybe—he believed you.
Your heart beat quietly in your chest, a gentle rhythm you were sure he could hear.
He didn’t say thank you. He didn’t need to. His fingers pressed ever so slightly tighter over yours—not to stop you, but to anchor himself.
You didn’t let go. Neither did he.
The curtain rustled before his eyes had even fully opened.
Morning light bled soft through the thatch walls, and there you were—standing in the entrance of his hut, framed by sunlight and fabric still shifting behind you in the breeze. You had a wrapped bundle in your arms, a satchel hanging over one shoulder, and a look on your face that made him blink.
Not your usual expression. Not the pointed sort you wore when telling him to focus or pull his weight or eat slower. No—this was different. You were… trying not to smile.
“You’re awake,” you said, like it wasn’t fully a question. “Good.”
Bucky sat up on one elbow, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand. His shirt clung to him slightly—the nights were warmer now. “Didn’t expect visitors this early,” he muttered, voice still hoarse with sleep. “What’s going on?”
You hesitated for a second—a small pause, almost invisible, but he caught it.
“I want to show you something,” you said at last.
Your eyes flicked to the ground for just a heartbeat. You adjusted the strap on your shoulder. He could see the way your fingers fidgeted briefly around the bundle you were carrying, then stilled with intention.
“It is a little far,” you added. “We will be back before nightfall. Pack something light.”
He blinked again. “Where?”
You didn’t answer immediately. Just gave a small shrug and tilted your head toward the basin where he kept his things.
“Not telling?” he asked, still trying to gauge you—trying to figure out why you looked half-excited, half-nervous.
Your gaze finally landed on his, steady this time. “It is… something special,” you said simply. And then, just like that, you turned and stepped back into the morning sun.
The curtain swayed behind you, still fluttering when he stood up.
He packed slowly. His mind didn’t race, but it moved—steady and curious. It wasn’t like you to act unsure. Wasn’t like you to seek his company without a task or a lecture or Shuri’s requests behind it. Something about your voice—the soft lilt, the careful pause—sat low in his chest.
Something special.
He tightened the strap on his satchel, slung it over his shoulder, and stepped out into the day, where you were waiting at the edge of the path. Arms still full. Eyes on him now, expectant and quiet.
“Ready?” you asked.
He nodded.
It started with open veld; long grass brushing their legs, morning sun angling down warm and full, but the terrain shifted quickly. The trees grew thicker, their shadows stretching over soft ground as you moved ahead, light on your feet, sure in your steps.
Bucky followed, just a few paces behind. His satchel bumped gently against his side. He watched the way the earth darkened and softened the deeper you went—dry clay giving way to rich soil, winding roots and low, knotted branches marking a path that was clearly familiar to you.
“Are you gonna tell me where we’re going?” he asked, stepping over a ridge of rocks.
“No.”
You didn’t even look back when you said it—your voice playful, almost sing-song.
Bucky exhaled a small breath through his nose, not quite a laugh. “Will you ever give me a straight answer?”
You turned your head just enough for him to glimpse your smile. “When I feel like it.”
He shook his head, but kept moving. Your pace wasn’t rushed, but it had that same unbothered ease he’d come to recognize in you—like the wind chose its own path and you simply followed.
Birds chattered high in the trees above. The air smelled green and damp and alive.
“You always do this?” he asked after a beat. “Wake people up at dawn, drag them into the jungle?”
“No,” you said over your shoulder, ducking beneath a low branch with fluid grace. “Just the ones I like.”
That earned a real breath of laughter from him—short, surprised, and involuntary.
And you caught it. You didn’t say anything, but he saw your shoulders shift a little. Not in smugness, but in something softer. Like you were pleased with yourself—with him, even—in a way that wasn’t sharp or teasing. Just light.
He realized then that he liked this version of you. This playful one. This confident, grounded energy without the sharp corners. The way you didn’t explain every step but still made it feel like there was nowhere else he was supposed to be.
And he didn’t even mind not knowing where the hell you were going.
They moved through the underbrush in companionable quiet now—his boots crunching lightly on fallen leaves, your bare feet moving soundlessly over earth you knew like breath.
You brushed aside a low-hanging vine, glancing back at him. “Do you know of Bast?”
Bucky blinked. “Your goddess?”
You smiled. “She is not just a goddess.”
The path curved inward, narrowing between thick trunks and flowering branches. As you walked, your fingers reached out absently to the trees—not brushing them, but acknowledging them, as if they’d notice.
“Bast is…” You took a breath, choosing your words carefully. “She is the protector. The first of us. The one who saw we needed help when the world was chaos. She gave the first king his vision. She gave him the heart-shaped herb. She gave him strength, and clarity. She still gives it.”
He didn’t speak, but you could hear his footfalls behind you—steady, quiet.
“She is not like your god,” you added after a moment. “She does not punish. She does not ask us to kneel.”
Bucky’s brow furrowed. You didn’t see it, but you could feel the curiosity from him like heat.
“She is in the land,” you said softly. “In the wind. The soil. The water. She is breath. She is mercy.”
You stepped over a cluster of stones, your voice low but sure. “When a child is born, we whisper her name over their skin. When someone dies, we sing them back into her arms. That is how we know no one is ever truly gone.”
Bucky was quiet for a long stretch. He didn’t say he didn’t believe in that—didn’t scoff or question or turn away. He just kept following, gaze flicking between the trail and you.
You glanced back again, caught the way his face looked softer than usual. Not skeptical. Just… listening. Open in a way you hadn’t seen before.
“Sounds like a lot to believe in,” he said finally, but his voice was gentler than usual.
You shrugged. “Maybe. Or maybe it’s simple.”
The terrain shifted as you led him higher—from jungle undergrowth to uneven stone. The trees thinned, and the light changed with it. What had been filtered green was now brighter, sharper, streaking through cracks in the canopy above.
“Careful here,” you said, offering your hand without ceremony as he eyed the ridge ahead.
He took it without hesitation.
The incline wasn’t steep, but the rocks were slick with moss, and his footing was still off sometimes—one arm making balance harder than it should be. You watched the way his boots scraped and slipped, how his jaw tightened when he stumbled. But he didn’t complain. Not once.
You steadied him by the elbow once, and he let you. It wasn’t until the path leveled that he spoke again, a little breathless. “You Wakandans love hiding things on mountains.”
You snorted. “No one hides them. The world just forgets how to look.”
You moved ahead, parting the tall grass with your hands. It gave way to a clearing—and beyond that, the edge of the cliffs. The wind picked up, rolling over your skin in cool waves. “This is where they used to live,” you said quietly. “The Isisa.”
Bucky’s brow furrowed as he stepped beside you. “What’s that?”
Your lips tugged upward. “Once, they filled the sky.”
You pointed out over the horizon. The view stretched endlessly—ridges layered like waves, sky sweeping wide and untouched.
“They were winged creatures. Huge, the size of a small plane. Sleek like birds, but not quite. They used to fly in flocks above the cliffs, circling during spiritual rites. Watching. Guiding.”
He glanced at you, watching the way you stared out, like you were seeing more than what was there.
“They were Bast’s messengers,” you said. “People believed they carried souls. That when someone passed, an Isisa would come for them, guide them to the next realm.”
Bucky was quiet.
You didn’t look at him when you added, “They were also protectors. They flew during war. During coronations. During births. When Bashenga became king, and the tribes united… they began to disappear. People thought it was because they had done their part.”
He looked up again, scanning the empty blue sky. “And they haven’t been seen since?”
You hesitated, then gave a small smile. “Not exactly.”
He turned to you.
You looked at him then—really looked. The wind caught your hair, moving it gently. There was a softness to your features now, one he hadn’t seen before this day. You took a breath, grounding yourself.
“Most thought they were extinct,” you said, voice quieter. “But some believe they only return when truly needed. When something sacred is reborn.”
Bucky’s gaze lingered on you a moment longer than it should’ve. You felt it, and pretended not to. You turned your face to the wind instead, eyes closing briefly, before you continued onwards.
The path narrowed into a ledge carved into the cliffside, half-swallowed by roots and vines. You moved with ease, hands brushing the moss-damp bark, ducking under low-hanging branches. He followed carefully behind you, keeping his steps even, his eyes scanning everything.
The wind shifted as you climbed the last steps—stone smoothed by time and ritual. You turned, offering your hand as he reached the final ridge. He took it.
And then he heard it.
A sharp, high-pitched cry split through the air—haunting and strange, like a hunting eagle crossed with a lion’s growl. His whole body locked up, and his hand unconsciously went to his hip like he expected to find a weapon there.
You didn’t flinch. You only smiled softly and turned your head upward.
That’s when he saw it.
Wings spread wide above the trees, slicing through the sunlight. The creature was massive—its wingspan nearly the width of the cliff itself, casting a long shadow as it descended. Its body was sleek and long, somewhere between reptilian and avian, but graceful in a way that didn’t make sense for something that size. The skin shimmered teal when it caught the light, streaked with gold at the edges of its wings and lined with deep, black butterfly-like patterns.
It wasn’t just beautiful. It was divine.
Bucky’s mouth parted slightly. “Shit.”
You didn’t laugh. You just watched her circle above once, then land effortlessly on a thick branch extending from one of the ancient trees—her claws gripping bark, wings tucking in slowly with a low rumble of breath.
She turned her head toward you. Her eyes were wide and amber-gold, intelligent. Knowing.
You stepped forward, head bowed just slightly—not in fear, but something gentler. A quiet greeting. When you turned back to Bucky, your expression had changed. Something softer, more vulnerable.
“This is Za’ta,” you said quietly. “She is… my soul sister.”
Bucky looked at you, then at the creature, then back at you. You weren’t looking for a reaction. You weren’t showing off. If anything, you looked a little shy—bashful in the way your shoulders tilted, how you rubbed your fingers together absently at your side.
He took a step closer, eyes never leaving Za’ta. “Soul sister?” he said, voice low.
You nodded. “She found me when I was a child. I thought she was a dream. No one believed me at first.”
“And now?”
“Now they call her a sign. A reminder that Bast is still watching. That something lost can still return.”
Za’ta gave another low sound in her throat, deep and resonant, like a purr wrapped in thunder. She didn’t seem threatened by him. She only stared. You stepped closer to the base of the tree and reached up, fingers brushing her forelimb with a familiarity that spoke of years. “She is very protective. So don’t be surprised if she does not like you.”
Bucky gave the smallest huff of amusement. “Fair. Most people don’t.”
You glanced over your shoulder at him, your hand still resting on Za’ta’s forelimb. “Come,” you said softly. “She won’t hurt you.”
Bucky stood a few feet back, boots pressed into the soft earth just beyond the tree’s wide roots. His gaze flicked between you and the massive creature now crouched along the thick branch above, wings slowly folding in. His shoulders stiffened slightly.
“She looks like she wants to bite my head off,” he muttered.
You smiled at that, a quiet thing. “Only if I ask her to.”
He didn’t laugh, but the corner of his mouth twitched.
You extended your hand to him—palm up, open—and held it there.
For a moment, he didn’t move. Then, slowly, he stepped closer. The wind tugged at his hair, and his left sleeve—still pinned and folded neatly—brushed his side as he raised his right hand to meet yours. You wrapped your fingers gently around his and guided his palm toward Za’ta’s snout.
Her breathing shifted as she leaned her head forward just slightly. Her nostrils flared as she scented him, and Bucky went still—not frozen, just… alert. Present.
You watched his face, not the moment itself.
His brows were drawn just slightly, lips parted, eyes wide with something more than awe. Wonder, maybe. He was still looking at her like she was something out of a world he hadn’t earned the right to see.
“She’s incredible,” he murmured. “I’ve never seen anything like her before.”
You didn’t look away from him. “I understand what you mean.”
You said it quietly—so quietly it barely rose over the breeze—but he heard it. Your fingers still laced with his. His handwarm in yours.
For a long moment, he didn’t look away from her. And then he did. His eyes dropped down to yours—slow, like gravity had to drag them—and when they landed, you felt it. Something pulled low in your chest. The hush between you suddenly thick.
You didn’t mean to lean in. He didn’t either.
But you did.
The space between you narrowed inch by inch, slowly, without urgency. Like neither of you realized it was happening until it was. His eyes dropped to your mouth for a breath—just a breath—and you felt his hand tighten around yours slightly, like a tether.
Then—
A sharp screech cut through the air, sudden and piercing.
You both flinched back.
Za’ta’s wings rustled as she shifted her weight impatiently, clicking her jaws once and tilting her head between you. Watching. Demanding.
You exhaled a shaky breath and laughed under it—embarrassed, heat prickling behind your ears.
“She… she hates when the attention is not on her,” you said quickly, stepping back and letting go of his hand. “She has always been like this.”
Bucky didn’t say anything. He was still watching you. His expression unreadable—but softer than you realised.
You looked anywhere but at him.
And Za’ta huffed again, smug.
The jungle held its breath.
Night clung thick between the trees, but the clearing was cast in amber—the flames from the ritual fire dancing in wide arcs, casting flickers of gold across both your faces. The logs crackled, popped softly. A slow curl of smoke drifted into the canopy, disappearing into the dark.
Bucky sat cross-legged before it, his bare arm resting loosely on his thigh.You stood across from him, wrapped in your ceremonial drape. Quiet. Still. He wasn’t looking at you. His eyes were locked on the flames, unmoving. His breath was steady, but shallow. Too even. Like if he let it go, he’d break.
“It is time,” you said softly.
He didn’t respond right away. His fingers flexed once against his knee. Finally, his voice came—low and rough. “Are you sure?”
You took a step forward, slow and deliberate. The beads around your ankles chimed gently as you moved through the red light.
“I would not have brought you here if I wasn’t,” you said.
He nodded once, jaw tight. Still didn’t look at you. His voice was quieter the next time. “What if it doesn’t work?”
You watched him, “Then we keep trying.”
“And if it does… if I change—” His throat bobbed. “If I become him again?”
The fire was between you, but only barely. Its warmth licked at your skin. “If it comes to that,” you said gently, “I will stop you.”
He looked up then. His eyes met yours—and you saw it. The fear sitting just behind the surface. The quiet, desperate hope.
You held his gaze. Firm. Steady. “You will not hurt anyone,” you said. “Not tonight. Not here.”
The fire hissed.
Bucky blinked once, then nodded—almost imperceptibly. You saw the way his shoulders drew in, not from shame but from restraint. He wasn’t bracing for failure.
He was bracing for possibility.
You reached into the small carved bowl at your side and pinched a bit of the dark herb Queen Ramonda had prepared—a grounding agent meant to stimulate memory but soften the nervous system. It burned bitter in the flames.
He didn’t flinch.
You closed your eyes for a moment, whispered something under your breath—not for him, but for Bast. Then opened them. You met his gaze again.
The flames painted shadows along his cheekbones, flickering across his skin like something alive, but he didn’t blink. His eyes were fixed on the center of the blaze, shoulders taut, chest rising just a little too fast to be calm.
You took a slow breath, grounding yourself before you spoke.
“Тоска.”
He flinched. Not hard—not visibly—but his body gave a slight jolt, like something deep inside him had twitched on instinct. His eyes didn’t leave the fire, but his jaw clenched.
You continued, voice low but even.
“Ржавый.”
A breath stuttered out of him. You saw it; the twitch at the corner of his mouth, the slight widening of his eyes, like a thread was pulling somewhere in the back of his mind. A place he hated.
“Семнадцать.”
He swallowed thickly. His shoulders rounded in a little tighter, like he was bracing for impact—not physical, but worse. A memory pressing down on him from the inside out.
“Рассвет.”
His breathing hitched again, shallow and audible now. Still no movement. Just his eyes, fixed in the fire, wide and shining.
“Печь.”
A sharp inhale.
“Девять.”
A small tremor in his hand. He didn’t stop you. Didn’t speak.
“Доброкачественный.”
His teeth gritted, muscles in his jaw tight. You could see the glassy sheen now, clinging to his eyes, but he refused to blink. As if even that was too dangerous. Too vulnerable.
“Возвращение домой.”
A flicker. His mouth opened slightly—not to speak, just to breathe. His chest rose in short, sharp pulls. Still, he sat.
“Один.”
The fire popped, as if it had heard. You waited just a second longer. A breath. And then—
“Грузовой вагон.”
It landed like stone dropped in still water.
You watched his face. The glassiness turned to wetness. One tear—not sudden—just… there. Sliding down the side of his face, unbothered by pride. His mouth parted with a sound so small you almost missed it. Not a cry.
A release. A breath he'd been holding for years. You moved then, quietly and carefully, until you were kneeling beside him. You didn’t touch him.
“They’re gone,” you said softly. “The words have no power over you.”
He gave a small nod, barely there, then looked down at his lap. And that’s when it cracked.
A sob escaped—quiet and short, like it had snuck out without permission. His head dropped forward slightly, shoulders hunching. Just… shaking. As if his body didn’t know what to do now that the chains were gone.
His head hung low, his spine curved inward like his body was trying to protect something it no longer knew how to hold. The fire behind you cracked and hissed, but it felt distant now, a heartbeat outside your own.
You sat with your legs tucked beneath you, your hands resting in your lap, eyes fixed on the tremble of his shoulders. You didn’t speak. There was nothing to say that wouldn’t crumble the moment.
Then—quietly, like the words had to be dragged from somewhere inside him—he lifted his head. His eyes were swollen, lashes wet, his nose red, and he looked at you like you were the only thing tethering him to earth.
“…Thank you,” he breathed.
And just like that, your resolve gave out.
You leaned forward without thinking, hands rising to gently cup his face. Your palms were warm against his skin, thumbs brushing beneath his eyes with more gentleness than you meant to show.
He stilled.
His hand stayed in his lap, clenched tight. His left shoulder twitched once against his side, useless, aching. It made him feel unbalanced, almost childlike.
But you didn’t care. You guided his gaze back to yours, close enough that your breaths tangled.
“You are free,” you whispered, your voice a little shaky now. “You hear me, James? You are free.”
His mouth moved like he was going to say something—maybe your name, maybe nothing at all—but no sound came. Just another breath, sharp and broken.
And then he leaned forward. Not rushed, not messy. Just… drawn to you. His forehead came to rest against yours, tentative at first, like he was afraid you’d pull away. But you didn’t. You stayed still, your hands still holding his face, and you let him come to you.
His body trembled against yours as his head dipped, resting against your temple, your hair, your shoulder—wherever he could find something solid.
You didn’t need to speak.
You just stayed with him in the firelight, your hands still cupping his face, while he finally let himself cry.
He couldn’t keep the smile out of his voice.
“You’re not gonna tell me where we’re going, are you.”
Your back was to him, but he heard the grin in your breath—light, soft, teasing.
“No.”
The path had narrowed again, the jungle around you thick with dusk. The last hints of sunlight filtered through the canopy in broken threads, but you moved easily, your pace quick and effortless as always. Bucky followed, trailing just behind you—not struggling, just distracted.
Mostly by you.
You were walking a little slower than usual, like you wanted him to catch up, and he did—only to stop again when you turned just slightly and the dying light caught your skin.
He hadn’t said anything yet, but he’d noticed. How your clothes tonight was lighter. Lower on your shoulders. A slit along your hip he was trying very hard not to stare at. Your jewelry caught what little light there was—gold and copper tones that glittered faintly at your throat and wrists. And your scent—
He couldn’t ignore it. It hit him in waves, warm and sharp and soft all at once. Something creamy, but richer. Something smoky and sweet underneath it, like crushed herbs rubbed gently between warm palms.
It made something tighten in his gut before he had a chance to understand why. “You know I don’t like surprises,” he muttered, pushing a low branch aside with his hand.
“You say that,” you hummed, “but you always follow me.”
That made him huff a quiet breath. Not quite a laugh. Just enough to admit you were right. He didn’t ask again. He just kept his eyes on the way your bare shoulders caught the last of the gold light, the way your hips shifted gently with each step, how loose your body was—not careless, just… unguarded.
And then he heard it. A low, rushing sound from somewhere ahead. Not wind. Not animals. Something steady. Powerful.
He slowed his steps. “…Is that a—?”
Bucky ducked beneath a cluster of vines, one hand brushing the trunk beside him for balance, his boots sinking slightly into damp moss. The roar of the waterfall grew louder as the trees thinned. The path narrowed again—now more of a ledge than a trail, sloped slightly downward, leading toward the sound.
You turned to him with a small nod, lifting your hand toward the curtain of water ahead. It shimmered silver in the last breath of evening light, a wall of liquid glass pouring down the cliffside like it had been doing so for centuries.
“This way,” you said, voice softer now.
He raised a brow. “Through it?”
You gave a small, sheepish shrug. “Trust me.”
He didn’t hesitate.
You stepped first, your hand skimming the rock as you angled your body along the edge of the cliff wall, slipping through the narrow gap between stone and water. Bucky followed, keeping close behind you.
The moment he stepped under the fall’s spray, he sucked in a sharp breath—the water hit cold at first, soaking his shirt instantly, cascading over his shoulders like a slap.
“Shit—”
His foot slipped on the smooth stone, and for a second he flailed, only for your hand to shoot out and grip his wrist—your fingers strong, grounding. You steadied him.
He blinked the water out of his eyes, still hunched slightly as the current pelted his back. You looked up at him, already drenched too, and laughed—not loudly, just a small, surprised sound that slipped out like you hadn’t meant for it to.
He stared for a second before something low in his chest gave—and then he was laughing too. Just a breath. Just once.
You held his arm a second longer than necessary before releasing him gently. “This way,” you said again, tilting your head toward the dark behind the water.
You led him through it—deeper, drier, into a space carved by nature and time. And then he saw it.
The cavern opened gradually, its walls slick and smooth, the ceiling arching high above like a dome. Faintly, impossibly, light glimmered from within the stone itself—streaks of soft violet pulsing through the walls like veins. White engravings—symbols, words, maybe names—had been carved by hand, some so old the edges had worn to nothing.
The sound of the waterfall became muffled here.
Bucky’s voice came quietly, like he couldn’t help it. “What is this place?”
You didn’t look at him at first. You stepped further in, water dripping from your arms, your back straight but your voice gentle.
“A place for prayers,” you said. “To be heard.”
You turned slowly to face him. Your eyes flicked to the glowing walls, then back to his face.
“…And sometimes answered,” you added, a little quieter.
You walked further in, your bare feet silent against the cool stone, stopping near a small rise in the floor where smooth slabs had been arranged in a wide circle—natural, almost like a nest of rock.
Bucky trailed behind you, slowly, eyes adjusting to the cavern’s low light. The pulsing violet veins in the walls gave just enough to see—shadows flickering gently over his face, the damp curve of his shoulders, the steady rise and fall of his breath.
His hand drifted out to trace the symbols nearest him. He didn’t touch them at first—just hovered. Then, slowly, he let his fingers graze the stone. The grooves were faint, worn, but still there. Words in a language he couldn’t read.
“We call this place…” you began, your voice echoing gently off the walls, “Umqolomba wezandi.”
Bucky glanced toward you. You were standing near one of the glowing crests, your hand resting lightly against the rock, like greeting an old friend.
“It means…” you turned toward him, “the cavern of echoes.”
His gaze flicked to the ceiling, then around again—like he was finally beginning to feel what this space was.
“Wakandans believe the walls carry the voices of our ancestors,” you continued. “When someone prays here, the wind returns the sound. Not loud—just… enough. Just a whisper.”
He didn’t speak. You stepped forward slowly, closer now, until your voice dropped slightly. “Some come here to seek guidance. Some to mourn. Others come to whisper things they’re too afraid to say out loud.”
He didn’t take his eyes off you.
The violet glow from the stone etched itself along your cheekbones, catching in the curve of your nose and the line of your collarbone. Your skin shimmered with it—like the cave was pulling its light from you, or maybe the other way around.
Bucky stood a few paces away, one hand still pressed lightly against the wall, fingertips resting on the carved stone.
“Why’d you bring me here?” he asked quietly.
You met his gaze just for a moment—and then turned away, eyes flicking toward the deepest part of the cavern. The faintest smile tugged at your mouth, sad and barely there.
“I thought…” you began, voice low, nearly drowned by the hush of dripping water, “you might like to see one last thing that is special to me.”
He stepped closer, slow and careful. His hand fell to his side. He didn’t rush you. Just stood there.
“One last thing?” he asked, softer this time.
You nodded once. Still not looking at him. “You are free now.”
The words came out smaller than you expected. You swallowed and pressed on, forcing them to be steady.
“Your mind, your body. They belong to you again.” You let out a tight breath, arms folding lightly over your stomach. “You are no longer bound to this place.”
He heard the shift in your voice. Not anger. Not even grief. Just that quiet thing that sits under both—a kind of sadness people don’t name. You kept your eyes forward. “You can go home. To America. To whatever life you have waiting for you.”
A beat passed. And then another. He said nothing.
You finally turned your head, just slightly, your gaze still somewhere near the floor. “You are not a prisoner, James.”
He was silent for a long moment. Then, voice low—not confused, not sudden, just certain.
“…What if I don’t wanna leave?”
That made your breath catch and you looked up. He was watching you. Not the way he looked at the walls, or the fire, or even the sky above the cliffs. He was looking at you.
You averted your gaze when you spoke again—voice lighter now, but not quite free of its ache.
“Well, you are free now,” you said, almost teasing, but not fully. “You can do whatever you want.”
Behind you, Bucky didn’t answer, but you heard the faint shuffle of his boots against the stone—inching closer.
You kept your gaze ahead, eyes following the purple light in the walls like it was safer to look at than him. “You could stay, if you wanted. Here in Wakanda.”
He was closer now—not quite beside you, but you could feel the warmth of him just over your shoulder.
“There is a place for you in the city. Or the village. You have many skills.” You gave a small shrug, hoping it looked casual. “They’d be lucky to have you.”
Your voice dropped slightly. “And if you wanted…” You shifted your hands in front of you, thumbs brushing over your knuckles. “You could create a family. Start again.”
You meant it. You did. Even if it scraped something raw inside you.
You exhaled slowly. “Wakanda has the most beautiful women in the world.” You glanced sideways, just enough to see his profile in the low light. “As you’ve seen in our village.”
That came out more bitter than you meant it to. He didn’t call it out. Didn’t acknowledge it it. Just kept his gaze on you, mouth twitching like he was biting back something.
“Amahle sings like a bird,“ you said, voice soft, but flat as you rolled your eyes, “Everyone says her voice could wake Bast herself.”
“... I don’t want Amahle.”
His voice came quiet, close behind your ear. You tried not to react, but your lips twitched before you could stop them. You turned a little more toward the wall, hiding your smile with another breath.
“Mandisa is a good hunter,” you added casually.
“Yeah,” he said, voice a little lower now. “She is.”
You turned sharply, brows furrowed, head snapping toward him, a frown growing on your lips.
Bucky was already smirking.
You sighed. “You are trying to be funny.”
“I’m succeeding.”
He looked pleased with himself. His face was relaxed in a way you didn’t see often—that boyish ease creeping through, tugging the lines of his mouth into something crooked and soft.
The smirk faded from his face slowly, but the closeness stayed.
He didn’t step back. Instead, Bucky leaned in—just a little—until his chest nearly brushed yours, the heat of him warming the air between you. You felt it rise, all at once, like your body had only just now realized how close he really was.
His breath touched your cheek. His nose almost grazed yours.
And then, gently, he raised his hand, fingers calloused and careful as they lifted to your jaw. He didn’t rush. Just let the back of his knuckles skim the side of your face first, like asking permission without speaking. When you didn’t flinch, his palm settled softly against your cheek.
You leaned into it. Barely. But you did.
He watched you. Every part of you. The slight part of your lips. The flutter of your lashes. The way your breath caught in your throat when he spoke.
“I know which woman I want,” he said, voice low—not raspy, not strained, just… quiet. Truthful. “But this woman must also choose me.”
The words sat there between you, trembling slightly in the stillness.
And then you smiled. Soft at first. Small. But real.
It bloomed slow, like light warming over your face—the kind of smile that reached your eyes, crinkled the corners, made your lashes lower like you were trying to shield the joy behind them.
And Bucky…
He didn’t breathe for a second.
Because it hit him suddenly—that smile. That it could burn brighter than any fire in this cave. That it made something stir in him, deep and good and maybe desperate.
You tilted your head just slightly into his palm. And your voice came in a murmur—so quiet, it almost disappeared into the echoing stone.
“She already has.”
He didn’t move at first.
Even with your words hanging between you—soft and sure—he stayed still for a breath. His thumb brushed over your cheekbone slowly, once, and you watched the way his eyes dipped to your mouth, then back up to your eyes, asking without asking.
And then, finally, he leaned in. Slow. Careful. Like he was still waiting for you to change your mind.
You didn’t.
Your eyes stayed on his, heavy and unblinking. You could feel the way his breath trembled against your lips just before they touched—feather-light, a brush more than a kiss, like the moment itself was scared it would shatter if either of you moved too fast.
The first contact was barely a second.
He pulled back an inch, eyes searching yours again—checking. Not for rejection. For permission to fall apart. And then your fingers found his wrist and you held it there as you leaned forward this time, mouth tilting up to his again.
This kiss was deeper.
His lips pressed more firmly, shaping to yours with growing certainty. Warm. Intentional. His hand cupped your jaw tighter, not possessive, just present—thumb slipping behind your ear as your mouth opened slightly beneath his.
He tasted like breath and earth and the faint hint of herbs still lingering on his tongue. You sighed into him, your lips parting again, more confidently this time—and he met it, tilting his head, deepening the kiss until your noses brushed and your mouths moved like they’d done this before in another life.
It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t wild. But it was hungry, like something long-denied finally unfolding itself without shame.
You felt the drag of his bottom lip against yours when he pulled back just enough to breathe—only to kiss you again, mouth firmer now, more certain. You answered with a small sound in your throat, something soft and needing, and his hand slipped from your cheek down to your neck, holding you there.
Your lips stayed locked —deep, slow, and consuming. His mouth moved against yours like he was trying to memorize the shape of it, learn the exact pressure that made you sigh, how long to linger before pulling away and pressing back in.
His dragged his knuckles lightly down the line of your throat. You shivered, not from cold, but from how warm your skin felt under his touch—slick, soft, prepared.
He felt it too. His fingers paused at your collarbone, as though registering something he hadn’t noticed until now—the way your skin gleamed faintly in the purple cave light, the faint shimmer of oil that clung to your shoulder.
He broke the kiss, just barely, lips still brushing yours as he whispered, “You smell really… good.”
You smiled, small and shy, as his hand moved again, trailing along the curve of your shoulder with a gentleness so soft it didn’t need the word.
“Shea butter,” you murmured against his mouth. “And… rose oil.”
“Mm,” he hummed. “Thought I was going crazy.”
Your noses bumped again as he kissed you once more—deeper this time, tongue sliding gently against yours. Your lips parted easily, like you’d been waiting for him to stop holding back.
His tongue moved slow—careful, tasting—coaxing yours to meet him with the same rhythm. The heat pulsed low in your belly. You leaned closer, your body drawn to his without needing to think, and you felt his hand skim further down—across the line of your upper chest, fingers splayed. The pads of them gliding over oiled skin, the slip of it making his breath hitch in his throat.
He didn’t speak again. He didn’t need to.
His hand kept moving—lower now, tracing the inside of your arm, then circling back up to press against the small of your back, guiding you closer into him. The kiss had deepened into something more now—your mouths slow but messier, wetter, tongues sliding in practiced rhythm, breath catching between swallows.
Your body responded in kind—your chest rising, brushing his, your hips tilting slightly, angling into his heat. His hand moved again—back to your neck, then your shoulder—his thumb slipping over your collarbone, down the swell of your chest, just grazing the upper curve of your breast through the fabric.
You broke the kiss gently, your lips lingering against his for a second longer before you pulled back, eyes fluttering open to meet his.
“Let me see you,” you whispered.
His brows twitched slightly, his breath shallow, but he didn’t ask what you meant. He just looked at you—looked through you—for a moment longer, then reached for the hem of his shirt.
The fabric stuck slightly to his skin, damp from the air and the heat between you. He tugged it upward in one slow pull with his hand, careful not to rush, and let it fall behind him with a dull whisper on the stone floor.
You exhaled.
The cave light caught the lines of him—soft purples and muted whites streaking across the planes of his chest, the hard curves of muscle shaped by war and grief. His torso was broad and strong, marred with a constellation of old scars. Some long-faded. Some newer. Some you’d seen before, from a distance when he washed by the river.
But now, they were offered to you. Your hands lifted slowly, sacred without trying to be. You let your fingertips touch his chest first—just a brush, testing. He stayed still.
You dragged your hand up, tracing the faint slash beneath his ribs, then higher, over the long scar that cut across his sternum. His skin was warm. Alive. Steady.
Your other hand joined, smoothing along his chest, rising toward his shoulder—his right—where flesh still met bone. You felt the dip of his collarbone under your thumb. The tension in his neck.
And then you saw it. The left side. The end of it.
The soft, healed edge where the metal used to continue. Now just a metal shoulder, curved and cold where limb had once been. You didn’t hesitate—your hand moved there too, fingers slow, brushing the edge where metal had once been forced into living body.
That’s when he looked away.
He dropped his head slightly, jaw tight. You felt the shift in him, like something pulling back. “I wish…” he said softly, the words caught on something raw. “I wish I could feel you with both hands.”
Your chest ached.
You moved without thinking—both hands rising to cup his face, gently but with certainty. His skin was warm under your palms, scruff along his jaw. You tilted his face back toward you.
“Don’t look away,” you whispered.
His eyes found yours again, guarded but open. Flickering. You held him there.
“This,” you said, your thumb brushing lightly beneath his cheekbone, “is a symbol of your survival. Your strength.”
He didn’t speak. Didn’t need to.
You leaned forward and pressed your forehead to his, letting your hands fall back to his chest—grounded, present.
“I want you,” you said quietly. “Just like this.”
Bucky couldn’t remember how they got to the ground.
One minute, your mouth was on his, your hands mapping his chest with slow adoration, and the next—he was on his back, the cool stone of the cavern floor beneath him, smooth as water-worn bone.
You were in his lap, straddling him, your knees braced on either side of his hips. His hand was on your waist, fingers digging in, not hard—but anchored, like he needed the contact to keep himself tethered to this moment. To you.
Your lips never left his. It was slower before. Gentle. But now—
Now it was need.
You kissed like it had been years. Like it had been denied for lifetimes. His mouth was open against yours, breath ragged, tongue dragging against yours in a rhythm that was no longer careful. Your hands had disappeared somewhere—he couldn’t even tell where—because all he could feel was your body moving against his, your chest brushing his, your thighs tightening every time your hips rolled just right.
His beard scraped against your cheek, your chin, the underside of your jaw as he kissed lower, biting softly at your throat, open-mouthed and warm. You arched into him, your back curving, and his hand followed instinctively—pressing flat along your spine, guiding your body closer until there was nothing left between you but heat.
You smelled like sweat now—like skin, oil, the scent of perfume still clinging to your pulse points. The smell of you dizzying, something earthy and warm and faintly sweet. He wanted it everywhere. On his tongue. In his mouth. On his body.
He grunted something low in his throat and pressed his mouth to your collarbone, his lips dragging over the slick warmth there, tasting the rose oil and salt. His hand moved up, cupping the back of your neck, thumb pressing under your jaw as he pulled your mouth back to his.
He needed to feel you everywhere.
Your hips shifted again—slow, grinding, and his cock twitched hard beneath the fabric, trapped between your bodies. You felt it. He knew you did. The noise you made—soft, breathy—went straight to his spine.
His kiss turned rougher—still careful, still wanting to worship you, but there was nothing polite about this now. This was hunger. This was claiming. Your lips swollen, breath catching between gasps and moans. You kissed like you were already ruined. Like the fire you’d started weeks ago had finally reached its burn point.
You broke the kiss first. Not far—only enough to breathe—but he followed you instinctively, chasing your mouth like he wasn’t ready to let it go. His lips brushed yours again and again, searching, impatient.
“Wait,” you whispered.
He stilled, breathing hard, pupils blown wide as he watched you.
Your hand lifted slowly to the knot at the base of your neck—the simple tie holding your wrap in place. The movement was deliberate, almost shy, though your chest was rising fast enough to betray you.
Bucky’s gaze followed every second.
You tugged once.
The fabric loosened.
You tugged again.
And it slipped.
The cloth fell away from your chest and pooled around your waist, leaving you bare to him in the soft purple glow of the cavern. The cool air kissed your skin, but you barely noticed it—not with the way he was staring at you.
He looked at you like he’d forgotten how to breathe.
Your breasts rose and fell with your ragged breaths, skin shining faintly from oil and warmth. You could see the way his throat moved as he swallowed, the way his jaw tightened, the way his hand twitched against your hip like he didn’t know where to touch first.
You leaned forward and kissed him again before he could say anything. But his attention had shifted.
His mouth left yours almost immediately, sliding down to your neck, tongue dragging along the damp curve of your skin. He kissed there, slow and messy, lips open, teeth grazing just enough to make you shiver.
“Wanna taste you,” he murmured against your throat.
You gave a small nod, barely able to think, and his mouth moved lower. His hand slipped up your side, thumb brushing over the underside of your breast as his lips followed the same path. You felt his breath first, hot and shaky—then his mouth closed around your nipple.
The first pull of his lips made your head fall back.
A soft, unguarded moan slipped out of you as he sucked, gentle at first, then firmer—tongue circling, teeth grazing just enough to make your hips jerk forward against him.
Your fingers slid into his hair without thinking, holding him there as he switched sides, giving the same attention to the other breast. His hand kneaded at your waist, dragging you closer, guiding your body to move against his.
You rolled your hips again—harder this time—grinding down against him. You could feel him beneath you, thick and straining through his pants, and the friction made you gasp.
“My James—”
He groaned at the sound of his name, mouth still on you, and the vibration of it went straight through your body.
Your hands fumbled at the waistband of his pants, his breath hot and shaky against your neck as you kissed him between desperate, half-laughed curses. The sound of fabric dragging against skin filled the cave—wet with sweat, clinging, urgent—as he finally shoved them past his hips with your help.
You sat up just enough to tug them off the rest of the way, tossing them aside. He was already bare beneath, hard and flushed and waiting, the sight of him making your thighs tighten.
The air was thick around you, warm and damp, your bodies gleaming in the violet glow. Your chest was still rising fast, skin slick with oil and heat, and he was staring up at you now—flat on his back, hand firm on your waist like he couldn’t believe this was happening.
His mouth was parted, eyes trailing slowly from your breasts to your stomach to the place between your thighs. Adoring. Devouring. And still, just softer than lust. Like he was seeing a vision he didn’t think he deserved.
You leaned forward again, kissing him once, slow and open-mouthed, before whispering against his lips, “Now we become one.”
And then you reached between your bodies, guiding him to your entrance.
You angled your hips carefully, breath catching when the head of his cock pressed against you—thick and hot and already leaking, your folds slick from want and desire. He groaned beneath you, the sound strained and breathless as your hand stroked him once, then lined him up again.
You held his gaze as you began to sink down. Slow. Stretching.
Your body opened around him inch by inch, the burn sweet and perfect, your walls clenching as he filled you. You gasped, forehead dropping to his, and his hand clamped harder on your waist, thumb digging into the soft dip of your hip as he breathed through it with you.
“Fuck—” he rasped. “So tight—”
You whimpered against his jaw, your thighs shaking as you lowered further, the stretch making your head spin. He was thick, every inch dragging against you, and you could feel the way your body adjusted to take him. Your cunt fluttered as you seated yourself fully.
You stayed still a moment, chests heaving, foreheads pressed and breath shared.
And then you started to move—slow at first, easing into it, your hips rocking gently as you adjusted to the weight of him inside you.
Bucky groaned, the sound guttural and rough, his hand gripping your waist like a lifeline. His eyes were fixed on where your bodies met, the slick drag of you gliding up and down on his cock. He watched with his mouth parted, sweat already clinging to his brow, chest rising fast.
“Shit… you feel—fuck, you feel so good—”
You moaned at the praise, your hands braced on his shoulders as you picked up the rhythm—grinding down, then lifting, riding him slow and deep. Each time you dropped your hips, he hit that perfect spot inside you, and your breath came shorter, messier, your thighs beginning to tremble.
The cave amplified everything—the slap of skin, the wet glide of your cunt around him, your moans echoing off the walls, layered over the low roar of the waterfall beyond. The air felt thick with it, humid and alive.
You rode him harder now—hungrier.
Your breasts bounced with each thrust, your ass smacking against his thighs as you worked yourself over him, chasing every drop of friction. Bucky’s hand dragged from your waist up to your breast, cupping it, thumb brushing your nipple as he thrust up into you from below.
He could only touch what his hand could reach—but he touched you like it mattered. Like he meant it. Palm sliding down your stomach, fingertips trembling as they traced the sheen of oil and sweat, down to your pelvis where he pressed his thumb against your clit and rubbed.
You cried out, head snapping back, the pleasure white-hot.
“Look at you,” he groaned, voice cracking. “So fucking beautiful—riding me like this—”
You leaned down, panting against his jaw as you rode him harder, messier now, the rhythm losing its grace, becoming more primal. Your walls clenched around him, slick dripping down your thighs, the sounds of it loud, obscene, echoing like prayer.
He was too far gone now. The need—no, the craving—to feel more of you, to bury himself deeper, to give in overtook whatever control he’d been holding onto. And even with only one arm, he moved with purpose.
“C’mere—” he rasped, voice wrecked and low, and with a groan of effort, he shifted.
It wasn’t graceful—his balance off, his body strained—but somehow he managed to turn you beneath him, easing your back down onto the stone floor with a grunt and a clumsy half-roll that made both of you gasp-laugh through the haze. His hand braced above your shoulder, his knees sinking between your thighs, body hovering over yours.
“Wrap your legs around me,” he murmured, breath hot against your cheek. “Tighter.”
You obeyed, locking your thighs around his waist—holding him close, keeping him there, right where you wanted him. Right where you both needed this to happen.
And he started to thrust again. Harder now. Deeper.
Each stroke knocked a cry from your throat, your nails digging into his back, your body arching into him like your bones didn’t know how else to respond. His pelvis pressed flush with yours on every pump, the rhythm steady and sharp, and you could feel how deep he was—how full you were—how good he made you feel, even with just one hand and every ounce of concentration funneled into you.
He kissed you again—messy, open-mouthed, tasting your whines as they broke free, his body slamming into yours faster. When your head fell to the side, he kissed your neck, your shoulder, your jaw—everywhere he could reach, panting between moans, sighing your name into your skin like it was prayer.
And then he pulled back just enough to look at you.
His thrusts slowed for a beat.
The cave light shimmered across his face, sweat lining his brow, his chest heaving above yours. You could barely keep your eyes open, pleasure swimming behind your lashes.
But then he said it. Voice thick, barely a whisper.
“Ndiyakubona.”
I see you.
Even through the haze, your mouth broke into a smile—soft and dazed and full of everything your body couldn’t say. And without answering, you pulled him down, crashing your lips to his again, arms around his shoulders as your hips lifted to meet each thrust as it turned rougher.
Unrelenting.
It was no longer slow or sensual—it was instinct. The slap of his hips against your thighs echoed through the cavern, the air thick with sweat and breath and the wet, obscene sound of your cunt clenching around him with every punishing stroke.
He adjusted his stance, gritting his teeth, and shifted you up—pressing your knees toward your chest, his hand gripping the back of your thigh, holding it open as he fucked into you deeper. Your body arched under him, your head thrown back, mouth open, moaning without shame.
This was carnal now. Primal.
You were folded beneath him, trapped in a mating press, your legs shaking around his waist, your hands clutching uselessly at the slick stone floor as he drove into you like he couldn’t stop even if he wanted to.
He was panting—loud and sharp, every muscle tight—but his eyes never left you. He was watching. Watching your face, your mouth, the way your brows twisted, the way your back arched higher with each thrust, like you were caught somewhere between ruin and salvation.
“Finish for me,” he grunted. “Let me feel it. Let me—fuck—let me feel you.”
You whimpered, your voice breaking with each slap of his hips, the pleasure unbearable. And then it happened.
You cried out, legs clamping around his waist, your body locking up as the orgasm crashed through you—white-hot, full-body, helpless. Your walls clenched around him so tight it nearly knocked the air from his lungs.
Bucky felt it.
Felt you milk him, tighten around his cock like your body was made to take him. His head dropped forward, his mouth falling open in something like awe.
“Holy fuck—”
He stared at you, wild-eyed, stunned, like he’d never seen anything more beautiful.
You were still cumming—still gasping—your thighs trembling around him, your cunt pulsing as aftershocks rippled through your belly.
And Bucky had never felt anything like it.
Not in his entire life. Your pleasure, his name on your lips, your body spasming beneath him, because of him—
He was close. So close.
You were still panting, your body limp beneath him, your skin slick and glowing under the cavern’s low purple light—but he didn’t stop.
Bucky kept thrusting—slower now, but deep, deliberate, like he was chasing something he was scared to catch. His hand slid from your thigh to your waist, holding you steady, your cunt still fluttering around him, soaking and spent.
“Fuck—” he groaned, voice cracking. “I’m close—”
You looked up at him through heavy lashes, lips parted, skin flushed.
And he leaned down. Pressed his mouth to yours—soft at first, desperate beneath the tenderness—and kissed you through it.
Then he broke away just enough to breathe.
He thrust once.
Twice.
And on the third—he came.
With a broken sound in his throat, he drove into you, hips jerking as his release tore through him. He spilled deep inside you, thick and hot, his whole body shuddering from the force of it. His thighs trembled, his jaw slackened, and he dropped his head forward, forehead pressed to yours as he tried to catch his breath.
His arm shook beneath him, struggling to hold his weight, but he stayed there—inside you, skin pressed to skin, sweat dripping from his temple to your cheek.
For a moment, neither of you moved.
You kept your eyes open, watching him through the haze—not touching, not speaking. Just watching. The way his lashes stayed low, the small twitch of his jaw, the slight wince in his expression as the high began to ebb.
Then, slowly, he lifted his head.
He looked down at you, lips slightly parted, his chest heaving above yours. The expression on his face wasn’t something he could name—not yet. Not exactly. But it looked a lot like being broken open in the gentlest way.
He swallowed hard.
“…Shit,” he muttered, voice low and rough. Not ashamed. Just overwhelmed.
He was still inside you. Still hard, still twitching faintly from the aftershocks.
But even in that fog, he shifted—careful not to collapse onto you. He slid out of you with a low groan, drawing a quiet whimper from your throat at the loss, and moved onto his back beside you, his chest rising and falling in heavy waves.
You both stared up at the cavern ceiling for a few long moments. The stone above glowed softly, the walls still humming faint with the pulse of the violet veins.
Neither of you spoke.
And then—after maybe two breaths too long—he reached for you.
His arm came up and around your back. He pulled you into him, not forcefully, but fully—pressing your bare body against his chest like he couldn’t bear to let the space grow cold between you.
You folded into him easily, instinctively. Your head rested just below his jaw. His lips found your forehead.
And then—as if pulled—your mouth tilted up, found his again. Slower now. Softer. Still open-mouthed, still wet, but no longer frantic.
Your lips finally parted again, not out of need, but because you both simply ran out of air.
The kiss faded into stillness. Your forehead stayed against his, your fingers still resting on his chest, tracing absentminded shapes into the skin just above his heart. You could still feel it beating—slower now, steadier. But still there. Still real.
His hand smoothed along your back, dragging a lazy line down your spine like he didn’t even realize he was doing it. He didn’t speak. Not at first.
You didn’t either.
Until finally, he murmured—barely audible, but firm,
“…Thank you.”
You blinked. You pulled back a little, just enough to see his face. His eyes were still on you. Heavy-lidded.
“For what?” you asked, soft.
A pause.
Then he said it—slowly, like every syllable cost something.
“For saving me.”
Your lips parted, but no sound came out.
“I didn’t save you,” you said eventually, after a beat. “I only helped—”
“No,” he cut in, quiet but certain. “You saved me.”
Your brows pulled slightly.
He exhaled through his nose. Not out of frustration—just trying to find the right words. Words he wasn’t used to saying.
“I didn’t know if I’d ever… feel like a person again,” he said, his voice rasped with fatigue, but not hesitation. “Not after what they did to me. Not after all the decades that I was just a… a thing.”
He looked at you again. “And then I came here. And I met you.”
Your expression softened, almost imperceptibly, but you didn’t interrupt. You let him speak.
“You didn’t flinch when you saw me,” he said, shaking his head slightly. “Didn’t look at me like I was some... broken weapon. You just looked. And listened. And existed.”
He paused again.
“I haven’t been able to breathe in years,” he whispered. “Not without waiting for the trigger to pull again. Not without thinking someone’s gonna drag me back into something. But here… with you…”
His fingers flexed faintly against your back.
“I can finally fucking breathe.”
You blinked slowly. Your heart pulled so tight it hurt.
He didn’t need to say I love you. This was deeper than that. He still wasn’t looking at you directly now—not all the way. Just barely off, like it was too much.
And when you finally spoke again, it wasn’t to dismiss his words or soften them. You just said, simply,
“…You saved yourself.”
His eyes flicked back to yours. Still wide open. Still raw.
“I was just there to hold the net,” you said. “You did the climbing.”
You didn’t know how long you stayed there.
The rhythm of your breathing had synced again, like the hush between waves. The cavern, once echoing with gasps and desperate cries, was still now. A sacred hush laid over everything—water still falling outside, glowing rock pulsing soft violet all around you, but inside, it was just the two of you.
He was still staring at you.
You were still staring back.
At some point, you had propped yourself slightly onto your elbow, the cool of the stone under your skin grounding you as your other hand tangled with his. His thumb brushed yours absently, like he didn’t even realize he was doing it.
And then he spoke. Quiet. Uncertain.
“Maybe…” he began, the rasp still clinging to the back of his throat. “…maybe I had to go through all of it. The war. Hydra. All of it.”
You blinked slowly.
He swallowed.
“Maybe I had to lose everything so I could find you.”
His voice wasn’t smooth. It cracked halfway through. But he didn’t look away this time. Not when he said it.
Your chest tightened—too full, too much. Your heart hurt with it. In the most devastating way.
Your fingers lifted to his cheek, brushing the hair back that had fallen near his brow. His eyes closed under your touch—not from shame. Just from… feeling.
You leaned down, pressing your forehead to his, your voice almost a whisper.
“You did not deserve what they did to you,” you murmured. “Not any of it.”
His jaw clenched slightly.
You kissed the corner of his mouth.
“But you survived. You endured.”
You kissed his temple.
“And if the path led you to me…” You pulled back just enough to look into his eyes again.
“…Then I am grateful for every step you took.”
a/n | if you’ve made it this far, well damn, what did you think?
Okay so obviously i made up the Isisa based on the Ikran to make our girl extra special. and is based on Neytiri’s first Ikran, Seze:
I literally have a full on fic in my head of our girl being present in Black Panther's plot and Infinity War, but lets just put it in my back pocket for now.
The warthog and cave scene are directly taken from Avatar, when Neytiri first met and saved Jake; and their bonding and mating scene.
I still wanted to have more fluffy scenes before she became soft with bucky, with him watching her when she’s soft and playful with others, like during a baptism celebration, or more scenes with Za’ta
she’s supposed to give off this:
andddd also realised there wasn’t that many wakandan!reader fics, wonder why…
people can write and imagine themselves as russian assassins, goddesses and literal aliens… but never as an indigenous girlie, smh
