Description: The three times Bucky kneeled for you, the heartbreak the ensued. 2000 words of hurt/comfort.
A/N: Sorry I disappeared and this isn't the fic I promised but here we are
The first time he knelt for you, it broke your heart.
You always sat on the couch, legs tucked beneath you, covered in a thick blanket. Bucky sat on the floor next to your knees, like he always did.
At first you used to protest, but then you realized he genuinely preferred sitting on the floor next to you, rather than sit on the furniture. He could stretch out as much as heâd want without bumping into anyone, use the couch as a backrest and youâd throw enough blankets over him he wouldnât feel the chill from the floor.
You found you started to prefer it as well, because you could reach down and run your fingers through his hair. His head would tip back into your hand, nails scratching his scalp in a way only you could.
Halfway through a movie, he turned his head to glance back at you. His eyes were soft and sleepy, you smiled down at him.
âWhatâs up, Buck?â You asked, voice tired as the night went on.
He shifted his body to fully face you. You sat up straighter, swinging your legs over the side of the sofa.
His eyes were wide and open, vulnerable with emotion you only have seen once or twice. You reached out and cupped his cheek, stroking his warm skin with your thumb.
Pushing his broad shoulders between your knees, he turned his head sideways and laid it gently in your lap. His entire body relaxed as he did so, almost sighing in relief at the action.
You were a little taken back to say the least, unsure of what to do at first. Here was your super soldier, laying completely defenseless in your lap, feeling so small and relaxed.
You stroked the top of his head, sliding your fingers through his hair. When he came to you, his hair was thin; weak and brittle from years of malnutrition and trauma. Now, with a proper diet, steady sleep schedule, your salon shampoo he steals in the shower; his hair is as healthy as youâve ever seen it. Sleek and shiny, full and strong.
He stayed kneeling at your feet for longer than you anticipated. His body grew heavy as he sank into it, body almost purring as you rubbed his scalp. Then down his neck, across his shoulders.
Then he was asleep. You knew when the very last tension he held in his body melted away, his body dropped the last of his weight onto your thighs.
Once he had drifted off, you finally allowed yourself to think. You knew Hydra had him kneel for his handlers, beaten into submission by cruel hands until that was all he knew.
Unfortunately, he was trained to only seek comfort in his handlers. Whatever that may have looked like. Kneeling at their feet may have been comforting to him. To hide his face in a lap where nobody was to judge the emotions or expressions on his face. A small amount of privacy.
You were happy to give that to him, your soothing touches and the soft fabric of your flannel pajamas pressing against his cheek. Bucky could spend an eternity here.
The second time, you asked him to kneel.
A mission gone wrong. A splitting headache, a man caught between personas like Jekyll and Hyde.
You watched him on the jet ride home, sitting apart from the others, head in hands and knee bouncing anxiously.
Steve caught your eye, worry he couldnât hide drawn across his face. On your way down the ramp, you squeezed his arm to let him know you had it covered.
Following his vapor trail, you found him in your shared bedroom about to combust.
Hands outstretched, braced against the wall, head pressed to the plaster. His body trembled with barely contained emotion.
âBucky,â you spoke softly, shutting the door behind you.
His shoulders tightened at the sound of your voice, hands curling into fists as his forearms leaned against the wall.
You ran through your list of options on how to de-escalate. You glanced around the room, your eyes falling on the reading chair under the window.
After moving the pile of laundry that had accumulated over the week, you folded up a fleece blanket and placed it at your feet on the hardwood floor.
âBucky,â you spoke, lowering yourself into the chair. âCan you come kneel for me?â
His motions stilled, turning his head to glance back at you. His eyes were guarded, barely holding back the pain he felt constantly tearing him apart.
In a few quick strides, he crossed the room and dropped to his knees in front of you. You winced at the sound of his joints hitting the hardwood floor, making a mental note to find something thicker to put down next time. Maybe a pillow or a heavy quilt.
His arms went around your waist this time, pressing his face nose down into your thighs. His breathing was labored, back rising and falling quickly as the memories pressed against his skull.
Before you did anything, you first let him sit and try to regulate himself. His body trembled, breathing erratic, fists gripping your waist so you wouldnât slip away from him.
You stroked his hair, damp with sweat and tangled from the physicality of the mission. Youâd probably find some blood in there that youâd help him wash away in the shower later.
âBucky,â you murmured, trying to keep your voice even. âYouâre with me. Youâre safe.â
His entire body was stiff, fingers digging into your waistband to steady himself. You reached down and squeezed his forearms, massaging the tension as slowly and gently as you could.
âThat mission was fucked for everyone,â you said in an even tone. âIâm pretty sure Fury is going to have my ass for how I handed those douche bags in the admin office. I donât really care, I had to get back to you.â
His breathing was slowing, shoulders attempting to relax against your knees. You rubbed his neck gently, pressing your thumb to the soft spot behind his ear.
âI kinda felt like Steve, acting like a reckless idiot to get back to you,â you smiled.
He shifted his head, turning so his cheek lay against your thigh, his eyes remained shut. Long eyelashes brushing against his weathered cheeks.
You didnât touch his face, you knew better. At least not yet. Youâve learned that lesson before. Your hand slid through his hair, cupping the back of his head.
âIs your head still hurting, Honey?â
He liked when you called him a Honey. It meant he didnât have to fight whoever was inside of him, pretending that he felt like Bucky in that exact moment. Every day, he wakes up and fights for control. A grudge match between Bucky and the Winter Soldier.
When you call him Honey. He doesnât have to feel like either. He can just exist in that moment with you.
The third time, he asked to kneel for you.
He stood in the middle of the med bay, arms covered up to his elbows in Natashaâs blood. His memory was foggy, how did he get here? Last he remembered, the bullet ripped through Natâs gut, he had turned and fired two shots in that direction.
Steve clapped him on the shoulder, which startled him. Despite it being his best friend, the warmth of his palm felt prickly against Buckyâs skin. He resisted the urge to shrug it off.
â-go get cleaned up? Iâll talk to Fury.â His palâs mouth was moving, but his ears were ringing. He barely caught the end of the statement.
His eyes lowered, shifting his head in a subtle nod. He found his way to the elevator and punched the button that took him up to the floor he shared with you. His eyes fixed on the smear of blood he left on the glowing plastic button.
You hadnât been tapped for this mission and he was thankful. He left you yesterday morning, wrapped up in soft sheets and his t-shirt, eyes fighting to stay open against the morning sun. He can barely remember the feeling of his lips pressing against your forehead, your sleepy smile as you whispered that you loved him.
His hands were trembling on the door handle, trying to think of how he was going to explain why he was covered in blood but his mind was frantic.
He didnât even bother to untie his boots by the door, he had left his pack on the jet but he would barely notice. He needed you. He needed you to slow his thoughts and calm his mind in the only way anyone could.
âHon? Is that you?â Your tired voice calls from the Livingroom.
He finds you sprawled across the couch, blanket sliding off your lap and onto the floor. The TV was playing something he couldnât care to recognize.
âOh my, God!â You jumped to your feet at the sight of him in the doorway, covered in blood and a hollow look in his eyes. âBucky are you-â
âIâm fine,â his voice was brittle. âsânot mine.â
âWhose is it?â You took a careful step toward him, eyes flickered over any exposed skin to check for injury.
âNatâs,â his voice shook. âSheâs⊠sheâs gonna be fine.â
You exhaled quickly, heart pounding at the thought of your other best friend laying on an operating table.
âCan I⊠Can IâŠâ he rubbed his hand over his face, trying to pick the correct words but there were too many. When he spoke next, his voice cracked. âI donât wanna be in control right now.â
You understood immediately, taking the blanket that was once on your lap and folding it onto the ground. You took a seat on the couch and nodded at him.
His broad shoulders pushed between your knees, his own settling on the floor between your feet. You didnât mind as his bloody hands hooked around your waist, head lain gently in your lap.
âYouâre here with me,â you spoke softly. âNo where else. Just here with me.â
His shoulders trembled as the events from the night, visions of Natashaâs pale face swimming behind his eyelids. He tried to focus on the feeling of your hands, how warm your skin felt, but his mind was slipping.
âWe should take a shower soon, then weâll go down and see Nat,â you whispered, sliding your hand through his hair.
Despite his silence, you continued to talk to try and give his mind something to focus on. Your hand caught on a tangle near the base of his neck, you smoothed it out as gently as you could.
âI got this new shampoo I think youâll like,â you squeezed his shoulders. âI havenât tried it out yet but itâs supposed to smell like coconut, which I know you like.â
Your voice was so sweet on his ears, especially after years of harsh, biting words; ones that have never left his mind.
âI think tonight would be a good night to try it out,â you spoke, eying the shine on the top of his head. âIâll throw our towels in dryer so theyâll be all nice and warm when we get out. Maybe our pajamas too.â
He blinked away the image of Natâs pale face, blood smeared over her neck. That didnât even happen, why was he imagining it?
âIâve been itching to watch our show since youâve been gone,â you looked down at the top of his head âYou up for a few more episodes tonight?â
A question. What did you say? He lifted his head, blue eyes wide and vulnerable. You smiled patiently, cupping his cheeks.
Repeating your question, he nodded without another word. You leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead, pressing your thumb to the soft spot behind his ear.
âCâmon, letâs go shower,â you suggested, gesturing to his bloody hands. âI donât know if youâve noticed but youâre kind of gross.â
He looked at his hands as if he were seeing them for the first time. You watched as he recoiled from you, horrified that he had been touching you as he was.
You smiled, leaning down to kiss him on the mouth. Squeezing his chin between your thumb and forefinger, you didnât let him go very far.
He followed you in the direction of your luxury bathroom, a few silent paces behind you. He often felt like a shadow of his former self, but you had a way of making him feel whole again. No matter who he was, you were always there for him.
Summary: A wounded Sheriff Barnes seeks shelter in a young widowâs home, and finds himself wrapped in a warmth he no longer believes he deserves, and longing for something he thought long buried.
Word Count: 11.2k.
note: And the story reached its end. Thank you to all of you who read and interacted in this journey. It took me a little more than expected to write it due to known circumstances, but here it is. Love you allđ§Ą
Previous Chapter - Masterlist
She woke up with her cheek resting on his shoulder, and one arm still draped across his middle. The bandage beneath her hand rose and fell with his breathing, slow and stable.
He was still asleep.
For a long moment, she just lay there, watching his face, so rarely at peace. The bruise on his jaw had bloomed darker overnight, and the cut on his brow was an angry slash of red, but even with all that, he looked younger somehow. His lips were parted just slightly, the faintest crease between his brows, like he was frowning in a dream.
Her gaze remained on his mouth, and she remembered the kiss.
Gentle at first, then hungrier. The way heâd held her, the press of his hands on her waist. How heâd whispered her name like a secret.
She almost reached out to touch his cheek, to brush her thumb beneath the bruise, to tuck that stray piece of hair behind his ear. But stopped herself. Let him rest. He needed it.
So, she slipped quietly from under the quilt, careful not to jostle him. Her bare feet barely made a sound against the floorboards as she padded into the kitchen. The fire in the hearth had gone to embers, so she fed it kindling and coaxed it back to life, warming her hands while it crackled awake.
Outside, the world was still frosted in white, but the light was changing. Sam would arrive before long, and when he did, theyâd need to haul Rumlow back to town. Sort it out. Make it official.
She turned toward the stove, set the kettle on, and pulled down the tin of coffee. Bacon would follow, and bread. Theyâd need the strength. Her hands worked quietly, while her mind was still tangled in the warmth of the bed, in the rasp of his voice when heâd asked her to stay.
---
Behind her, in the silence of the bedroom, Bucky stirred once and sighed.
It took him a few seconds to recognize where he was.
Comfortable mattress. Warm bedding. The faint smell of pine salve and faint traces of her, lavender, and something sweet. His body sank deeper into the mattress for one blissfully blank second-
And then the night came back like a hammer.
The barn. Rumlow. Blood. Her voice. Her hands. Her kiss.
He blinked at the ceiling, groaned low, and tried to shift.
Pain lanced through his side, sharp enough to draw a curse through clenched teeth. Rolling in the frozen mud while trading punches did that to you. Not to mention-
He tilted his head and looked down at his bandaged flank. The stab wound was still there. Of course it was. A dull throb pulsed just under the clean wrappings. Not deep enough to threaten his guts, but nasty all the same.
âGoddamn snake,â he muttered to himself, eyes narrowing.
He caught the faintest sounds of movement from the other room. He threw back the covers with a grunt, already regretting it as cold air hit his bare skin and the dull ache in his side sharpened like a hot poker.
âFuckinâ hell,â he muttered, swinging his legs over the edge.
The room spun once. Then stilled. He blinked hard, braced a hand on the nightstand, and cursed again when he caught sight of the frayed seam in his old drawers.
Great.
Just great.
Sheâd seen that last night. Probably seen worse, sure, but still, he was a grown man with a badge, not some drifter with holes in his underthings. He scowled as he reached for his trousers, dragging them up with effort, each movement tugging at the stitched flesh of his side. Shirt next -buttons half-done, collar crooked- took him a full minute longer than it should have. But he managed.
Mostly.
He limped down the hall, slow and quietly, keeping one palm flat against the wall when the floor creaked or tilted under his feet. The smell of coffee and wood smoke was stronger here. Comforting. Familiar.
She was at the stove, back to him, humming something low and tuneless. Her hair was still down, loose over her shoulders, and she was barefoot. He watched her for a second longer than he shouldâve.
Then she turned, and jumped.
âJames Barnes! What the hell are you doing up?â
He flinched theatrically, one hand going straight to his side. âAh! shit, ow-â
She gasped and was at his side in two steps, wide eyes full of concern, fluttering her hands near his arm, his waist, trying to see where it hurt.
âLet me see -sit down- what the hell were you thinkinâ, getting out of bed like that, you damn mule-â
He caught her.
One arm wrapped around her waist, the other around her shoulders. Pulled her in tight, burying his face in her neck, ignoring the flare of real, deep pain that came with it.
She stilled in his arms. Her breath caught.
âI needed this,â he mumbled into her hair.
âI thought you were-â
âHurts like hell,â he admitted. âStill worth it.â
She didnât push away. Just let herself press against him, soft and warm and real.
His nose brushed the crown of her head, his grip on her eased just enough so she could breathe, but not enough to let her go.
She shifted slightly in his arms, still tucked against his chest, one hand absently resting over the fabric of his shirt, like she hadnât quite decided if she was going to scold him again or not.
He tilted his head, murmuring roughly against her temple. âAinât I gettinâ a good morninâ kiss?â
She leaned back just enough to look up at him. Her eyes were wide, unreadable. A little wary. âThatâs different,â she murmured.
He let his hand smooth over her back once. Slow. Gentle. âDifferent how?â
âYou were hurt last night,â she said softly. âAnd it felt like⊠I donât know. It was a moment-.â She swallowed, her cheeks warming. âThis⊠this is just morning.â
âThat right?â he asked, voice low and coaxing. âSeems to me morningâs the perfect time for one.â
She hesitated. He saw it, the flicker of doubt, the shy downturn of her mouth. But she didnât pull away.
âCome here,â he said, barely above a whisper. His hand lifted, brushing his thumb along her jaw. âAinât askinâ for more than you want to give.â
That was the thing with him. He didnât push. Didnât press.
He just⊠waited.
So she rose a little on her toes and closed the distance, pressed her lips to his slowly, softly, and uncertainly. It wasnât like the night before, all pain and heat and feelings. This was gentler. A little clumsy.
When she pulled back, her voice was almost breathless. âAlright, that was your kiss.â
He gave her a look. One that made her stomach flip, even with the bruises on his face. âOnly one?â
"Well, if you are not satisfied, I think maybe you should take it yourself."
His eyes darkened just a touch at that, something slow and deliberate swimming behind them.
He leaned in, bracing one palm on the table beside her hip, careful not to crowd her, but close enough she could feel the heat of his body, the way his breath ghosted over her cheek.
âOh?â he murmured, voice rough with sleep and something else. âYou givinâ permission, then?â
She arched a brow. âI said maybe.â
âThatâs all I need.â
He closed the last inch, brushing her nose with his before his lips found her mouth again, slower this time, a little deeper. Not demanding, but sure. Her fingers grabbed the fabric of his shirt before she could stop herself.
When he finally pulled back, there was a ghost of a smirk on his face. âThat was me takinâ the offer.â
She was still catching her breath. âAlright then,â she managed, eyes darting away before settling back on him. âNow sit down before I melt the damn coffee kettle.â
He did, lips still twitching, fixing his gaze on her like he couldnât quite believe any of this was real.
----
As they settled into breakfast -steam curling from her enamel mug and the stove cracking low behind them- Bucky cleared his throat, lowering his eyes to the edge of his plate.
âIâll go with Sam,â he said calmly, like he was mentioning the weather.
She blinked. âGo with Sam where?â
âTo town. With Rumlow. When he comes to haul him in.â
Her fork paused mid-air. âYou what?â
He looked up then, slowly and evenly. âWeâll need your cart.â
âYouâre not serious.â
âDead serious.â He took a bite of biscuit, chewed, and swallowed. âCanât send Sam on his own. Man like Rumlow? He wonât go quiet.â
âAnd you-â she set her fork down sharply, brows drawn. âYou were stabbed. Bucky, youâre stitched together. You should be resting.â
He shrugged one shoulder, slowly from the ache. âAinât made of porcelain.â
âYouâre not made of porcelain,â she echoed, folding her arms. âBut youâre still held together with some thread I had to stitch.â
He looked up at her from beneath his lashes, one hand already reaching for the fork. âYou did a fine job.â
âDonât butter me up,â she huffed, but the corner of her mouth twitched. âYou shouldnât be going anywhere.â
He chewed, then swallowed. âWhen we met, I was half-dead. Shot, fevered, couldnât stand on my own. This,â he said, nodding toward his side, âthis ainât that. Iâm sore. Not broken.â
She looked at him long and hard, and the line between her brows deepened.
He went on, gentler now. âI canât hide under a skirt in a warm kitchen every time I catch a scratch. I wear the badge. Canât mean nothinâ when itâs easy and get dropped the minute itâs not. Folks count on me.â
She didnât answer right away. Just stood, took his empty plate, but before turning, narrowed her eyes. âBut if you tear those stitches-â
âIâll get the blunt needle,â he finished with a faint smirk.
Her mouth twitched despite herself. âExactly.â
As she moved to the counter with his empty plate, he shifted in his chair, wincing slightly but keeping his voice even.
âHey,â he said, stopping her mid-step.
She turned, and raised he brows in quiet question.
âWhen Sam gets here,â he went on, tone lower now, firmer than before, âand we get that son of a bitch out the barn... I donât want you outside.â
Her head tilted, but he didnât let her interrupt.
âDonât want him layinâ eyes on you again. Not even once more.â His jaw worked. âHe doesnât get that. He doesnât get a look at you, or a word, or a damn thing.â
She looked at his face, with something flickering in her gaze, surprise, maybe. Maybe something else.
âYou understand?â he asked, voice softer now, but still stern.
She nodded slowly. âAlright.â
âPromise me.â
âI promise.â
He nodded once, like her promise had quieted something ugly in his chest, then reached for the mug sheâd just refilled.
âIâll telegraph once I arrive in Town,â he muttered, blowing gently on the surface before taking a sip. âThe jailâll have a cell ready for Rumlow. One with a good lock and no window view.â
She leaned against the counter, drying her hands. âNot the cell at the office?â
He shook his head. âNo. I donât want him sittinâ there like heâs some regular drunk soberinâ up. And Iâm sure as hell donât want anyone payinâ him visits. Not Pierce. Not some courier with a coin purse and a smile. Not takinâ any chances.â
She crossed her arms loosely, watching him. âYouâre not takinâ him yourself, are you?â
He snorted once, and winced at the motion. âWhat do you take me for, a fool? I ainât that eager to be back in a saddle today.â Then, more seriously: âSam and Walkerâll handle it. I trust them enough to see it through.â
âYou trust Walker?â
He shrugged. âEnough to escort a tied-up bastard to a locked box.â His eyes flicked up, and something like a shadow of amusement crossed his face.
----
Sam showed up right on time, just as the shadows had begun to shorten and the frost gave way to a thin sheen of melt on the rooftop. The echo of hooves announced his arrival before the knock did. She met him at the door with her shawl pulled tight around her shoulders.
Sam tipped his hat, giving her a once-over with narrowed eyes.
âMorninâ. You alright?â
âI am,â she replied. âCome in. Coffeeâs hot.â
He stepped inside, shedding the cold with his coat, and his gaze landed on Bucky, still sitting at the table.
âYou look like hell,â he muttered plainly.
âIâm fine.â
âSure you are.â Sam shot back, then looked between the two of them. âMind explaininâ what happened last night?â
Bucky exhaled slowly through his nose. âRumlow came ridinâ up like he owned the place,â he started. âKnocked on her door, asked to be let in. Told her he saw men near the property, figured she needed lookinâ after.â
Samâs brows crept up. âAnd?â
âI was in the barn,â Bucky continued. âSaw him. Came out before he could start pressinâ her more. And he didnât like beinâ turned away.â
âThat before or after you brawled in the mud like a coupleâa feral dogs?â
Bucky ignored the comment. âHad a blade up his coat. Got me on the side.â
Sam swore and took a sharp step forward.
âIâm alright,â he cut in before the deputy could fuss. âItâs deep but clean. She took care of it.â
Sam glanced at her. âOf course she did.â Then back at Bucky. âSo where is he?â
âTied up in the barn. Secured. I want him taken straight to jail,â Bucky said. âCanât risk him in our cell where any of his friends could sneak by or try somethinâ stupid. Iâll ride in the cart with you, send a wire from the office, and arrange it with the jailkeeper. Then you and Walker take him the rest of the way.â
Sam gave a short nod, already checking the edge of his coat for his gloves. âYou sure youâre up for the ride?â
âWas stabbed, not shot. Iâll survive the damn cart.â He sounded more like himself now. Grim. Determined.
âAlright, then,â Sam muttered. âLetâs load him up before the sun climbs higher. You wanna stay inside?â he added, glancing her way.
But it was Bucky who spoke, eyes locked on her, jaw clenched again.
âSheâs not cominâ out.â
Sam raised a brow.
âI donât want that snake layinâ eyes on her,â he said, low. âNot even once more.â
She turned around. âIâll get you something warm for the road,â then added, already fixing something in the pan.
Neither of them thanked her. But they didnât need to.
----
It had been a couple of weeks since Rumlow was hauled off to jail, tied up with enough charges to keep him from circling her doorstep ever again. The town had already moved on. Talk faded fast when nothing scandalous came of it, and folks just settled into the idea that the sheriff and the widow were sweet on each other.
Which -by then- wasnât exactly wrong.
Now he sat behind the sheriffâs desk again, shirt tucked neatly but sleeves rolled, squinting at a stack of forms that never got any shorter. His fingers toyed absently with the edge of the herbal sachet sheâd left, lavender and cedar, neatly sewn, with tight and fine stitches. It smelled like her. Or maybe he was just starting to think of that scent as hers, because she always carried it in the folds of her skirts.
Sam leaned against the desk, arms crossed, watching him with that infuriatingly knowing look.
âYou know,â he said, âI thought the fake courtinâ was bad enough, but now that itâs real, sheâs settinâ up camp.â
Bucky didnât look up. âShe ainât settinâ up camp.â
âMan, she brought you a thicker blanket, a rug for your cold-ass floor, a new mug âcause your old one had a crack the size of Kansas, and now sheâs leavinâ sweet-smellinâ bags in your drawers. Whatâs next? Mending your shirts? Darning your socks? You think sheâs doinâ charity?â
Bucky shot him a look sharp enough to skin a deer. âSheâs just⊠makinâ things comfortable.â
âSheâs featherinâ your nest,â Sam drawled.
âSheâs not-â Bucky cut himself off. The denial died on his tongue because even he knew how foolish itâd sound, especially since the office smelled more like her each day. Since heâd found a spare hairpin tucked behind the basin in his bunk room. Since sheâd started folding his damn shirts without a word.
His gaze dropped to the sachet. He ran a thumb across the seam, ears burning faint pink. ââŠAinât complaininâ.â
Sam grinned. âDidnât think you were.â Then, he cleared his throat. âSo⊠she knows that with your sheriffâs pay you could be livinâ like a decent man, not a friar in a broom closet âcause youâre broke, right?â he asked, leaning back on his chair, one boot scuffing the floor. âThat itâs a choice, not a circumstance.â
Bucky didnât look up. âSuppose.â
Sam raised a brow. ââCause from where I stand, itâs lookinâ like sheâs dotinâ on some orphan boy who canât tie his own boots.â
Bucky stopped writing.
Lifted his eyes just enough to meet Samâs, cold and clear. The comment stuck somewhere it wasnât meant to dig in. It wasnât that he minded her small kindnesses. Hell, they undid him. But the way Sam framed it, like she saw him as someone in need of care instead of someone who could give it in returnâŠ
He dropped his eyes back to the paper. The ink bled slightly in the margin under his grip. âI can take care of her,â he muttered, mostly to himself.
Sam didnât grin this time. Just nodded once, easy. âDidnât say you couldnât.â
Silence stretched between them, broken only by the scratch of the pen again as Bucky went back to the paperwork like the chat hadnât touched a nerve.
----
She was in the middle of scrubbing the pot sheâd used for stew the night before when it hit her, she was humming. Just some silly thing her mother used to sing while doing chores, something light and forgettable, an old tune she hadnât heard in years. She rinsed the pot slowly, smiling.
It had been weeks now.
Weeks since the night Bucky bled on her porch and they kissed.
Since Rumlow had been taken off her land in irons, his voice silenced by bruises and the weight of charges no backdoor deal could wash away.
Bucky hadnât been back to the house since then. First, because the wound needed tending and no saddle was kind to healing flesh. Then, because the new judge was a paperwork fiend and seemed to think Buckyâs badge was sewn from parchment.
So she went to him. To the office with its bare cot and cold walls. Sheâll drop by with pie, claiming she was already headed to the general store. Taking the opportunity to leave little things⊠A thicker blanket. A rag rug for the edge of the bed. Bundles of dried herbs to keep the drawer linens from the clothing moths.
It wasnât anything extravagant, just the kind of small comforts she figured no one else had ever thought to give him. There was something about that cold little back room that unsettled her. It looked like a place a man passed through, not one he was meant to stay in.
And he didnât comment on any of it, not directly, but he used them. The blanket stayed on his cot. The sachets didnât move. His coffee cup, the new one she brought in to replace the one with a crack, was always on the desk.
Still, their time together was scarce. Sam gave them moments when he could, but he had a job too. They made do. Bucky found excuses to get close, his touch was never crude or bold. An arm around her waist under the guise of needing to reach past her. Grazing her fingers when he passed a cup. Adjust her shawl, like it needed adjusting, and let his knuckles brush her jaw. He liked to stand behind her when she read something at the desk, close enough that his chest hovered near her back but never quite touched.
And one afternoon, when the sun was pouring through the slats just right, when Sam was off running errands, he kissed her properly. No awkward lead-up. No pretense. Just reached for her, pulled her in, and kissed her like heâd been thinking about it for days.
He wasnât a talker. He showed things with his hands, with actions. And she didnât mind. In fact, she liked that about him. Liked the way his touch had grown more comfortable -more confident- in the little moments they had. Like heâd decided it was allowed now.
She dried her hands, wiped them on the apron tied to her waist. Maybe sheâd head to town after lunch. Said she needed to check on flour, but really, she just missed him.
----
She was half-wrestling the clean sheet over the mattress in the spare room when the knock at the door startled her. Firm enough to be polite. Not urgent.
Her breath caught.
It couldnât be Rumlow. He was gone, locked up where he belonged. Still, her heart picked up as she wiped her hands on the side of her skirt and padded toward the front window. She pulled the curtain just enough to peek.
There he was.
Bucky stood on her porch, shifting slightly like he wasnât sure whether to knock again or turn around. He had his hat in one hand, the other inside his coat. The clothing he wore was clean but road-dusted, like heâd come straight from the edge of town without stopping to brush off.
She didnât bother hiding her smile as she opened the door. âWell,â she said, âthis is a surprise.â
His mouth twitched. At first, he just nodded his head a little stiff, like it was the polite thing to do. But when she arched a brow at him, he stepped forward and pressed a quick, chaste kiss to her lips.
âWas thinkinâ about that window in the spare room,â he said after a beat, clearing his throat as she stepped aside to let him in. âThe one that wonât shut right.â
She gave him a look. âMmhm.â
âAnd⊠figured I oughta take a look at the back roof too. The bathroom one. You said it leaked when it rained last.â
He didnât meet her eyes when he said it. Just scratched the back of his neck, glanced briefly at the floorboards like maybe theyâd give him something better to say.
âSo,â she said slowly, trying not to smile too much as she shut the door behind him, âyou rode all the way out here because of a drafty window and a leaky roof.â
He shrugged, fidgeting a little with the brim of his hat before setting it down on the side table. âHad time,â he muttered. âThought Iâd make myself useful.â
She leaned one shoulder against the doorframe, crossing her arms. âI think you just missed me.â
His ears went pink.
She didnât push. Just nodded toward the kitchen. âCoffeeâs hot. Or I can warm up lunch if youâre hungry. Your call.â
He almost said yes to lunch. She saw the flicker of temptation in the way his eyes lingered on the stove, the shift of his shoulders like he was weighing manners against appetite. But then he looked to the window, at the slant of light across the floorboards, and shook his head.
âBest look at the roof while thereâs still sun,â he said. âDonât want to be up there squintinâ.â
She nodded. âAt least take some water, then.â
He hesitated a moment longer before nodding. âIâll take that.â
She poured it into one of the heavier glasses, and he took it with a soft murmur of thanks, tipped it back, drained it in three long swallows, and handed it back. His fingers brushed hers, rough and warm.
âSure you donât want help?â she offered, though she already knew the answer.
He shook his head, half a smile in his stubble. âIâll manage.
She didnât press. Just stood at the door for a second as he slung his coat across the railing, and started baking.
It was what you did when someone came over and worked under your roof, someone whoâd bled in your kitchen and slept in your bed and whispered things to you in the dark that made your breath catch. Someone who kissed you like it cost him something.
By the time the pie was in the oven, the kitchen already smelled like sugar and butter and cinnamon. She wiped her hands on her apron and glanced at the ticking clock. Heâd been up there a good while.
Grabbing another glass of water, she stepped outside.
And there he was.
Perched on the slanted edge like it was nothing, straddling the peak above the bathroom. A handful of nails held between his teeth, sleeves rolled, arms flexed just enough with each slow, methodical movement.
The shirt clung to his back, damp from sweat, dusty where it brushed against the shingles. His suspenders hung looser now, one strap fallen halfway down an arm.
She didnât say a word at first. Just stood there and watched him work.
He moved, adjusting his stance, and spotted her below.
âYou need somethinâ?â he asked around the nails, pulling them free one by one and setting them between his fingers.
She held up the water. âThought you might want more.â
He reached for it with a murmur of thanks, then handed it over. As she started to turn back, he caught her eye again. Her gaze remained too long on the curve of his back. On his sleeves rolled to the elbow, dirt streaked across his scarred forearm.
When her eyes found his, he arched a questioning brow. She took a breath and let it go slowly. âJust enjoying the view,â she murmured, like it didnât matter. Like her cheeks werenât warming already.
His hammer paused for a beat.
And then he chuckled, low and dry.
âYou bakeinâ somethinâ in there?â he asked without looking down.
âMaybe.â
âFigured. Smells like trouble.â
She smiled and turned back toward the house, his low laugh still drifting down behind her.
Damn man made a roof look like a postcard.
----
He stepped onto the porch and dusted off his shirt with a few hard swipes, then bent to slap the dried grit from his trousers. He shook out his sleeves, ran a hand through his hair, and finally exhaled through his nose like a man ready to face a firing squad instead of a kitchen.
The door creaked as he opened it.
She glanced up from the stove just as he hovered in the threshold, half-shadowed, boot heels planted like they might root to the floorboards.
âAll done,â he said. âShouldnât be any more leakinsâ. Found the spot where the water slipped through, patched it with what you had, and sealed it tight. Needs a new shingle or two come spring, but for now, itâll hold.â
She nodded, pleased, but when she turned fully toward him, he still hadnât moved past the doorframe.
âWhat are you doinâ standinâ there like a statue?â she asked, arching a brow.
His eyes flicked up, then back down. One hand rubbed the back of his neck.
âIâm all dusty,â he muttered. âSweaty too. Didnât wanna get your kitchen dirty.â
The way he said it -quiet, almost sheepish- made her chest clench. Like he was waiting for someone to tell him he didnât belong in the nice parts of a home. The way a boy might be scolded for tracking mud through a front parlor that wasnât his.
She stepped around the table and crossed to him without a word. Took his hand, his big, warm hand, and tugged gently.
âYou just finished an honest dayâs work, one you werenât asked to do, and did anyway. Who gives a damn about dust and sweat in a kitchen,â she said, firm but warmly.
He just blinked at her, but let himself be led.
She walked him right over to the basin and pointed.
âWash your hands.â
He obeyed, silently.
âAnd sit down after,â she added, already cutting into the pie. âYouâre gettinâ a slice before you so much as look at the spare room window.â
He tried to argue. âYou donât have to fuss-â
âI ainât fussinâ. Iâm feedinâ. Sit.â
He did, with the faintest twitch of a smile. When she set the plate in front of him and turned to grab a fork, his gaze followed her. She wasnât looking at him then, but if she had, she wouldâve seen it:
That soft look, like a man seeing something he hadnât let himself hope for.
----
She watched him polish off the last bite of pie, scraping the fork gently against the plate. He leaned back slightly, not quite slouched, and set the fork down with a soft clink.
âWant another slice?â she asked, already reaching for the knife.
He gave a slow nod. âIf youâre offerinâ, Iâd be a fool to say no. Thatâs the best thing Iâve had in months.â
Her mouth twitched at that, trying to hide how that praise made her feel nice in her chest. She turned to cut him a second helping, and when she was about to take his plate, he had already started to stand.
ââScuse me a minute,â he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. âIâll be right back.â
She nodded absently, already sliding the pie knife back into the tin.
----
Bucky stood over the basin, with his hands braced on either side of the chipped porcelain, breathing tightly. The shirt clung to his back with sweat and dust, a reminder of how he must look -and smell- after hours straddling a damn roof like a fool. This wasnât the bunkroom behind the office. Wasnât a saloon with flickering lamplight and no one who gave a damn if you were clean. This was her home.
The thought alone made his gut twist.
Heâd barely tasted the first slice of pie before the awareness of it set an itch he couldnât reach. The way her eyes flicked to him when he stood in the doorway, hesitant to cross into her kitchen. The softness in her voice when she told him to wash his hands. The warmth of her palm guiding his calloused fingers. It was all too much and not enough at once.
He pulled the shirt over his head, and the cool air hit his skin and made him hiss. He didnât want her to see the sweat-soaked cotton, the trail of grime down his neck and arms from lying in hay and crawling across a wooden roof. Not when sheâd taken the time to bake him a pie.
âChrist,â he muttered under his breath, reaching for the bar of laundry soap.
He wet a rag and rubbed until it lathered, dragging it across his chest, under his arms, down the sides of his neck. He scrubbed perhaps harder than intended to feel clean again. Respectable. Like the kind of man who could sit at her table without leaving a mark behind. The smell of the laundry soap, faint and piney, clung to his skin.
Then he splashed water onto his hair, putting some soap foam on it and rinsing the best he could, combing it with his fingers through the mess he had made. He didnât have a proper comb -never thought to carry one- but he flattened it the best he could and slicked it back behind his ears. Itâd have to do.
Looking into the mirror above the basin, he saw a man he didnât quite recognize. Still tired. But... presentable. For her.
He muttered a curse, ran the rag once more across his face, and pulled the shirt back on with a grimace. Still damp, but at least it didnât stink so much now. He rolled the sleeves to the elbows again, adjusted the fall of the hem, and gave himself one last glance before stepping out.
The scent of pear pie greeted him first. She didnât look up right away. But when she did, he caught the flicker in her gaze, the way it dipped to his collar, lingered, then softened.
She didnât say a word about it. Just passed him the plate, and busied herself with pouring coffee so he wouldnât see the way something in her melted a little at the thought of this rough, solitary man splashing himself clean with her laundry soap in her little washroom just to sit at her table and feel right in it.
----
Theyâd been sitting across from each other for maybe fifteen minutes, forks scraping gently against ceramic, the scent of pear and butter still clinging to the warm kitchen air. She said something about the orchard, but he didnât quite catch it. Not really. Not with the way her mouth curved when she spoke, not with the way sheâd just licked a smear of pie filling from the tip of her finger like she hadnât done a damn thing.
And he was starving, sure. But not for pie.
Sheâd caught him staring once or twice already, and each time heâd dropped his gaze like a kid caught with his hand in the sugar jar, fixing his attention sharply on whatever was closest. A stain on the table. The little flowers painted on the plate. His coffee.
Sheâd been watching him right back, he could feel it. And when her eyes caught his again, she didnât let him look away easily this time.
She tilted her head a little. âAlright,â she said quietly, but pointed. âWhat is it?â
He blinked, dragging his eyes to the mug in his hand, buying a beat of time. âHm?â
âYouâve been starinâ at me like youâve got somethinâ on your tongue and donât know if itâs worth sayinâ.â
He scraped his thumb along the edge of his cup. âAinât somethinâ to say polite.â
That made her brows lift. She leaned slightly forward, bracing her elbow on the table, cheek in her hand. Calm. Curious.
âOh? What is it then?â
Shit. His ears heated. She wasnât even trying to tease him, not really, which somehow made it worse. He thought about lying. Thought about brushing it off, saying he was sick in his gut or something like that. But something in her gaze was expectant and open, so he set the mug down and looked her in the eyes.
âIâve been starinâ,â he finally said, voice a little roughened, âbecause itâs been a long damn time since weâve been alone in a room without someone hoverinâ nearby. Because that dress makes me think about things I probably shouldnât at your kitchen table. Because youâre here, and Iâm here, and weâre courtinâ but I still donât know whenâs the polite time to stop beinâ gentlemanly and just⊠put my hands on you the way I want to.â
Her lips parted slightly, but her gaze didnât drop.
âAnd now youâve got me sittinâ here, wonderinâ how much longer I gotta pretend to enjoy this damn pie when all I want is to come around this table and see if you taste sweeter than you bake.â
He exhaled, like heâd held that inside him for too long.
âSorry,â he added after a beat, rubbing a hand across his face. âDidnât mean to make things-â
âYou didnât,â she cut him, then reached out and set her hand over his where it rested on the table. âAnd what way,â she went on, soft but with intent, âis it that you want to touch me?â
Bucky looked down at his plate. Then back up. Then down again, because her voice had dipped, and there was a lilt to it now, something careful, but not shy. His heart thudded in his chest like it had been caught doing something wrong.
He licked his bottom lip, flicking his eyes to where her thumb brushed the back of his hand. Slowly, his own thumb moved to meet it. A slow stroke. Testing.
âNot like a man tryinâ to get his hand under a skirt in a shadowed alley,â he said finally, voice rough with restraint. âBut not like weâre sharinâ coffee in a parlor neither.â
That earned him the smallest tilt of her mouth. Not quite a smirk. Not quite a smile. Something warmer.
âI see,â she murmured.
âNo,â he muttered, shaking his head slightly, gaze dropping again. âYou donât.â
She quirked a brow at that. Sat back slightly, still touching him, but eyeing him now, like she was searching for the line between teasing and truth.
âI know Iâm not the most experienced woman youâve encountered in your life, Bucky,â she said after a breath. âBut Iâm not precisely a debutant either,â she reminded him, slightly lifting her chin. âIâm not as dense or naive as you think me to be.â
âI- I know youâre not,â he stammered, his eyes darting up to her face, then down again. He didnât say virgin. Couldnât. âItâs not that.â He sighed. âItâs just⊠youâre a proper woman,â he went on, voice rough and uncertain now. âAnd there are times for everything, for whatâs right. Whatâs⊠decent. I donât always know the steps to that. Ainât familiar with the dances of it. And I donât want to -hell- donât want to disrespect you.â
He sounded torn in two, one part the man whoâd stared her down in the middle of the kitchen like he meant to devour her, and the other, the quiet, weatherworn boy who still hesitated to meet a gaze in case someone saw too much.
That version of him -that orphaned ache- was always there under the surface, and it pained her every time it showed.
She stood up, slow and sure. Circled the table with measured steps.
He didnât look up at first. Not until her hand came to rest lightly on his jaw, and her thumb brushed the scruff on his cheek like she was handling something fragile and precious.
âWell,â she said gently, âgiven that itâs been stated Iâm not precisely a debutant⊠that we are, in fact, courting⊠and that Iâm willing for you to touch meâŠâ
Her fingers moved, slowly and certain, tangling into the damp strands of his hair behind his ear, drawing his gaze to hers.
âI can assure you, dear,â she whispered, voice low and warm, âI wonât feel disrespected if you touch me.â
His breath hitched faintly.
Her thumb stroked across the edge of his cheekbone, and his hands came up slowly, still uncertain, resting lightly on her waist like he was still asking permission even now. She didnât step back. Didnât speak. Just kept that soft look on her face like she was waiting for him to do what theyâd both been wanting for weeks.
âCâmere,â he rasped.
He eased her closer, then sat back slightly, guiding her gently to his lap with a slow pull. Her skirts settled around them, her knees bracketing his thigh.
His hand came up slowly to her neck, tracing the thick braid that lay against her chest.
âBeen thinkinâ about this,â he murmured, tugging just enough at the end of it to tilt her face toward his. âToo damn long.â
Then he kissed her.
Not soft, not careful. But Deep and slow. Her hands grabbed his shoulders, and he groaned low in his throat, sliding one hand up to rest just below the swell of her breast. He didnât push. Didnât grab. Just touched, with his wide and warm palm over the fabric of her dress.
She pressed in closer, and he kept tasting her, the tug on her braid keeping her tilted just so, mouths brushing and catching again until both their chests rose in uneven rhythm.
She pulled back just enough to look at him, lips flushed, braid loosened near her throat, eyes flickering between his mouth and his eyes. Her breath ghosted over his cheek when she spoke.
âWhat if I tell you, I do want you to touch me like a man tryinâ to get his hand under a skirt in a shadowed alley?â she asked.
For half a second, he froze.
His brain went blank, stunned, like he wasnât sure he heard her right. Like every part of him stalled just to replay her voice in his head.
But then, she shifted. Just subtly, her thighs adjusted against his, her weight rolling against his leg, her fingers pressing tighter into the fabric at his shoulders.
And all pretense of decorum flew clean out the window.
He swore under his breath.
His hand slipped from her side to her back, dragging her into him with a need he didnât bother hiding now. The one cupping the side of her face slid lower, down the line of her neck to her collarbone, brushing the edge of the braid like it burned him. His lips were on her jaw, her throat, her pulse, hungry now, claiming the taste of her skin.
His voice was ragged against her. âThen you better hold on, sweetheart. âCause Iâve got a whole damn alleyâs worth of want backed up in me.â
He didnât wait for a reply, because sheâd already given it, in the way she shifted closer, in the way her breath hitched when his mouth trailed along the hollow of her neck. In the way her hands slipped from his shoulders to the buttons of his shirt, fumbling a little, like her fingers couldnât keep up with the want.
He tugged the braid again, just enough to angle her mouth to his, to kiss her with a groan buried in his throat, and her soft gasp only spurred him on.
When she tugged his shirt from his waistband, he let her, let her hands roam up his chest, then the sides of his torso.
And then her hands slid lower.
His head dropped forward, resting his forehead against hers. She reached for the hem of her dress, and he stilled her hands, not to stop her, but to help. Pulled the fabric up her thighs, bunched it at her hips so he could finally feel the warmth of her skin against his trousers. His hand cupped the back of her thigh, dragging up his fingers slowly until she shivered against him.
âYou sure?â he asked, voice barely holding together.
âIâm still here, arenât I?â she murmured.
He stood with her still on his lap, her legs instinctively wrapping around him, and his hands gripped under her thighs, broad palms against the shape of her rear as he carried her toward the bedroom.
She blinked. âBucky?â
His jaw ticked. âIâm not doinâ this rushed. Not with you.â
The bedroom was dim, the afternoon sun cutting soft lines across the sheets sheâd changed earlier. He nudged the door shut with his foot and laid her on the bed like she was something to be unwrapped. Then stood at the edge, looking down at her, breath uneven.
Her hair was loose now, lips already kiss-swollen, skirt bunched at her thighs. She watched him with eyes wide and hungry. Her hand reached for the buttons of her dress, but he caught it gently, shaking his head.
âLet me.â
And so he did. Unbuttoned her slowly, brushing the fabric away inch by inch. He peeled the dress down her shoulders with reverence, baring her gradually, and by the time she was left in nothing but her stockings and the thin cotton chemise, his own shirt had joined the pile on the floor. She reached out to him, caressing his chest, the flat of his stomach, the long lines of muscle traced with old scars she hadnât seen up close until now. He stilled under her touch, eyes fluttering shut.
When his hands reached the hem of her chemise, he paused, pressing his fingers at the edge. He didnât look at her, not at first. Just stared at the fabric between his knuckles, the delicate cotton.
Then his eyes lifted.
âCan I?â he rasped, voice scraped raw with restraint.
She nodded, slow and sure.
His hands slid up her sides, lifting the chemise inch by inch. Her arms lifted instinctively, letting him tug it over her head, and then it was gone, left somewhere on the floor. She lay there in nothing but her stockings, the soft hem of them hugging her thighs.
Bucky froze.
His gaze dragged over her, pupils blown wide, lips parted like he had words but forgot them all.
When he climbed over her, she thought this was it. That this was what came next. It was all sheâd known: some kisses, bodies together in the dark, fumbling hands and quiet sounds. Familiar. Sweet.
But Bucky leaned down, kissed her again -slow, deep- then his lips began to move lower. Over her jaw. Down the slope of her neck. Across the curve of her shoulder. Lower still.
His mouth pressed to the edge of one breast, then the other. Nuzzled warmly into her skin before brushing his lips, carefully, over one nipple.
Her breath caught.
His tongue flicked gently. Just once. Her back arched, and a soft sound escaped her throat, half surprise, half something deeper. He closed his mouth over her then, suckling with care, patient and deliberate until her toes curled against the mattress.
Another gasp. Her hands rose instinctively, clinging to his shoulders, digging her nails into solid muscle as he moved to the other side. Warm tongue, reverent lips. One hand trailed lower, slowly over her belly, as if to say stay with me, while he took his time learning every inch of her.
âThat... that felt good,â she whispered, breathless.
He looked up at her then, hair falling across one cheek, lips damp. âYou ainât felt nothinâ yet,â he said, voice rough with heat.
And then he started to move down.
He kissed his way along her belly, her hip, stopping to linger at every patch of skin. One hand slid under her thigh, tracing his fingertips over the top edge of her stocking, and then he kissed the inside of her leg, close -too close- to where she throbbed for him.
She bolted upright on her elbows, all wide eyes, heat flooding her cheeks.
âWhat- what are you doing?â
His voice was low, and warm. âWhat you deserve.â He gently parted her thighs, brushing his mouth over her skin like he had all the time in the world. âGonna make you feel good. Just lie back, honey.â
âBut I- Iâve never-â She didnât know how to finish. Her cheeks burned hot.
He met her eyes âThen I reckon youâve been shorted. âCause this?â He kissed just higher, lips barely grazing her skin. âThis is how a man loves a woman proper.â
Her breath stuttered.
And then she did exactly what he asked, lay back and let him show her.
He saw the way her fingers clenched at the sheets, how her thighs tensed slightly under his hands, torn between modesty and anticipation. She wasnât stopping him. She was just flustered, overwhelmed.
So he slowed.
His mouth pressed another kiss to the tender skin of her inner thigh, then another, until she exhaled slowly, and her body eased into the mattress inch by inch.
âGood,â he murmured against her. âJust like that.â
When he finally let his mouth brush over her folds, she shivered, a soft gasp leaving her lips as her hips twitched up involuntarily. His hands steadied her, one large palm splayed against her belly, the other smoothing over her thigh. And then he did it again, circling, teasing, suckling. His tongue moved with purpose. Slowly. Rhythmic. Reverently.
Her head tipped back.
One of her hands gripping the sheet found its way to his hair, tangling her fingers on his locks as her breath became quicker. She wasnât quiet, not anymore. Soft sounds escaped her lips, startled at first, then shameless, open.
Bucky groaned low when he felt her start to tremble, the sound vibrating against her in a way that made her cry out softly.
âBucky-â she gasped, hips rolling against his mouth, helpless.
âThatâs it,â he rasped between strokes, âLet go for me.â
And she did.
With a stuttering gasp and her legs trembling around his shoulders, she came against his mouth. She wasnât shy about the way her body jerked under him, or the way she whimpered his name like a prayer when it ended.
He stayed there, kissing the soft inside of her thigh again, his stubble rough and tender all at once. His hand stroked her hip as her breathing slowed.
When she finally looked down at him again, his mouth was slick, eyes dark, lips swollen from use.
âYouâŠâ she tried, dazed. âThat wasâŠâ
âBeen wantinâ to,â he said, voice like dusk. âSince I saw you in that kitchen apron the week I stayed here. Didnât even know what hit me, just⊠knew Iâd give up anything to put my mouth on you like that.â
She reached for him then and pulled him up, dragging him by the shoulder and the back of his neck until he was back over her, his chest brushing hers.
He hissed softly as his new scar tugged his skin, but didnât stop. Not when she kissed him, slow and deep, tasting herself on his tongue. Not when her fingers started to fumble with the buttons of his trousers.
Her cheeks were flushed, sure. But her voice wasnât shy when she murmured, âCome on, Sheriff. Now take your time gettinâ inside me.â
His breath caught, more startled by the words than anything else. Heat rushed up his neck. Hell, heâd heard things said in saloons thatâd make most men blush, but coming from her? His proper woman with proper manners? He cursed under his breath, low and ragged.
âWell,â he muttered, âIâd be a damn fool not to listen to an order like that.â
He helped her ease down the fabric of his trousers. This time, the underthings were newer. Still plain, but not frayed and shameful like last time.
The moment they came off and her eyes flicked down, her gaze widened just a little, not precisely with fear, but something like stunned curiosity. She had seen it before when tending him, but resting.
He saw her expression and chuckled dryly. âHope youâre not disappointed.â
She didnât laugh.
Instead, her lips parted, and she said quietly, âNot precisely disappointed. Just... uncertain.â
He raised a brow, the corner of his mouth tugging into something like a smile. âDidnât hear complaints before, sugar.â
Her eyes met his, lips still parted from her soft confession. He leaned over her then, kissing her gently, slowly, as his hand trailed down her waist.
âYouâll be good,â he murmured against her mouth.
He shifted between her thighs, parting them with reverence, and guided himself along her slick heat with slow, deliberate strokes meant to coat, not press, not force. His breath was already ragged from restraint, from the warmth of her body against him, from the knowledge that this moment was no longer imagined. It was real. And when he finally eased his hips to line himself up, the resistance surprised him.
She tensed slightly beneath him, gripping the quilt with her fingers. âItâs been a long time,â she murmured, voice barely more than breath, holding his gaze.
ââS alright,â he rasped, dropping his head to kiss her temple, then lower, the bridge of her nose. âAinât in no rush.â
One of his hands trailed down between them, and he slid a finger inside her, gently, slowly, then added another, curling just enough to make her back arch. She gasped, hips twitching, and he whispered again, âI said weâd go slow. Let me take care of you, honey.â His voice was velvet. There was no hunger in it, not yet. Just patience. Just care. He watched her body respond, her thighs loosening, her breathing hitching, her hips moving faintly in search of more.
âThere,â he murmured, brushing his lips over her cheek. âThere you go. Thatâs it.â His thumb circled her clit tenderly as his fingers worked her open, coaxing softness from tension, wetness from hesitation.
Only when she sighed and shifted did he pull his hand back, guiding himself again with careful pressure, watching her face the whole time. âIf itâs too much, you tell me. You say stop.â
She nodded and braced herself with both hands on his shoulders.
He pushed in slowly, and his breath caught as her body welcomed him, tight and hot and trembling around him.
âJesus,â he hissed, shutting his eyes for half a second. âYou feel- God, darlinââŠâ
She felt impossibly full. Stretched around him, her nails sinking into his shoulders as he sank in inch by inch, with gritted teeth, like each second tested his restraint to its limit. He was breathing through his nose, harsh and shallow, a vein throbbing at the side of his neck.
âYou alright?â he murmured, voice barely held together.
She nodded, âYeah, jusâ... a lot.â
âI know,â he whispered, pressing a kiss to her brow, then her cheek, then lower, nuzzling the corner of her mouth. âYouâre takinâ me so goddamn good.â
And then she exhaled, a full-body release of tension, her back softening beneath him, her hips rising just a little, inviting to move.
He felt it.
And let go.
Slowly at first, testing the motion. She gasped, one hand flying to grip the bedsheet, and he groaned deeply.
âYouâre squeezinâ me like you never been fucked.â he muttered, grazing her neck with his teeth.
She whimpered -raw, helpless- and he began to move in earnest now. Smooth strokes that rocked her against the mattress, bracing his weight on his forearms, pressing her body down with his in the best kind of way. Her legs wrapped tighter around his waist, thighs trembling, and when he angled just right-
âOh-â she choked out, eyes flying open.
âThere?â he rasped, pulling back and driving in again, watching her shudder. âThat's what you like?â
She nodded frantically, lips parted, soundless moans catching in her throat.
He fucked her harder then, rhythmic, relentless, still careful but with weight behind each stroke, hands planted beside her shoulders, hair falling loose and wild around his face.
âLook at me,â he muttered.
Her lashes fluttered.
âCâmon, sweetheart, eyes on me while I fuck you.â
The words shocked her, raw and filthy.
Her gaze met his.
And God, he looked ruined, cheeks flushed, lips bitten red, blue eyes dark and blown wide. He rocked into her harder and saw her mouth fall open on a silent cry.
âYou feel this?â he whispered, leaning in until their foreheads touched, his hips grinding deeply. âEvery inch of me inside you, sugar. Wrapped around me like you were made for it.â
She whimpered, rising her hips to meet his now, chasing the friction.
âBeen thinkinâ about this since the day you let me touch you,â he went on. âThinkinâ about stretchinâ you open on my cock, makinâ you mine for real.â
Her fingers clawed at his back.
That voice. Those words.
He didnât speak like that. Not around her. Not ever.
He was always so careful with her, measured, quiet. Even when angry, Bucky Barnes spoke like a man with his fists tied behind his back, every syllable tempered, every word weighed before it left his mouth.
But this, this wasnât the sheriff.
This was the man beneath it.
The one who lived too long in rooms with no doors, the one whose wants were so repressed they came out raw when he let go. And hearing that voice, coarse and low, saying filthy things⊠things no one had ever dared say to her-
It made her wetter.
âYouâre mine, arenât you?â he hissed. âYouâre my woman. Tell me.â
She swallowed a sob. âY-yes- yes, Bucky-â
And the way he groaned then, sheâd never forget that sound. Never.
Then, without a word, he shifted his weight and spread one of her thighs wider with his hand, planting it firmly against the mattress. The other slid between their bodies, pressing his fingers hot and sure against the bud of nerves he hadnât yet touched.
She gasped -half breath, half cry- startled all over again, like she hadnât known she could feel that much, that sharply, all at once.
He noticed.
Oh, he noticed.
The way her body tensed under him, her mouth parted in stunned pleasure. And it clicked, something carnal and furious dawning in his brain: no one had ever done this for her. No one had ever taken the time to show her what her body could do while fucking, what it deserved to feel.
The thought made his rhythm falter, almost spilling inside her.
He gritted his teeth, sweat dripping from his brow as he worked her in time with his thrusts, the soft, wet sounds between them growing louder. Her hands scrambled up his back again, nails sinking in, her hips twitching against his hand.
âGod,â he muttered through clenched teeth. âYou never- have you never been touched like this?â
She didnât answer. Didnât need to.
Her whimpers were enough answer.
âChrist,â he growled, dropping his forehead to her shoulder.
Her walls clenched around him, and he felt the tremble in her thighs.
âYouâre gonna come on my cock,â he said, voice like gravel, âlike a good little wife-â
The word slipped out of his lips raw and unfiltered.
She moaned, louder this time, startled again, her eyes fluttered shut in ecstasy.
He caught her chin in one hand, fingers still working her, hips grinding deeper.
âLook at me,â he ordered, low and rough. âEyes on me when you come. Let me see it, darling.â
She shattered with a cry she didnât recognize, trying to look at him but failing when her eyes rolled back with pleasure, clenching around him so hard he lost rhythm, cursed, and buried himself as deep as he could go.
His release hit a moment later -violent and staggering- his whole body bending over hers as he grunted and spilled inside her, gripping the sheets tight enough to almost tear them.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of their breathing, uneven, gasping, tangled in each other like the whole world had narrowed to this bed, this room, this moment.
ââŠJesus,â he breathed against her neck.
She didnât answer.
Couldnât.
Not with the way her heart was still trying to find its rhythm again, not with the way her thighs still trembled faintly where they wrapped around his hips. Her hand lay limp on his shoulder, her fingers twitching like sheâd forgotten they didnât need to hold on anymore.
He stayed inside her for a long moment, both of them still catching up to themselves. The only sounds were their breaths and the fire cracking softly in the next room.
Then, slowly, he drew back with a hiss through his teeth. She winced too, not from pain, but from the strange aching feel of being left suddenly empty. His softening cock slipped free with a wet sound, a trail of his spend slipping after it, hot and messy between her thighs.
She let her eyes close.
And then he was moving again. He lay down on his side, and without asking, without hesitating, he dragged her against him.
One arm hooked low under her hips, the other winding firm around her shoulders, sinking her to his chest like afraid she'd vanish if he loosened his grip.
She let him. Felt good being tucked against his sweat-damp skin, her legs tangled with his, her cheek rested against the spot where his heart pounded slow and steady again.
He didnât speak. Just exhaled long and quietly into her hair, moving his hand over her back like he was still testing that she was real.
Like letting go wasnât even a consideration.
----
They didnât move for a while. The sheets were tangled, their skin sticky with sweat.
It was late afternoon.
Buckyâd have to go soon. He sighed, deep and reluctantly, and she felt the rise and fall of his chest against her cheek before he shifted slightly, propping himself up on one elbow.
He looked down at her, her hair mussed, lips still kiss-swollen, lashes casting shadows on her cheek.
âI should head back before it gets too dark,â he murmured. But he didnât move.
She didnât say anything. Just nodded a little.
His fingers found her arm, then slid down to her wrist, and curled gently around it. ââŠWanted to say thanks,â he added. âFor the things you left at the office. The blanket. That sachet. The new mug.â
She blinked, turned her head slightly to look up at him. He wasnât looking at her, just somewhere past her shoulder.
âIâm not really good at⊠keepinâ myself. Always figured if I had a roof and a bed, that was plenty.â He exhaled through his nose. âNever really thought about comfort. Not the way you do.â
She didnât answer right away. Just leaned up a little and pressed her lips to his jaw, slow and softly.
The quiet after that stretched.
He wasnât making a move to leave yet, and she⊠well, her mind kept circling back. Back to the way heâd spoken to her not long ago, his voice rough and unraveled with need. Youâre gonna come on my cock like a good little wife.
She knew he cared. That much was clear. The whole damn town knew about them now, this time for real. But there was still a difference between being sweethearts and⊠something else.
She hated herself a little for bringing it up. But she didnât like guessing games. Didnât like not knowing where she stood.
âCan I ask you something?â she murmured at last, watching his profile in the soft light.
His gaze shifted to hers. âAnything.â
Her cheeks warmed, but she didnât back down. âEarlier, when we- you said somethinâ.â
He frowned slightly, scratching the back of his neck. Dammit. He already knew. Knew exactly what she meant. He had run his mouth talking to her like a common whore and probably she was rethinking her life choices right now.
âI said a lot of things,â he drawled, trying to play it down, even as dread pressed down in his gut. âIf I said somethinâ crude, I-â
âYou called me your little wife.â
He went still. Heart stuttering, throat dry. Yeah, he did. Heâd gone and said it, a damn boyish dream spit out in the middle of heat and skin and her sweet voice in his ear.
âI⊠I didnât-â He started, stumbled. âI didnât mean- I mean, I did, but not like-â
Her shoulders tensed slightly. She gave a tiny nod, dipping her gaze to the quilt between them.
âItâs alright,â she murmured quickly, too quickly. âI was just curious, thatâs all. You donât have to explain, I know it was just-â
âNo,â he said, sharper than he meant to. Her head jerked up.
He dragged a hand down his face. âNo,â he said again, lower this time, more like himself. âThat ainât what I meant. I just- I wasnât expectinâ to get called out on it. Thought itâd stayed in my damn head where it belongs.â
She blinked, unsure.
Bucky exhaled hard through his nose, then met her eyes and made himself speak.
âI said it,â he muttered. âBecause I think about it more than I oughta. âBout you. âBout what itâd be like. If you were mine, for real. If I had a house to walk back to, and you were there. I-â he looked away for a second, then back again. âI didnât say it like a filthy thing.â
He swallowed hard. âTruth is, thereâs things Iâve been meaninâ to take care of before askinâ you proper. Wanted it to be right. Wanted to give you more than just, this.â His thumb brushed over her knuckles. âMore than just a man who means well but sleeps in a damn cot behind a desk.â
He let out a low chuckle, dry, self-mocking. âAnd yet here I am, talkinâ about it with my ass naked, instead of askinâ like I should, when I should. Seems I couldnât even manage that part right.â.â His voice turned hoarse, and his mouth became a thin line. Embarrassed. Ashamed, maybe, like some part of him still thought he didnât deserve to want things like that.
But she shifted closer without hesitation, her bare legs brushing his beneath the sheets. One hand slid up his chest, over the solid beat of his heart, and her thumb made slow, soft circles there like she could soothe the old ache.
âYou want to marry me?â she asked softly.
âI do,â he said. Plain and quiet.
She smiled warmly then, and leaned forward, brushing his cheek with her nose, then kissed the corner of his mouth tenderly. âWell,â she murmured, âI guess Iâll wait to hear you ask proper, then.â
Bucky didnât smile, not exactly. But something in his eyes warmed. Like maybe that part of him that had always braced for rejection had finally found a place to rest. Just drew her in a little closer, resting his chin on her head.
âI will,â he said finally, quiet against her hair. âNot today. But soon.â
She hummed and nodded slowly. Like it was enough.
Her fingers trailed over his chest, then stilled to lazily trace the edge of an old scar just beneath his ribs. The pad of her thumb circled there, slow and aimlessly, and his breath caught a little from how good it felt.
Outside, the wind shifted the trees. Inside, the only sound was the slow, matched rhythm of their breaths.
She pressed a soft kiss to the hollow of his throat, then let her cheek rest there, right over the thrum of his pulse. âBet this wasnât what you pictured when you came to fix the roof,â she murmured.
He huffed, mouth quirking against her temple. âDidnât even get to fix the damn window.â
âWell,â she said, eyes already drifting closed, âguess youâll just have to come back.â
He smiled into her hair, his arm pressing just a little harder around her, like he didnât want to let even an inch of her go.
He pressed a kiss to her hair and let his lips remain there.
âDidnât think Iâd ever get somethinâ like this,â he murmured.
She tilted her face toward him, brushing her nose along his jaw, her fingers resting over his heart. âYou did.â
His free hand found hers beneath the covers, intertwining their fingers tightly.
summary: a mission had gone to hell, wounded and cornered, you and bucky hide in a shaft barely wide enough for one. it starts with a touch, and it ends with you coming undone in his hands.
word count: 4.6k
author's note: hi my loves! this is an idea i had in my mind lately, and i am so excited to finally have it posted up! love you guys, please stay safe! đ
The concrete floor was soaked in blood and coolant.
Thick rivulets ran beneath your boots, mingling into a sickly smear that clung to every step. The air was chokingly damp, metallic with rust and something sharperâozone, maybe, or the aftermath of plasma fire.Â
The walls groaned around you, steel skeletons straining under stress fractures. Overhead, emergency strobes flickered with epileptic urgency, casting red and white pulses that danced like ghosts across scorched tile and broken rebar.
Somewhere behind you, a pipe burst with a metallic scream, jetting steam into the air so violently it echoed like a detonation. The shockwave reverberated through the corridor, rattling the bones of the facility.Â
The lights overhead guttered, struggling to stay alive in the chaos. They buzzed and flickered, bathing everything in a staccato strobe that blurred movement into nightmare. Friend and enemy were just silhouettes now. Just shadows.
Every breath tasted like smoke and copper and panic.
You sprinted.
Boots hammered against the ground, splashing through slick pools of coolant and something darker. Your lungs burned, your throat scraped raw from the air that was quickly turning to poison.Â
Each step jarred your body, jostling the fresh wound at your sideâa sharp, searing burn that you were trying very hard to ignore. But when your hand shot down to apply pressure, your glove came away red and sticky.
Shit.
Bucky was just ahead of youâa dark silhouette moving like a phantom, purposeful and controlled even in the carnage. He turned sharply at the junction, glock raised, muscles coiled tight.
He didnât glance back, but you didnât need him to. You could feel his awareness of you like a wire stretched taut between your bodiesâa constant pull.Â
He moved with you in mind.
Always.
The sirens overhead howled, their keening pitch loud enough to blur thought. Somewhere in the distance, distorted voices barked over intercoms in a language you didnât recognise. The earpiece at your neck spat static, crackled once, then died.
"Commâs dead," you rasped, ducking low as gunfire split the corner behind you, rounds ricocheting off the far wall with sparks.
"No shit," Bucky muttered, already moving, already firing. Three controlled burstsâcenter mass. The figure ahead dropped before it could scream. âYouâre bleeding.â
âI noticed,â you bit out, stumbling slightly as you followed him through the next turn. The corner of the wall caught your shoulderâpain flared.
This wasnât how it was supposed to go.
Quick in. Quick out. Sweep the lower levels, confirm the cache, plant charges. Black market tech from some HYDRA splinter.Â
Old ghosts.
Easy target.
But somewhere between the briefing room and ground level, everything had gone to hell.
The resistance was heavier than expected. The layout had changed and there were reinforcements waitingâarmed. Whoever was here had been tipped off, and now the entire facility was shaking apart around you.
Another shadow lunged from the smokeâBucky didnât hesitate. The glock cracked once, and the man fell like a puppet with its strings cut.
âWe need cover. Now.â
âIâm open to suggestions,â you muttered, teeth clenched. Your boot skidded across the slick groundâa slurry of melted tile, blood, and some kind of chemical discharge. You nearly went down.
Bucky grabbed your vest with one quick, powerful jerk, yanking you back upright. His vibranium fingers curled around your gear like steel cables, the motion precise but rough. âYou with me?â
You nodded, panting. âStill standing.â
He glanced down, eyes darkening as they took in the spreading stain at your ribs. There was a moment, just a flicker, where something colder passed over his face. Not panic.Â
Not exactly. Something sharper. Something older. Not at you. At whoever had fired that round. At the idea of losing you.
The ground rumbled again beneath your boots. Another explosion, deeper this time. Structural, maybe. Something was definitely collapsing.
âTheyâre trying to bury this place,â you breathed.
âNoââ he said, grim. âTheyâre trying to bury us.â
His gaze darted around the corridor, calculating in that quick, precise way he did, always seeing angles, routes, exits. A soldierâs mind. A killerâs instinct.Â
Then it landedâsharp, immediate.
âThere.â
To your left, a collapsed portion of wall, partially obscured by a mound of broken paneling and twisted rebar. Barely noticeable unless you were looking. Bucky was already on it, shoving debris aside like it weighed nothing.
Behind the rubble, a maintenance shaft. Narrow. Deep. Black.
Just wide enough for two bodies, thatâs if they didnât mind pressing close.
Too close.
âIn.â His voice cracked like a whip, sharp and absolute.
You stared at it. âYouâve got to be fucking kidding.â
âIâm not.â
The shaft looked like a coffin. The jagged metal edges were wet with condensation, the air inside swirling with oil and smoke. âThereâs no way we both fit in there.â
âThen Iâll go first,â he snapped, already tearing down more of the frame to make room. âBut youâre coming with me.â
He turned to you, face shadowed, voice lowering. âWe donât have time for a debate. Reinforcements are inbound. Weâre outgunned. Comms are dead. And youâre fucking hit.â His tone dropped lower. Rougher. âGet the fuck in.â
It wasnât the words that made you move. It was the voice.
Commanding, steady and final.
You ducked into the shaft, your shoulders scraping the sides, the ceiling just inches above your head. The air inside was suffocating, thick and chemical, humming with static energy. You pressed back against the wall, one foot braced awkwardly as you twisted your body to fit.
Then he came in after you.
His bulk filled the space in a rush, the scrape of his tactical gear, the rough press of his thigh slotting between yours, the weight of his body shifting against your own as he maneuvered inside. His rifle braced beside your ear, muzzle angled down.
You could feel every inch of him.
His chest, firm and heaving, pressed to yours. His forearm planted above your head. His other arm curled tight around your waist, steadying you. Holding you. There was no room to move. No room to breathe.
His mouth was at your ear when he spoke, quiet, low.
âDonât move.â
And just like that, the world narrowed to heat and breath and the impossible thrum of your heartbeat echoing through the dark.
The darkness swallowed you whole.
It wasnât just the absence of light, it was thick, oppressive, as if the walls themselves inhaled and held their breath the moment you stepped inside.
A tomb disguised as shelter. The kind of dark that clung to skin and filled lungs. That made every shallow breath echo back twice as loud. You could feel it, the narrow, concrete throat of the shaft compressing around you, closing in with every heartbeat.
You werenât alone in it.
You could feel the narrow walls breathing with the heat of your bodies, every exhale ricocheting off metal and stone until it circled back in whispers, growing louder with every pulse of blood in your ears.Â
The space wasnât built for hiding. It wasnât built for people. It was a maintenance shaft, narrow, ancient. But Bucky had forced his way in after you, muscled past jagged steel and choking heat until his body pressed fully to yours, armour against armour, thigh slotted between your legs.
Now, you couldnât tell where you ended and he began.
His hand was braced above your head, palm flat against the wall, elbow bent to keep from crushing you. The strain in his shoulder was visible even in the dim glow leaking from a crack in the wall, veins flexed under dirt-slick skin.Â
His other arm wrapped firmly around your waist, anchoring you there, holding you still, holding you close, like letting go wasnât an option. Not here. Not now.
You could feel the heat of him in every place he touched you. The flex of his forearm braced against your back. The steady, controlled drag of his breath, each inhale expanding his chest, pushing it flush against your own. You were plastered together.
No space.
No choice.
And his thigh, god, his thigh was wedged between yours, firm and unmoving, supported most of your weight now. It was the only reason you werenât sagging into him completely.
You didnât dare move.
Not with the blood roaring in your ears. Not with your wound still hot and throbbing under your tac suit. Not with Bucky fucking Barnes flush against every inch of you.
But still, your body noticed.
It always had.
The heat. The tension. The way his breath ghosted over your temple, short and fast, like he wasnât as composed as he wanted you to think. You could feel his heartbeat through the chest plate of his suit. Fast. Sharp. Right in sync with yours. The brush of his belt buckle dug into your hip. His shoulder pressed into the curve of yours, hard enough to ache.
Then the tremor in his fingers, subtle, but real, as they flexed slightly around your waist.
âBe quiet,â he whispered, the sound so low and deep it felt like it came from inside your chest rather than outside it. A command dressed like a plea.
âI am quiet,â you hissed back, lips barely moving.
âI can hear your heartbeat, princess.â
The nickname landed like a sinâsharp, searing, and soaked in sarcasm. It was barely more than a breath, but it still cut through the hush like a lit match, curling down your spine, making something inside you clench.
Outside, just beyond the cracked wall, the hall rumbled with the stomp of boots.
The enemy was still close.
You could hear them, the soldiers moving in tight formation. Orders barked in clipped, guttural accents. Gear clanking. Flashlights sweeping methodically through the gloom. One beam licked along the edge of the breach just inches from your foot.
You stopped breathing.
Your muscles went rigid, throat tight, every instinct screaming Donât move.
And then, Bucky shifted closer. Just slightly. But it felt like the world tilted with him. His chest flattened more fully against yours, his thigh pinning you tighter. Your breast grazed the edge of his vest, your nipple dragging across thick Kevlar.
You inhaled, too sharp. He felt it.
You saw his jaw tighten. Felt his arm tense. Like he felt it, too. Like he noticed everything.
The light passed.
The soldiers didnât.
But neither of you dared relax.
Because the longer you stayed like that, shoulder to shoulder, mouth to ear, sweat pooling between your skinâthe worse it got.
The heat was unbearable now. Trapped. It had nowhere to go but in. Into your pores. Into your bloodstream. Clinging to your skin like a second suit. Your body was trembling, not from exertion, not from blood loss, but from something deeper. Hotter. More dangerous.
Because it wasnât just adrenaline anymore.
Your body had made a decision without your consent, without consulting the mission clock or the bullet wound still leaking crimson under your gear. It didnât care that this was a suicide hole in the side of a collapsing facility. That HYDRA's leftovers were closing in with guns and floodlights.Â
That you hated the man pinning you in place.
Because this tension? It wasnât new.
It had always been there, since the first moment Val had slammed your names together and ordered you into the field. âTry not to kill each other,â sheâd said. Like it was a joke. Like it hadnât already been written in the way youâd looked at each other.
You sparred like enemies. Like animals. You left bruises. Cracked ribs.Â
You taunted, you snapped. You called him grumpy old man under your breath. He called you reckless, annoying, a fucking pain in his. You rolled your eyes when he brooded. He glared when you flirtedâespecially when it wasnât with him.
And yet, in combat, you were perfect.
Seamless. Lethal.
He always had your six, you always took the perfect shot. He moved, you followed. You moved, he shielded. You never missed each other.
Like muscle memory.
And maybe that was why thisânowâfelt so inevitable.
But still, nothing had prepared you for the feel of him like this.
The sharp scent of cordite still clinging to his sweat. The way his breath hit your cheek, too warm, too fast. The press of something hard against your hip.
You blinked, heart stuttering. You didnât dare look down. You didnât need to.
Bucky didnât move. But you saw it, that flicker of strain in his eyes. The muscle feathering in his jaw.
Like he was trying not to look at your mouth.
Like he was pretending his cock wasnât pressed thick and full against the curve of your hip.
Your thighs squeezed around his leg. Reflex. Instinct.
Not fear.
His arm flexed around your waist, vibranium fingers shifted slightly, grazing the hem of your shirt, dragging over sweat-slick fabric like an accident. You knew it wasnât.
You swallowed hard.
âStill think this was a good idea?â you whispered, sarcasm a lifeline now, the only thing between you and the cliff you were hanging off.
He exhaled a laugh against your neck. Warm. Dangerous. âWould you rather be riddled with bullets right now?â
You didnât miss a beat. âWould hurt less.â
His lips ghosted close. Close enough to feel but not touch. âDonât tempt me.â
The silence that followed was electric, sharp enough to cut. You could feel the tension morphing. Twisting into something raw. Something that clawed under your skin and dug in deep.
Your chest dragged across his with every breath, nipples painfully stiff under your bra, and your hips buzzed, caught between the sting of your injury and the dull throb of growing heat. You were sore. Sweating. You ached everywhere.
And you wanted him to move.
His vibranium hand flexed again, pressing into the curve of your spine.
Every nerve in your body lit up like a fuse.
âYou need to stop that,â you whispered. Barely audible.
âIâm not doing anything,â he murmured back, and he sounded so calm.
Too calm.
Too close.
You shifted. Just a fraction. Just to prove a point.
He groaned. A quiet, broken thing, deep in his chest.
âYouâre not helping,â he gritted out, voice rougher now, voice that frayed at the edges.
âYouâre the one pressed against me like some fucking space heater,â you hissed back.
Thenâanother voice outside. A barked command. Boots pivoting.
You both froze.
The moment stretched. Tightened.
Then, the sounds retreated. One step. Another. Fading.
Silence.
Your eyes found his in the dark.Â
Neither of you breathed.
Neither of you blinked.
âI hate you,â you whispered, and it wasnât convincing.
âSure you do,â he whispered back.
His hand stayed curled tight at your waist.
And he didnât move away.
It started small.
A shift. A breath. The slow, deliberate drag of his thumb along your waist. Just a brush at first, casual, even, but it lingered. Longer than it should have. Slower than it had any right to be. Not some accidental twitch. Not some nervous fidget. No. He meant it.
And you felt it everywhere.
His vibranium fingers stayed locked at your back, unmoving, anchoring you against the solid wall of his body.
But his other hand, flesh and blood, rough and warm, moved with a calculated kind of boldness. He wasnât hesitating, he wasnât testing, he was deciding.Â
His palm swept with aching slowness along your side, fingers grazing over the damp fabric of your shirt, then lower, sliding just above the waistband of your ruined combat pants, brushing against skin so sensitised it made your whole body jolt.
His fingertips ghosted over the sliver of bare flesh beneath the hem of your shirt, skin long ignored, long untouched and your breath stuttered.
Your body stiffened. Instinct. Reflex. Not out of fear but anticipation. Heat.
âBucky.â You whispered it like a warning, soft and tight. Barely a sound. Just a name, but spoken like a confession.
But he didnât stop.
His hand passed over your waist again, this time slower. Lower. He wasnât pretending. Wasnât hiding behind pretense or excuse. His touch was firm, measured, dragging like silk over sandpaper. His fingers curled slightly, grazing the edge of your hip, slipping just under the edge of your shirt where sweat beaded at your lower belly.
It shouldâve been harmless.
But it felt like your whole body tilted toward him.
Like gravity had shifted.
The air between you felt molten. Thick with breath and silence and something else â something sharp and magnetic and inevitable.
âTell me to stop,â he murmured, voice low and frayed. It was torn at the edges â half challenge, half escape hatch. One final out. One he wasnât sure he wanted you to take.
âDonât,â you breathed, the word barely holding together under the weight of everything you felt.
Because your heart was pounding so loud you could feel it in your ears, in your fingertips, in the spot between your thighs that throbbed with each desperate beat.
Because your body was already leaning in.
Because your thighs were clenching, your mouth had gone dry, and his cockâhard and hot and undeniable behind the weight of his tac gear was pressed against your hip in a way that made your thoughts splinter.
And because when you looked up at him, when your eyes found his in the low flicker of emergency light bleeding through the shaft wall, you saw it.
Raw, flickering need. Something deeper, something starved. His expression was a storm barely held at bay, hunger licking behind every breath.
It was already too late.
His mouth dipped toward your jaw, not quite a kiss, not quite contact, just breath. His lips hovered, dragging over your skin without touching, a ghosting warmth that raised goosebumps in its wake.
Then his hand moved lower.
Over the waistband.
Past it.
Your breath hitched. A sharp, soundless inhale. Your body shifted involuntarily, and he was already there, his fingers slipping beneath the ragged band of your pants, rough against soft, familiar with desperation.
He didnât hesitate.
He found your heat instantly.
Skin on skin.
And groaned, low, guttural, like heâd found salvation.
âYouâre soaked,â he rasped, voice shaking with the effort it took to stay controlled. âFuck.â
The sound of itâhis voice in that moment made your knees threaten to buckle. His fingers didnât even move, not yet. They just rested there. Claiming. Possessing. And your whole body trembled under the weight of that touch.
You whimpered. Quiet. Helpless. The kind of sound you didnât recognise coming from your own throat.
He hadnât even moved yet.
Just touched.
âYou think I havenât noticed how you look at me?â he breathed, mouth hot against the shell of your ear. His fingers began to move slow circles, featherlight, teasing and your whole spine arched into him.Â
âYou think I havenât felt it every time we spar? Every time you mouth off just to see how far Iâll let it go?â
You tried to speak. You really did, something snide, something biting, something to maintain the illusion of control.
But then he slid one thick finger inside you, and your brain turned to static.
âOh, fuckââ The sound ripped from you like a wound, head thudding softly against the wall.
He moved closer, pressing into you fully now. His thigh locked yours in place. His arm around your waist kept you pinned, held, owned. And his finger, slow and deep, fucked into you with a rhythm that made your whole body twitch.
And then he added another.
âDonât be loud,â he warned, barely more than a breath. Then his hand was over your mouth, wide and firm. âYou want them to hear you?â
You shook your head, frantic, flushed.
Another finger joined the first.
The stretch was exquisite. You were so wet he slid in effortlessly, and yet every push made your walls flutter. Your thighs quaked. His palm was tight against your lips now, muffling the noise that clawed up your throat.
It was too much.
Too hot. Too deep.
He was wrecking you with just his hand.
Your cunt clenched around him like it knew him. Welcomed him. Fucked back, desperate and filthy.
His breath caught. His mouth dipped to your throat, lips dragging along the sweaty, sensitive skin just below your jaw. He didnât kiss.
He breathed.
Like your scent was undoing him from the inside out.
âYou gonna come for me while theyâre right outside?â he growled, voice velvet-wrapped sin. His fingers pumped faster, firmer now. âGonna soak my fucking hand while I keep your mouth shut?â
You moaned against his palm, a pathetic, muffled sound. You were trembling now, caught in the rhythm, sweat running down your spine.
He could feel it.
âYou gotta be quiet, sweetheart,â he whispered, biting back a groan as your pussy clenched hard around him. âDonât want them hearing how bad you need it.â
Your eyes fluttered. Your thighs squeezed tight around his wrist. Your body knew what was coming. It was building, sharp and staggering, curling low in your belly, winding like a spring.
The wet, slick sounds of his fingers working your cunt echoed in the shaft, obscene and unstoppable.
You didnât care.
You were grinding down on his hand now, chasing it, using it.Â
Shameless. Starved. Your fingers clawed at the wall, nails scraping concrete, sweat dripping from your temple.
He kissed your throat, hard now. Open-mouthed. Possessive. Teeth scraping, almost primal.
You whimpered. He felt you tighten.
âCome for me,â he rasped.
And you did.
The orgasm ripped through you, brutal and sudden, your whole body locking, then shattering. You came on his fingers, walls fluttering, legs shaking, heat blooming behind your ribs.
You cry, or you tried to, but it was swallowed whole by his hand.
You were still trembling when he pulled away, not roughly, but not gently either.
And he wasnât done.
You barely had time to blink. Your head was spinning. But your hands moved before your brain did, grabbing at his belt, trembling fingers tugging hard at buckles, pulling open his gear like your survival depended on it.
Frantic.
Desperate.
Your hand closed around himâthick, hot, leaking and you gasped.
âJesus christ,â he hissed, teeth clenched.
Then he moved.
He flipped you, fast, hard, until your front slammed gently against the shaft wall. His body covered yours, heat and strength and desperation wrapped around you like a cage.
One hand braced above your head. The other dragged your pants lower. Then between your thighs again, guiding himself.
You felt the blunt head of his cock nudge your entrance, dragging through your slick, and your breath caught.
âThis what you want?â he growled. âHere? Now?â
You noddedâwild, frantic, voiceless.
And then he pushed in.
You gasped, sharp and silent.
The stretch was delicious, thick and deep and slow.
He filled you inch by aching inch until your hips trembled and your forehead hit the wall with a soft thud.
âFucking hell,â he groaned against your shoulder.
He stayed still. Let you feel all of him.
Then his hand slid over your mouth again. Gentle. Thumb brushing your cheek.
âBreathe, sweetheart.â
And then he moved.
He fucked you.
Hard.
Your shoulder slammed into the wall, his hips smacked into yours, loud and wet and brutal. You couldnât catch your breathâevery thrust punched the air out of you. There was no rhythm anymore. Just need.
His hand stayed firm at your mouth, catching your sounds. His vibranium one gripped your hip like a lifeline, dragging you back onto his cock again and again.
He reached around, found your clit, and rubbed.
âGonna come for me again,â he growled. âGonna squeeze me while I fuck you full.â
You were sobbing now, breathless, wordless.
Every nerve ending was lit, raw and overrun. Your body trembled, slick with sweat and slicker between your thighs, his cock dragging across swollen, overstimulated walls. You couldnât form a sound, not really, just desperate gasps and stifled cries broken against your own hand, against his chest, against the fucking silence that surrounded you both like a net.
And then you broke.
It hit like a wave, violent, sudden, uncontrollable. Your body seized around him, hips jerking, spine bowing as your muscles locked tight and then unraveled all at once. You came again, harder this time, vision flashing white as your cunt clenched around him like a vice.
You damn near collapsed.
Your knees gave out, your breath punched from your lungs. You reached for the wall, for him, for anything to ground you, but it was all too much, the stretch, the sound of him, the way he held you together while you fell apart.
Thatâs when he came, too.
A sharp curse spilled from his throat as he drove deep, impossibly deep, hips stuttering against yours. He buried himself to the hilt, shaking, jaw clenched, breath choking out in ragged bursts. His whole body shuddered against your back, muscles locking, every inch of him tensed and trembling.
His cock throbbed inside you, thick and pulsing as he came, each hot spurt flooding your core, filling you until it leaked down your thighs, messy and spent.
And for a moment, neither of you moved. You just breathed, uneven and wrecked, locked together in the dark.
You stayed there, pressed against the wall, your chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths, skin tacky with sweat.
His weight still lingered over you, anchoring you with the kind of silence that made your heart pound in your ears. You could feel every inch of him still inside you, every echo of where heâd been.
Your limbs were a mess. His arm still braced above your head, his other hand curled at your waist like he wasnât ready to let go. Your legs were weak, barely holding you upright, and your fingers had long since slipped from where they gripped the wall. You didnât move. Neither did he.
The scent of sex clung to both of you, raw and thick in the stale air. His cum leaked down your thighs, hot and wet, mixing with your own slick, with the sweat that slid between your shoulder blades. Your clothes stuck to your skin. Your breath stuck in your throat.
Then slowly, he pulled out.
You whimpered, soft and hoarse, from the loss. From the emptiness that followed. A hollow ache bloomed where heâd just been, and you had to brace yourself against the wall again to stay upright.
He smoothed his hand down your spine, not possessive now.
Just⊠gentle.
You turned, breathless, chest still heaving as you tried to gather yourself. His hair was a mess, damp and curling slightly at the edges, sweat trailing down from his temple.Â
His pupils were still blown wide, gaze glassy and dark with something that hadnât yet settled. You pulled your pants up slowly, wincing as the fabric dragged over tender skin, the ache between your thighs sharp and lingering.Â
He laughed softly, the sound more exhale than amusement.Â
âNext time,â you panted, shooting him a look, âmaybe donât pick the smallest shaft on the planet.â
He glanced at you, something like mischief flickering behind his eyes as a crooked smirk pulled at his mouth.Â
âYou complaining?â he asked, voice rough but playful. You rolled your eyes, biting back a smile.Â
âDefine complaining.â His chuckle was low, almost fond, and then he reached for youâhis hand warm, steady, curling around yours like it was the most natural thing in the world.
âCome on,â he murmured, tugging gently. âBefore the rest start wondering where we went.â
You let him lead you toward the sliver of light ahead, your fingers still linked with his, your legs unsteady with every step still shaking.Â
a/n: if you enjoyed it, please leave a comment or a reblog, thank you sweethearts đ
WARNINGS: porn with some plot, blood kink, p in v sex, period sex, female reader, slight dom undertones, pregnancy and fertility issues.
A/N: This has been sitting in my drafts for months now, finally got the motivation to finish it! MINORS DNI 18+ Only. border credit to @saradika-graphics
Thereâs a deep disappointment thatâs festering and aching within you. It starts in your chest and builds alongside the cramps that begin to throb throughout your abdomen. And on top of all that, you got a pimple forming on your forehead⊠All you crave for is something greasy and crispy, something to distract yourself from the malaise that has fallen over you.
You started your periodâŠ
âŠWhen all you wanted was a positive pregnancy test.Â
The two of you have been trying for a few months now - not religiously or anything - he always insisted to âjust let it happen, babe.â So you let your protests rest. Its just that this month you were so sure because of how sensitive your breasts were, the nausea, how your discharge was slightly off.Â
Except this morning you woke up to blood everywhere. It felt as if mother nature was taunting you. Mocking you, even.Â
The sting from this made-up scenario had you wallowing. Sulking in bed all morning, pouty, moody and pathetic. To top it off youâre wearing a crinkly pad that pisses you off every time you move. Today was not it.
Huffing and burying your face deeper into the pillow, your mind races with anxious thoughts. Youâre hurting and you want to cry, but you donât allow yourself to. Maybe youâre defective. Maybe Bucky is defective.
Wasnât the Super Soldier Serum supposed to enhanceâŠeverything? You selfishly think to yourself, but you immediately felt guilty for trying to blame your darling Bucky. He had been right there with you, holding your hand, hoping. You always try your best to self-regulate and rationalise with yourself. Most of the time.
Just like that, with his impeccable timing, Bucky walks in right on cue.Â
Heâs got a duffle bag swung over his shoulder and his sunglasses resting on his head make him look like a movie star. He looks great. Which makes you feel significantly worse, you can't imagine how terrible you look in his eyes. He carries a plastic bag full of Chinese take out, you can already smell the food. His eyes settle on you on the bed and immediately looks sympathetic to your misery.
Your eyes water at the sight of him, the depression raising in your throat and strangling you into the bed.Â
âOh, babe.â He breathes when you donât respond to him. He sets the bag down and immediately walks over to the bed. It doesnât take a genius to figure out whatâs going on, especially considering the fact he can now smell the sweet tinge of iron in the air. Your blood.
He knows how important conceiving is to you - to him. Bucky knows how badly you want it, he'll do everything he can to make it happen. Rationally, he knows trying for a baby takes a few times. Sometimes it happens, sometimes it doesnât, itâs just something you both can and cannot control, âIt's Godâs will.â His mama always told him.
But it still makes him feel less than, makes him feel failed because itâs hurting you.Â
Bucky lets his leather jacket and jeans fall on the floor as he moves to scoop you up into his arms. He crawls into bed, manoeuvres you so youâre tucked on his chest as he props himself up against the headboard.Â
His metal hand comes to tangle in your hair, his fingertips massaging gently into your scalp as you lay sniffling. You both pay half-attention to whatever is on the television. Bucky places a kiss against your head as you silently allow this moment of weakness to flood between you. Bucky handles it, heâs not afraid of your emotions anymore as he supports you. Thereâs nothing to be said, Bucky knows no words can comfort you right now, you only need the physical reminder that heâs here for you as you work your way through the stages of grief. He simply holds you, tells you he loves you, peppering kisses while you calm down.Â
You know that itâs going to be okay, your emotions just have to pass. Thereâs always next month, right? Bucky still loves you and the sky isnât falling so, you allow the feelings to course through.
Bucky grabs the bag off the nightstand, heâs got his own combo for one and a soup and roll for you. You guys eat in bed, just this once, because itâs a sad day and youâll wash the sheets later.Â
Youâre laying on his chest again a while later, now full of delicious Chinese food, enough to satiate the nagging symptoms of your period. Bucky is combing his fingers through your hair as you both watch whatever show he's currently into. You love that Bucky is loving like this, love that he provides a comfortable place for you to curl up and go through the motions of your period. Mood Swings and all.
Heâs so nice. Heâs big, warm and he smells like his aftershave and cologne. You could practically purr from how his warm hand rubbing your lower back makes your cramps lessen.
The way his natural scent sends endorphins through your brain which makes you feel more calm as you lay on him. It's almost primal, you think, how him just being there makes everything better.Â
Without realizing it, youâre wiggling your hips back and forth on him slowly, the motion causing you further relaxation until Bucky is pressing his hand on the small of your back and clearing his throat.Â
âBabeâŠâ He says carefully as he peers down at you. You freeze.
Suddenly you're very aware of his semi-hard on digging into your thigh.Â
The thing is, Bucky is not shy or squirmish when it comes to blood, especially menstrual blood. He personally believes that period is the only pure blood to be spilled in this world. Plus, doing what heâs done for the past 80 years, heâs been covered in blood more times than he can count and really it just lost its gross factor. But you both never really talked about it either, it was always just this thing where all you wanted was relaxation and rest, you never had energy for much else other than survival during your monthly course.
âBabe?â You echo, your head slowly lifting as you look up at him. His chin is tucked into his chest as he studies you with a careful, intense gaze. It makes your stomach flutter as you swallow slowly.Â
âWhat are you doing?â He asks simply, narrowing his eyes slightly as he tries to read your reaction.Â
You shrug.Â
âIt feels nice.â You offer, though that isnât enough.Â
âStop trying to be cute.â He grumbles and you canât help but smile.Â
âI wasnât trying toâŠâ You emphasize before you move to sit up and swing your leg over him so youâre straddling his waist.Â
Thereâs an involuntary throb at your core, a strange mix of pain and pleasure as you look down at your man and he stares back with his mouth in a thin line as his brow furrows.Â
Suddenly, this thick tension that blankets the two of you as you sit there. Both of your minds are on the same thing. Both of you are hesitant to say anything though, and itâs as if thereâs a telepathic conversation happening as you two come to the same conclusion.Â
You swallow, and you feel Buckyâs hands grip your soft thighs.Â
âYeah?â He breaks the silence, his body is completely still as he waits and analyzes every single micro expression you make.Â
You take a deep breath as you nod your head, you feel your heart skip a beat,
âYeah⊠Yeah.â You purr softly as you bring your hands to rest on his chest and you dip down so you can place a kiss against his mouth. âPlease?âÂ
And that was all he needed, because he isnât going to make his best girl beg again. Not while she's in such desperate need of him.Â
Soon enough, thereâs a pillow beneath you, your eyes are glued to the headboard as you squeeze onto another pillow in anticipation. You donât dare to look back, not right now; youâve never had period sex before. While you arenât entirely self-conscious that it'll be debilitating, it's just entirely new to you. Not to mention that itâs with Bucky⊠Despite how long you two have been together, he still makes you nervous and giddy.
Itâs fine, everything is fine. You repeat to yourself internally. Suddenly, you feel the bed dip andâŠ
Fuck.
You arenât sure what youâre expecting really, usually heâll take his time, warm you up, play with your pussy until youâre flushed, panting, and needy, but suddenly you feel his hands on your thighs. Parting them ever so slightly that it makes you squirm and suddenly, heâs climbing and practically laying on top of you, his body nearly completely covering yours as his mouth finds the side of your neck and he inhales.
âFuck.â He groans. You feel yourself quiver underneath him.
Your entire body feels as if it's sparkling, and his touch sends electric shocks throughout your flesh and deep into your nerves and your eyes flutter from his weight against you. You can feel his dick dig into your thigh, before he adjusts his hips and suddenly itâs right against your soaked cunt, positioned so itâs full length is filling your slit, his cockhead bumping against the hood of your clit.
You whine, your body tensing from just how sensitive you really are.
Somewhere in your mind, you know itâs because youâre already engorged down there, and everything is more fine-tuned.
Your thighs shiver and Bucky is mouthing at your neck. He moves toward your ear lobe and nuzzles you. He hasnât even entered yet but this was already so overwhelming. Just from the proximity and the newness of it. Everything felt extremely sensitive and exhilarating just because of how truly exposed you are to him, how you've practically given him full control over you.
âI donât think Iâve ever been this hard before...â He says under his breath, an accidental confession. Just from his tone, the way his voice drops, and how you can feel him throb against you, you believe him.
You decide to store that particular piece of information away for later, after all it would make sense that the Winter Soldier would have some affinity for blood. Youâre not judging because your eyes are already ready to roll in the back of your head from just this.Â
You move your hips back, sliding yourself against his length and it feels so good that it makes your toes nearly curl and thereâs a drop in your stomach. You feel him tense against you as his head falls to your shoulder.
âYou tell me if I hurt you, okay?â His lips move against your skin, and heâs rutting back over you, dragging his dick over and over your slit and your clit.
âBucky,â You breath, nodding your head. âHurry, please.â You beg, sucking in a breath through your teeth.
âOkay, okay pretty girl.â He mumbles as his head lifts, and he groans at the sight of your blood staining his cock. Thereâs something primal to it, something that makes him feel more masculine has he prepares to spear you. You suck in a breath as you feel his cockhead at your entrance and you both take the moment to prepare. Your heart is pounding, his thighs are trembling against yours before he sheathes himself inside you in one swift thrust.
AndâŠ
You canât help the debauched, whiny moan that escapes your mouth as you immediately clamp involuntarily around him. Youâve had him numerous times before, your cunt has swallowed his cock so many times before. You were sure it was made just for him, but this? Itâs like heâs harder, thicker, longer. As his length feeds your needy, twitching, hole.Â
And heâs not any better right now.Â
For him? Youâre warmer, tighter, wetter, and your cunt devours every inch he gives until his balls are pressing against your clit, his cockhead pressing against your delicate cervix. Bucky lets out a shaky groan, his mouth coming down to meet your shoulder as he bites down, not hard enough to break skin, but something to ground him so he doesnât blow his load immediately.
âFuck,â He grunts, breathless and low as he grinds his hips into yours. âShit. Need to move, can I move?â Bucky begs, peppering kisses against your neck now. You whine and nod your head in response, pushing back against him, you need him so bad right now. You need him to fuck you.
That was all he needed as a sign before heâs lifting his hips and rolling them back into you. Starting up at a consistent pace, in and out, in and out, over and over. You want to cry, you canât help but smile as you gasp, biting your lower lip as you relish in the feeling of his dick stroking your walls, rubbing against your g-spot and kissing your cervix.
His hand comes up to rest by your head as he repositions to get a stronger thrust. The room filled with the sound of Buckyâs low grunts and the wet, slick noises of their union, punctuated by the creaking of the bed frame under the force of his fucking into you.Â
Youâre both panting like animals, neither of you able to formulate a complete thought besides chasing the urge to cum.Â
You need to cum, you feel so full of him you feel like youâre gonna explode. The painful cramps were now replaced with pleasurable tightenings as you take every single thrust he gives you. You arch your back, head thrown back against his shoulder, eyes screwed shut as you focus entirely on how he fills you. Itâs all-consuming, you swear youâre gonna burst. The pillow positioned beneath your hips add to the pressure, making that sweet fullness that much more pronounced. His face is immediately buried in your neck. You donât ever realize youâre chanting his name.
âI know baby.â He coos, his pace picking up.
He has the insane idea to glance down to see where the two of you are connected and itâs his turn to let out a whine as he watches himself spear your cunt over and over, and the noises you're making that match every one is sending him over the edge.Â
Heâs used to being soaked in blood, used to the horrific screams that accompany it, but right now? Itâs different, heâs making you scream alright, but instead of horror youâre mewling in pleasure as your body receives him and pushes back against him so hard it makes your ass bounce rhythmically as you chase his cock.Â
Shit, this awoke something within him. Something deep sated thatâs been sleeping for a while, something entirely primal and biological that hums in his brain. Something-Something mammal, something-something, heat.
He growls, lifting his chest off your back as he moves his hands down to grip your plush hips and he begins to earnestly fuck you, slamming you down against him to meet his thrusts, like his own personal fuck doll.Â
And you? You just take it.
You take it and you scream his name. You whine and your calves come to spread on either side of his thighs as you lift your hips up to arch your back for him. Your hands are buried in the pillows as you push back.
âBucky!â You shout, and before you know it, his metal hand comes down to go beneath you so that his fingers can dance across your clit more fervently, coaxing the orgasm thatâs building like a tight rubber band deep within your core.Â
âBuckyââ You pant, your hand cups your breast, your eyes are closed as you feel your thighs begin to shake. âBucky Iâm gonna cum.â You whine.Â
His hand comes up, it covers your mouth, and suddenly his chest is back on you. âThat's itâŠShh, babygirl, don't want another noise complaint.â He utters softly in your ear, covering your mouth with his palm. And that does it.
Your eyes roll as your mouth falls open and white hot pleasure washes over you. You gush, itâs expected honestly, given whatâs going on down there. More blood pools at the base of his dick and coats his pelvis and his skin. His head falls on your shoulder as he groans, his eyes canât look away.
Itâs intense, the way youâre so wet, warm and tight around him. He releases his hand from your mouth as he cums. White hot spurts mix in with your blood, and itâs messy but itâs so hot.
Heâs panting against your skin, peppering kisses as he catches his breath. Youâre on another world, lost in the air as you recover. He pulls out slowly, he grimaces a little though you donât see. Not because heâs disgusted, but because it was messy.Â
Whatever urge was deep within your womb was sated then, you immediately feel more relaxed as you melt into the bed. You could lay here forever, you could let him do that to you forever. You felt wild, tamed and satisfied as you practically purred.
But, suddenly Bucky is there.
âCome on, sweet girl. Come back to me.â He murmurs as he pets your hair. âLetâs go shower.â He urges as he moves to stand up and off the bed, and moves to cradle you as he carries you to the shower.
âI love you.â Is all you manage to say now, feeling beat and exhausted. Bucky kisses the top of your head.
âI love you too, babe.â He murmurs as he takes you both to the bathroom.
It unlocked something in him. Heâs a man obsessed, thinking of how much more sensitive you were, how much more warmer and tighter. The blood, he bites his lip.
It isnât a kink, itâs a you thing, he would argue. He can see it in his mindâs eye, how his dick looks coated in your blood as he plows into you, it makes his mouth water. The sex was amazing.
So, naturally, of course he began to count down the days until your next period.
Maybe heâll fold you up this time, maybe heâll spoon you from behind, or make you cum in the bath. Whatever you want really, Bucky would make it happen just as long as he gets to stuff his dick in you.
So, he waits, he waits and waits and heâs eyeing up the calendar. Youâre healthy enough, your cycle was consistent, never a day late.Â
Except itâs been three days past and youâre still not bleeding.
Heâs laying on the bed, one arm propped beneath his head as he mindlessly absorbs whatever it is on the tv.Â
âBucky?â Your shaky voice calls from the bathroom. Heâs up in an instant and youâre coming out of the door holding a pregnancy test. âBucky Iâm ââ
Ah fuck.
âIt was always youâ is just so good. It was always you. The second we met, it was you. It was you even when I didnât want it to be you. It was you even when it was someone else. It was you. It was you. It was you. I belong to you, even if you donât know it yet. I will never belong to someone else, I only belong to you. Donât you get that? It was always you.
pairing: inexperienced!new avenger!bucky barnes x fem!reader
warnings: nsfw, 18+, minors dni, soft smut, praise kink (sorta), slow first time, unprotected sex, creampie, a tinge of angst if you squint, the fluff makes up for it
summary: bucky wants you, but he just doesnât know how to let himself have you. but youâll spend every second showing him how it feels to be wanted.
word count: 4.5k
author's note: hi my sweethearts! i'd like to think that after bucky returns, he would need a lot of reassurance and tlc, especially after all he has went through. i feel that he would love to be guided and to know he is loved. so i hope this fic encapsulates that đ love ya guys and stay safe out there!
requests are open!
so in love with soft!bucky
It starts with his hands. Or rather, what they donât do.
They hold yours when youâre walking down quiet halls in the compound, fingers interlocked, the brush of calloused skin a comfort more than anything else.Â
They linger at the small of your back when no oneâs lookingâfirm, steady, grounding you when the world gets too loud.
They cradle your face when youâre scared, trembling, coming down from the edge of something violent. Missions gone wrong, intel turned sour, blood on your skin. In those moments, his hands are everything you ever needed. Steady and safe.
But when your lips are on his?
When your body presses into his in the quiet dark of your shared bedroom, heat blooming between the both of you like something long-restrained finally breaking free?
Thatâs when they stop.
Always.
Just⊠stop.
Bucky, your boyfriend, your partner, the man who has grown to be your person. He kisses you like heâs starving, like youâre the only thing anchoring him to this world, but somehow, he never touches you when it matters most.
And itâs not like you havenât tried.
You have, god you tried.
More than once, lying against his chest at night, your fingers ghosting beneath the hem of his shirt, tracing the hard lines of his abdomen. Kissing along the sharp cut of his jaw, whispering how much you want him. How much you need him.
Each time, his breath hitches, his body goes rigid. Then, slowly, carefully, almost apologetically, he pulls away from your touch.Â
Not with disgust, not with rejection. Thereâs no coldness in the way he moves. No sharp recoil.
But there is something worse that you have come to realise. Fear.
The first time it happened, you brushed it off.
Heâd had a long day. The mission briefing with Val had been rough, all sharp orders, bad intel, and barely contained frustration within the team, Walker had quite literally stormed out of the meeting room.
Bucky had come back tense, shoulders tight, jaw set, that look in his eyes that meant he was still somewhere else. Still halfway in a fight.
So when you leaned in that night, pressing soft kisses under his jaw, fingers slipping beneath the hem of his shirt, and he stilled beneath you, gently shifting away with a quiet murmur of your name, you let it go.
You curled into his side instead. Told yourself he was tired. Told yourself you were tired too. You ran your fingers lightly along his arm until his breathing evened out, steady and slow.
And when sleep finally took him, you whispered a kiss to his shoulder and closed your eyes, thinking, hoping, maybe next time.
The second time, you wondered.
It was a few nights later. He wasnât tense then, he wasnât distracted or moody or freshly back from some dark place.. He was relaxed, even, the kind of rare, quiet ease you didnât always get from him.
You both had laughed over dinner, some home cooked lasagna you had whipped up after finding the recipe online. You had teased him until he smiled into his fork and shook his head, muttering about how much trouble you were.
Heâd watched you like he always did, like you hung the moon and the stars, like he didnât know what heâd done to deserve this, to deserve you.
And when you kissed him that night, slow and lingering, your hands soft on his jaw, you felt that same warmth in him. The way he kissed you back, like he meant it.
So you tried again. Slid your hand beneath his shirt, fingers brushing the firm lines of his stomach.
He flinched.
Not much. But enough.
And then, just like the first time, he shifted away. Pressed a kiss to your forehead and murmured, âGet some sleep, sweetheart.â
You froze. Pulled your hand back like you had touched something sharp.
And then you nodded, smiling just a little too quickly.
âYeah. Okay.â
You turned onto your side, curled up with your back to him.
Tried your hardest to not let the sting behind your eyes show.
His arm came around you a few moments later, his chest pressed to your back like nothing had changed. Like everything was still okay.
You didnât say a word.
But that night, long after you were sure he was asleep, your eyes stayed open. Staring at the shadowed wall. Wondering what it was about you that made him pull away.
The third time, you couldnât hold it in anymore.
It had been an easy day, all things considered. No missions. No debriefs. No emergencies. Just the two of you, and the rare kind of quiet that settled into the compound like a blanket.
You ate dinner in bed, greasy takeout balanced precariously on Buckyâs lap while some forgettable movie played low in the background.
You stole bites from his container; he rolled his eyes but let you. Laughed when you misquoted a line. Kissed your cheek. Brushed rice off your shirt with the softest smile.
And maybe that was what made it worse.
Because everything had felt right. Comfortable. Easy. The kind of night that warmed you from the inside out.
It was late when the movie finally dwindled into credits. You stacked the empty containers on the nightstand, slid back under the covers, and curled against his chest with a sigh. His arm came around you like it always did, instinctive, easy. Protective.
For a while, neither of you spoke. The glow of the screen lit the room in soft, flickering blue. Your legs were tangled with his. Your cheek rested against the cotton of his t-shirt. He felt steady beneath you. Safe.
So when you tilted your head up and kissed him, it wasnât with expectation. It wasnât about sex, or hunger, or even want.
It was soft. Familiar. The kind of kiss you gave someone when you were in love.
He kissed you back, of course he did. That part was never the problem. He always kissed you like you were the only thing in the world that could anchor him.
But the moment your hand slipped beneath the hem of his shirt, everything changed.
Just the pad of your fingers brushing lightly over his stomach. Just a touch.
And still, he tensed.
You felt it the way someone feels a tide turning, quiet, sure, inevitable.
He didnât flinch. He didnât recoil. He just went still. Careful. Measured. One hand lifted to catch your wrist and gently moved it away from his skin, like it wasnât a rejection. Like it didnât mean something.
But it did.
He turned slightly, as if he meant to settle back into bed like nothing had happened. Like you could pretend this wasnât the third time in a row.
But you didnât follow.
Instead, you sat up slowly, drawing your knees to your chest, the sheet falling across your thighs. You stared at the far wall, lips pressed into a thin line, throat tight.
You heard the shift in his voice before he even finished asking.
âHey,â he said softly, already sensing the change. âWhatâs wrong?â
You didnât answer right away.
The silence that followed wasnât loud. It was thick. Still. The kind of quiet that feels like the moment before something breaks.
When you finally spoke, your voice came out low, shaky.
âDo you want me?â
He didnât move.
You didnât look at him. You couldnât. You kept your eyes on your hands, twisting your fingers in the blanket like it might keep the rest of you from unraveling.
âBecause I want you,â you continued, quieter now. âAnd every time I try, you pull away. I know you care about me, I know you do, but I canât help wondering if maybe Iâm wrong about all of it.â
He went very, very still.
Then, âStop.â
His voice was sharp, and the suddenness of it made you blink.
You turned, startled.
He was sitting up now, scrubbing a hand over his face. His jaw was tight. His shoulders tense. Like your words had opened something he hadnât meant to expose.
âFuck,â he muttered under his breath. âI didnât mean toâjust. Iâm sorry. Donât say that. Ever.â
You stared at him.
âThen talk to me,â you said softly. âBecause itâs getting harder not to take it personally.â
He didnât look at you.
His gaze dropped to the sheets. His fists were clenched in his lap. The vibranium hand trembled slightly. The other, human and scarred, looked like it was holding on to something invisible.
You sat beside him again. Close, but not touching.
Your voice was quiet. Measured, ounded, but not accusatory.
âYou think I donât see the way you look at me?â you asked. âLike youâre in love with me?â
You swallowed hard.
âBecause you do. Every day.â
He still didnât say anything.
âAnd then I touch you, and you freeze. Like Iâve crossed a line I didnât know was there. Like Iâve done something wrong.â
There was something in your chest pulling tighter with every second of silence. Something raw and anxious and aching.
His hands stayed clenched.
You reached for him, carefully, wrapping your fingers around his wrist. The human one. His skin was warm. His pulse jumped beneath your touch.
âBucky,â you whispered. âWhat is it? You can tell me.â
He exhaled. Rough. Uneven.
For a second, you thought he might deflect. That he might dodge this like he had before â with a soft kiss or a change of subject. But then he swallowed hard, eyes flicking to yours for just a moment before dropping again.
âI havenâtâŠâ he started, then paused. Cleared his throat. âI havenât done anything since before the war.â
The breath caught in your chest.
He laughed, but it wasnât amused. It was hollow. Embarrassed.
âNot just sex,â he said. âAnything. After HYDRA⊠after everything. I didnâtâI couldnât.â
He rubbed the back of his neck, visibly ashamed. Smaller, somehow. Like admitting it out loud took more from him than heâd expected.
âItâs been over eighty years.â
You didnât speak. Didnât move. Just watched him.
âI know it doesnât make sense,â he said, still not meeting your eyes. âYouâre here, and youâre kind, and youâve never pushed. But I get so far and then itâs likeâlike my body just shuts down. Like some part of me still thinks Iâm not allowed to want things.â
Your heart twisted.
Not from pity. But from the weight of it. The quiet devastation he carried like a second skin.
Then, more quietly:
âYou think I donât want you?â His voice dropped. âFuck, sweetheart. I want you so bad it hurts. Every night I lie here hard as a fucking rock just thinking about you.â
His jaw clenched. His eyes squeezed shut.
âBut Iâmââ He shook his head. âIâm scared.â
You moved then.
Not away. But forward.
You reach for his wrist again, let your fingers slide gently down to his hand. His pulse was racing. His breath shallow.
âScared of what?â you asked, softer now.
He looked at you. Finally. Really looked. And what you saw in his eyes made your chest ache, something wide and raw and terrified.
âThat Iâll disappoint you,â he said. âThat I wonât know what Iâm doing. That youâll want someone whoâs not stuck in the goddamn 40s when it comes to this stuff.â
Your face softened. A small, aching smile tugged at the corner of your mouth, even through the tightness in your chest.
âBucky,â you whispered.
You climbed into his lap carefully, like you were afraid youâd spook him. You framed his face with your hands, your thumbs brushing along the curve of his cheekbones.
âYouâre already everything I want and more,â you said, steady and sure. âBut I need you to believe that.â
His breath hitched.
âAnd if you let me,â you continued, voice barely above a whisper now, âIâll show you everything. Iâll go slow. Iâll take care of you.â
He didnât answer right away.
His eyes searched yours. Guarded, hopeful. Terrified. Like part of him still thought this might not be real.
But then, slowly, almost imperceptibly, he nodded.
And when he did, something in you finally, quietly exhaled.
You donât rush him.
After everything heâs said, every word laced with fear and heartbreak and hope, the last thing he needs is haste. Or pressure. Or you moving too fast for him to feel safe.
So you just breathe for a moment.
You stay in his lap, arms curled gently around his neck, your forehead resting against his. And you breathe.
His chest rises beneath yours, shaky and tight. His hands are still in his lap, fists curled like he doesnât know what to do with them, like he doesnât quite believe this is real, like one wrong move will send the whole thing crumbling to pieces.
So you start small.
You tilt your head and kiss the corner of his mouth. Once. Then again, slower this time, letting your lips linger against his skin.
His breath stutters. His lips part.
You kiss him properly next, slow, deep, but gentle, your mouth moving against his with no urgency, no push, just quiet devotion. Like heâs something sacred.
His hands twitch in his lap. He doesnât lift them yet, but he doesnât pull away either.
You murmur against his mouth, âCan I touch you?â
He swallows thickly. Nods.
You kiss him one more time, a promise, before you shift in his lap, your thighs bracketing his, and reach for the hem of his shirt.
The moment your fingers graze the fabric, he tenses.
You pause. You meet his eyes.
âIâll stop any time you need me to,â you whisper, your voice soft but sure.
He holds your gaze. His throat bobs with a hard swallow. Then he nods again, slower this time. âI want you to.â
You offer a gentle smile. âOkay.â
You lift his shirt carefully, baring him inch by inch. You donât rush. You kiss every strip of skin you uncover, the ridges of his ribs, the warm slope of his sternum, the sharp cut of his collarbone.
You take your time with it, as if mapping him out with your mouth, like youâre memorising every inch with intention.
When the shirt is high enough, he lifts his arms, stiffly, hesitantly and lets you pull it over his head. You toss it aside and look at him.
Heâs bare from the waist up. All muscle and scar tissue, strength and survival. The roomâs low light catches on the vibranium, glints over old wounds, highlights the long-healed lines across his chest and side.
You let your gaze roam.
He doesnât meet your eyes.
He looks away, jaw tight, breathing shallow.
You reach out, slow, deliberate, and place your palm against his chest. Right over his heart.
He flinches.
Just a little. A twitch in his shoulder. A held breath.
But he doesnât pull away.
You lean in and kiss the skin just beside your hand.
âIs this okay?â
His voice is low and rough. âYeah. Feels nice.â
You smile against his skin, then keep going.
Your mouth trails lower, painting a path down the plane of his chest. You kiss over his heart again, then rest your cheek there for a moment.
âStill beating,â you whisper, a soft marvel.Â
You feel it stutter beneath your lips.
Your hands slide lower, down his abdomen, his skin warm, twitching under your fingers. You follow the faint trail of hair that disappears beneath his waistband, fingertips brushing gently, not demanding. Just exploring.
He exhales shakily, stomach tensing, hips shifting just slightly.
âThereâs not a single part of you I donât want to touch,â you murmur, kissing along his ribs.
He turns his face, like heâs trying to hide, like the intimacy of your words is too much.
âHey,â you say softly. You reach up, cupping his jaw, gently guiding his gaze back to yours. âLet me say it. Let me mean it.â
His lips part like he might argue, but he doesnât.
You rest your forehead against his.
âYouâre beautiful,â you whisper. âSo strong, Youâve been through hell and still came of it.â
His eyes flutter shut. His breath catches.
Your lips brush his softly, like reassurance. Then again.
And this time, when your hands slide down to the waistband of his sweats, he doesnât flinch.
You look up at him. âCan I take these off?â
His voice is strained. âYeah.â
You move slowly, tugging them down inch by inch, watching his face the entire time. He lifts his hips to help, barely, and you kiss the inside of his knee as you go. Then the other.
By the time youâve got them off, heâs flushed all over, from his chest to his ears to the very tips of his fingers. And trembling.
His cock is hard and leaking, resting against his stomach. Big. Heavy. Throbbing.
He tries to close his legs out of instinct. Reflex.
But you shift forward between them and place your hands gently on the outside of his thighs.
âYouâre doing so good,â you say softly. âAre you okay?â
His nod is jerky. âJustâdonât look too long.â
You blink. âWhy not?â
He swallows hard. ââCause youâll know I donât have a damn clue what Iâm doing.â
You smile, warm, never mocking.
âBaby,â you say gently, âI already know.â
You lean in, kissing the inside of his thigh, slowly, gently..
âBut itâs not a problem,â you murmur, lips brushing his skin again. âItâs a privilege.â
His head drops back, his fists clench the blanket. You trail your mouth up his thigh, closer and closer, and then wrap your fingers around the base of his cock.
He jerks under your touch, breath catching sharp in his throat.
âFuckââ His hips twitch. His mouth opens, like heâs trying to say something and canât find the words.
You stroke him once, slow, deliberate, and his entire body shudders.
Heâs flushed dark at the tip, leaking already.
âNobodyâs everâŠâ he starts, but doesnât finish.
You look up. âEver?â
He nods, barely. âNot like this.â
You smile. âGood.â
You stroke again, firmer now, and his jaw clenches, breath ragged.
Your thumb brushes over the tip, collecting the slick, and he whines, high, desperate, like heâs trying to hold everything in and failing miserably.
You kiss just below the head and he moans, low and broken.
âHoly shitâsweetheart, Iâm not gonnaâfuck, Iâm not gonna lastââ
You press a kiss to his hip. âThatâs okay. Thatâs why weâll take our time.â
You climb back into his lap, hand still wrapped around him, your other resting at his cheek to keep him grounded. He looks dazed, overwhelmed, like he doesnât know whether to hold you or fall apart in your arms.
âCan I ride you?â you whisper.
His hands shoot to your hips like a lifeline. âPlease,â he breathes. âI want you to. So bad.â
You guide him to your entrance, your slick soaking him already, and ease down, slow, careful, inch by inch â until heâs fully seated inside you.
Buckyâs head drops back, a strangled moan caught in his throat.
âF-fuck, babyââ he gasps. âToo much. Feels tooââ
You donât move.
You stay still in his lap, your hands on his chest, letting him feel you. Letting his body adjust. Letting the moment settle between you like something holy.
âYou okay?â you whisper.
He nods, frantic. âYeah. Iâjust give me a second.â
You wait.
When his eyes open again, theyâre soaked with emotion. Glassy and bare.
âYou okay?â you ask.
âI think youâre killing me,â he says hoarsely. âBut I donât wanna stop.â
You smile.
Then you start to move.
Slow, gentle, rocking your hips, letting him feel everything, every squeeze, every inch, every slow drag of your walls around him.
His mouth falls open. He moans your name like a prayer.
âFeels too good,â he pants. âIâm notâfuck, Iâm not gonnaââ
You lean in, your forehead pressed to his.
âThen donât,â you whisper.
And he does.
With a choked cry, he spills inside you, body tensing, arms wrapping tight around you, hips bucking helplessly. His hands shake against your back as his breath catches in your hair.
He clings to you like he would fall apart without you.
And even after itâs over, even after heâs finished, breathless and wrecked, he doesnât let go.
He just holds you.
And for the first time in years, he lets himself be held, too.
Heâs still trembling.
You donât move. You donât shift or speak right away. You just stay where you are, wrapped around him, your body cradling his, the last aftershocks of his orgasm still echoing in the taut lines of his body.
His cock is still inside you, softening slowly. The stretch of him, the heat of him, the slick, overwhelming closeness of it allâit makes your heart ache in the gentlest way.
Your fingers stroke through his hair, trailing through the sweat-damp strands at the nape of his neck. Then down his spine. Slow, comforting passes, like youâre coaxing his body back into itself.
He clutches you tighter.
His arms are around your waist, strong and firmânot bruising, not panicked. But desperate. Like heâs afraid that if he lets go, this will all vanish. Like maybe none of this was real, and holding on to you is the only thing keeping him grounded.
You donât pull away.
You let him hold you. Let him shake. Let his breath shudder against your neck while your hand keeps moving slowly down his back.
His face is buried against your throat, and when he finally speaks, itâs muffledâbarely audible. Raw.
âI didnât mean to finish so fast.â
Your heart breaks for him a little, even as your lips tilt into a soft smile.
You press a kiss to his templeâtender, grounding.
âI know.â
His voice is barely there. âI justâfuck, I couldnât stop it. You felt so good. I couldnât think."
You hum softly, stroking his hair again. âThatâs kind of the point, baby.â
He lifts his head, just a little, pulling back enough to meet your gaze. His eyes are wide, glassy, dazed, those perfect cerulean eyes soft and unguarded, boyish, almost.
His cheeks are flushed. His hairâs a mess. His lips are kiss-swollen.
He looks completely ruined.
Completely beautiful.
Yours.
âBut you didnâtââ he starts, then hesitates. His gaze drops. âYou didnât finish.â
You donât stop smiling.
Thereâs no hurt in it, no impatience, just quiet warmth.
âI wasnât trying to,â you whisper, brushing his damp hair from his forehead. âTonight was about you.â
His brows pull together, like he doesnât quite know how to process that.
âThatâs not fair,â he mumbles. âI want to make you feel good too.â
âYou already do,â you murmur, your nose brushing his. âBut if you really want to keep goingâŠâ
You pause deliberately, shifting your hips slightly.
Just enough for him to feel the movement, just enough to tease.
He gasps, high and sharp, his body jolting.
ââŠwe can.â
His hands flex at your waist. His eyes flutter. His lips part like heâs trying to speak but canât form a single thought.
âIâm stillâ,â he whispers, like itâs a warning. But thereâs no hesitation in his tone. Only want.
âBut I want it,â he adds. âI want you.â
You kiss him again, slow and deep, and begin to move. Barely. Just a gentle roll of your hips, enough to stir friction between your bodies again.
He moans into your mouth, soft and aching.
You rock slowly, dragging your walls against his still-sensitive cock. He twitches inside you, starting to thicken again already. Itâs slow, but unmistakable.
âOkay?â you whisper.
He nods frantically, hands gripping your waist like heâs drowning in sensation. âYeah. Yeah, Iâm okay. Justâshit. Iâve never⊠I didnât know it could feel like this.â
You smile against his jaw. âYou wanna come again for me?â
His moan is barely a sound. His eyes flutter shut.
âYes,â he breathes. âFuck, yes. Pleaseââ
You tighten your thighs and roll your hips again, drawing a sharp gasp from him.
âSuch good manners,â you whisper, kissing his throat. âSo sweet for me.â
Your hand slides between your bodies, fingers finding your clit with practiced ease. You start to circle, slow, wet, just enough pressure to build your own heat.
He watches you.
Like youâre made of stars, like heâs never seen anything so beautiful.
âTouch me,â you murmur. âPlease, Bucky. I want your hands on me.â
Itâs the only encouragement he needs.
His hands move slowly, softly, trembling, sliding up your sides, grazing your ribs, cupping your breasts. His thumbs brush over your nipples, and you moan, arching into his touch.
The sound makes him groan, deep and wrecked.
âYouâre so beautiful,â he murmurs. âSo fuckinâ perfect, babyâcanât believe I get to have you like this.â
His voice breaks on the last word.
Youâre slick around him now, your arousal mixing with the mess from earlier. Every slow rock of your hips has him thickening more, twitching inside you, inch by inch.
His thighs are shaking. His jaw clenches.
âFeels so good,â he whines. âI donât wanna stop. Donât wanna come yet. Wanna feel you forever.â
You ride him harder now, the heat in your belly rising faster.
âYou feel that?â you gasp. âHow close I am?â
His hands tighten on your hips. His breath turns ragged.
âPleaseâplease come around me, sweetheartâneed to feel itâneed to feel youââ
You bury your face in his neck.
And let go.
Your whole body seizes around him, a white-hot wave crashing through you, stealing your breath, your balance, your thoughts. Your moan is broken, helpless, his name falling from your lips like a prayer.
Your walls clamp down hard around him.
And thatâs all it takes.
He thrusts up once. Then again. Deep, desperate. A cry tearing from his throat as he comes again, shaking, gasping, flooding you with warmth.
His arms wrap tight around you.
He holds you close. Close enough to feel your heartbeat thunder against his. Close enough that the tremors in your bodies blur together, indistinguishable.
This time, his grip is softer. Still strong, but different.
Not desperate.
Tender.
His hand strokes up your spine. His lips press to your temple, then your hair, then your jaw. Like he canât get close enough.
You stay there, wrapped around each other, skin to skin, breath mingled and unsteady and you donât rush to move.
Not yet.
âJesus,â he whispers eventually, voice raw. âWhat the fuck just happened?â
You laugh softly, breathless, dazed. âThat was called good sex,.â
He groans into your neck. âThat was more than good. That wasâfuck. That was divine.â
You smile, pressing a kiss to his hair.
You collapse gently against his chest, boneless and warm, and he doesnât let go. His arms stay around you, wrapped like a shield, like a promise.
Neither of you move for a long time.
Thereâs nothing left to prove. Nothing to say.
Just the slow hum of your heartbeats and the safe, sacred space youâve made between the two of you.
And for the first time in a long, long time, Bucky feels wanted.
And safe.
And home.
a/n: i hope you enjoyed it! if you did, drop a comment or a reblog! thank you my loves, your support means the world to me! <3333333
Not being very active on twitter or tiktok is fun because you'll occasionally get wind of some Discourse that makes hundreds of thousands of people extremely mad but you'll have the luxury of just going, "wow, that's stupid", and moving on while everyone else continues to suffer from rage induced aneurysms over pointless nonsense every waking hour
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