warnings: mdni, forced proximity, exes to lovers, grovelling, minor teasing, vague mentions of sex, kissing, light groping, all plot and feelings my bad, bucky is down astronomically bad, feelings realization, banter carries the first half, player!bucky turned loverboy!bucky, sam and joaquin for comedic relief, fluff, a little bit of angst with a happy ending!
author's note: this is my humble contribution to @artficlly's moodboard event! i ripped my hair out every step of the way!💞this is only about 80% proofread because it's 10pm and i'm tired; i've been working on this for three months. 😩
The air felt sticky. It wasn’t surprising, given the humidity was sky high. But that didn’t make it pleasant. Your thighs stuck together, sunscreen working somewhat like glue from your spot in your chair. The water glistened like a great, vast jewel, the sun overhead making white beams, the foam of the ocean looking like frosting with each crest. Small dots broke up the blue, in various bright colours, beach goers enjoying the gorgeous day. You could just barely make out the floaties of the little kids right on the surf, parents watchful and close by.
A few teenagers were clustered around the rock pool, poking into its depths with a long piece of driftwood. Umbrellas and towels covered the beach like litter. You’d be walking the beach soon, but right now, your post was up here on the chair. You’d only had one encounter so far wherein you’d had to scale the ladder of the chair and sprint through the sand, kicking it up behind you as it scalded your feet, ignoring the shock of cold water as you dove into a forward stroke to get to the little girl who’d gotten a bit too far into the waves. It had been an adrenaline pumping moment, even after you’d brought her back to safety.
You’d been a lifeguard at the local pool in your last year of high school, but this was a step up. Back from college, you’d known immediately how you wanted to pass the time. Though some found the heat stifling, you enjoyed it. You felt like you withered away in the winter, and you’d take all the summer air you could get until you were forced to hide away in the ivy covered buildings on your campus again.
You loved this job, actually. The other lifeguards ranged in age, but the ones you were on shift with the most, Sam and Joaquin, were your favourites. It was never a dull moment with those two, and you’d seen both of them in action. You’d thought you were fast, but you had nothing on either of them. Sam seemed to fly through the sand when he had places to be, Joaquin hot on his heels. It was very clear that they were some of the most perfect people for the job.
It wasn’t like you were always stuck on the chair, up high where only the seagulls could reach. You’d stay on your perch for a couple of hours at the most before coming down, walking a circuit on the beach, and then disappearing into the shack a little ways down. It was a rule, actually, to get into the shade every two hours. What good was a lifeguard with heatstroke? Bruce was normally in there, sitting at the shabby desk with his glasses slipping down his nose. He was always poring over the schedule and checking to see if he needed to order more life jackets, rafts, or anything else that was necessary to function as a busy, popular beach. And you’d sit in one of the rickety chairs, grab one of the paper fans on the side table, and try to remember what ‘room temperature’ felt like.
This job was a dream for you, aside from one glaring issue. It wasn’t something you could easily fix—you couldn’t just ban someone from the beach if they weren’t doing anything wrong except for to get on your last nerve.
Bucky Barnes came to the beach.
Every. Single. Day.
Bucky Barnes, your former high school sweetheart, who broke up with you at your graduation, when the plan had been to stay together. You went to sister schools, after all. It would have actually been quite easy to stay together. But he’d wanted to sow his wild oats, as it were. Starting with head cheerleader Natasha.
It shouldn’t have been a problem. You’d seen him a handful of times—you shared friends, after all—but you hadn’t had to speak to him, or look at him for longer than a minute. You didn’t want to see his stupid perfect face, to remember what it felt like when he kissed you. You would stubbornly say there was no love lost there, only a wound that had been hard to heal. You had cried all night, your first evening in your dorm. The original plan had been for him to help you move in, and for you to help him, and then to tour both of your campuses to see what buildings you would be in, where the best spots to wait for each other would be.
It would have been fine if he was just on the beach because he liked it there. Unfortunately you knew, with a sinking feeling in your gut, that that wasn’t the reason. He was simply there for your attention. The first time you’d been alerted to his presence, you’d been walking the beach, heading to the chair, or Overwatch, as you and the others liked to call it. You’d seen him from the corner of your eye, and started walking more briskly, hoping to get past without him noticing, but he fell into step with you easily.
You’d tried to put all your force into pushing him away from your side, but he just laughed, immovable, keeping your pace. “Will you just talk to me?” he finally said, though he sounded amused at your ire.
“No, fuck you. I’m working.” you said crossly, not bothering to censor your words. You weren’t about to scream and shout at him, but you were very much unimpressed by his lack of contriteness.
“Yeah, I know. I’m here because I know how good you look in a bikini.”
You cut a glare his way, annoyed beyond belief that he was looking you up and down. You were actually wearing a pretty conservative suit, the top a black band around your chest, not unlike a sports bra, the bottoms high waisted and full coverage. You’d worn skimpier for sure.
You ignored his navy blue shorts, his lack of shirt. He was already halfway to a decent tan, sunglasses perched on his head rather than over his eyes. You could see the twinkling, mischievous blue of them even when you weren’t looking directly at him. “What do you want?” you hissed, almost at your destination.
“I think we should talk.” he said simply, reiterating what he’d first claimed. But you knew that it wasn’t as easy a request as he made it sound. Because how could you talk to him while ignoring your shared history?
“I don’t think so.” If he was about to ask you to be friends with him again, something you hadn’t been since you were fifteen years old, when that that word had changed, the prefix of ‘boy’ and ‘girl’ added to the front of it, then he was in for a surprise.
“Come on,” he said, drawing out the words, arms spread wide. “You’re already doing it right now!”
“Fuck off, Bucky, I’m working.” At last, you reached Overwatch. You scaled it with ease, grimacing to yourself all the while, because you just knew he was checking out your ass.
“I’m gonna be here all summer, sweetheart.” he called up to you, cupping his hands around his mouth. You gave him a withering stare. He’d projected his voice loudly enough that a few heads turned in your direction. “Can’t avoid me that easily.”
Then he’d smiled at you, smug, like he thought he’d be able to corner you easily. Well, he was about to find out how wrong he could be.
You hadn’t expected him to actually come to the beach every day. The first two weeks, sure, you guessed. Bucky was one of the most determined people you’d ever met. But you thought that eventually, even someone as tenacious as him would get tired of it.
But no, he rolled up sometime after you, without fail, even going so far as to park in the spot next to yours when it was available.
He’d lay out on a towel, or join whoever was playing a spirited game of volleyball, or try his hand at surfing. You’d begrudgingly watched him, alert as ever, to make sure he didn’t get a lungful of saltwater and drown. You were not looking forward to the prospect of giving him mouth-to-mouth. You thought it would be much more entertaining if one of your male colleagues got that pleasure.
If you weren’t up at Overwatch, he was chasing you down, pestering you to take five minutes to talk, though you still didn’t know what exactly he wanted. You’d already complained to Sam about it at length. Nonplussed, he’d told you, “Just see what he wants, and if he’s being an asshole, I'll throw him in the sea,” to which Bruce had looked up from the desk disapprovingly, and said quietly, “I don’t want to hear about any threats to someone’s life.”
You didn’t want to talk to Bucky, though. You knew that if you did, he could easily swindle you into something in under five minutes. He was very good at that—he’d always excelled at turning your brain into mush with a few carefully persuasive words and a gleaming white smile.
You didn’t think that you had ever affected him nearly so much. If you had, he probably wouldn’t have broken up with you. Regardless, you continued to ignore him to the best of your abilities. Until…
Bruce liked to have meetings every two weeks to make sure everyone was still up to code, and to mention anything important like upcoming events that might make the beach busier, or harsh weather warnings. It was standard procedure, and everyone would trudge into the office, whether they were on shift or not, to listen in.
When you got there, canvas bag hoisted on your shoulder, you stopped short. Joaquin walked into you, not noticing you'd stopped, and let out a soft “oof!” You’d only come to a halt because standing in the middle of the office amidst a handful of the other lifeguards, was Bucky.
“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.” you muttered.
Bucky noticed you right at that time, and his pensive, distant expression melted into a charming grin. “Guess we’re coworkers for the rest of the summer. Isn’t that great?”
“You know that I can’t change the schedule to favour any of you over the other.” Bruce sat at his desk, watching you pace back and forth. There was sand caked into the worn floorboards. “You’ll be on shift with him at one time or another.”
Your hands were fists behind your back, your head down, looking at your flip flops. “But isn’t there some way we can look at it more strategically?”
“Look, I know that you have some kind of history with this guy—”
“Does he even have his certification?” you interrupted, unable to stay neutral any longer.
At this, Bruce frowned. He was very thorough of course, so it had been a silly question to ask. But you were grasping at anything, anything that could bar him from being around you 24/7. “Of course he does. And even if he didn’t, we’re doing the CPR drills on Saturday morning, remember? He would have got it then, if not.”
You stayed silent, trying to refrain from screaming.
Bruce said your name, quiet as always, and you looked over at him. “Did this guy… did he hurt you?”
You could see the concern on his face, and you sighed, defeated. “No, not physically. Just… emotionally.”
You both sat with that for a moment. “I’m sorry about that. But there’s nothing I can do. You know that I don’t tend to double you guys up unless I have to, but I can’t guarantee that you’ll never have to work with him. I know you’re professional, so I’m not worried about you,” he paused, pushing his glasses back up, “but if he goofs around or something, I’ll get rid of him. okay?”
You didn’t allow your shoulders to slump like they so wanted to. “Okay.”
It looked like your nightmare was about to begin.
Something you hadn’t anticipated, something far worse than what you’d imagined, was that Sam and Joaquin got along with Bucky like a house on fire. It had you spitting mad. Those were your friends, your work buddies, not his. At least Joaquin had the sense to look guilty when you caught the three of them laughing it up at the end of a shift.
You stomped to your car, shaking sand from yourself, as you cut past them. You didn’t hear footsteps jogging behind you until you were on the asphalt, just a few feet from the safety you were banking on.
“Hey, wait!” you scrunched your face up at the sound of Bucky’s voice and started to fumble blindly in your bag, looking for your car keys.
He caught up with you right as you fished them out. “Hey, I just wanna talk.”
“Yeah, so I’ve heard.” you said icily.
“Well, can you just hear me out?”
“No.” You unlocked your car, throwing your bag in the backseat. Once you’d slammed the door closed, you turned to face him. He was blocking the driver’s side. “Move.”
“Not until you talk to me.”
You crossed your arms. “Move right now, or I swear, I’ll—”
“I want to get back together.”
“Are you fucking joking?” You were incensed. The fact that he had the balls to say that to you…
His expression was serious, pleading. “Look, I know I made a mistake—”
“A mistake?” you screeched. “You broke up with me right before I took grad photos with my mother!”
You’d made her banish them to a cupboard behind all the other photo albums, unable to bear the sight of your red rimmed eyes and streaky makeup.
He winced. “I know. Shitty timing on my part, I’m sorry. But I regret it. I regret all of it. I miss you. I’ve been missing you.”
“What, Natasha not giving enough in the sack?” you said sarcastically, a vicious bite.
You thought he went a shade paler as you continued on. “Yeah, I know about that. We hadn’t even been broken up 24 hours before you slept with her.” You sounded hysterical, and for good reason. You’d never had the chance to scream and shout at him before. Now seemed to be as good a time as any. You didn’t care if you drew a crowd. Hell, the entire beach should know what a piece of work he was. “I gave you almost three years of my life, Bucky, and you stepped all over it like it was dirt. Why the hell would I take you back?”
“Well, you never dated anyone after me, did you?” he asked, though he knew the answer.
You flushed, your skin hot, and it had nothing to do with the sun beating down on you. “What’s your point? I was pretty busy studying.”
“Now, you and I both know that’s not why.” he said, leaning down and getting close to your face. You could smell his breath, peppermint. You knew he kept Lifesavers in his glove compartment—it seemed that hadn’t changed.
“You haven’t dated anyone because you still love me. And I still love you. And I’m not going to stop fighting for you.”
If he’d said it to you any other time, maybe it would have cracked your exterior, exposed your gooey center. Maybe. But right now, it was only proving to you that he didn’t even get it. That just because he said he still loved you, didn’t mean you’d drop everything. Because if he’d loved you even at all, he never would have broken up with you.
“The only thing you miss is having a girl sneak into your room at night and warm your bed.” you said, disgusted.
At this, he had the audacity to look wounded. “No, I—”
“Move out of my way, or I will scream.”
The wild look in your eyes told him you were serious, and he stepped to the side. You got in the car, shoving your key so hard into the ignition you thought you might have damaged it, and then tugged your seatbelt with enough force that it got stuck. You put the car in reverse and heard tap tap tap against your window. He was still there.
You rolled it down, just a crack. “Back up or I’m gonna run you over, I swear to God, Bucky.”
“I’ll show you how sorry I am. I swear. I’ll make it up to you. I’ll be good to you for the rest of my life.”
“Go fuck yourself, Bucky.” And then you were speeding out of the lot, feeling your eyes burn with unshed tears.
That evening, as you laid in your bed, the window wide open to let in the outside air, you closed your eyes and thought of drowning Bucky in the ocean. You were sure you could lure him out there late at night, with the promise of being understanding. You could play the game, lead him out into the water under the guise of being playful. He was stronger than you, but you thought your rage might be enough to hold him under water for long enough.
You felt a small stab of peace at the idea.
Of course, you couldn’t do it—it would be just your luck that you’d land in jail because of him—but thinking about it was nice.
Instead, you would do the next best thing.
You’d make him regret ever looking in another girl’s direction. If he wanted to play, you could play. He didn’t realize what the game really was. You just had to wait for the right moment.
You had the next day off, and thank God for that. There was no way you could face Bucky so soon after what he’d said to you—you hadn’t calmed down enough yet. But you did spend the day with a couple of girlfriends at the mall. You hoped he was disappointed to pull into the lot and not see your car. After all, he might have gotten the job just to bother you, but it still meant that he had to actually work when he was there, whether or not you were scheduled.
On Saturday morning, you arrived a little after sunrise. You weren’t working that day, either, but the drill was necessary, so there you were in light, loose clothes over your bathing suit, your hair a tousled mess, prepared to spend the next couple of hours in the sand. You weren’t the first one there, but you’d beat Bucky at least, so you had a few minutes of calm before he showed up.
The drills were meant to work as refreshers and to also help team building. After all, in a real crisis, you’d all have to be synchronized with each other well enough to administer help as quickly and efficiently as possible.
As well as standard CPR on the beach, you were being tested on pulling people from the water. It was harder for someone like you, not built like Bucky or Sam, but you still always aced that part of the drill. There were also some drills based on call and response times among yourselves, and when and how a two person job should be administered. It would be a piece of cake, you thought to yourself. You were never worried about tests like these.
Your sunny mood threatened to sour when you saw Bucky, long and lean, loping across the beach to where the rest of you were gathered. Bruce and one of the older lifeguards were off to the side, speaking quietly. The drills would start in the next five minutes, but you wished it would be in the next five seconds.
Taking a deep breath, you willed yourself to be calm when Bucky entered your orbit. You knew that he’d make a beeline for you. He stood by your side, hands on his hips, as he admired the ocean. “Missed you yesterday,” he commented.
“Okay.” You were plain in your response. There was nothing to say, really, and you figured that for now, one word answers were the best you could do.
“I remember you telling me about these types of drills when you still worked at the pool. Is it gonna be similar to that?”
You pursed your lips, eyes to the sea line. You didn’t want to think about last summer, or the one before that. “In the act of saving lives? Yes.” you said drily.
“I got my certification last week,” he admitted.
you bit the inside of your cheek. So he had definitely planned this, not just taken the job up on the fly. It had been his goal all along to force you into his proximity. “Okay.” you repeated, back to the safety of a single worded answer.
“I never told you before, but I think it’s really cool that you care about this sort of stuff.”
If he thought a compliment was going to get him anywhere, he was sorely mistaken. You were saved from saying “okay,” for the third time by Bruce striding forward and clasping his hands in front of him. It had been noiseless, but it may as well have been a clap, because everyone straightened and turned in his direction. “Alright, everyone. We’re going to get started now. You know how to do this, so we’re skipping the demonstration. Just show us that you remember the right protocols, okay?”
And with that, the drills were underway.
It had started out fine. You were quick, and you knew exactly where all the extra equipment was. You knew what you should have on your person, what should be secured at Overwatch, and where any emergency backups were. You knew the best way to get them without leaving your victim. Communication was key in this sort of situation. The walkie-talkies were waterproof, but you tended to know exactly what you were dealing with before you were too far out in the water, able to call and anticipate what you’d need, or if you would require assistance, before reaching your target.
For most drills, you used dummies, though some were with your fellow lifeguards acting as helpless swimmers. So far, you’d been able to keep well away from Bucky.
That was, until it came time for the last one. It was a two person drill, and Sam, despite his newfound friendship with Bucky, was still your number one for group situations when the choice was possible. You high fived each other as you got ready on the presumed start line, right by Overwatch. The idea was that in this particular drill, two people would be needed to bring the person back to land and administer CPR or anything more serious.
The only hitch in this was that you were supposed to be saving Bucky, who had eagerly volunteered to float in the ocean and wait for his rescue. It irked you, but you pushed it to the side, ready to show that you were worth your salt. Bruce stood off to the side with a stopwatch. “Alright, ready…?”
At your determined nod, he clicked the button of the watch. “Go!”
You took off in a dead sprint. You were in only your swimwear by now, your clothes discarded in a pile along with everyone else’s. The water was still cool at this time of morning, though you’d been in and out enough that it didn't slow you down. Sam matched your pace pretty evenly, his legs longer, but you had a killer breaststroke, and got to Bucky first. He grinned at you, flicking water from his eyes. “My hero.”
“Shut up and don’t make things difficult. If you screw this for me, I’ll kill you.”
Sam got to you both right as you finished the threat, and Bucky allowed himself to be pulled to land. Once you got him down on the sand, far enough away from the lapping waves, there was a brief, hesitant pause. You were already on your knees beside him. It had been automatic. The thing was, one of you was supposed to administer CPR while the other went for the first aid kit. You and Sam hadn’t discussed who would be doing what. Inwardly, you cursed. You thought maybe somewhere in your subconscious, you were anticipating mouth-to-mouth. What you wouldn’t have given to let Sam do it instead, to leave Bucky spluttering as you held in a laugh.
But you didn’t have time to switch now, because in a real situation, that wouldn’t be an option. Sam took off towards Overwatch, and Bucky blinked up at you innocently. “Save my life, angel. What are you waiting for?”
“Shut up!” you whispered harshly. “Drowning victims usually don’t talk!” Then you started with chest compressions. You were using a bit more force than you really needed, especially since Bucky could breathe, but you didn’t care if he wheezed a little. He deserved it.
Even still, his eyes seemed to sparkle when you stopped after the count. “Do not enjoy this,” you warned, before pinching his nose and covering his mouth with yours.
You weren’t supposed to actually breathe for him, but mimicking the motions was supposed to do the trick. Why, oh why did you not get to use a dummy for this? It was because all your other compatriots were currently performing the same drill, and there were no more left, but it felt like some cruel twist of fate to you, like the universe was having a laugh at your expense.
To your utter relief, he let you do the first set without issue. Then you went back to the chest compressions, where mercifully, he stayed quiet. It was when you did the second set of mouth-to-mouth that things went south. You felt the barest twitch of his fingers against your knee. Then he was snaking his hand up your thigh and to the dip of your waist. You sucked in a breath, moving to pull away, but not before you felt his tongue breach your lips and touch the inside of your mouth.
You stared at him, stunned by his boldness. How in the world had no one noticed the obvious violation of the drill? Instead, he only smiled at you lazily, head pillowed by sand. “You taste just like I remember.”
“Oh, I’m gonna kill you,” you glowered at him, putting your hands on his chest and pressing down with all your weight. He only looked pleased.
“Hey, don’t break our dummy. He’s not one that we can replace.” Sam’s voice snapped you out of it, the first aid kit dangling from his hand.
You sat back on the sand heavily. “Work away, Wilson. I did my part.”
“And you did it so well,'“ Bucky cooed, ignoring the daggers in your eyes.
You excused yourself as soon as you could, under the plea of a bathroom break. It was a short jog down to the cabanas where the stalls were. The lighting was dingy, the four by four room made up of blue tiles. You stared at yourself in the mirror. The drills were almost done, and it was still early in the day. After this, you could go home and put Bucky out of your head, at least until tomorrow.
You still couldn't believe that he’d kind-of-sort-of kissed you. It shouldn’t have been a shock—he’d made his motivations to win you back somehow very clear—but still, you didn’t think he’d put your job at risk in order to do it. Okay, maybe that was a bit dramatic… the most Bruce would have done would be to give you a deeply disappointed stare. But even still, that wasn’t something you wanted to be on the receiving end of.
When you walked back out, the sky had started to cloud over, just a little. You thought you could smell rain on the horizon. It didn’t matter to you. You’d already been in and out of the water a dozen times. You hoped the sky would open up and pour all over Bucky after you left.
The rest of the drills were a breeze. You stayed far away from him, choosing to stick with Ava instead, though you could feel Bucky’s eyes on you. At the end of the circuit, Bruce, pleased with everyone’s efficiency, began handing out coupons. They were a dollar off for the ice cream stand, redeemable any time during the summer. You usually gave yours to Cassie, the stand owner’s daughter, but you decided to keep it this time. You deserved the treat for dealing with Bucky all morning.
You stuffed it in the pocket of your shorts before throwing your clothes on and stealing away to your car while Bucky was distracted by pats on the back from Sam and Joaquin, glad to be away from him, though you had a feeling the memory of his mouth would plague you for the rest of the day.
You settled, reluctantly, into the routine of seeing Bucky often. If you weren’t filled with bubbling annoyance, you would have felt almost like you had in high school, being in his proximity all the time. From the way he kept finding excuses to be close to you, it really did remind you of high school. Back then, when you’d been surrounded by teachers and other students, he’d had to be subtle with his affections. You remembered your hands being linked together behind your backs, or his shoe touching yours, arm to arm. Him scooting his chair closer, or pulling yours across the tile until your knee knocked into his. Back then, you’d mooned over each other like any other lovesick couple. You’d frequently been told to ‘get a room’ even when all you’d been doing was sitting on the bleachers under his arm, leaned against him, or resting back against his chest under one of the trees outside.
It was different now, of course. He’d get close to you, kicking up sand and disturbing the pecking gulls, and you’d simply move away. You had the excuse of surveying the beach, at least. Being around others didn’t really deter him either—any time you were in the middle of a laugh with Sam and Joaquin, he’d join right in, and you’d abruptly stop your giggling and become stone faced for the remainder of the interaction.
You thought you’d at least get some peace and quiet when you ventured to the ice cream stand on your break. You liked Scott—he and his daughter ran the stand all by themselves, sometimes with a volunteer on really hot, busy days. He was always very silly normally, even more so to the little kids, and there was usually a line about a mile long to get a rocket pop or ice cream sandwich. You were lucky to be the last of a rush of customers, and stuck around as you started in on your vanilla cone. You were half leaned into the window, making conversation with Cassie and enjoying the cold that you could feel blasting from the deep freeze. The stand was really more of a little hut, decorated in a Hawaiian theme. Scott always wore the most goofily patterned shirts he could find.
Your fun was short lived when you felt the heat of a warm body at your side. You felt yourself stiffen, knowing exactly who would be that bold. You barely had to turn your head to see Bucky, looking innocently at Cassie. “Is this where I redeem my coupon?” He held the paper between two fingers, and it waved lazily in the breeze.
She grinned at him and took the coupon, and it was only a matter of seconds before Bucky was mirroring you, ice cream cone in hand. “I should have known this was where you’d be hiding.”
You straightened and pulled away from the stand, offering a half-hearted wave to the Langs. “And now I need to find a new spot.”
As you spoke, you felt the slow drip of vanilla curling over your fingers. It had started an instant melt the second you’d moved away from the window. Without thinking, you licked the offending melt away, grimacing at the stickiness you knew it would leave behind, and glanced back at Bucky.
The look on his face was comical. Eyes wide, mouth slightly open, completely ignoring his own melting ice cream. His eyes had been locked in on your hand, and more specifically the trip your tongue had taken. You snorted. “Oh, grow up.”
He tried and failed to school his expression. “That was hot.”
You wrinkled your nose and resumed eating, trying for bites instead of licks—you were almost down to the cone now, and you didn’t really feel like eating vanilla soup, but his eyes tracked your every move. “You’re so gross.”
“Do you remember that night… at that John kid’s party?” Bucky asked, eyes still on your mouth.
You rolled your eyes. “Seriously—”
“When we stole wine from his dad’s cellar and hid in the pool house, and you started hiccupping so much that you couldn’t breathe, but you kept laughing and laughing and laughing?”
You did remember, though it was fuzzy. You’d drank way too much that night. It had been about two months before graduation, and the nerves had been getting the better of you for weeks. But Bucky had convinced you to go, to try and get your mind off of it. “I remember. But I remember what happened after more than I remember that part,” you admitted.
He gave you a half-smile. “Yeah, me too.” The ‘after’ had been very rushed, very giggly sex, and your ‘B’ necklace had kept smacking you in the chin every time you’d moved. And then Bucky and you had snuck out, slinking behind patio furniture, hands tightly clasped, when another drunk couple had stumbled in there. And he’d taken you to a fast food drive thru, and you’d sat on the hood of his car eating ice cream and looking up at the stars.
You didn’t want to get sentimental. It was a road you’d already travelled far too many times, and you didn’t want to drive the familiar path to your dead relationship again. You didn’t want to eat your ice cream anymore, either. You threw the cone in the trash, felt the stickiness between your fingers, and looked at your hands in distaste. Your break was over soon, anyway. Bucky was still staring at you, with eyes as blue and warm as the Southern sea.
“Well, this was fun and all, but I’m gonna go wash my hands before I get back to Overwatch.” You moved to sidestep around him, but he moved with you, cutting you off.
“I miss hearing you laugh.” His voice was quiet, almost drowned out by the shriek of a gull.
You bit your tongue before saying, “Well, that’s a privilege only my friends get to hear. And you’re not my friend, Bucky.”
You left him there, with ice cream dribbling down his wrist, and a bitter taste in your mouth.
You were subject to moments like this all throughout the week. There were days where you almost reached salvation in the form of not being scheduled with him, but every time you thought you were free from Bucky’s pleading stare, he’d show himself. You really thought he’d have better things to do with his summer, but if you were at the beach, then so was he, without fail.
One of the hottest days of the year had approached. Bruce had scheduled many of your for that weekend, encouraging frequent breaks and eagle eyes on the beach goers to ensure that heatstroke was at a minimum. You’d worked days like this before, the sun no joke. The ocean shimmered like a disco ball. It was almost painful to look at, especially from your vantage point on Overwatch. Your stint up high was almost over, with only a few minutes before someone switched with you. Your little handheld fan was losing the battle with the heat, only serving to blow more hot air your way.
You caught sight of a group of girls around your age, a striped blanket held between them as they squealed at the burn of the sand on their feet. They set up not far from you, before pulling off their beach coverups. Obviously, they were intent on getting their tan on. If that hadn’t been clear already, their bathing suits were little more than floss and scraps of fabric. It left nothing to the imagination, that was for sure. You idly watched them lay out, before scaling Overwatch when one of the other lifeguards came to take over.
You were totally unsurprised to see Joaquin and Sam a little further down the beach, not hiding their ogling in the slightest. Joaquin’s eyes were so huge that they looked like dinner plates. You rolled your eyes. Typical men. You approached and lightly shoved Joaquin’s arm. “How about you look at the rest of the beach too, and not just the hot girls, hmm?”
“But—
“Oh, come on. Lighten up. It’s not every day we get to see girls that hot just laid out like that.” Sam complained, gesturing at them.
You gave him a look. “Actually, it is every day. This is the fucking beach, Sam. Hot girls are kind of a dime a dozen.”
You dragged them both along with you, hands firm on their elbows. “You’re just jealous that no one’s making eyes at you.” Joaquin muttered petulantly.
It wasn’t worth commenting on, so you just sighed and shook your head, but then Sam said, “Well, that’s not true… Bucky’s been checking her out all day.”
Your head whipped to the side to stare at Sam. Today had been a day that you’d mercifully not seen much of your ex. You’d covered up today. The UV was high, and you’d worn your rash guard, not wanting to risk a sunburn. Compared to the group of girls, you might as well have been furniture. Sure, maybe Bucky was doing his standard eye-fucking, but there was no way he’d be checking you out over those girls. You weren’t blind—even you knew they all looked like they belonged on the cover of Sports Illustrated.
You arrived at the cabana and immediately sat down on the floor in front of the dinky little air conditioner, letting it blow in your face. Sam fished in the cooler for some bottles of water and tossed one to you, which you caught with a grateful look before chugging half of it. Joaquin rounded Bruce's desk to look at the schedule, before letting out a whistle. “Well, good luck, because you’re walking the shoreline with Bucky in like, ten minutes.” He said to you.
You grimaced. “I know.”
You’d looked at what the day would bring for you when you’d first arrived. Walking the perimeter wouldn’t be so bad. And if Bucky really got on your nerves, you’d just push him into the surf and keep walking.
“Are you ready to forgive him yet?” Sam asked, slouching in one of the chairs.
You glared at him over your shoulder. “Why on earth would I do that?”
“I don’t know, maybe so we don’t have to hear him pining over you or whatever. Dude’s got a heart boner for you so strong that it makes me nauseous.”
“Shut up, Sam.”
“It’s true,” Joaquin admitted with a shrug of his shoulders. “He won’t shut up about you. I know things that I should never know.”
That gave you pause. “Like what…?” You were afraid of the answer.
“Like for your one month anniversary—lame, by the way—you made him a giant skillet cookie and stuck a sparkler in it. Why do I know that? I didn’t want to know that.”
“Or,” Sam added, “that your yellow sundress with the lemons on it is what shows off your legs the best. Why do I care? It’s gross. You’re like a sister to me. I don’t wanna know that.”
“Oh my God.” You groaned, covering your face with a hand.
“Yeah, think of how we feel.”
“Well maybe you shouldn’t have gotten so buddy-buddy with him, ever think of that?” you snapped, looking between them.
“When he’s not waxing poetic about how your eyes look like the stars, he’s a cool guy. But my God, he’s so down bad for you.” Joaquin laughed at your disgusted stare. “So either forgive him, or put him out of his misery. Seriously.”
But it wasn’t up to your friends to decide whether you should forgive and forget. They weren’t the ones that had had to nurse a broken heart between shifts at your part time job and 8am lectures. You sniffed disdainfully. “Sounds like it’s gonna be a long summer for you two, then.”
You spent the remainder of your inside time sitting back against the wall, finishing your water and reapplying sunscreen to your face and your legs, listening to Sam and Joaquin talk about something or other, before you stood with a sigh. “Off to serve my sentence,” you said, stretching your arms.
“Good luck out there.” Joaquin said with a mock salute.
When you pushed open the cabana’s door, you almost screamed in surprise, your hand flying to your chest to calm your racing heart. Bucky had been standing right outside. “Jesus Christ, Bucky. Were you lurking out here like a feral raccoon the whole time?”
He shrugged one shoulder. “No, only the last two minutes. I saw you guys come inside but I didn’t want to crash the party.” His eyes flicked over your form, before he said, “Are you ready to go?”
“I guess.” You blew hair out of your face, then started walking, not waiting for him to catch up.
You basked in miraculous quiet for all of three minutes, the walk around the shoreline barely started, before you noticed that you were the only one with your head on a swivel, watching the water and the beach. Bucky had been staring at you almost the entire time.
“Ugh, god, Sam was right.”
Bucky met your eyes. “Huh?”
“He said you kept checking me out. How about you check out the beach instead? You know, seeing as it’s your job.”
“I can’t help it,” he held his hands up, giving you puppy eyes. You were pretty sure he was pouting a little, too. “I only have eyes for you.”
You scoffed, turning to look at the sea, the group of kids splashing around nearby. “Yeah, right.”
“It’s true!”
“Pretty sure you’d be singing a different tune if Natasha was here.” You sounded bitter, and you knew it. You hated it. You didn’t want to keep bringing it up, to keep bringing her up, but the whole thing was like a splinter in your palm, one that had gotten so deep under your skin that you couldn’t remove it.
There was a moment of silence between you both. You felt the sand under your feet. You were closer to the water than he was, the waves lapping at your ankles as you walked. Your footprints were washed away after every step.
“What do you want me to do,” Bucky finally said, a heavy breath escaping him, “do you want me to beg?”
And to your embarrassment, he got on his knees right there, stopping you in your tracks in front of a large family, who all turned to stare. You looked left and right, mortified as any other surrounding beach goers started turning your way as well, keen interest in their eyes.
“Oh my God, get up.” You flicked your hands, beckoning him to stand, your voice strangled.
“I’ll beg, I’m not above it. I’ll do whatever it takes. I have no shame. I know how I feel about you.” He said steadily, looking up at you like you were the sun.
Oh, no… you had a terrible feeling that he was about to begin a whole speech. “Bucky—”
“I was a total idiot. I’m gonna be kicking myself for it for the rest of my life. I was stupid and scared and everything was changing, and you were my only constant. And instead of clinging to you like I should have, I did the dumbest thing I could possibly do, and I hurt you. And I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. I know forgiveness isn’t easy, but I’m asking you to consider it.”
You weren’t really listening, too focused on the heat under your skin, heat that had nothing to do with the warm weather and everything to do with being in the spotlight of a bunch of strangers.
“If you don’t get up right now, there’s no chance in hell.” You whispered harshly.
To your surprise, he stood immediately, latching on to hope. “So there’s a chance?”
“That’s not what I said.”
Bucky grabbed onto both of your hands, and you fought a shudder. It had been a long time since he’d touched you, and even something as innocent as this sent you into a tailspin. When you looked at his face, your eyes slow to move from where he’d been kneeling, you saw a horrible amount of earnestness there. You pulled your hands away from his, rattled. He didn’t usually let you see his true feelings, not when you were together. It had been pretty rare.
“Can we just… can we just finish the perimeter, please?” you asked. People finally started looking away, disappointed that there hadn’t been more of a spectacle.
“Okay. Whatever you want.” But Bucky stayed standing in front of you for a moment longer, before stepping to the side and falling in line next to you.
The rest of the walk was quiet, but his words kept echoing in your head anyway.
It didn’t take you long to notice, after that, that Bucky had started to switch shifts to see you. Even if he didn’t necessarily get to work with you directly, you had noticed names being scribbled out and switched with his. He was always working when you were, now. He was everywhere. Even for things as unnecessary as helping you down from Overwatch. You’d climbed that chair dozens of times without any need for assistance, but all of a sudden, there he was with an extended hand to help you down. You always ignored it, but he did it anyway.
Frankly, it was unnerving. You had to believe that was it, because if you thought about it further... you were worried a small piece of you would find it sweet.
You could no longer ignore him quite so easily. Not when he was being so nice. You could only be so much of a bitch, and it was getting harder and harder to do when he’d bring you water or a snack, or offer to take over so that you could have a couple of minutes inside. He was certainly doing the most to win you over. And you were just a little bit worried that you’d fold like a house of cards if he pushed some more.
Unfortunately, being around him so constantly also made you aware of things you didn’t really want to be aware of. Like the consistent sunburn between his shoulder blades. Bucky refused to wear a shirt, not on any of the days that he’d worked. He technically wasn’t required to, but you thought it was silly to risk a burn just to show of his Adonis-like figure. It was hard to look at him without remembering what it had been like to trace your fingers over his abs. But eventually, the perpetual red mark between his shoulders and up his neck had you taking pity on him.
The next time you were working together, you saw him wince when Sam clapped him on the back in greeting, before trading off. You’d just arrived yourself, your bag on your shoulder. Suddenly, it felt heavy with the weight of sunscreen. “Bucky, doesn’t that hurt?” You touched your own shoulder for emphasis.
He bit his lip, frowning. “Yeah, but I can’t reach there.”
You hesitated before biting the bullet. “Do you want me to—”
“Yes.” He answered before you could even finish the question, his eyes locked onto you.
You regretted asking. You fumbled with the lid of the sunscreen before squeezing some out onto your hand. Standing behind him like this made you think of all the times he’d given you a piggyback ride, walking you from his car to your house. You’d pepper the side of his face with kisses and he’d dig his fingers more firmly into your thighs, keeping you strapped to him like a backpack. You willed the memories from your head at the first gentle touch of your fingers to his skin. You could feel the heat of the burn and winced, imagining the pain. It only took turning into a lobster one time for you to always slather yourself in sunscreen and light layers of clothes, and you thought he’d do well to remember it too, but you said nothing as you rubbed the lotion in. Bucky let out a soft hiss of discomfort but stayed still otherwise. Even though it was overcast today, it was still worth the protection.
Once you were done, you gingerly patted his shoulder. “Okay, you’re good.”
You went to put the bottle back in your bag when he turned to face you. “Can I… return the favour?”
Your instinct was to say no, absolutely not, he was never getting his hands on you again. But the way he’d asked was so distinctly unlike him, it made you reconsider. There was no bravado, no cockiness. Just that same earnest look from the day he’d gotten on his knees, and a soft undertone of shyness that you’d never heard from him before. Usually, you got one of the other female lifeguards to help you with any spots you missed. But as you observed him now, his lack of flirtatiousness made you believe that he’d be on his best behaviour, for once. No lingering touches of heady stares. “Okay.” The answer left you on an exhale.
You had a racerback one-piece on today, meaning it was really only your shoulders on display. You’d done your arms and legs already. You turned away from him after handing him the bottle.
The first touch of his fingers on your skin had you fighting a shiver. This had been a bad idea. It was impossible for Bucky to touch you without your brain catapulting you to the past. All he was doing was rubbing sunscreen into your skin, and yet it was making you think of when you’d been hunched over textbooks for hours, making flashcards, and he’d sat behind you and massaged your shoulders, pressing kisses between your shoulders and to the side of your neck. You were glad that you weren’t looking at him right now—you were sure that your thoughts would be written all over your face. It was making you feel skittish, too self-aware of where your mind was spiraling. He carefully swept your hair to one side, his hand stroking against the back of your neck. You didn’t like how comfortable you felt, how easy it was to sink into the feeling of his hands on you.
When he was satisfied with his application, he let his hands linger on your shoulders before murmuring, voice close to your ear, “All done.” A flurry of butterflies exploded in your stomach. You didn’t want to turn around. You knew exactly how close he’d be.
“Thanks.”
And you both stood there for a moment longer, him behind you, hands still on your shoulders, and you staring down at your sand-filled sandals, suspended in a single stretch of time where he hadn’t hurt you and you hadn’t refused his apology, before someone called your name in greeting, and then it cracked like glass, and you were hastily shoving the sunscreen in your bag and striding across the beach like you were on fire.
Each time you found yourself alone with Bucky after that, it all felt compromising. He didn’t even have to necessarily be close to you, but you felt some sort of intangible spark between you that kept trying its hardest to flicker to life, despite your attempts to smother it. Keeping your distance wasn’t working, and almost all of Bucky’s earlier bravado seemed to have melted away in favour of more genuine connection. He’d stopped flirting with you like he had at first, stopped trying to take advantage of how he could fluster you. It made it worse when he’d stand right beside you, not touching, but only an inch or so away. The heat on your skin had nothing to do with the weather.
You started to wonder, as you observed him, if your time apart had been… good for him.
Not with the way he’d ended things, no, but he hadn’t had anyone in his corner, you believed, except for his best friend, Steve. You had always been the third person in that friendship, even before you’d started dating. And you had long since known that Steve had been the most studious of the three of you. It made you consider the long nights Bucky would have spent alone, without your company or Steve’s to keep him grounded. Something that Bucky had never done much of was stand alone. And whether you liked it or not, your break up would have forced him to do things by himself.
You found yourself thinking about it every time you saw him when he wasn’t aware of you. When he’d been getting off shift, but he’d stopped to help an elderly couple fold up their beach chairs and take them to the car. When he’d helped a lost kid find their mother, holding their hand and then wiping away their tears when they’d cried, accepting the mother’s profuse thankfulness with nothing more than a smile. The Bucky you’d known before wouldn’t have bothered with going out of his way to help people. He’d been totally absorbed in your bubble, your world with the population of two. Maybe he’d grown up more than you’d originally thought.
It was hard for you to reconcile the fact. The boy you’d loved, who’d been all of your firsts, who’d broken your heart, had changed. You wondered, if you were still together, if he’d have still become who he was now. If you’d love him more than you thought possible. But you’d changed, too. You weren’t so trusting, you weren’t so open to new things, like you’d been with him. When you’d been together, you’d felt utterly fearless. Bucky had always been good at entertaining your every whim. But you’d become a little more guarded in his absence. Your rose-tinted glasses weren’t so pink anymore.
Still, you weren’t quite ready to consider taking any steps towards anything more than a working relationship. You didn’t think you could be friends. It would never be just that, not to you. You’d always be thinking of before, when you’d been more. And he’d already made it clear that he wanted you back. You entertained the idea of telling him you wouldn’t take him back, that you could only be friends in the same capacity that you were friends with Sam or Joaquin. You didn’t know if he’d be able to respect your wishes or not or if he’d cross the line. All you really knew was that it would be too easy for you to fall under his spell if you gave in. That was the real reason for your continued distance. Falling back into Bucky would be as easy as wrapping yourself in an old, well-loved blanket, and snuggling so deeply that you’d fall asleep and never wake up again. And you couldn’t do that to yourself. Not now.
The bonfire happened every year, apparently. It was after hours at the beach, no swimming allowed, just the promise of a fire and food and music. It was always at the beginning of August. Almost everyone from the lifeguard team was going. You felt somewhat nervous at the prospect, like there was some sort of anticipation under your skin, but you couldn’t figure out why. After all, you’d spent most of your summer days with these people. You knew what to expect—Sam had filled you in, having attended these things with a cousin a couple of years in a row—but still, you couldn’t shake the feeling. It was just supposed to be a fun, lighthearted evening.
You’d heard through the grapevine that Bucky wouldn’t be attending. You felt a strange sense of disappointment, though you tried to convince yourself that it was actually relief. But when the night of the bonfire came, and your tires slid smoothly across the sand that had blown over the lot, you noticed that his car wasn’t there. You wiped your palms on your shorts, even though they were dry, a nervous tic that you had, and made eye contact with yourself in the rear view mirror. You were just going to have a nice evening, probably attached to Sam and Joaquin the whole night, indulging on hot dogs and popsicles and drinks, and then you’d go home. It sounded like a perfect summer memory to capture and keep like a firefly in a jar.
When you moseyed on over to the beach, you were greeted warmly by your fellow lifeguards. It was just after eight, the sun low in the sky, setting the entire beach ablaze. The last stragglers that had been out enjoying the day were departing, rolling up towels and gathering toy shovels and buckets into bags. You could just barely make out Bruce standing by Overwatch, having taken over so that the rest of you could start your night. You were handed a lemonade and hustled over to the metal fire pit. Some chairs were scattered about, as well as a wooden bench that had seen better days. One of these years, it would probably serve as kindling. The breeze was subtle, carrying the scent of the burning logs across the open air.
Everything was very relaxed, with no expectations but to have a good time. The stars slowly woke up over the course of the next hour, brightening up the darkening sky in soft blinks. Marshmallows were being roasted over the open flame, but you were content to sit on the bench listening to the idle chatter. The evening carried on lazily, most all of the lifeguards present, each of them weaving between each other. A Bluetooth speaker had been set up on a towel, music pumping steadily, a couple people swaying to the melody. The songs were all popular ones, whatever was trending for the summer. The chorus of one was broken up by the distant slam of a car door. You looked around the beach, but you didn’t think anyone had left yet. It was too soon, you thought.
And then you saw him, on the other side of the flames. First a long shadow, then more concrete, more real. Bucky, in a t-shirt and shorts, swinging the his keychain around his finger as he strolled up to the rest of you. He had a sweatshirt hanging over one arm. He was late, but he was here. You tried to tamp down the feeling spreading through your chest at the sight of him. He didn’t see you right away, sidling over to Sam and accepting a drink. They were hovering around the grill. You saw Bucky laugh, but you were too far away to hear him over the music, the roar of the flames, and the swish of the waves. He clapped Sam on the shoulder before turning to survey the rest of the beach, raising his red solo cup in greeting to whoever waved or shouted in his direction.
Then, predictably, his eyes came to rest on you. He stayed staring at you as he took a sip of his drink, and you broke the contact to stare into the fire. You weren’t surprised when he sat down beside you. Out of the corner of your eye, you could see him resting his cup against his knee. “I thought you weren’t coming,” you said, the words leaving the side of your mouth.
“I was always coming. I just had to drop off Becca at a sleepover first. And you know how long she takes to get ready. She ran back and forth from the car to the house like ten times before she was ready.”
With a pang, you silently agreed that yes, you did know how Becca got. She always forgot something. Dates with bucky had been interrupted dozens of times because she’d called him, begging him to bring her something she’d left behind. And he’d always say yes, and then look at you apologetically, and you’d only smile and kiss the tip of his nose before standing and offering a hand. Becca had sort of been like your little sister, too. You had been the one she’d always come to about boy troubles. You missed her.
“How is she?” you asked. It was easier to talk about someone other than yourselves.
“Oh, you know, same as always. Still taking her dance classes way too seriously.”
You hummed, remembering the recitals you’d attended with Bucky’s family. “She’s got the talent for it. Is she still thinking of going to Julliard?”
“‘Course. It’s on her wall. She made this, uh…” he trailed off, searching for the word, “vision board thing. I don’t know. A bunch of pictures all stuck together?”
You nodded. “Right. It’s supposed to manifest your hopes and dreams, remind you of your goals, that sort of thing.”
He snapped his fingers, pointing at you in confirmation. “Yeah, that. God, can’t believe she’s gonna be applying for universities this year.”
“I remember when she still had frizzy hair and braces,” you said, your voice wistful. If you closed your eyes, you could see her clearly. The summer she’d gotten blonde highlights and cried because she thought they were too chunky, you’d helped her dye her hair back to brown. You used to give her your old clothes, ones you’d outgrown or no longer thought suited you. She would raid your closet and call it thrifting.
“And now she’s got her learner’s permit and a part-time job.” Bucky sounded equally pensive.
It was easy to talk about Becca and the passage of time. Bucky filled you in on what she’d been up to. It was nice to hear. No matter what had happened between you and Nucky, you’d always have a soft spot for his family. “…And then her and my mom called me in tears. I was almost late for my mid-term.” he laughed, looking at you.
You smiled at the tale. It was a classic case of dramatic teenage girl versus worried mother. You tried to ignore the fact that Becca probably would have called you, if you’d been around. Bucky seemed to think of it too. He swallowed, and you watched the line of his throat. “You know, she was uh… she was really mad at me, when we broke up. She didn’t talk to me for two weeks.” You could barely hear him over the crackle of the fire, but the words seeped into your skin, regardless. “She would have picked you over me, if she could have.”
You looked away from him, crossing your arms. You didn’t quite know what to say. “Mom, too, actually.” Bucky added after a moment. “She slapped me upside the head.”
You bit your lip to keep from smiling at the idea. Wilhelmina was one of the gentlest women you knew, who only had to threaten to count to three to get her children to fall in line. The idea of her making Bucky see stars with a smack to the skull was admittedly funny. The words left you before you could consider them. “You know, that was almost the worst part for me. Not only did you break up with me, but I lost my second family because of it.”
He said your name then, and you heard the remorse laced in it, but you cut him off before he could say another word. “I wasn’t gonna be the ex-girlfriend that kept making your life hell by keeping up with your family. You might have deserved it, but any future girlfriends didn’t. But I missed them so much.” Bucky’s family had always been much more hands on than yours. They’d never been upset by your presence, they’d just wanted to know if you were staying for dinner so that they could get an extra plate out.
A cool breeze came in from the shoreline, and it made you shiver as your hair caught on it, blowing across your face. The weight of fabric pressed against your legs a moment later. “Here, take it.”
It was Bucky’s sweatshirt. I was a bad idea to accept it, especially when you were quickly approaching melancholy and introspectiveness, but another gust of wind hand you hastily pulling it over your head. The maroon fabric nearly drowned you, the sleeves hanging past your fingers. It smelled of him. His cologne had always had a little bit of a lavender smell to it. You resisted the urge to pull the hem over your nose, to breathe him in more. You could almost believe it was like old times. You’d constantly stolen his clothes. You liked them more than your own, the way they felt so lived in. The way he always felt close. You’d taken no less than three of his shirts with you when you’d gone to France the year before, away from him for spring break. It had made the time difference bearable.
You pushed your hair back behind your ears even though you knew another billow of wind would send it flying loose around your face again. You wished that someone else would come by, pull you into a more mundane conversation, save you from reliving the past. But it was just you and Bucky on that bench. Everyone else seemed oceans away. When you looked at him again, you regretted it. His eyes were dark in the night, but every time the bonfire flickered, you saw that telltale blue. His mouth was pursed in a line, his forehead creased. He turned to the side, resting his elbow along the back of the bench so that he could look at you with the full force of his gaze. “You know my mom would still love to see you, even if we’re not together, right?”
“I know,” you said softly. “But it’s too hard for me. I can’t… I can’t go into that house anymore. I can’t look at your picture on the wall. Because then I’ll remember that I was there when she took it, and all the others.” You sighed, your eyes fluttering closed for a second. “It’s all just a reminder of before. And I can’t keep looking back on it.”
His fingers touched his mouth as he considered, then nodded. “I understand.” For once, you thought that he actually did.
You both sat in the silence of what had broken you apart, before he nudged your knee with his. “Tell me about school. Straight A’s?” The subject was an abrupt, obvious change, but you grabbed it with both hands.
“Of course. like I'd ever get any less.”
He laughed. “Wish I could say the same. got a D- on a first year seminar.”
At your look of dismay, he held up his hands. “You made all my study guides for me. I tried to recreate them the way you do, but it just didn’t really work.”
“Did you colour code everything?”
“I tried. But orange and red kept getting mixed up.”
You shook your head. “Novice move.”
The smile on his face faded then, his eyes going serious. His hand paused in the air between you, before he followed through, brushing your hair back again from where it had, predictably, come loose. “I want to kiss you right now.”
It was the wrong thing to say. The tentative, easy spell of camaraderie broke, and you shied away, ignoring the sparks on your skin from where he’d touched you. You could see regret swimming in his eyes. You stood suddenly, placing your half-finished lemonade on the bench. “I should go. I wasn’t gonna stay long, anyway.”
You took a stumbling step backward when he tried to reach for you, his lips forming your name. There were no two ways about it, you were shaken. You’d thought for a brief, shining moment, that maybe you could just enjoy the evening as something close to friends. That you could just pretend, for one night. But your feelings had risen in you like an unsteady tide, threatening to spill from your mouth. You felt like you had salt water in your lungs, the way they burned. You patted at your pockets frantically, almost at your car. It was too much, it was too soon. You didn’t know what you wanted. For a second, all you’d wanted was him. You sat in your car for a full moment, both hands on the wheel, staring blankly ahead, before finally shifting into drive and backing out of your spot.
You just hoped you’d get to your room before you started to cry.
The country road ahead was dark, with only your headlights to guide the way. It was a ten minute stretch before you’d reach suburbia again. You drove with no music, only the sound of your breathing and the car rumbling over the road. Your fingers were tight on the wheel.
You supposed you should have expected him to say something like that. It was Bucky, after all. No matter how genuine he seemed, his goal had always been to get back in your pants. Maybe that was cheapening what your relationship had been, but when you had the foundation of your love crumbling because he’d wanted to chase down some tail that wasn’t you, what else were you supposed to think? You were sure it would take nothing at all to re frame every action he’d taken over the course of the summer and twist it into something that hurt.
A flash of lights caught in your rear view mirror. The road had been empty, but there was a car behind you now. If they wanted to overtake, they could. But the lights flashed again, and you could just barely make out the shape of it. it was Bucky’s car. He was following you. “Shit,” you murmured to the air freshener hanging from the mirror.
You couldn’t let him follow you all the way back to the house. Your mom was home, and she’d ask questions. Hell, she’d probably invite him in. He flashed them again, keeping pace. You slapped the indicator with your hand, letting out a resigned sigh, and pulled onto the shoulder. He copied you, pulling in neatly behind you. You parked but stayed in the car, one hand on the wheel, the other clutching at your seatbelt where it rested over your chest. You stared straight ahead, blinking away any glassiness from your eyes.
From the edge of your periphery, you saw him lean down by your window, observing you for the space of three breaths, before he knocked gently on the glass. Your hand left the wheel to push the door open, but you stayed in the car. “I'm sorry,” were the first words out of his mouth. “I shouldn’t have said that. I didn’t mean—I'm sorry.”
You chewed your lip, eyes flicking to him and away. “And to be clear, I don’t mean that I regret the fact that I want to kiss you. I still do. I always do. But I'm sorry for saying it and making you upset. It’s the last thing I wanted to do.”
His hand gripped the top of the car’s door. You wouldn’t even have to extend your arm the entire way to touch him. Belatedly, you realized you were still wearing his sweatshirt. “Do you want this back?” you asked absently, waving the long sleeve at him.
“What? Oh, no. You can keep it. Colour suits you more, anyway.”
“Bucky,” you said on a sigh, turning your head to look at him finally, “I'm not gonna keep it. It’s not mine, and neither are you.”
“You’re wrong. I'll always be yours. Even if you don’t want me.”
The admission left you in stunned silence. He’d already said to you in so many words that he was intent on getting back together. But to hear it like that… to hear him say it with honest eyes and no expectation… Your next breath was shaky. You refused to cry.
“What can I do? I’ll do anything. Anything to make it up to you. To start making it up to you.'“
You didn’t even know how to respond. Your mind had drawn a total, perfect blank, like someone had taken an eraser to the whiteboard that was your brain, any ideas completely gone.
“Do you know why I really failed that class?” A cricket chirped between the words of the question. “Yeah, it was partly because I suck at studying without you. But it was also because I missed you, so damn much. God, I was still so gone for you—I kept a photo of you on my nightstand.”
At this, your eyes went wide, a look he caught. He gave you a grim smile. “Yeah, that’s right. It’s you on that tire swing. You know, the one at my uncle’s lake house? And the sun was in your eyes, but you looked like you were glowing. Same one I keep in my wallet.” He pulled said wallet out of his back pocket and unfolded it, sliding a creased photo from its depths. He flipped it in his fingers to face you.
It had been warm that fall. So warm, unseasonably so, that his family had hosted Thanksgiving at the lake house that year, and you’d come along. The next day had been a complete and utter downpour. You remembered because he’d forgotten to roll up the windows on his car, and the drive back had been extremely soggy. Bucky tucked it back in his wallet. “You were the last thing I saw at night, first thing I saw in the morning. I wasted hours I should have spent studying just thinking of you, trying to remember your voice. Old videos aren’t the same. I was gonna come to your house over winter break, you know. I was gonna beg you to take me back then, but then I heard from Stevie you weren’t comin’ home.”
Yes, you and your parents had flown across the country to spend Christmas with your grandparents, instead. And you’d been relieved. You hadn’t wanted to come back to town, worried you’d bump into Bucky with some new girl on his arm. “I knew that for the last three summers, you’d worked at the pool, so I was planning to just show up there. But then I heard you were being a hero at the beach instead. And the first day I saw you, it took everything I had not to just run across the sand and hold you until you forgave me, until you told me everything was okay.”
His voice broke a little on the last word. “Stop.” you whispered.
He didn’t. “I miss you so much, baby. I miss you when you’re standing right in front of me. I miss when you used to tell me everything you ate in a day. I miss when you’d tell me what dumb thing your dad said. I miss all of it. I was such an idiot. I got cold feet and I didn’t think it through. I didn’t need other girls, or time apart. I just needed you. I'm so sorry.”
You felt his sadness like you were swimming in a sea of it. You felt his regret, his anger at himself. And even though he’d hurt you more than you’d thought he ever could… he wasn’t entirely right. Time apart, whether you liked it or not, had forced you both to grow without the other, instead of tangling your roots together and staying intertwined.
The click of your seatbelt coming undone went unnoticed.
His hands hovered in the air between you again, like they had on the beach. He settled his palms on the sides of your face gingerly, like he was afraid you’d duck away. This time, you didn’t. Looking into his eyes hurt, it burned. But you wanted to ignite, you thought. You wanted to smoke and smolder and disintegrate. “Please,” he whispered, “please give me another chance.”
Each word had brought his face closer to yours. Your head was tilted up to his. He was outlined by the silvery moon, you both were. You didn’t know which one of your closed the gap, only that your hands came to rest over his. You both tasted like lemonade, but underneath it was his distinct flavour, the one that awakened your senses like an ember sparking on dry leaves. Suddenly the forest of your memories was aflame. It was a kiss both delicate and searching as well as frantic and pleading, like Bucky was pouring every single regret and wish into the same shared breath. His forehead knocked against yours. Your teeth grazed his bottom lip. The sound he made, one you thought you’d never hear again was what made you come to your senses. You pulled back, breaking the connection of your mouths, but his hands stayed on your face. His eyes stayed closed for a long moment and you were free to admire the way his lashes embraced his cheeks.
“How do I know you won’t hurt me again?”
“You don’t. but I'll spend every day proving to you that I'm worth your trust.” His eyes were still closed, like if he didn’t open them, he wouldn’t have to see what you’d decided flying across your face.
He looked at you again when your silence became the clear answer. His fingers stroked across your temples. “I have to think about it.” you said honestly.
In truth, you were unsure. You weren’t ready to trust him yet, even though your nervous system was screaming at your to dive off the board and into the deep end without a life vest. You saw his chest deflate on a long exhale, his breath fanning across your lips. “Okay. Okay, take all the time you need. I'm not going anywhere. You know that.” He seemed reluctant to let go of you. “You know that, right?”
You nodded as much as you could with his hands on your face. “I know.”
That was what made him drop his hands. “I love you.”
You didn’t say it back, and you thought you saw a flicker of pain in his eyes, before he shook his head. He knew you weren’t about to reciprocate. “I'm sorry I ruined your night.”
Your laugh was born of nervousness more than humour. “You didn’t ruin it. I really wasn’t planning to stay long. You should go back, though.”
He shook his head again. “I think I got what I came for.”
“And what’s that?”
“A foot in the door.”
He stood up straight then, hand on the door. “Drive home safe, okay? I'll see you tomorrow?” The question was full of unrestrained, naked hope.
“Yeah. I start at 12.”
He moved to close your door, but ducked down at the last moment, leaving a lingering kiss on your forehead. “See you at 12.”
Then he closed your door, and you were alone in the car, the scent of him overwhelming, the taste of him even more so. It took a long time for you to buckle your seatbelt again and start driving.
It took Bucky even longer, staring at the empty space your car had been in, before he got on the road, too.
You didn’t really know what to do with yourself in the morning. You’d been on total autopilot the night before, after you’d gotten home. You didn’t remember crawling into bed, even, but you had woken up still wearing Bucky’s sweater. The faint trace of his scent was still on it. You’d let him kiss you last night, you remembered, but you couldn’t summon the strength to be horrified. You had never, never seen him so emotional before. You couldn’t believe, after that admission, that he was just trying to bed you. He had to be serious. There was no way he wasn’t.
But that didn’t mean you were ready to pick up where you left off. You needed time to wrap your head around it. You supposed you had a month before you were back on campus. You had to decide whether you wanted him haunting the hallways of your dorm or not. You didn’t want to hold onto hope only to be crushed by ‘cold feet’ again.
You didn’t remember getting ready for your shift. You only noticed as you were doing a final check of your bag that you’d gotten dressed and brushed your hair, and your teeth as well judging by the minty taste on your tongue. Somehow, you’d blown through the morning in a total fugue state.
You blacked out on the drive, too, only realizing where you were with sudden clarity as you pulled into your usual spot. Bucky’s car was already there. He’d started before you—your shift only overlapped with his for about an hour. You were nervous to see him. What if last night had actually been a cruel dream?
You drummed your fingers on the strap of your bag where it rested over your shoulder, striding over the sand and heading to the cabana. Bruce glanced up at you from over his glasses and murmured a greeting before turning back to whatever paperwork had graced his desk, and you sat heavily on one of the rickety chairs. You fumbled with your water bottle just for something to do. Even though you were wearing a loose t-shirt over your bathing suit, you felt like the fabric was pressing against you like a second skin. You couldn’t even blame it on the humidity.
You basked in the silence for all of five minutes before slinging your bag on one of the hooks by the door and heading back outside, throwing your hair into a ponytail. It was overcast today, and you had a feeling you’d get rained on at some point, but you found yourself welcoming the possibility. Maybe you needed to get in touch with nature a little more, despite the fact that you’d been spending your days surrounded by it. You were scheduled to walk the perimeter and then cover Overwatch for a while. The beach was fairly empty today. You understood—if you’d had the choice, you would have spent the day inside. Everything was awash in shades of gray, the waves looking choppy and rough.
Bucky was almost right in front of you before you noticed him, too lost in thought, too busy trying not to think of him, because if you did, you’d remember the feeling of his hands on your face and the way he’d kissed you and the sound he’d made, along with a million other tiny things he’d done last night. But then he was there in the light of day, hardly a foot from you. You stopped, narrowly avoiding kicking up sand. “Hi,” you already sounded breathless. You hated it.
“Hey,” he said with a nod. His expression was guarded, like he was afraid you’d come to your senses and decided not to take a chance on him.
You both observed each other. “Was it busy this morning?” you asked. It was a lame, easy out.
He shook his head. “The standard early morning swimmers, but otherwise, no. I’ve actually been bored out of my mind. It gave me too much time to think.” It was a leading statement, but you decided not to pull at that thread.
“It’ll probably be more of the same for you. It’s supposed to rain around three.” he added, glancing skyward.
You mirrored him, taking in the gathering storm clouds. “It’s been a pretty dry summer.”
You knew things were awkward when you were discussing the most basic of topics. You could almost picture an elephant there on the beach, a sign on its neck saying ‘address me!’
You pointed at the shoreline. “Well, I should probably get to it. Are you taking a break?”
“Yeah.” But you both stayed standing there for another few seconds, before you ducked your head and started to move.
Right as you were about to pass him, Bucky snaked a hand around your front, settling it on your hip, and kissed the side of your head. It was a small gesture, a simple one. He let go of you and walked away right after he did it, not keeping you there, but it was enough to send your heart ricocheting around your chest like it was taking a turn in a pinball machine.
For your sake, you hoped it would suddenly get very busy on the beach, just so you would have something else to focus on.
The month continued on in a slow crawl, and all of your interactions with Bucky felt like a tentative, shy dance. Sometimes he’d leave you alone, with nothing more than a cursory hello, a searching look, and a small smile, which you’d return. Other times, he’d hover in your orbit like a little lovesick fly. When you’d gone to check the schedule at one point, he’d stood right behind you as you leaned over the desk, not saying a word. You could feel his body heat radiating in waves. You wouldn’t have had to take even a full step back to lean back against him. You imagined if you did, he would have put his arms around you.
You’d started quietly pulling him to the side with no fanfare, turning him around by the shoulders, and slathering him in sunscreen without saying anything about it, though you’d only let him return the favour once, because he’d trailed his finger down your spine and your shiver had been so obvious, you couldn’t look him in the eye after.
The well of longing that you’d boarded up with nails and plywood had flooded, and it felt like it was pushing against the barrier of your skin with insistent, needy hands, begging to be let loose and consume. You were aware of the grains of sand running down on the hourglass. Your personal benchmark of the end of August was approaching, and you felt it looming over you like a vast shadow.
You were running out of reasons to deny Bucky. He’d continued to show up every day, continued to do his job as if he’d wanted to be a lifeguard all along. He was still coming to the beach on most of the days that you worked, though he’d started to give you a little more space. You’d unblocked his number from your phone, and there were now disjointed strings of texts between you. Short things like confirming each other’s schedules, even though you both new the other’s as well as you knew your own. Messages from him wishing you sweet dreams. But the ones that had you holding your phone to your chest with heated cheeks came in the middle of the night, when Bucky would send you things like, “I can’t sleep so I’m looking at your picture,” and “I think I was dreaming of you. I couldn’t see your face, but it was you. It couldn’t be anyone else.” Sometimes he’d tell you what Becca was up to, and pass on messages from you to her as well.
You had started to entertain what the fall might look like. If you took Bucky back, would it be exactly how you’d envisioned it the year before? Would you stop by each other’s campuses, have lunch and study dates together? Would you sneak him back to your dorm, tugging him along by the strings of his hoodie? Would you be one of those couples lazily making out in the quad? Or would you keep this strange tightrope of distance between you? You could picture it just as easily, telling him you still weren’t ready. Him nodding, swallowing whatever he wanted to say, but asking if he could still visit you. You had a feeling that would be worse. You’d be so distracted by the possibility, wondering if he’d make some sort of grand gesture or if he’d keep down this new path, respecting the distance and the time and your hesitation.
With two weeks to go before you needed to get packed up and head three hours away to your school, a couple of new lifeguards were being trained. The off-season was approaching, but the beach was still bound to be busy on weekends all through September and some of October. The heat loved to linger before the cold snap came closer to Halloween. Your hours had started to scale back, or else you’d be in the company of a newbie. Training Kate was somewhat of a challenge. She was good—quick, sharp, determined—but she was also akin to a dog seeing a new toy with the way her attention would shoot elsewhere. Oftentimes, you’d have to repeat yourself or try to get her to refocus. It left little time for Bucky and you, and whatever was going on there.
It was why you were so caught off-guard by Kate asking you one day, “So is that Bucky guy your boyfriend, or what?”
You dropped the bundle of life preservers that had been looped over your arm. “What?”
She pointed at the cabana. Bucky was outside of it, leaned against the wall. He was talking to Sam, but his eyes were on you. He didn’t look away when you made eye contact, and you felt your heart flutter at his open stare. “There’s something going on there, right?” she probed, crouching to pick up some of the preservers.
You joined her, knees in the sand. “We um, we used to date, yes.” You were doing a piss-poor job of picking the red and white rings up. Your fingers suddenly felt slippery.
“Used to date? How long ago?”
“A year ago, give or take.” you said mildly, hoping she’d drop it.
But Kate latched onto it like it was a bone. “A year? Then why is he looking at you like that? Oh! Are you the one that got away?” she sang the last part with enthusiasm, eyes twinkling as she looked at you.
You bit your lip and dusted sand from one of the preservers, a useless thing to do. “In a manner of speaking, I suppose.”
“Are you getting back together? No one looks at a person like that.”
“I know.”
“No, no, I mean… no one looks at a person like that.” she said, grabbing your arm. “My grandparents have been together sixty years, and I don’t think I’ve ever even seen them look so love struck. He’s looking at you like you’re keeping his heart held hostage in a box or something.” To make matters worse, she pointed at him very obviously, then at you. It couldn’t be clearer what you were talking about if she’d started twirling a baton and carrying a neon sign.
When you meekly looked up at him, he hadn’t taken his eyes off you. And damn it, Kate was completely right. You felt stripped bare under his gaze. “Well, it’s sort of complicated,” you muttered.
“What’s so complicated? He looks like he’d get down on one knee right now. It’s actually sort of gross.” She mimed throwing up. Then she looked at you. “And besides, you look equally struck by cupid.”
“What? No I don’t!” You touched your face as if you could confirm or deny her accusation.
She grinned at you, successfully collecting all the preservers and tying them together with a section of rope—the thing you’d been trying to do when you’d dropped them. “If you say so.”
As the rest of the day went on, you couldn’t help thinking about Kate’s question. What’s so complicated? Yes, you’d been hurt beyond belief when Bucky had broken up with you. Yes, it had also sucked extra hard to know that he’d boned Natasha that same night at one of the grad parties. You’d stuck your fingers to the edges of that seeping wound many times over, feeling it bleed over your hands, feeling the pulse of your veins, the hurt pumping through them. But with some level of surprise, when you put your palms over the wound now, you were met with a scar instead. It was puckered, marred, not pretty and clean. But it had healed over, nonetheless. You were sure you’d always feel the phantom ache of the slice, but you found it wasn’t something you were at risk of bleeding out over.
Did that mean you forgave him? You imagined that if you told the whole sordid tale to a council, there’d be varying levels of both outrage and passiveness. You’d seen how girls got ridiculed for going back to men that had done them wrong. But this was the only wrong thing Bucky had done to you, if you thought about it. Any argument you’d ever had, even at your immature ages, had been smoothed over. You had never been the high school couple that broke up every other week. You’d been solid. And it shouldn’t matter what other people thought of your actions, should it? If things went poorly again, you only had yourself to blame for making the choice. You didn’t want outside influence to muddy the waters of your thoughts.
And, you had to admit that as soon as Bucky realized that trying to be suave and charming in order to win you back wouldn’t work, he’d put a stop to it. Since then, he’d been nothing but sincere. He’d prostrated himself before you. He’d tried to meet you where you were at. Maybe it was something worth considering. If you were honest with yourself, you’d never fallen out of love with him, even when you’d had your heart broken, even when you hadn’t seen him for months. As soon as you had, all those feelings came rushing back in a tsunami.
You’d just stepped inside your house, shaking sand from yourself and throwing your keys on the table. At that moment, like he’d known you’d been thinking of him, Bucky sent you a text.
There was no expectation of anything, just an offer of help. and he was right—you were a serial overpacker. It was one of your more endearing qualities, apparently, or so he’d told you once. You considered the offer, considered him. And miraculously, you came to a decision.
You had a week to go, and four shifts left. You only had two days between your last one and your return date to school. You’d asked for it to be that way—you hadn’t wanted to haunt the house with your overthinking.
You had what was considered a closing shift, though it wasn’t a very long one. Four to nine, and the promise of a gorgeous sunset. You knew that Bucky was closing alongside you. After eight o’clock, you’d be on your own with him.
You managed to keep your distance for most of it—the beach was busy that evening, and you’d had to rescue some kids that had gotten a little too far from shore and started to panic. It had all been fine, nothing except for a few tears, some shaken pride, and some furious parents, but you’d kept a sharp eye on the water regardless. You were here to do a job, after all, not moon over your ex, no matter how great he looked with no shirt and dark red shorts that brought out his tan. You’d had the luxury of other lifeguards at the beginning of the shift, but as time went on, they dropped off one by one.
Ava was the last to leave, a couple minutes after eight. You had an hour to kill. You were staying up on Overwatch and keeping an eye on the dwindling beach goers while Bucky started clean up duty, making sure all the essential gear was in its right place, checking the batteries on the walkie talkies, and making sure none of the off-limits areas had been breached. You tried your best not to watch him, but it was hard when the beach was slowly emptying.
Right at nine, the soft clearing of Bucky’s throat alerted you to his presence. He stood next to Overwatch’s stilts, a hand extended up like he was a knight waiting to assist his princess down from her horse. You accepted his hand when you were low enough, your jump down the last remaining foot of the chair noiseless. “Did you lock up yet?”
“Not yet. I wasn’t sure if you needed anything else from there.” He’d already grabbed your bag and was holding it over one shoulder.
You nodded, waiting for him to pass you your bag, but he seemed utterly content to just follow along, continuing to hold it. “I just want to double check the schedule. I think my next shift is my last one with Joaquin.”
He fell into step with you easily, trudging through the sand in the twilight. The sun was gone but the sky was still a few shades lighter than black. You could see the outline of him from the edge of your sight. At least he’d put on a shirt now. It made him just a fraction easier to deal with. He followed you into the cabana and stayed hovering beside you while you ran a finger down the schedule tacked to one of the walls. The different times of day were highlighted in varying colours. You nodded to yourself. “Yeah, last one with Torres.”
“Mine was Tuesday,” Bucky said.
In the back of your head, you’d known he was going back to school, too, but it still jolted you to be reminded that you’d be drifting apart again if you didn’t do something about it.
You flicked the lights off and ushered him from the cabana, locking it and tucking the key in the mailbox, which latched when you closed it. Bruce would be able to unlock it with the master key in the morning. The walk to the parking lot was quiet. Only yours and Bucky’s cars remained, tucked side by side together. You both stopped at the edge of the lot, and he turned to you. You could see the moths thumping their tiny bodies against the street light above him. He was limned in warm gold as he handed your bag back to you. This wouldn’t be the last time you saw him, and you knew it, but you felt rooted to the spot like your brain was trying to trace his exact shape and height and leave it as an imprint behind your eyelids.
“Well, I guess I’ll see you,” you finally said.
He’d been doing the same as you, twirling his car keys in his hand but otherwise making no move to go. He nodded. “Good night.”
You turned to go, but you only got halfway to your car before stopping. You felt like you’d stepped into a thin pocket of time where only the two of you existed. There was no sound except the crash of the waves and the moth bodies against the street light’s glass. You turned, your flip flops skidding on the asphalt. He was still standing where you’d left him, still watching you. He didn’t say a word as you walked back over, right into his proximity.
It was time to be brave and take a chance, you supposed. You let your bag slip off your shoulder and down to the crook of your arm before letting it fall in a pile by your feet. There was the barest hint of a question in Bucky’s eyes, and they flared wide when you put your hands on his shoulders, before you slid your arms around his neck. This was the closest you’d been to him in over a year, barring the mouth-to-mouth incident. This was real. You rolled up onto your toes. Your vision was overtaken by his eyes, so dark in colour but so bright in a sudden gleam of hope.
“I’m not saying we can pick up where we left off,” you started, your voice hushed, “not like we were before. I’m not even saying I want to dive in headfirst. But I’m… I’m willing to try, if you can take it slow with me.”
There it was, your heart on a platter. You didn’t know if Bucky would readily accept it or if he’d have a counteroffer. He was slow to put his hands on you, like he was afraid that if he did, you’d pop like a bubble and disappear. You thought you felt one single tremor as his fingers landed on your waist, before the full weight of his palms branded you. “I’ll take whatever you give me. Even if it’s just phone calls and texts. I can’t do another year without you in my life.” You shivered under his touch, his words, his gaze.
“Can I just ask for one thing? It’s the only time I will, I swear.”
You tilted your head to the side just a little. “What is it?”
“Please, for the love of God, can I kiss you?”
You felt like you were going to be swallowed whole by those dark blue eyes. “Yes—”
The word wasn’t even fully out before your mouth was claimed by his. Your noses bumped together. The kiss was chaste, demure, even. The first one, at least. But each time his lips parted from yours, he came back, like he wasn’t satisfied with just one taste. Like he was parched and you were a full cup of water and he couldn’t resist chugging you. It wasn’t that you’d forgotten what kissing Bucky—really kissing Bucky—was like, but all your memories seemed to pale in comparison when you got to experience the real thing in full sound and colour again. There was the telltale taste of peppermint in the brush of his tongue. The slow exploration of your mouth felt like he was kissing you for the first time ever, not like he was revisiting an old haunt. It made you feel weightless.
When you really did part, your breaths fanned over each other’s faces, your heads bent together, your foreheads touching with each exhale. “Please don’t let that be the last one before we go back to college,” he muttered. The tiniest hint of the Bucky you’d known and loved before was threaded through the words, the smallest, softest whine of disgruntlement.
You couldn’t hold back your laugh. “Maybe not, we’ll see.”
As silly as it sounded, it felt like a weight had been lifted off your shoulders. You practically floated all the way home, a dreamy smile on your face—you’d seen it when you’d gone to brush your teeth. Your phone had been lighting up almost nonstop after you’d gotten into bed. It was all texts from Bucky, ranging between sweet messages he’d apparently been dying to say all summer and had kept in his notes app, and plans for the future. Those ones were more tentative, more shy. He sent you a couple of links to restaurants between your two schools, mentioned some of the events happening on his campus. He didn’t expressly invite you, but… the implication was there, and it was clear. Now that he had the chance, he wasn’t going to make light of it.
And it continued on, all through the week. He did end up helping you pack your things, throwing your last suitcase and storage box into the trunk of his car and promising to bring them to you sometime in the first week. In between packing and plans, you’d allowed him to steal some sweet, shy kisses. You couldn’t help it. Your resolve had officially crumbled. And you didn’t think you wanted it any other way.
Your days at work were dwindling down. You were right on the finish line. Unfortunately for you, when you got there for your next shift, Sam took one look at you and groaned before fishing out his wallet and slapping twenty bucks to Joaquin’s chest. “God damn it, Torres, you won.”
You’d frowned and cocked your head, confused. Sam had gestured up and down at you. “You forgave Bucky.”
“How do you know?”
“I can just tell. If you could see you right now, you’d know. It’s really obvious.”
You looked down at your clothes, your bag, your lotioned legs. You didn’t seem any different, you thought. You felt different, but that wasn’t visible to the naked eye… was it?
But it became impossible to ignore when Bucky came sauntering across the sand. He wasn’t working, but he held two ice cream floats in his hands, and handed one to you before slinging an arm around your waist. “What’s going on?”
You had been smiling goofily at him as soon as he’d come into your eyeline. And that was when you knew that your happiness was as clear and obvious as a stain on a white shirt. You gave Sam a look. “You placed a bet?”
He snorted. “Of course I did.”
Your last day on shift was bittersweet. Bruce had thanked you for your time, and asked if you’d consider coming back the next year, which had been an easy yes. You’d had one last ice cream at the Langs’ stand, chatted with Cassie and Scott, and joked about how the former would probably look totally different in a year’s time.
Bucky swung by in your last hour. He’d already been reprimanded the previous time when he’d corralled you into the showers. You’d admittedly been playing hard to get that day, revelling in the wild look in his eyes, but you’d ultimately been mortified when he’d pinned you to the shower’s wall, a handful of your ass in his grasp, and heard a small, disapproving, “Ah-hem…” from Bruce. You wouldn’t have been surprised if he hadn’t invited you back next year.
You were still fully intending on taking it slow. You didn’t want to burn too bright, too quick. You thought being on different campuses would help with that. You were doing your very last walk of the perimeter, Bucky in tow, his hand sweaty in yours, but you kept a firm grasp on him anyway. The sun was beating down on your head mercilessly.
You came to a complete, sudden halt, hand loosening from Bucky’s, when you saw a flash of copper ahead of you. Attached to the copper was the body of a model in a black and white striped bikini, doing what could only be described as a Baywatch-eqsue run into the water.
It was Natasha.
You went cold all over, despite the heat. You hadn’t seen her since your graduation. She still looked great, as always. You were fairly sure she could wear a garbage bag and still turn every head on the beach. But then you were pulled back to reality by Bucky tugging on your hand. “Why’d you stop, love?”
You looked between him and Natasha, 50 feet away. “Natasha’s here,” you said limply, gesturing to the waves.
He frowned, a look of genuine surprise on his face. “Huh, you know, I didn’t even notice.”
It seemed crazy—even you had been ogling her. The crazier thing was, you believed him. He really had been looking at you the whole time. As you resumed your walk, his eyes flicked over to her once, as you passed. But then they slid forward, to the next swimmer, and the next, and the next… Just a cursory glance. There was nothing there, no heat, no fire. And then when he looked at you again, he smiled. “Do you want to grab dinner when you’re done? Nothing crazy, just, I don’t know, burgers? At that one place?” Then he lifted your joined hands and kissed the back of yours.
bonus author's note: a special thank you to @pinksplace, who helped me cook up a plot/trope while i was floundering; you threw me the life raft, for real. um, in the end i didn't really work with any of our spicy, rated r for radical think pieces, and it ultimately came out much more yearning-forward and with none of the planned smut... i hope you're not disappointed, the place that is pink.
im not even gonna lie i was pissedddd at this man and did NOT expect to forgive him. when he showed up with the “i wanna get back together” oh im about to beat this bitch up
HOWEVER i will admit i was shedding tears during the scenes of the bonfire party and after when they’re on the side of the road
im usually a mr darcy “my good opinion once lost is lost forever” kind of person when it comes to cheating/breaking up and immediately getting with someone else (computer play traitor by olivia rodrigo) but this won me over and im not even mad about it
reader’s journey just felt real, like when he’s still being an ass in the beginning and she tells him to fuck off (as she should) so he actually starts being sincere. and even then it’s not an immediate get back together, she’s still struggling to trust him and open herself up to that again but he waits!!! and they’ve both matured and changed and their relationship won’t be the same but that’s good! that’s growth! idk i just think you captured these complicated emotions really well <3
✦Bucky Masterlist - Main Masterlist - Read on aO3!✦
✦summary: you and Bucky have been at odds since you first met. he can't stand you. you pretend you can't stand him. and if Bucky ever knew how you really felt, you think you might die. not when there's no chance he'd ever feel the same way. right?✦
✦warnings/tags: bucky barnes x female!reader, modern!au, drinking, no use of y/n, mutual pining, no description of reader (pictures for aesthetic only), fluff, angst, drunken and sober love confessions, little plot to get to all that porn, feral level smut, (dirty talk, mean bucky but you're into it, teasing, possiveness, pussy spanking, praise kink, manhandling, sex toys, overstimulation, squriting, bucky's packing, p in v sex, creampie, breeding kink), soft!bucky outside of smut✦
✦wc: 13.5k✦
✦Author's Note: i think i got possessed with this one. was barking to myself writing. Enjoy!✦
He’s the kind of beautiful that makes you want to strangle him.
Bucky walks around your apartment like he owns it, laughing all loud and musical, smiling like he fell out of a movie, running a hand through his hair and forcing you to see his sculpted torso and tanned skin. He barely fits in his shirt as it is, there’s no need for him to show off about it.
You’ve pressed yourself right to the corner of you couch, watching him silently. Watching all of them, but mostly Bucky. And his shining eyes and full lips and thick arms. Those things should be classified as weapons, or at least hazards. It’s too easy to imagine him wrapping them around you, pining you to the couch, handling you like a doll but still so gently-
“You’re staring at me again.” He drawls, and you start.
You give him an unimpressed glare, hoping your flush stays hidden in the low light of the room. “Shut up.”
“So nice to me, sweetheart.” He mocks, leaning a little further down. “Bet you dream about me, don’t you. Up all night with that rabbit Nat got you-“
You shove your foot up, slamming it square on his chest. He’d been getting too close. You’d been able to smell his cologne, and it made your head spin like opium. Bucky laughs again, walking away like you’re not even worth the argument. Your heart stings, but you ignore it. It’s an old bruise. You’re usually good at not pressing it, at pretending it doesn’t exist.
But Bucky exists only to torture you. So it never fully heals.
He’d been teasing about the rabbit thing. It had been a gag gift for secret Santa, and after Nat had even gotten you a very nice pair of shoes when you were in private. But Bucky’s clung onto it, like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever thought of. You, with a vibrator. You possibly being able to get off, when you’re the uptight little prude. The one who never brings back hookups, never dates, just sits in corners like an ivy, clinging to the shadows and watching everything else live around her.
You’ve never been fun. Never been someone Bucky would’ve chosen to know. He didn’t choose to know you. You knew a girl who worked with another girl, and that girl had a boyfriend who knew a girl who needed a roommate. You needed a roommate. You had good credit—because you’re boring—and the girl interviewing you had taken a liking to you.
Natasha rode a motorcycle. She worked in a job she was allowed to tell you about—something in black ops, that explained all the wigs in her closet—and spoke five languages. She baked calm down, and went to shooting ranges to calm down, and insisted on getting you a gun license so she’d feel more comfortable with all the hidden guns in the house.
“Hidden guns?” You’d asked, feeling your face blanch. She’d just smiled.
“You’ll never find them all. Let’s go, it’ll be easy.”
It had not been easy. But you understood how—to someone like Nat—it might be. She’d never lost patience with you, but she’d still made it look easy. When you’d gotten home and mumbled that you needed to go shower for an hour, she’d just patted your head like you were a bunny and smiled.
She might’ve been your first real friend in a while. Because it’s not that you’re not… personable. You’re just a little mean tongued. And nervous. And boring, and blunt, and you don’t like leaving the house unless someone grabs the scruff of your neck and drags you. You go to work, and you go home, and that’s mostly it. Your closest friends before Natasha had been co-workers. And you’d been really, truly happy with that.
But interesting people have interesting friends.
Natasha had a lot of friends. And they moved in and out of your apartment like they lived there.
Tony was a tech titan who you used to watch on the news, and now he left crumbs all over your couch. Wanda was a refugee and artist, and Clint worked in that same black ops thing Nat did. Steve had worked in it, but left to start his own non-profit with Sam. They all went far back, to elementary schools and playgrounds and clubs. They had history, but they were kind to you. Treated you like your little bachelor’s degree and normal person job fit in with their grand showmanship and large personalities that had been sucked right off the movie screen.
Most of them treated you like that.
Bucky didn’t.
Before you’d been introduced to him, Nat had described his as basically Steve’s brother, and it had been a striking endorsement. Steve had been kind to you. He brought you to a movie you’d really wanted to see, and never made fun of your stuffed animal collection. No brother of his could be all that bad, certainly not one even Nat described as charming and kind and not bad on the eyes.
Only one of those things was true.
Bucky Barnes is not bad on the eyes. You’d classify as maybe a medicine for the eyes, a miracle for the eyes, a blessing on a weary and tired viewer. He works in security or something, and it shows in his body. Sometimes he lets his hair grow out, and it’s frames his strong jaw and nose perfectly, all while making you want to run your fingers through each lock. You’re sure it would be like petting a very well-kept dog. He cares for it better than you care for yourself.
He’s got those eyes that knocked all the thoughts out of you, the moment you saw him. They’d sparkled and shone with his polite, white smile, and you’d just been swaying there like a lost scarecrow in a tornado. Your brain had been reduced to a fuzzy TV static and loud blaring noise, like you’d lost your own connection. Bucky had flexed his hand, a silent reminder you were supposed to shake it, and you hadn’t been able to get enough control over your body to even smile back.
His hand had been big. Calloused, with thick fingers and a lot of tiny scars. You’d shivered just at the idea of his touch. It might’ve been warm.
Might’ve been.
If Bucky had ever bothered to touch you at all.
By the time you’d dragged control back into your body, Bucky had given up and moved on. His ears had been a little red, in the moments after. You’d opened your mouth to apologize, make any excuse that would get him to offer a hand again.
He’d turned and walked away. Hadn’t looked at you for the rest of the night.
And when he looks at you now, it’s with something sharp behind his gaze. He never looks at anyone else like that. Never teases or mocks them, either. Acting like their mere presence in the room is a plague on his refined, perfect existence. He certainly never suggests they won’t be able to make it up five flights of stairs or asks if they’re sure they want to go out for the night.
You hate stairs. And you don’t want to go out for the night.
There’s only one thing more powerful than your picky little aversions, though.
The petty, blistering feeling at the top of your chest, that refuses to let Bucky win.
“You’re really coming with us?” Bucky calls your name from the kitchen, and you lift your chin, trying to look down your nose at the massive man.
“I was invited.”
“You’re always invited, you never actually get off the damn couch-“
“Barnes.” Nat walks past him, whacking his arm. “Don’t question miracles.”
You roll your eyes. “It’s not a miracle-“
“Yes it is.” She grabs your arm, hauling you off the couch like you weigh nothing. “I’ve been asking you to do this for years, I’m not letting Bucky frighten you off with his Buckying.”
That makes you giggle, and Bucky frowns. You catch him shooting Steve a look you can’t really read, and Steve just shrugs in return.
“I’m not trying to ruin it.” Bucky says, lofty and bored. “I’m just sayin’ she never comes out with us, and it might be a lot for the little doe to be shoved into the jungle or whatever-“
“You’re a poet.” Natasha says, giving him a flat glare. “Go wait in the car.”
Bucky scowls. “The car-“
“If you act like a dog, you wait in the car.”
“I am not acting like a dog-“
Sam raises his hand. “I caught him humping the furniture this mornin’ when he heard about it-“
“Sam.” Bucky hisses. “Shut the hell up before I knock your teeth out-“
“Steven.” Nat gives him a firm nod, and he sighs.
“Yeah, I got it.”
Bucky and Sam aren’t small men, but Steve grabs them by the collar and drags them out of the room without breaking a sweat. Leaving you and Nat in a suddenly very quiet apartment, a lingering smell of spice and pine still clouding the air.
Another reason you hate Bucky coming over. He’s mean to you, and he’s nice to everyone else, and he questions you then leaves the whole room stained in his presence.
“Ignore Barnes.” Natasha says it like an order, and it probably is.
You smile at her. “I always do.”
You think it comes off airy and convincing. Nat looks at you like she’s trying not to either scoff, or laugh. Before you can insist on anything, she’s grabbing your hand and dragging you into the bathroom. You did promise you’d let her get you ready. When you’d told her you could do makeup and prep yourself, she’d snorted and said maybe, but I’ll do it better.
One of the first lessons you learned was not to argue with Natasha when she’s sure of something. You let her sit you on the counter and sort through your makeup bag, finding everything she deems worthy of being on your face tonight. Your outfit hangs on the door, and you did choose that, but after Nat vetoed three others.
It’s nothing special. A short dress and heels that will blend right in a club. It hadn’t been that different from your other suggestions. But it had gotten a curt nod of approval and smirk from Nat, so it had something. You’re smarter than to question what.
“You should talk to Bucky tonight.” Nat says suddenly, and you blink at her in surprise.
“I- What?”
“Make him apologize. For being an ass to you.”
“That’s- It’s fine-“
“No, it’s not.” Nat gives you a firm look, and you sigh.
“I know, but- I don’t really care, okay? That’s just- It’s Bucky, right?”
You give her a weak smile, and this one doesn’t even convince you.
It is just Bucky. He’s charming and sweet and handsome, and he hates just you. So you hate him in return, just for being so perfect and deciding you’re the only person in the world not worthy of his attention. It would be easier if he really was a bad man. If you didn’t know he volunteered with kids and Steve’s foundation, if he didn’t advocate for his fellow veterans, if he hadn’t made his ma’s chicken soup when you and Nat had both caught something last winter, and taken the time to drop it off in person.
For Nat.
Because you’re just… Not worth it for him. Not worth his time, not worth his smiling, barely worth anything more than glowering stares and taunting words. And you’re not weak. You fight back every day, and keep all of your desires and affection buried deep in the pit of your stomach and swollen like an infection around your heart.
He never has to know that you think about him all the time. That you feel yourself bloom whenever your eyes meet, then wither when his gaze snaps away. Whenever he presses his body over yours just to tease you, the heat of his body makes your breath hitch. You spend long days daydreaming about how good a boyfriend he’d be, if he didn’t hate you. Attentive and caring and giving.
Every night you think about how giving he’d be. Flowers and coffee like he brings Wanda for galleries, or for Nat or Clint when they’ve been working late night shifts. He likes watching TV, you know, because he spends a lot of time sitting next to you on the couch and loudly making comments until you threaten to force-feed him bleach. But if that wasn’t the blunt and unforgiving knife of reality, you could just lay in his arms forever.
He could pick you up and carry you to bed. The same bed that you put that accursed vibrated between your legs, close your eyes, and dream of him railing you into the mattress. Fucking you until you can’t stand, until you can’t speak or thing, until your eyes are rolling back and your mouth can’t even figure out how to close, so he kisses you possessively or gives you some of those thick fingers to suck on-
“You should still talk to him.” Natasha’s words are blunt. If she’s noticed how you’ve been working yourself up, she doesn’t say a single word. “Before he does something stupid.”
You snort. “Bucky always does something dumb-“
“No. He does a lot of dumb things. Close your eyes.” Nat picks up an eyeliner, and you obey. “But there’s a difference between dumb and stupid. Stupid is harder to take back.”
You grunt, and you don’t think anything stupid Bucky does is going to have anything to do with you. But something scratches at your brain, and it’s green and bitter. Your fingers fidget in your lap, and you shouldn’t ask, but-
“Is he bringing someone?” You blurt, and just the idea makes you sick. Bucky with some model-type, holding her hips while she grinds onto him, all the honey he’d pour into her ears and down her throat while you just hugged yourself in the corner of the room. Her sitting on his lap in your apartment, you trying to hide the ugliness of jealousy but never being able to spare her more than a crude sneer. It’s the only reason Nat would possibly want you to talk to him. You and Bucky’s childish game of pulling each other’s hair and biting without teeth and seeing who breaks first, it ruins his picture of the perfect suitor. If you keep it up, you’ll ruin this for him, and he deserves to be happy but the thought of him being happy while you just sink into yourself like quicksand makes you want to die-
“Jesus, no.” Nat laughs. “That’s- Never mind.” She shakes her head, still chuckling about some secret you apparently don’t get to be a part of.
“What?” You try to push. “I’ve heard about his- You know. Promiscuity.”
Nat snorts. “From who?”
“Sam.”
“Sam’s an idiot.” She dismisses plainly, and you frown.
“Tony’s mentioned it too-“
“They’re both idiots.”
“Bucky’s told me, he said he leaves all his girls satisfied-“
“Bucky is the biggest idiot of all of them. Open.”
You listen again, and find Nat smiling at you with a strangely soft affection. Like you’re some wet kitten she rescued off the street.
“Put on your dress.” She says, wiping the corners of your slightly pouting lips. “Talk to Barnes.”
At the very least, you manage to follow one of those orders.
The dress is a little shorter than you thought it would be. It rides up your thighs, forcing you to pull it down with every step. In the car you cross your legs and stare at the floor, grounding yourself in the bass of Nat’s loud music as your heartbeat starts to pick up. You’re going out. You’re going out. Spiting Bucky was not a good enough reason to do this, it’s going to be loud and you can dance but not in front of strangers, and you’re going to be even more boring than usual and you feel like a fraud.
“Nice dress.”
Bucky’s voice is a low behind you, his breath fanning on your neck. You almost scream.
“Christ, calm down.” He’s grinning when you whip around, leaning forward in his seat to whisper. Sam and Steve are next to him, one very pointedly staring out the window, the other looking at something on his phone and humming like he’s already trying to drown out you and Bucky’s fighting.
“You scared me-“
“You saw me get in the car, sweetheart. Not my fault you’re jumpy-“
“I am not jumpy-“
“You are. Like a bunny.” His grin widens, and you scowl.
The shifting streetlamps make him look like an angel. Golden halo rays behind his head, long shadows that make him look even more rugged than usual. His lips look fuller, softer, eyes glimmering like a floodlight through the dark, and-
“Shut up.” You snap, turning back around. You can’t keep looking at him. It’s dangerous.
“I was just saying your dress was nice.” Bucky’s breath tickles your neck. You wrap your arms tight around your stomach.
“You also called me a rabbit.”
“Called you a bunny-“
“That’s the same thing.”
“No, it’s-“ He sighs, shaking his head. “You’re impossible, you know that?”
You flip him off over your shoulder, glaring firmly out the windshield. You can feel him retreat, but the closeness had lit up your nerves, and now they’re buzzing with hope that he’ll return.
Stupid fucking body. Stupid fucking Bucky.
You refuse to look at him when you arrive. You stumble a little bit in your heels—Natsha insisted on six inch, which is far too tall for anyone—and Bucky catches your arm, holding you upright. You brush his hand off like a fly and march on, refusing to give him the satisfaction of some other comment about how you’re like a baby deer.
When you get inside, you can smell it. The stench of sweat and alcohol and something fruity they probably use to cover the first smells. You cling to Natasha, letting her guide you through the crowd to the bar. She orders you two shots because you need them, and you don’t argue. Between Bucky and the club, you do.
You down them both without flinching, and Sam whistles from behind you.
“Damn, you took those like a champ.”
You shrug, and Sam elbows Bucky.
“You see that, Buck-“
“Yeah. I saw it.”
Bucky’s voice is lower than usual. Almost sullen. You’d examine him, try to figure out what’s wrong with him, but you’re not supposed to be letting yourself care. He’s not your problem tonight. You’re here to indulge in fun.
You’re already not very good at that as is. Bucky’s consuming presence isn’t going to help.
Another drink might.
You’re three shots in when Nat brings you out to the dance floor. The liquor is pulling you lose, the frayed knot that’s always in your chest going slack enough to allow you to dance. You’re smiling and laughing like a normal person, almost completely able to forget to check where Bucky is in the room.
Near the edge of the crowd, drinking and talking to Steve.
A fourth shot might be needed.
You’re smiling like a fool now. The room is tilted a little, all the colors neon, but they blind out your usual worried and the tilt helps your worries slide off your body. You’re able to forget about Bucky until you notice a girl talking to him, and you take a fifth shot. A sixth, when he vanishes for nine and a half minutes, and your brain starts to map everything he might be doing to that girl.
Seven, when the first stranger asks you to dance and you’re not drunk enough to forget about Bucky and say yes.
Eight, when he tries to kiss you and you shove him away, because his lips aren’t pink enough and he’s not broad enough for you to every pretend.
Nat tries to cut you off there. You slip past her, and take a ninth. The room is just a blur now. You can’t fully remember who Nat is, and why you’re trying to avoid her. There’s a man with his hands on your hips, and he’s got dark hair that looks too greasy for you to touch. Another man calls you sweetheart, but he says it a little wrong and it makes you want to cry. None of them have the right eyes, and the ones that are closer don’t have the right smile.
You feel like you’re going to cry, by the time you’ve rejected the eleventh man. Or only fourth. Numbers don’t feel real right now. Most everything doesn’t feel real.
Everything except Bucky.
Because your own name is just a sound in your head that sounds foreign, but Bucky says it and you know to turn around.
It’s less because it’s your name. More because Bucky called you.
You smile, swaying on your feet, and you’re not even sure where you are anymore. It’s somewhere with a lot of people. Loud music. It’s dark, but bright at the same time, and Bucky looks like a walking dream as he moves towards you. Your vision swims, but he’s made of clear lines and a stern expression.
He’s mad at you. Your face falls, lip wobbling, and you take a step back. You don’t want him to be mad at you. Your heart is already beating in your ears, Bucky’s anger or distain might make it burst.
“Where the hell did you go?” He snaps, and you bow your head.
“I- I dunno-“ You hiccup, hugging yourself tight.
“Nat’s been looking for you, Steve barely stopped her from trying to make the building go into lockdown, and I-“ He cuts himself off, running a hand over his face, and you blink the tears away.
You’re looking up at him under your lashes, and he’s still angry. Some distant voice in your head tells you it’s your fault entirely. That he must’ve been about to go home with someone when they lost you, and now he’s pissed he had to pause his night to find you. You sniff, wiping your nose with your arm.
Bucky’s frown deepens. He takes a step forward, and you try to step back but balance feels like an Olympic feat right now.
His arm loops around your waist, pulling you right against his chest. You stare up at him, tears streaming down your cheeks from feelings you can’t even name anymore. They’re hollow and big and full and made of a million little cuts. They burn in your heart and through your blood, but also freeze in your throat and muscles. You can’t move. You don’t want to move.
Bucky’s big hand is splayed on your back, and you don’t want to go anywhere you can’t feel him.
That voice from before reminds you that’s not allowed, so you wiggle a little.
Bucky holds you tighter, and you surrender in a split second. His frown deepens, and you think you’re still crying. Your cheeks are certainly burning, and your throat feels oddly tight.
Gentle fingers brush under your eyes, and you hum softly. Bucky’s nostrils flare, those fingers brushing hair from your face before cupping the back of your head, forcing your gaze onto his.
“Jesus, woman.” He mutters, those beautiful eyes scanning over your slack face. “How much did you have to drink.”
“I dunno.” You breathe. His brow furrows.
“Best guess.”
You shrug, shaking your head, and Bucky sighs. You want to shrink and hide from him, from his obvious annoyance and disappointment. It’s nothing new, but it’s raw like this. You can’t figure out anything, let alone how to pretend like his hatred doesn’t bother you. You try to turn and hide your face, but Bucky just pulls it right back.
“Over five?” He prompts, and his voice is so soft. Like he’s trying to coax the answer out of you.
“I- I don’t know.” You whine slightly, and he sighs.
“Yeah. Alright.” Bucky’s throat bobs, and he looks up. Glances around you, his hands never leaving your body.
You stare up at him in the dark. You’re not supposed to be looking at him, but it’s impossible. He’s magnetic, and beautiful, and you’ve never been this close to him without one of you trying to claw at the other.
But your fingers cling to the fabric of his shirt, and it’s not to draw blood. You just don’t think that if he walks away you’re going to be able to stand up.
Bucky looks back down at you, and his tongue flicks over his lips. His thumb drags slowly over your cheekbone, leaving a little trail of fire in its wake. Your breathing gets shallow, your eyes fluttering. Everything feels like a lot. Like you’re so high in the atmosphere the air is starting to get thin. Bucky’s brow furrows, and he works his jaw like he does when he’s thinking.
You’ve always wanted to reach up and touch the lines that form on his face, when he worries. They’re deep, and still handsome, but they only ever mark that he’s stressed. He shouldn’t be. It’s only you, and you’re nothing to him.
He lets out a heavy breath through his nose, his hand dragging down to cup the back of your neck. You tip your head back, waiting for him to do something. Kiss you. Bite you. Slam you back against the wall and relieve the ache, building up between your thighs. Maybe just smell you and let his lips brush over a sensitive spot on your neck, teasing you like always until you’re crying and begging for him.
Instead, Bucky just sighs. He pulls you forward, twisting you until you’re in front of him. His arms cage you to his chest, and he’s almost herding you down the hall.
“Where’re we going?” You tip your head back, and find him glowering at everyone around you.
They’re all moving so fast, stumbling in your path then scrambling away under Bucky’s glower. His eyes flick down to yours for a second, and maybe it’s the delusions of grandeur and liquor, but you could swear they soften slightly.
“We’re gettin’ you home.” He mutters, shouldering the door open. “You need to sleep this off.”
You wrinkle your nose as the chill of night air hits you. “But it’s cold-“
“Car will be warm.”
“But we don’t have a car-“
“We’re taking Nat’s.”
You scoff. “Nat would never give you her car-“
“Well, she did.” He grunts, voice dropping under his breath. “You’d never give me your car.”
“I don’t have a car.” You snap, and Bucky chuckles dryly.
“Yeah, I know.” He opens the door, giving you an amused look. “Up and in, baby.”
Your whole world stops for a second. You feel like you’re floating, a ditzy smile crossing your face, and you start to giggle because he called you baby. Bucky called you baby, like you matter to him, and he’s touching you.
Bucky sighs when you don’t move, and bends down. He scoops you up and drops you in the car like you weigh nothing. You’re still giggling when he closes the door and walks around the hood, sliding into the driver’s seat. For a second you stop, looking out the club with a frown. The world is still hazy, but you can see the neon sign, and it feels like you’re forgetting things that are very important-
“They’re all goin’ back to our place.” Bucky grunts, and you look over to find him staring at you with one of those stone-faced, unreadable expressions that he only uses around you. “It’s closer, cab will be cheaper.”
You frown. “Why aren’t they riding with us?”
“’Cause we’re going back to yours.”
“Why?”
“’Cause.” Is all Bucky offers. He starts the car before you can ask another question, and puts his arm around your seat to back out of the spot.
Nat has a back cam. He just always does it like this, and you’ve always chalked it up to his big, responsible man thing. Usually when the arm is around you, you glare out the window and pretend you can’t feel how close he is. How his fingers brush your upper arm, or how his smell gets stronger.
Tonight you can’t really remember why you do that. And Bucky does really smell good.
You turn your cheek, pressing it into his bicep. Bucky freezes, the car jerking to a stop, and you can feel his attention. It sparks a tiny fire in your core, and seeps down between your thighs. Your lips graze his skin, and he coughs.
His fingers dip down, brushing near your collarbone. You hum happily, and the car starts moving again.
When you’re out of the parking lot, Bucky doesn’t remove his arm like usual. You’re grateful. If he did, you might have chased it right into his lap.
“You have fun?” Bucky breaks the silence, voice gruff.
You nod, turning to watch him drive. He always does it in a way that’s almost unfairly attractive. He holds the wheel lazily, like he knows it’s under his control. You want him to hold you like that.
Bucky clears his throat. “You, uh- You did good.”
“Good?” You murmur, not fully understanding the praise.
You know it makes you throb, and press your thighs together. Bucky’s eyes flick to the motion, and his throat bobs.
“Yeah.” His grip on the wheel is white knuckled. “Good.”
Silence settles again, and you let yourself stare at him. He’s beautiful. So beautiful it makes you unsure that he’s real. You’d like to trace the line of his jaw, hear his smooth, deep voice again. Hear it say your name, because it’s the only thing that reminds you that you’re real. You can’t remember why you ever deprived yourself of this. Of him, and all his quiet glory. He’s a loud man, but never boastful.
He’s only really boastful to you. When he fixes the shower for Nat or someone brings up his army service, he waves them off and laughs, and you’ve always loved that about him. You love most things about him, even when he’s being insufferable. You sort of love that he’s insufferable, too. You’re not that easy either. And if you wrapped around him, you’re hoping he’d be too chivalrous to cut you off. He could mock you all he wants, you’d just hide your face in his neck and breathe him in. Grounding. Handsome. Impossible to resist.
Your fingers are itching, to touch that sad little furrow. There’s nothing for him to worry about. The world revolves around him.
“Saw you got some numbers.” He grunts suddenly, and you pause.
“Numbers?”
“Phone numbers.”
“Oh.” You reach for you bag, checking that the hard line of your phone is still there. It is. You don’t know what he’s talking about.
“You gonna call any of them?”
“Any of who?”
Bucky gives you an exasperated look, then double takes slightly. His worry lines deepen. It makes you pout, grabbing at your own hands to stop them from reaching for him.
“The guys.” He says slowly, frowning at the road. “That you were talkin’ to.”
Oh. Phone numbers. “No.”
His brows raise. “No?”
You shake your head, and Bucky prompts you with an oddly tight voice.
“Why?”
They’re not you. Even your drunk brain seems to know it’s bad idea to say that. “I didn’t want them.”
“Hm.” Bucky taps his hand on the wheel, shooting you a strange look. “Why?”
You can’t tell him that, but you also can’t think of a good excuse this time. You make a lame, half-hearted sigh, and turn your face back into his arm.
He doesn’t push it. He doesn’t talk for the rest of the drive. His thumb drags little circles on your upper arm, lulling you into a half-sleep only interrupted by the bump of the road. You’re not sure how much longer you’re in the car, and when it stops you can’t really remember what you’re supposed to do now.
Bucky helps. He slides away from you, squeezing your thigh in a silent reassurance before he steps out of the car. Your hand traces over where he’d touched you. Bare skin on skin, hands still light and gentle. He seems to have burned his handprint into you, and it spreads until you’re tingly and weak-kneed.
The door on your side opens, and his voice is low in your ears.
“C’mon, pretty girl.” A strong arm loops around your stomach, pulling you back. “Let’s get you in bed.”
You hum, and let Bucky guide you. You trust him completely, with all your heart and not a single question.
He handles you carefully. Guides you inside, holds you steady in the elevator, takes your keys from your shaking fingers and opens the door. You’re sent to take a shower, but start to trip over nothing the moment Bucky lets go of you, so he sighs and draws you a bath.
“How am I gonna stand?” You mumble, sitting on the toilet while he runs the water. “Or rinse.”
Bucky grunts. “I’ll help.”
You hum in approval, and start to pull off your dress. Bucky makes a strangled sound, eyes flying up to the ceiling, and you’ve never seen his face so red.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“Getting ready for a bath?” You frown at him, and he groans.
“You- Fuck.” He takes a heavy breath through his nose, closing his eyes. “Just- Keep your underwear on, alright?”
You nod, trying to ignore the heavy sting that he doesn’t want to see you naked. Bucky won’t even fully look at you as he helps you into the tub. He leaves the room while you sit helplessly in the water, barely moving until he returns. You wrap your arms over your chest, suddenly consciously that maybe you’re not pretty enough for him to look at you. You pull your knees to your chest and sniffle, just waiting for him. You don’t even know why he left in the first place. You wanted him here.
Bucky sighs, when he opens the door to find you crying.
“Christ, I leave you alone for five seconds- Hey, woah-“ He kneels on the bathmat, hand flexing before he reaches out and wipes away your tears. “It’s alright, you’re alright. Don’t cry, sweetheart, you’re okay-“
You bite down a sob and turn your face, pressing it right into his shoulder. Again, Bucky stiffens. His arms hover for a second, breathing shallow, and you think he’s going to shove you away.
But he doesn’t. After that single, million year heartbeat of a moment, he grabs you. Holds you tight into his body, cradling your head and rocking you back and forth. The water flows under you, pushing up on the lip of the tub. A little bit flows over, splashing his pants.
He doesn’t seem to mind.
“C’mon, baby.” He murmurs, slowly starting to rise. “Let’s get you to bed.”
You nod, wrapping your arms tight around his neck. When he gets you on your feet, he stops for a second. His lips brush near your ear, and an electric rush dart through you. Then, fast but certain, he kisses the side of your head.
It’s so quick you’d think you imagined it, if you couldn’t feel the burn of his lips long after he pulls away. You reach up to brush it, when Bucky deposits you on your bed. You watch him move around the room like he belongs there.
He does.
He’d belong with you, if he wasn’t such a massive butt about your existence.
“It’s your fault, you know.”
Bucky glances up from your dresser, fisting a shirt in his hands. “What?”
“You.” You say, because it’s that simple.
He’s the reason you’re drunk. That you didn’t score tonight, that you’d been crying, that you have to be coddled like a baby.
Not that you mind that last one. It’s wonderful, having him touch and speak to you like he cares.
It’s still all his fault.
“What’s me?” He says, and you roll your eyes at the ceiling.
“All of it.”
Bucky says your name, and you wave him off with a dramatic sigh. You can hear him pad slowly across the room, and when he pulls you up gently you flop over his body. A useless ragdoll he’s trying to get a shirt onto.
But the harder you make it, the longer he’ll stay. The longer he’ll be nice, and touch you, and-
“I love you.”
Bucky stills. Your words hang in the air, but you don’t understand why. You’ve said far worse things to him, and he must have known. You know. You’re pretty sure Nat does too, with all the looks she’s always giving you after Bucky teases you and you flush, or you bicker and he marches away with a scowl.
It’s not some grand confession. You love him like the seasons turn and the sun always rises. It’s a deep, mechanical part of you that can’t be rewired, and you know because you’ve tried. But Bucky’s leans back and stares at you like the sky is falling.
“What?”
His voice is a croak, and you frown at him.
“I love you.” You say it slower this time. Maybe you’d slurred the words, and he hadn’t understood. “It’s your fault, because I love you and you’re just… There.”
He blinks at you slowly, obviously still not understanding. You roll your eyes, and flop back down.
Bucky coughs, grabbing your knee as if to steady himself. He’s sitting down, and it’s not like he’s in love. The world is perfectly under his feet. You’re the one suffering.
“I’m here?”
“All the time.” You whine, and his grip on your knee tightens.
“But you love me.”
“Mhm.”
“So why’s it problem that I’m here-“
“Because you never do anything.”
You can hear the frown in his voice. “I do things. I do lots of things-“
“You never touch me.” You prop yourself on your elbows, glaring down at him. “You just- You’re there, and you don’t like me and it- It makes me-“
“Makes you what.” Bucky’s voice is deep, his eyes dark on yours, and you stick your tongue out at him.
“You don’t get to know.”
“I don’t get to know?” He snorts. “No, you can’t just- You can’t say that kinda stuff then-“
“I wish you’d touch me.” You tell the ceiling.
Bucky grunts. “Yeah, I’ve heard. But-“
“Think I could cum just from listening to you talk.” You hum, your voice sounding like a faraway dream.
Your eyes are getting heavy, and Bucky’s gone completely silent. The words start to float out of you, like steam escaping through windows, into the warm, open sky.
“I’d like to touch you, too. Put you in my mouth, or just- ride you.” You sigh. “I want everything. I’d do- Do anything you told me too if you asked. Anything.” You look back up at him, your lip wobbling again. “But you never ask me. Why don’t you ever ask me?”
Bucky’s gaping at you, and he shakes his head, his voice a low croak. “I, uh- You’ve never-“
He swallows, glancing down, and you follow his gaze.
He’s straining through his jeans, shifting uncomfortably. You giggle, flopping back down. Your eyes start to droop, the room fading in and out. Bucky rises over you with a sigh, pulling the blankets up.
“’S nice.” You murmur. “You. Bein’ here.”
You yawn, and Bucky’s laughs. Under his breath, like an inside joke he won’t bring you into.
“Yeah. I know.” His hand grazes over your cheek, and you hum sleepily, eyes closing.
His lips press to your forehead, and it’s like a spell. The world, slowly and easily, starts to slip away.
“Sleep well, baby.” He mutters, and under that command, you do.
He’s not there when you wake up, and you have to be okay with that.
You don’t know how you’re ever going to face him again anyway. There’s a fog hanging over your brain, but it’s not thick enough that you can’t remember last night.
Bucky saw you naked. He was in your room, and put you to bed, and you-
You told him you loved him.
That you wanted him. That you could cum just from him talking to you.
You have to move. You have to change your name and move as far away as possible. Maybe Siberia, or Russia, or Romania, or somewhere he’ll never find you again. Because you told him you loved him, and now he’s gone.
He left a water on your bedside table. Mocking you with the fact that last night was real.
You force yourself to sit up, rubbing your temples, and take the glass. If you’re never going to see Bucky again, and you don’t plan to, there’s no need to spite him with ignoring it.
When you stand up, it takes a few deep breaths to start moving. Nat isn’t home yet, and she probably won’t be for a while. That gives you plenty of time to wallow before you vanish forever. You can spend the morning moping and cursing yourself, then worry about consequences.
You make cereal and put on coffee. Stare at the little bits floating through the milk, and try not to think about Bucky. If he’s thinking about you.
If he is, you don’t want to imagine what. That you’re a whore for throwing yourself at him, a fool for think he’d be open to such a confession—from you of all people—or maybe just the same as he always did. Maybe he’d known the whole time, and he just thinks you were gutsy to say it aloud when he so clearly wants nothing to do with you.
Nothing at all, but taking care of you while you’re drunk. Giving you a bath and putting you to bed, handling you like something precious and kissing the side of your head.
That could have been just more mocking. The same game he’s always played, accusing you of wanting him then laughing. Like he’d already known.
But playing that game while you’re out of it isn’t Bucky’s style. He likes you biting back, sometimes he dangles comments over your head and grins when you snap at them. So there’d be no reason for him to play when you weren’t even able to a join him. But then there’s no reason for him to act like that at all.
It’s too early to be thinking this much. You put all your hopeful bets on Bucky having somehow forgotten everything, so you don’t have to move.
The door opens down the hallway, and you glance up. It’s early for Nat to be back.
But it’s not Nat that calls your name through the house.
“Where’d you- Hi.”
Bucky walks into the kitchen, and you stare at each other. He’s wearing his clothing from last night, his hair mussed, two paper coffee cups in his hands. You swallow, and he coughs, glancing around the kitchen.
“I got you coffee.” He mutters a little bitterly, and you follow his gaze to the rumbling coffee machine.
“Oh.”
“You don’t have to- It’s here.” He puts it on the counter, and you nod, focusing back on your cereal.
You’re both silent for another long moment. There air is thick, like a swamp at the height of summer. You’re not sure how you remember to speak.
“How’d you know I was up?”
“Your door was open.” He mutters. “Made sure it was closed before I went out.”
“Did you-“
“On the couch. Just, uh-“ He rubs the back of his neck, eyes locked onto yours. “I wanted to make sure you weren’t alone, and- I think we, uh- You said some things. That we should talk about.”
You rip your gaze away as you flush, but if you’d had any hope of pretending you’d been too drunk to retain the night and just hoping he’d leave you be, that ruins it.
Bucky’s eyes narrow. He walks forward, until he’s right at your side. You can feel his presence buzzing through you, and swallow.
“You remember.” His voice is low, and he leans further down before you can protest. “Don’t lie to me. We’ve both been lyin’ way too much.”
You don’t dignify him with an answer. With even a glance.
Bucky leans closer.
“You said you wanted to touch me.” He’s almost growling in your ear. “You said you wanted me in your mouth, that you wanted me to ride you, that you’d do anything I told you-“
“James.” You hiss, twisting to glower at him.
Mistake.
He looks hungry. His eyes are blown out, only inches from yours, his tongue darts over his lips when you look down at them. He’s watching you like a dog that’s finally been told it can have its bone. Your grip on the counter tightens. It’s hard to stay upright.
“Full name.” He hums, the corners of his lips tugging up. “I’m in trouble.”
“You’re being a dick-“
“Yeah, but you like it.”
“I- You-“
“You love it.”
You freeze at that word. The air feels thin now. Your face is burning, and Bucky’s as collected as ever. Like this is all still just a game to him.
“Fuck you.” You spit. It takes everything you have.
Bucky doesn’t even flinches. “Yeah, you want to.”
Your mouth falls open, and he leans in closer.
“You meant it, right? Everything you said?”
Denying seems pointless. You try to anyway, but your lips barely prepare for the word no before Bucky’s giving you a stern look—don’t lie to me—and your voice dies.
He says your name, and it’s the same voice he used last night. Lighter, gentler, man trying to tend instead of force. You weren’t any match for it last night, but that doesn’t seem to be the drink’s fault. You give in just as easily right now.
“Yes.” You breathe.
Bucky’s eyes flash. “All of it?”
“Bucky…”
“Do you want me.” His voice is demanding now, and you try to look away.
He catches your chin, pulling you back. Forcing your gaze onto his, onto those beautiful, enchanting eyes.
You nod, and he hums in approval. The sound settles, molten and warm in your tummy.
“Do you love me?”
His words sound so sincere and taunting at the same time. You can’t look away, so you glare, and he chuckles.
“Come on, baby.” He brushes his lips over yours, his voice becoming something low. Something dangerous.
You don’t even bother to move away this time. You’re breathing in your chest, your stomach filled with too much desire to do much else. The brush of his lips let you taste coffee and mint, and his grip on your chin is commanding. You’re only putty in his hands. A lost cause that doesn’t really want to be found.
“Don’t make me fuck it out of you.”
Bucky’s eyes gleam, and he’s playing again. He knows he has you, that you want to be had.
His hand drags slowly, gently, on your waist. His fingers dip under your shirt, the soft touch making you gasp. You lean forward, and Bucky leans back. He tilts his head slightly, something stern still in his gaze. You blink hopelessly, trying to figure out what, and he squeezes your hips. It’s grounding and electric, and he presses back forward as you go still below him.
“Do you want me to fuck it out of you.” He growls, and your mouth falls open with a whimper.
Permission. He was holding himself on a leash for your permission.
Doubt drains from your head, far down south where a warm, summer storm is brewing between your thighs.
You spread your legs slowly, and grab his hand on your hips. Push it slightly down, until his attention follows.
Bucky’s jaw clenches, and his hand on your chin drops. You watch as he moves so tantalizingly slow, brushing the band of your panties before dragging down the seam at the apex of your thighs. He rubs you over the fabric, and your hips buck into the touch.
“Fuck.” Bucky hooks two of his fingers, tearing your underwear in one rip. “You’re so wet. Soaked through the panties, soaking my fucking fingers.”
You moan, pressing your face into his shoulder. Bucky dips his fingers into your heat, smearing the arousal all over your pussy, and you shake.
“Bucky-“
“You got this,” he spanks your pussy, then drags the mess down your inner thighs. “’Cause I’m here? Or just from thinking about me?”
“B- Both.” You mumble, trying to keep still as the broad pads of his fingers find your clit, rubbing in slow, tantalizing circles.
He hums. “You think about me a lot?”
Pressing hard on the sensitive button. Your knees give out, and you’re only caught by his arm around you’re lower back.
“Careful, baby-“
“All the time.” You whimper the confession, looking up at him with big, teary eyes. “Think about you all the time, Bucky, you’re- You’re so- Oh my god-“
Bucky yanks his hand from your pussy, grabbing your jaw and angling it back for a kiss.
It’s slower than you thought it would be, with how he crashed over you. You’d been expecting rough and harsh, all spit and ownership. Instead there’s a certainly behind it—a rough passion that’s demanding and hot—but it’s slow. Bucky doesn’t use his tongue until you open your mouth, and he hums in satisfaction when you grab at his hair, tugging slightly.
He grabs your ass, hauling you up on the kitchen counter. His hands wander your body lazily, tracing the softness of your hips and curve of your spine. He chuckles when you arch into the touch, deepening the kiss. Stars swim behind your eyes, and you realize you’re still grinding up into his torso.
“Bucky.” You plead, and he presses another tiny kiss to your lips, taking his sweet damn time.
“Off.” He tugs at the hem of your shirt, and you lift your arms to help him.
He leans back when you’re uncovered, and this time he isn’t trying to cover anything else. He palms one of your breasts, licking his lips before he takes the nipple between his fingers and rolls it. You squeak and his eyes dart up, almost studying how you shiver and blink at him.
“So reactive.” He switches to the other breast, and your fingers dig into the nape of his neck. “Almost came before I even really touched you, sweetheart. If you can’t hold it, you’re gonna be a fuckin’ wreck before I’m even done with you.”
You shake your head, face heating further. “It- It’s been a long time-“
“Yeah, but that’s not it.” He drags his hand down, over your abdomen. Back between your thighs. “You got that little toy keepin’ you satisfied-“
“Not satisfied.” You breathe, head lolling to the side as Bucky resumes his tight circles on your clit. “Not you, Bucky, fuck-“
He groans, dragging you back into a deep kiss. You give him everything you have in return, nipping at his lips and yanking his hair. Bucky groans and picks you fully off the counter, walking you both to your room and kicking the door shut.
“You drive me fuckin’ crazy.” He grunts between kisses, his own steps getting a little uneven. “The stuff I wanna do to you, no way we’re covering it in one night. Years to make up for, gotta ration it.”
“Years?” You pull back, and Bucky grins.
“Oh yeah. You’re not the only one who’s not satisfied, babydoll.”
“But-“
“Ah.” He kisses you, lowering you onto the bed. “Nope. Not now.”
You frown up at him. “Bucky, you said we needed to talk-“
“And now I’m sayin’ not now. And if my memory’s right,” he grins down at you. “You’re the one who said she’d do whatever I want.”
You flush, crossing your arms over your chest, and Bucky laughs. He pulls his shirt off, and you almost fall backwards on the sheets like it’s an atomic blow.
There have been glimpses. Moments. You’ve been to the pool with him before, and he’d been shirtless there too.
But he hadn’t been standing over you, massive and radiating power. You hadn’t been close enough to trace your fingers over the scars littering his muscle, remnants from his time in the army. You reach up in a trace, tracing one closer to his pant line, and he flexes under your touch. A low sound rumbles through him, and he catches your wrist with a warning look.
You giggle. “You’re not the only one who’s sensitive.”
Bucky’s eyes flash, his voice dropping impossibly low. “I’m gonna fuck you until you can’t speak.”
Your shift in the sheets, more desire building in your already aching pussy. Bucky’s attention darts to the movement, and his throat bobs. Every muscle in his body strains, and you give him a sweet smile.
“Prove it.”
Bucky makes that deep, growling sound again and grabs your face between his hands. He presses over you, shoving his tongue down your throat, and this is the kiss you’d been expecting from before. Rough and starved, almost marking you as much as kissing you. He bullies you down into the mattress with his weight, and you spread your legs wide to accommodate him.
“You’re so soft.” He mutters, kneading your thighs as his mouth starts to trail hot kisses down your neck. “Thought about touchin’ you like this forever, about how beautiful you’d be under me. And let me tell you, baby,” he nips under your jaw. “Better than I managed to dream.”
You grind up below him, trying to chase a little more friction. You keep meeting the rough fabric of his jeans, and the drag is beautiful, but it’s still not enough.
“Needy girl.” Bucky drags your legs apart, pressing his hips firmly over your core. The sudden pressure does the trick, and you moan, tipping your head back in brief relief. “Yeah, you like that. Feels so good and I’m not even doin’ anything.”
“Bucky, don’t- Don’t tease-“
“But it’s so fun.” He coos, kissing the corner of your mouth. “You get all nervous, makes me want to stuff you up with cock and see how you squirm-“
You make a loud, wanting sound, trying to fuck your hips up into the air. But Bucky’s heavy. You can only claw at his shoulders, and it just makes him tease more.
His rolls his hips, dragging the bulge in his jeans over your burning core. Your mouth falls open, and he kisses you, sneaking and arm tight around your back.
The forced arch of your back makes your legs open widen, giving him further access. He starts to rut against your bare pussy, and it’s perfect torture. Your arms are tight enough around him to choke, but it doesn’t slow him down. Bucky dry fucks you, your pussy throbbing desperately for release, arousal trickling down your ass and every thrust filling you with a burning pleasure.
You hadn’t been lying. It’s been a long time. But that’s not the only reason why you’re already so close to the edge again. Bucky’s body is everywhere around you, his thick arms holding you tight, his lips wandering over your neck and cheeks, leaving sloppy, open-mouthed kisses. The friction is everything, he’s everything, and you don’t have enough restraint to fight it.
The orgasm is sudden and harsh, shaking your whole body. You claw at his back, twitching and whining in his ear. You didn’t know you could cum that hard, hard enough to make eyes close from the overwhelming sensation, and it’s just from dry humping.
Bucky groans in your ear and pulls back suddenly. His eyes are lidded, expression lustful, and his palm flexes near his bulge like he’s forcing himself not to rub it. Your breathing is uneven, your pussy still aching, and you reach down to try and rub your clit until he collects himself.
He catches your wrist and pins it to the mattress, shaking his head. “You just fuckin’ came, baby.”
“I- I know- I just-“ You try to turn, and Bucky slaps your cheek lightly. Forces your attention back to him.
“You’re a big girl. Use words.”
You want to glare at him, but something about the slightly mocking order makes your pussy throb. Bucky raises his brows, and you barely manage not to drool.
“Want more.” You mumble, and he grins.
“And?”
“And?”
“You what?”
You stare for a second, then roll your eyes. “Oh, fuck off.”
Bucky smirks, squeezing his hold on your wrist. “’S alright. We’ll get there.”
You stick out your tongue, and he hums.
“That’s not very nice, baby. Think we need to work on your manners.”
“My manners are fine-“
“You’re a brat.” He teases, and you flush.
“I am not-“
“Yeah, you are. You’re a wet, needy little fuckin’ brat.” Bucky starts to move your hand between your legs, and you pretend to try and pull away.
He sees the challenge, and yanks it down. Presses it against your core, making you shake. Your eyes flutter, and Bucky laughs.
“Look at you.
“You really still got that vibrator?”
You nod, and he pulls your hand up. kisses your knuckles, eyes sparkling.
“Grab it.”
You scramble up the moment he lets go of you, yanking open your bedside drawer and pulling out the pink rabbit. Bucky grabs your hips before you can roll back over, pulling you backward with your ass in the air. You twist to look at him and find his attention entirely fixed on your core. On the mess between your legs.
He’s almost in a trance, as he drags two fingers through your pussy lips. You flutter, overly sensitive from before, and Bucky shoves his fingers right into your pussy.
You go limp, at the sudden stretch. Bucky’s fingers are everything you’d imagined they’d be, and more. Rough in all the right place, deft and thick, crooking right at the edges as he finds your g-spot faster than even you can sometimes. He hums like he’s figured out something interesting and kisses the curve of your ass. He starts to rub the tips of his fingers, massaging that happy, spongey place inside you, and you moan into the sheets.
“Bu- Bucky-“
“You’re tight.” He mutters, kissing between your ass and pussy, the tiny patch of skin that sends a shiver up your spine. “And wet. Gonna feel real good around my cock, babydoll. Got a perfect pussy for me to fill up.”
You make another desperate sound, and Bucky presses further in.
“Oh, that sounds good to you, doesn’t it. Getting stuffed full of my cum, being my pretty cockslut. I’d make you walk around with it after, wear a skirt so I can fuck you again whenever you run out. Fuck you until it’s stained on your legs, until everyone can fuckin’ smell it. ‘Till they know you’re mine.”
Your pussy clenches at the possessive promise, and Bucky groans.
“You wanna be mine, don’t you sweet girl.”
“Ye- Yes-“
Bucky yanks his fingers out of you unexpectedly, and you almost scream in frustration. You try to twist around again to chew him out, but he grabs the back of your neck and shoves you into the sheets. You go limp, trembling as tears prick at your eyes. Bucky arms snakes around your stomach, his thumb resting under your clit. Never touch it, or where your pussy is fluttering, desperate to be filled.
“Say it.” He grunts, and you shake your head. You’re not that easy.
Bucky doesn’t seem in any rush to give up though. He spanks your pussy, and you cry out in a mix of pain and delight.
“Say it.” He orders, and your hands fist in the sheets as he spanks your pussy again. You grind against him, chasing more, and he pinches your clit hard.
You almost fly out of your skin, a lewd, garbled plea escaping your lips as another orgasms rushes through you. This one is shorter, but no less consuming. You clench around nothing, mouth hanging stupidly open, and Bucky sucks near your throat, his teeth brushing and making the pleasure all the more intense.
“Fuckin’ brat.” He mutters, awe almost coating his voice. “I’m a damn saint, making you cum again when you’re so greedy. When you got this hungry little pussy, begging to be stuffed with cock, and I’m letting you go first.”
“Please,” you try to flip over, but Bucky’s hold on you is too strong. “Bucky, please- Please just fuck me.”
“Oh, I will.” He kisses under your ear, voice silken and taunting. “But not now, babydoll. Then we would’ve brought this out for nothing.”
“What’s-“
A buzzing sound fills the air, and your eyes widen.
“Bucky, wait-“
“You know, you get more sensitive after you cum.” Bucky drawls, dragging the thick tip of the rabbit up and down your pussy. You try to focus on your breathing, squeezing your eyes shut as your body starts to get swept away in a wildfire.
“God, fuck-“
“Quiet.” He grunts. “I’m trying to talk, sweetheart. Be good.”
You nod, biting on your lower lip, desperate to listen well. To be good.”
“Like I was saying.” Bucky drawls, shoving the vibrating dildo up against your clit, then yanking it away. “You get more sensitive. And I was thinking all night about your little confession. That you can cum just from listening to me talk.” Bucky hums, dragging the head down to rest right over your entrance. “I like a challenge, but I’m got enough on my hands with you today. And since I’m so nice.” He pushes the thick length a little inside you, and your pussy clenches around it. “I’m gonna give you some extra hands. Extra sensitive,” he gives your clit a series of tiny hits, shoving the rabbit in deeper. “Some fake fuckin’ cock to get you ready for the real thing, and me.”
Bucky drags you back into his lap, right as he shoves the dildo home. You almost scream as the smaller bit presses over your clit, the thicker part driven right against where Bucky already knew your g-spot was.
“Bucky- Holy shit-“
He pulls your face to the side, silencing you with a deep kiss as you shake. You’ve already cum twice. That’s more than usual, and you’re not sure if you’ve got another.
You don’t get to tell him that, though. You don’t think he’d care to hear it right now, and fuck, do you want to see him try.
“I said quiet.” He growls when he pulls away, and before you know what’s happening he’s shoving the same fingers that had been in your pussy into your mouth.
You melt immediately, sucking on them as your eyes flutter. Bucky groans in your ear, moving his free hand to hold the rabbit inside your gushing, oversensitive pussy.
“Good girl.” He drawls in your ear. “Didn’t even have to ask, you just knew didn’t you. Fuck, you suck my cock half this good I’m not gonna be able to last ten minutes.”
You moan, and Bucky kisses the corner of your jaw before continuing.
“I know you’d like that. What was it you said? That you wanted to touch me? When this is done we can get you on your knees. If you behave.” He nips at your sweaty skin. “I’ll let you suck my dick. I’ll even fuck your face if you ask real nice. I hope you’re nice, baby, cause I can imagine it. You crying, lips around me, fucking your fingers while you choke on my cock. My pretty baby, my sweet fuckin’ doll loving me so much.”
You slump back against him fully, hips rolling uselessly, and it’s more subtle this time. The heat building at the bottom of your tummy, winding tight and made of a strange pressure.
“You’re gonna say it.” He coos in your ear, and your pussy starts to fight against the rabbit. Like it knows you can barely take it.
But you can’t lend it much energy. You like this position well enough.
“After you cum for me again, I’ll fuck you. Fuck you properly like the brat that you are.” Bucky groans, pressing his nose into your hair. “Walking around, making me feel like I’m the asshole for wanting you, for loving you when you’re snapping off at me,you’re a mouthy fuckin’ thing, aren’t you babydoll. Lotta bark but,” he pushes his fingers further into your mouth. “Not even a little bit of bite.”
Your eyes roll back, head pressing into his shoulder, and you give him a silent look of pleading that’s only met with a mocking grin.
“So pretty like this, sweetheart. Stupid and quiet, I ain’t even fucked you yet. Won’t clean you up after you’re done, just let you walk around with it dripping. Maybe I’ll fuck you until it sticks. Until you’re mine.”
Your back arches, and you’re so close. You can feel Bucky’s dick twitch against your ass, and somewhere in the distance your thoughts manage to collect enough to tell you that he removed his bottoms at some point.
“Fuck, ‘course you’re into that. Shouldn’t have expected more from you, with how much you love this. You’re close, baby.” His lips tease the shell of your ear. “So close.”
You whimper, grinding down onto him as the dildo vibrates, and Bucky groans. He pins you down to his lap with a hiss, fingers flexing on your stomach.
“Shit- You can’t just-“
He presses his mouth where your neck meets your shoulder, kissing and sucking as his dick throbs against you, and his dirty talk becomes mumbled and deep.
“My pretty fuckin’ girl, can’t even wait for it, cum for me, babydoll, come on, fuckin’ show me how much your greedy pussy wants my dick-“
The pressure breaks like a flood. Your pussy gushes so hard it pushes out the rabbit, and your head flies back as you grind into the air. Bucky moans, fully moans, and starts to rub your clit back and forth with the palm of his hand. You grab his wrist, spasming and trying to chase it and escape all at once. You whine as it becomes all too much, batting at Bucky’s hand.
He stops, collecting your release on his fingers.
When he presses them against your lips, you open. Hum as he feeds your own juices to you. All you can do is lap at his fingers and look at him under fluttering lashes, and he smiles.
“Good girl.” He coos, and your body seizes up again. You moan around his fingers, and Bucky laughs.
He pulls them out, turning your head for a gentle, deep kiss. You’re boneless and cockdrunk, only able to let him give and give whatever he’s willing. You can’t even try to drag him close.
Bucky rolls you over, making sure your back is pressed into the mattress as he kisses you lazily. He rises up after a few moments, his gaze raking down your body, and you flush. If you had more strength, you’d cover yourself. You’ve never been good at being looked at.
But there’s nothing expect awe and affection in Bucky’s eyes. He traces a hand over your every curve and softer spot, rising slowly on his knees to part your legs.
“You’re a miracle, baby.” He murmurs, pumping his cock in his hands and for once, you feel like one. “Look at what you do to me.”
You do, and you might be about to burst into flames.
Bucky’s thick. Long, but not enough to worry you, and thick. He’s going to drag, be able to get balls deep and make you feel him everywhere.
You’re drooling, and he sees it. He smirks knowingly, and you wrinkle your nose.
“Come on.” He teases. “Say it, and it’s all yours.”
You shake your head, and Bucky hums. Crawls back over your body, notching his cock right at your entrance. His hovers his lips over yours, not quite fully kissing.
“Say it.”
When you find your voice, it’s raspy and broken.
“No.”
“But you know you want to.” He presses the first inch inside, and if you’d had any worries about not being able to take more, they’re knocked away with how good he feels.
You were right. He’s an even bigger stretch than his two fingers, and it perfect. There’s a slight ache, but it’s overwhelmed by the closeness. By how well he fits, how much you need more of this brimming, explosive pleasure already threating to take you over.
“Just say it, pretty girl. Say it for me.”
You shake your head, and Bucky pushes further in, and your hands fly into his hair like they were pulled there.
He groans, rutting into you, and bottoms out. You didn’t know you could feel this good. Be this full. Bucky moans in your ear, and you breath slowly, trying to adjust.
“You feel so good.” He smashes his lips over yours, the kiss demanding and long. “Knew you’d feel this good, always knew you’d feel this good, Christ-“
You roll your hips up, and it makes Bucky jerk. He slams into you, knocking the air from your lungs, and your toes curl in delight.
He barks your name, grabbing your jaw, and you beam at him.
“More.” You breathe, and Bucky’s eyes widen in slight surprise.
He recovers fast.
“Yeah?” He pulls out slowly, then slams back in, his tip kissing your cervix. “You like that? Like being fucked like a toy?”
You moan happily, and Bucky laughs.
“Thought you might surprise me, babydoll, but no.” He taps your cheek, and you open without a thought. “You’re just the pretty cockslut I thought you were.”
He drags all the way out again, but this time pushes in slower. You whine, but he doesn’t even acknowledge you, setting a slow pace that feels good, but is far too much. The roughness made you numb with a good, fuzzy sensation, but this makes you feel it. Bucky’s cock dragging against your gummy walls, the press of him over your g-spot and heat of him, right over your clit.
You can barely take it. You’re already so fucked out from the other orgasms, you’re barely able to hold onto Bucky properly. You think you might be about to black out from pleasure, but no part of you wants him to stop altogether, and how you’re trapped somewhere between paradise and hell.
“Look at you.” He grabs one of your breasts, palming it as he thrusts smooth and deep. “Nobody else does this to you, do they. Makes you feel so good, gets you so stupid on their cock.”
You shake your head, and Bucky taps your mouth again.
“Words.”
“Bucky…”
“Want to hear you, sweet girl.” He kisses your cheek, words pure filth in your ears. “Here you scream for me while I fuck you, hear how much you love it.”
“Can’t-“
“Yes, you can.” He slams a little firmer, giving you a pointed look. “Good girls listen. And when they listen,” he repeats the motion, holding your gaze. “They get filled up.”
You whimper, but nod. Bucky smiles in satisfaction, returning to his torturous speed from before.
“Anyone else do this to you?” He grunts, and you shake your head.
“No- No. Never, Bucky, only you-“
He groans, picking up his pace. “That’s fuckin’ right. No one fucks you like this, I’m gonna ruin you. If you wanna cum you’ll have to find me, I’m the only one who plays this perfect fuckin’ pussy- Shit-“ He groans, jaw clenching as he hits a little deeper than before. “Nobody takes care of you like me-“
“No one.” You echo, and you’re rewarded with another rough slam. “No one, Bucky, only- Only wanted you, needed you- Fuck-“ You cry out, pressing your cheek into his jaw. “You and your thick cock, needed you so bad-“
“I know. I know, babydoll, but I’m here now.” He kisses you quickly, speeding up again.
It’s enough to make you start to feel it again. Not slowly building, but being dragged out. The tip of Bucky’s cock drags through you, and that hot feeling in your core starts to fill up again.
“Wanted to do this for so long.” He groans in your ear, and a loud moan escapes your lips. “You really got no idea, I thought I was gonna lose it every time I saw you, thought you’d never let me- God-“
You clench around him, and Bucky angles your hips up, allowing him to hit deeper. You moan, and he kisses the back of your neck, sucking a dark mark.
“My girl.” He mutters possessive, and you babble an agreement. “My smart, mean fucking baby, drunk on my cock. Prettiest girl in the world, mine-“
You moan, and Bucky cuts himself off with a groan. He kisses you again, then rises over you. Bracing his arms on either side of your head as he looks to where he’s fucking into you. Your gaze follows, and the warmth in your gut flares at the sight.
It’s the most vulgar, pornographic thing you’ve ever seen. Bucky’s thick cock, sliding in and out of you with ease. Precum and your own need for him shining on the thickness of him, his chest flexing with restraint as he forces himself to keep the same pace. You watch his cock vanish into your body, and feel him deep inside you, and God-
You look up, checking if Bucky’s as strangely moved by that as you are, and find him staring at you. The moment your eyes meet, he grabs your jaw, pressing you back down into the pillows with a rough kiss. You’re unable to do anything but take it all. Bucky’s tongue pressing down your throat, his lips moving expertly over yours, his cock fucking every word but his name out of your head.
“Look at me.” He rasps when he pulls away, and you nod.
His eyes are almost wholly black, and shining. Tears prick at yours, but Bucky leans down, kissing them away before going faster again.
His balls start to slap on your ass, his cock pumping in and out of you until it’s all you can think about. Bucky deep inside you, lighting you up, how you can feel a rush up your spine with his every thrust. A lewd, wet sound is filling the room as he pounds into you. Your pussy burns and spasms every time, but it’s too good to fight.
Bucky’s too good to fight. You don’t know why you tried for so long.
“Bucky-“ You breathe, and he grunts.
“You’re close, sweetheart.” He mutters, and you don’t know how he knows, but he’s right.
You’re about to snap again. To lose it from how he’s fucking you like you’re a doll and the love of his life, all at once. You grab his wrist, squeezing tight.
“Pretty girl,” he teases. “Gonna soak this cock like a good girl, aren’t you. Give it to me, baby, show me how much you love it-“
“Love you.” You breathe out, and Bucky freezes.
Balls deep, he stills. His cock throbs in protest, but he doesn’t seem to care.
You blink at him, praying you didn’t ruin it. Bucky swallows, and rasps out your name.
“What?”
“I- I love you- Oh.”
He jerks into you when you say it, and you almost fly out of your skin.
“Fuck, Bucky- I- I love you-“
It happens again, but you don’t think he’s doing it to mess with you. He can barely seem to control himself, his attention almost feral as his cock jumps inside you.
“I- I love you- Oh my god-“
Bucky dives over you, kissing you like he’s trying to steal the words from your mouth. Like he can taste them.
“Damn right you do.” He grunts, cock dragging inside you as he starts to fuck you, shallow and brutal. “Love you, love you so much, you’re-“
He kisses you, and somewhere through the floating, hazy dreamworld his cock is fucking you into, you think he’s run out of words.
Bucky’s fucking you like an animal, because there’s nothing left for either of you to say. He pulls your hips back up to that angle from before, returning to that pace from before that pulled the confession out of you. You’re in incoherent, babbling mess, tugging at the sheets and watching Bucky above you like he’s God.
“Good girl.” Is all he’s grunting out, but it’s deep and every word of a noise than anything else. “Mine, my good fucking girl, gonna fill you up, you’re-“ He moans, doubling over your body as his thrusts become short and harsh. “You’re perfect-“
From nowhere, you find the strength to reach up and grab Bucky’s face. You pull it down, kissing him with every word you’re too ruined to say, and he moans.
Bucky slams home, muttering your name against your lips like a prayer. You can feel him everywhere. Hot and sticky, pumping deep into your own heat, coating your walls, dripping out and running down your ass. When Bucky starts to move again, slow and lazy, he presses it deeper, spreads it everywhere.
It’s hot on your clit, and Bucky’s still jerking and spraying inside of you. You’ve never been this full, it’s addicting. Your brain is empty, body alight with the feeling, Bucky’s cum so thick and demanding that you could swear you feel it washing through your whole body.
He reaches between your legs to rub your clit.
You get there all on your own.
Your vision goes white, as you cum. You’re so out of it you feel it the same way you feel a cool breeze. Light and relieving, washing over the heat inside you and pulling a happy sigh from your lips.
Bucky kisses you, and this time it’s only sweet. All his mean words and taunts so easily dissolve as you reach up, running your fingers through his hair. He smiles against your lips, and you smile back.
“Told you I’d do it.” He mutters, and you shove his chest with a weak laugh.
“Shut up.”
He grins, moving up to kiss your brow, then the side of your face. He’s still buried inside you. Neither of you are in a rush to move any time soon.
“You mean it, though.” He pauses, moving back over your body.
There are those worry lines again. You reach up with a tiny smile, and soothe your fingers over them. Bucky hums, leaning into your touch, and you smile.
“Yeah.” You whisper, and his shoulders sag.
“Thank god.” He presses his face between your breasts. “That would’ve been bad.”
You laugh, running your fingers through his hair, and he wraps his arms around your body. He’s slid out a little, but you’re still connected to him, and you never want to move again.
“How long?” He mutters against you, tilting his head to meet your gaze. “Cause mine was when I saw you.”
You flush stupidly—he’s inside you—and mumble, “Me too.”
Bucky frowns. “But you were always- “
“And were you any better?”
He snorts, leaning up to peck your cheek. “Fair shot.”
“I know.” You snip, then, “You- You meant yours, right? I mean- What you said while…”
You trail off, because you didn’t imagine it. I love you and mine, too sincere to just be dirty talk.
Bucky rises back over you, gently guiding your gaze back to his. He smiles when your eyes meet, and kisses the tip of your nose.
“With everything I fuckin’ got.” He mutters, and you smile.
“Good.”
“I know. I mean, I did really well for myself- I’m complimenting you, woman!”
You’d shoved him, and Bucky grabs your wrists, wrestling them down into the mattress. He looks at you with a rough, fond exasperation.
“You’re a gremlin.”
“You like it.” You beam up at him, and he lower back down, kissing you lightly.
“Tough curse.” He mutters. “But I’m enjoying it.”
You roll your eyes at him, and he grins. Beautiful and all yours.
“Can we stay here for a while?” You ask, just because you want to have this, and sit in it. “Please.”
Bucky nods, and you feel your heart shine like it’s been given new batteries. Beating out of your chest and comfortably all at once, as Bucky rolls you both onto your sides, wrapping tight around you.
“We can do whatever you want.” He mutters, rubbing your hips and kissing the marks on your neck.
You relax, because you believe him. About all of it.
And now, you have him with you for all the time in the world.
✦End note: big fan of that horny old man in every universe.✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
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✦︎ — SUMMARY. Bucky finds your romance novel. Bucky reads the highlighted part. Bucky discovers you've both been silently wanting the same thing. Bucky proves he’s incapable of acting normal about this information.
WARNINGS. established relationship, MDNI, 18+, porn no plot, Bucky has a raging breeding kink, soft smut, unprotected pnv, creampie, cumplay, mentions of lactation kink, domestic intimacy, no use of y/n.
NOTES. scheduled post bc your girl is on a break. also thank you for 4000 followers, what the hell 🥹
The only good thing about a mission was that it ended. And when it ended, Bucky can come home to you.
The door clicked behind him. He exhaled properly, maybe for the first time in three days, and let the quiet settle over him. He shed his jacket, his boots, and followed the strip of warm light under the bedroom door without thinking. Muscle memory by now, this particular walk.
You were on your stomach, one leg bent, cheek soft against the pillow, mouth barely open the way it only went when you were properly under. Completely gone. One hand curled slack beside a book lying pages-down on the bed, spine cracked, the way books shouldn't be left if you cared about them.
He'd seen this exact scene before — you falling asleep mid-read, the lamp still on — and his move was always the same: turn the light off, climb in behind you, sleep for ten hours.
He almost did.
His hand reached for the book to set it aside when his eyes caught the open page. He sat down slowly on the edge of the mattress because his legs stopped cooperating.
The prose wasn't fancy. It didn't need to be, it was blunt about what it was describing. A man with both hands pressed to his girl's lower belly while he worked himself deep, telling her she was going to take every drop, that he wasn't stopping until he'd filled her up past overflowing. That's it, pretty girl, take my cum, let me breed this tight little cunt till it takes, want you so full of me you can't think, wanna see your belly swollen with my babies. The woman in the story was begging for it, wet and completely broken, while he kept his palm flat over her stomach.
Bucky's hand tightened around the spine until the cover bent.
He turned the page and found a star drawn in pencil in the margin. Your handwriting. Neat and small, beside the passage where the man pulled back just enough to watch his cum leak from her before pressing it back inside — not wasting a drop, gorgeous, every bit of it stays right here where it belongs.
A star.
He sat with that for a moment. Two moments. Maybe a full minute of just sitting there with the lamp warm on his hands and your soft breathing behind him.
He knew this want. He'd been sitting on it for months — the need to just stay, every time he was buried inside you and the pull of it got so loud it took actual effort to talk himself back. The responsible thing. The right thing. Pull out. Don't push it. Don't put that on her. And then watching the mess of it on your skin and thinking about what it would mean to not. To keep it all where it was supposed to go. How many showers he'd stood in thinking about your belly. What you'd look like. How soft you'd go. How it would feel to press his palm there and know.
To him, this wasn’t some random story anymore. Apparently his girl has been falling asleep to fantasies of getting claimed and filled until she carried his baby, the same urges he’d been swallowing down every time he pulled out and spilled across your skin instead, not wanting to push too far and scare away that sweet softness you always seem to give him.
He turned another page. Found another star, this one beside the line where the man cradled his girl's tits as he asked about nursing from her.
He closed the book and looked at you. All the love he felt towards you multiplied with the awakened hunger, hands itching to wake you right then, to show you how perfectly those pages matched the way he wanted to ruin you for anyone else. He stood up, stripped down. Shirt, pants, everything. He was not getting into bed in three-day mission clothes, even if his brain was only half working.
He looked down at himself. Already half-hard, his cock thick against his thigh, wet at the tip just from reading. He'd been on missions that didn't break him this fast. He wrapped his hand around himself slowly, hissed at his own slickness smearing his palm and stroked just to get a handle on it.
He put his hand on your hip. "Baby." He shook you gently. "Wake up for me."
The sound you made was small and personally offended by the concept of consciousness. You burrowed deeper.
"Baby." He rubbed your hip. "Open your eyes."
Slowly, you did, blinking like a deer caught, as you found him in the warm lamplight and your face just opened. All of it, the sleep-blur gone in a second, replaced by that warmth, that automatic reaching, your arms coming up before you'd even finished registering what you were looking at. Like some part of you knew it was him before your eyes did, and your whole body moved toward him on instinct.
He gathered you in. He would never in his life stop being leveled by this, the way you reached for him like that, all open and unguarded, not one defensive thing in you when you saw him. He tucked his face into your hair and breathed.
"You're home," you mumbled against his neck. No matter what, the images from the book spilled over, now all he saw was you and him, those dirty promises echoing.
"I'm home." His lips found your temple. "Came home and found you sleeping like you haven't got a single bad thought in your pretty head." He felt your breath catching, your fingers going still in his shirt. "Left your book right out here for me."
"It's just a book." You spoke into his skin, pressing closer into him, fingers digging into his shoulders with a restless energy, soft sounds vibrating through you that only made him harder
"Pages worn soft from reading it."
"Bucky —"
"Little pencil stars in the margins." He pulled back just enough to look at your face. The flush was already climbing your throat, your eyes sliding sideways from his. He could see you trying to determine exactly how much he'd read. "My sweet girl." He shook his head slowly, as he watched you bite your lip. "Sleeping like an angel… with her breeding kink book on the nightstand."
A mortified sound left you as you tried to press back into his chest. He let you, his mouth curving, his arms pulling you in. "Don't," you said, muffled by him.
"I'm not doing anything."
"You're laughing at me."
"I'm not laughing." He really was, a little. He pressed his lips to your hair to hide it. "I would never." He rubbed your back, felt you slowly start to relax against him. "I've been pulling out," he said, into your hair. "This whole time."
You went completely still.
"Every single time," he continued. "Being responsible. Doing right by you. While you've been in here starring passages about being filled up and bred." He felt your fingers curl in his shirt. "I've been pulling out for nothin', baby."
A long pause where you just nuzzled again and breathed. Then very quietly your voice came. "I didn't think you'd want —"
"I think about it every time I'm inside you." He said it simply. Just the plain truth of it sitting between you. "Just — thought it would scare you. Thought I'd push you away." He pressed his lips to your forehead.
He continued when you didn't reply, "so here we both were, keeping our mouths shut like absolute idiots."
You looked up at him with an expression he could never quite name, somewhere between wanting and completely undone. He kissed you before either of you could ruin the moment with more words. Slow and thorough, hands cupping your face. You made a soft sound against his mouth that had always gone straight through him.
Clothes came off fast, what little you had on was gone, and he was already bare. He settled between your thighs and looked at you properly.
Your cunt was weeping before he'd even touched you. Slick and swollen, soaking the sheets, and he dragged two fingers through your folds and brought them to his mouth while holding your gaze the entire time. "You were dreamin' about it." He could still taste you on his tongue. "Weren't you? Dreaming about me filling up this tight little pussy."
A broken whimper came as you turned your face into the pillow.
"Baby." He tapped your thigh gently. "Look at me." Reluctantly, you met his eyes, warmth spreading to your ears. He circled your entrance without pushing in, felt you clench around nothing, as he listened to the sound it pulled out of you. "Don't get shy now, sweetheart. Tell me what you want."
"Please —"
"Please what baby?"
"Fill me up. Please, Bucky, please just fill me up, I need it —" Your hand raised to hide your face, which he softly pulled away.
Bucky pushed in slowly. Your nails found his biceps before he was halfway there, digging crescents into the thick muscle. He worked into your dripping cunt inch by inch, feeling every clench and flutter, the wet sounds of it loud in the quiet room.
When he got himself fully seated, he held there, both of you just breathing each other in.
His palm pressed flat to your lower belly. "Feel that?" He pressed down gently and watched your eyes go soft. "That's me, baby. Right here." He pressed a little firmer and your breath punched out. "That's where it's staying. Every load, from now on." He pulled back slowly and drove in, as he watched your mouth fall open. "Never pulling out. Not wasting a drop. Gonna fill this pretty pussy up and keep her that way."
"Bucky —"
"I know, baby." He started moving, finding a rhythm. "I know. We've been idiots."
You came apart under his hands easily, wound up and desperate, scratching at his back, your thighs locking around his waist. Your cunt was soaking him, drooling around his cock with every thrust, the slick sounds of it filling the room.
"I know you love swallowing." You made a soft, small sound when he said that. "And I love watching you do it. Love seeing my cum on your stomach, on your tits." He palmed your breast, taking your nipple between his thumb and pointer finger, feeling you jolt under him. He did it slower the second time, watching your face. "But that's done. From now on every single load goes right here." He ground his palm down over your lower belly. "Load after load, until you're round with my babies and everyone can see what we've been doing."
"Yes — please —"
"These tits." He thumbed your nipple again and your back bowed off the mattress. He felt you gush around him. "They're gonna fill up, you know that? Get so heavy and full." He kept his palm there, felt your pulse jumping under your skin. "Gonna let me drink from them." His thumb dragged slowly across your nipple again and your whole body shuddered in a shock. "Aren't you?"
A gasp spilled from your lips, barely a sound.
"Aren't you, baby?"
"Yes," you gasped. "Yes, god, yes, anything you want —"
"Atta girl." He sucked a mark into your throat and felt your cunt clench and flood around him, soaking him straight down his thighs. He kept his palm on your belly. Couldn't stop touching you there, the soft warm plane of it, the thought of it round and full of him. "Gonna put a baby right here." He spread his fingers wide. "Take such good care of you. You and our baby both, I promise you that."
"More — please — Bucky—"
He hooked your knee higher and drove in harder, making you cry and scratch at his skin.
His metal hand reached up, curving gently under the back of your neck and tilted you forward. "Look how good you're taking me."
You looked down. He watched your face while you watched his cock move in and out of your puffy, soaked cunt, the slick mess of you coating every inch of him. Your thighs were dark and wet, your pussy drooling around each thrust and clinging to him when he drew back. He could see the drag and pull of it from here. Watch the way your cunt stretched open and tried to keep him every time he moved.
"Look at her," he marveled. "See how she takes me? Sucking me in like she's been starving." He drove in to the hilt and held himself there, watching your head drop back. "Did I starve her? Hm?"
"Bucky —"
"Tell me." He rocked into you, slow enough to be punishing. "Did I keep her empty when she wanted to be full?"
You whined in response, clinging to his arm. He pulled back slowly, and pushed back in. "That's done, babygirl."
Your sounds had gone to pieces, his name breaking apart in your mouth. He worked you harder and felt you winding up, getting impossibly tight around him.
"You'd make such a good momma." The words fell out of him without planning. He pressed his face into the curve of your neck. "Gonna make this belly round and take care of you through every bit of it. Every part. I mean that. You want that, sweet girl?" The headboard rattled at his pace, as you openly scratched at him harder, head lolling to one side, soft mewling sounds threading through each exhale.
"Say it baby. Come on, sweetheart."
"Please — I'm so close —"
"I know, baby… I know. Say it first."
"Make me a mommy —" It tore out of you. "Please, Bucky, please — make me a mommy—"
That pushed him to the edge, and he came, hard and sudden, hips slamming forward and holding while his cock pulsed in long thick ropes inside you. You came apart with him, cunt clenching in tight rippling waves, whole body shaking, a broken sob of his name leaving your mouth. He felt you your pussy milking every last drop, as he kept grinding in, palm pressed hard to your lower belly, like if he just kept his hand there
"Take it — take all of it — every drop, baby —"
He was still rocking into you in slow, sloppy thrusts when he felt himself going soft, working the last of it out. You were limp and shaking underneath him, hands slack in his hair. He pressed his face to your neck and breathed until he could.
He lay there with his softening cock still inside you, palm warm over your belly. You nuzzled your face against his jaw. The room smelled like sex. He pressed his lips to your cheekbone, your temple, the side of your mouth, anywhere he could reach. Told you between each one how good you were, how beautiful you'd be, how he'd meant every word.
When he finally slipped free, it was reluctant, genuinely, physically reluctant, a resistance he had to push against. As he looked down, slow, thick stream of his cum leaked from your swollen, puffy cunt, running down your inner thighs.
He pressed two fingers gently at your entrance before he'd even made a decision about it.
Your whole body twitched. "Bucky."
"Shh." He pushed it back inside, slow but thorough, and pressed his fingers there when he was done. Just held it there. Keeping the warmth of you against his palm, plugging you, not letting any more of it go.
"I know what you're doing," you said.
"I know you do." He didn't move his hand though.
A small, helpless sound slipped out of you. You pressed closer into his chest, as he brought his other hand over your shoulders to rest on your lower belly. Both of them just stayed there — one cupping you from below, one warm and flat on your stomach.
He nuzzled into your hair. Pressed his lips to your forehead. He's wanted this for so long, and he's going to be good at this no matter what.
"You're not moving your hands," you said eventually, voice drowsy, sated, barely there.
"No," he said.
"Either one."
"No."
You made a sound that was too tired to be an objection and pressed your face into his chest. His thumb drew a slow circle on your belly and didn't move.
Summary: Who would have thought that an inconspicuous vent in a bakery alley would be what brought them together: the omega who never felt right with any alpha, and the asset who wasn't supposed to want at all.
Word Count: 11k
Previous Chapter - Masterlist
She wakes to weight and warmth.
His arm is still pressing around her waist, face still against her throat. The purr has faded to silence sometime during the night, but his breathing is deep and even. Peaceful in a way she suspects is rare for him.
She doesn't want to move, to disturb him.
But the sound of the traffic is entering through the window, the need to pee is not something she can ignore, and she can smell him, smoke, cheap soap, and the underlying scent of alpha that's been masked by everything else.
He needs a proper shower. Real soap. Clean clothes.
The thought of clothes makes her glance down at his naked form, tangled with her body in the sheets. She'd gotten him out of the tactical gear yesterday, but that's all he had. No change of clothes. No personal belongings. Just weapons, the suit, and… trauma.
One problem at a time.
She shifts carefully, trying to ease out from under him without waking him, but his arm tightens immediately around her.
"Alpha," she whispers. "I just need to get up for a minute."
His eyes open with instant alertness, like he goes from sleep to fully conscious in a heartbeat, and she can see the question in those pale blue eyes, even though he doesn't ask it.
Where are you going?
"Bathroom," she says softly. "I really need to go."
His arm loosens, and she slips out of bed. She can feel his eyes tracking her across the room, watchful, waiting for her to come back.
She does her business quickly, washes her hands, and when she comes back out, he's sitting up in bed. Back straight. Hands on his thighs. Watching the bathroom door like he's been waiting for her to reappear.
"Hey," she says softly, crossing back to the bed. "You okay?"
A stiff nod as an answer.
She sits on the edge of the mattress, close enough that her knee brushes his thigh. "I was thinking... you should take a shower. A real one. Get all that smoke and-" She gestures vaguely at him. "Everything else off."
He doesn't respond. Just looks at her with those unreadable pale eyes.
She tries again. "Would you like to-"
The tension in his shoulders increases fractionally, and she stops mid-sentence.
Right.
She remembers yesterday. The way he asked her to tell him what to do. The way he followed every instruction without question, like having someone make decisions for him, was a relief instead of an imposition.
She changes her approach.
"Alpha," she says, her voice firmer now. Not harsh, but directive. "I need you to take a shower. I need to smell you, not all this other stuff covering your scent. It would make me feel better."
The change is immediate.
His shoulders drop, and the tension bleeds out of his body. He nods, certain this time, because she's not asking him to choose. She's telling him what she needs, and he can do that. He can be useful to her.
"Good," she says, standing. "Come on."
He rises from the bed immediately and follows her to the bathroom.
She pulls back the curtain and turns on the shower, adjusting the temperature until the water runs hot. Steam starts to fill the small space almost immediately, and she steps back, gesturing to the shower. "Get in."
He walks with no self-consciousness, no modesty, and steps over the edge of the tub and under the spray.
And then he goes very, very still.
His eyes close, and his brow furrows like he’s trying to decipher what he feels. Then, his head tips back slightly, water streaming over his face, his hair, his shoulders.
She watches, fascinated, as his hands come up slowly -almost reverently- and push his hair back from his face, as his shoulders drop another inch, as he just stands there, unmoving, letting the hot water pour over him.
How long has it been since he had this?
The question disturbs her. Because this isn't just relief of removing filth. This is something else. Something that speaks to deprivation so complete that hot water feels like a luxury.
She swallows past the tightness in her throat and watches him for another moment, then makes a decision. She can't reach him properly from outside, and she's going to get soaked anyway trying to wash his hair.
"Scoot over," she says, pulling her shirt over her head.
He shifts immediately, making room, his eyes tracking her movements as she strips down to nothing and steps into the tub behind him.
The space is small, and the heat of the water mixing with the heat of his body makes the air thick and humid. She has to press close to reach around him, her chest against his back, and she feels him tense for just a second before relaxing into her touch.
"I'm going to wash your back first," she tells him, reaching for the soap. "Then your hair."
He nods, still facing the spray, and she works the soap into a lather between her hands before pressing them to his shoulders.
The scars feel different under the water. Softer somehow, but no less present. She traces them without meaning to, following the lines across his shoulder blades, down his spine, mapping the damage while she cleans away days of sweat and smoke and whatever else he's been through.
He's so still under her hands, waiting patiently for her to finish.
When his back is clean, she reaches for the shampoo.
"Okay, I need you to bend down for me," she says. "I can't reach your head."
He complies immediately, turning around and bending at the waist, his back to the showerhead now, water sliding down his face and neck.
"Close your eyes," she instructs quickly. "The water's going to run into them with the products, and it'll sting."
His eyes slide shut obediently, and she works the shampoo into his hair, massaging his scalp with her fingers. The water runs dark at first, carrying away dirt and product and god knows what else, but gradually it clears. She rinses thoroughly, then repeats with conditioner, working it through the tangled strands until they feel smooth under her fingers.
"Okay, you can straighten up now."
He does it slowly, water still streaming down his face, and just stands there, waiting.
She lathers it between her hands and places them on his chest. Her palms slide across his sternum, over his pecs, following the contours of muscle and scar tissue. The water runs between them, making everything slick, and she works methodically, cleaning away the last traces of smoke and sweat.
Her hands move lower, over his ribs, across his stomach. He doesn't move, doesn't react, just keeps standing there, letting her work.
When she reaches his hips, she soaps her hands again and continues downward, sliding them clinically between his thighs, washing with the same care she's given the rest of him.
That's when she notices it.
His balls are heavy. Drawn up tight against his body, swollen in a way that speaks to biological need not fully satisfied. A remnant of the rut, probably, or maybe just the proximity to her, naked and touching him in such an intimate way.
But he's not hard.
Not responding the way you'd expect an alpha to respond to his omega's hands on his body like this. And that tells her everything she needs to know about how deeply whatever they did to him runs.
She swallows the surge of anger -not at him, but at whoever made him like this- and keeps washing gently, giving him no reason to feel self-conscious about his body's lack of response.
"Does this feel okay?" she asks softly, as she works. "What I'm doing?"
"Yes."
The answer is immediate. Certain.
At least that's something.
She rinses her hands and reaches for more soap, working it over his thighs, his calves, finishing the job, and the whole time he just stands there. Letting her. Trusting her.
When she's done with his legs, she straightens, looking up at him.
"The other day," she says carefully, keeping her voice soft. "I asked you about your name."
His entire body goes rigid.
She can see the conflict playing out across his face. Confusion. Fear. The urge to answer warring with something else. Something that won't let him.
"Is it because you don't feel safe with me?" she presses gently. "Or because you don't have one? Or... you don't remember?"
His jaw works. She can see him struggling, can smell the spike of distress in his scent.
"Soldat," he finally says, and the word sounds forced. Automatic.
"Okay," she says softly. "But that's not really a name, is it? That's what you were. Not who you are."
He lifts his gaze to look at her fully now, and the look in his eyes is… lost. Confused. Like he genuinely doesn't understand the difference between those two things.
Like he's never had to understand the difference.
"Don't..." His brow furrows, and she can see him reaching for something that isn't there. "Don't remember," he says finally, and the frustration in his voice is palpable. "There was... something. But it's-"
He makes a gesture at his head with his flesh hand. Scattered. Fragmented. Gone.
Her chest tightens.
"Okay," she says, reaching up to cup his face, thumbs brushing his cheekbones. "That's okay. Maybe it'll come back. Or maybe it won't. Either way, you're still my alpha."
He leans into her touch, eyes closing briefly, and nods.
"Yeah," he echoes, barely a whisper.
She pulls him down into a gentle kiss -just a press of lips, nothing demanding- and feels him relax into it.
"Come on," she says, pulling back. "Let's get you dried off."
She reaches past him to turn off the water, then grabs a towel from the rack. "Dry yourself," she instructs, pressing it into his hands. "I'll be right back."
He takes the towel and starts patting himself down while she wraps herself in another towel and steps out of the tub.
His boxers are still on the floor where they'd left them yesterday, stiff and stained. She picks them up with two fingers, grimacing slightly, and takes them to the sink.
The water runs cold as she works soap into the fabric, scrubbing at the stains. Then, she rinses them thoroughly, wringing out as much water as she can.
She's still wringing them when she senses him behind her.
She glances up at the mirror and sees him standing, towel wrapped around his waist, watching her with those pale, unreadable eyes.
"Almost done," she says, giving the boxers one final squeeze before turning to face him. "I'm going to put these on the radiator. They shouldn't take too long to dry."
She moves, acutely aware of his gaze following her as she crosses to the radiator against the far wall. The metal is warm under her fingers as she drapes the damp fabric across it, smoothing it out so it'll dry evenly.
And that's when she remembers the other issue that needed to be approached. She turns to face him, wrapping her arms around herself. "I need to go out for a bit," she says.
"No."
The word is immediate.
"Alpha, it's to get you clothes," she explains, keeping her voice gentle. "There's a discount store just around the corner. I'll be quick, I promise. Twenty minutes, tops-"
"No."
He takes a step toward her, and something in his posture shifts. His shoulders broaden, his back straightens, and suddenly the space between them feels charged.
Another step.
She backs up instinctively until her shoulders hit the wall, and then he's right there, towering over her. His arms come up, forearms bracing against the wall on either side of her head, caging her in.
Not touching or hurting her. But unmistakably alpha in a way he hasn't been since he came back yesterday.
His head lowers, nose finding the curve of her neck, and she feels him inhale deeply. Scenting her. His lips brush against her scent gland, then the edge of his teeth, a gentle scrape that makes her breath catch.
"No," he says again, the word rumbling against her throat.
Her heart is hammering. Not from fear but from the sudden intensity of his presence, the way he's using his body to communicate what his words can't.
Don't leave. Don't go. Stay.
"Alpha," she says softly, her hands coming up to rest on his chest. She can feel his heart beating just as fast as hers. "I'm not leaving you. I'm just going to the store. I'll come right back."
His teeth scrape her gland again, more insistent this time, and a low sound rumbles in his chest. Not quite a growl. Something between that and a whine.
Mine. Stay. Don't go.
"Alpha," she says again, trying to keep her voice calm and reasonable even though her pulse is racing. "Listen to me. Nothing's going to happen to you while I'm gone. You'll be safe here. And nothing's going to happen to me either. It's just around the corner. Twenty minutes."
The sound in his chest intensifies. His face presses harder against her throat, and she can feel the tension in his body radiating in waves. "I know you don't want me to go. I understand. But I'll come right back. I promise-"
"No."
Still that same flat refusal. Immovable.
She can feel her patience starting to fray. This isn't working. Reasoning isn't working. He's too deep in whatever instinct is driving him to listen to logic. So she takes a breath, hating what she's about to do, but not seeing another option.
"You asked me to tell you what to do," she says, and her voice comes out firmer now. "So I'm telling you. I need you to let me get dressed and go buy you clothes."
He goes very still against her.
Then his head turns slightly, just enough that she can see his eyes. They're narrowed, fixed on her with a force that makes her stomach flip.
He doesn't like this. Doesn't like being ordered. But he's caught between what his instincts are screaming at him to do and what she's telling him to do.
She presses on, gentler now but still firm. "It's not acceptable for you to be naked. I mean, you can be naked if you want, that's fine. But you can't not have clothes. It's not warm enough for that, and if you need to go somewhere, you can't just walk around with your ass out."
That seems to penetrate his mind.
His eyes shift, some of the feral focus fading, replaced by the beginning of understanding. He pulls back slightly, just an inch, and she can see him processing. Trying to reconcile the conflicting drives.
She reaches up slowly and takes his flesh hand in both of hers, squeezing gently.
"Everything's going to be okay," she says softly. "I'm going to go to the store, I'm going to buy you some clothes, and I'm going to come right back. Fast. I promise."
His jaw works. She can see the internal struggle playing out across his face.
Then, slowly, his arms leave the wall, and he takes a step back, giving her space, but his hand tightens around hers. Not letting go. Not yet.
"Twenty minutes," she says, squeezing his hand again. "Okay?"
A long pause.
Then, finally, a single nod.
Stiff. Reluctant. But a nod.
----
Seventeen minutes.
The numbers on the laptop screen. 10:47 AM. She left at 10:30. Said twenty minutes. That means she should be back at 10:50.
Three minutes left.
Soldat sits on the edge of the bed, towel still wrapped around its waist, and watches the clock change to 10:48.
Its chest feels wrong. Tight. Like something is constricting around its lungs, making each breath require conscious effort.
She's coming back.
She said she would.
Twenty minutes.
But what if she doesn't?
The thought surfaces unbidden, and Soldat's hands clench into fists on its thighs. Metal fingers whir softly with the pressure.
What if she sees something out there that makes her realize what it is? What it's done? What if someone tells her about the Asset, about HYDRA, about the people it has killed?
What if she just... decides not to come back?
It wouldn't blame her.
10:49.
One minute.
Its breathing is getting faster. Shallow. The tightness in its chest is spreading, crawling up its throat, making its vision tunnel slightly at the edges.
She has to come back.
She has to.
Because without her, it doesn't know what it's supposed to do. Doesn't know where it's supposed to go. Doesn't know who it's supposed to be.
The handlers are gone. HYDRA is gone. Everything it was built for is rubble by the Potomac.
She's all it has left.
The only anchor point in a life of obeying, violence, and emptiness. The only person who's ever touched it without flinching. The only voice that's ever asked instead of ordered-
Except she did order. Told it to let her go.
And it complied.
Because that's what it does. It obeys. That's all it knows how to do.
But what if obeying was wrong this time? What if letting her leave means she doesn't come back, and it's sitting here alone in an empty apartment with no purpose and no-
10:51
The lock clicks.
Its head snaps toward the door, every muscle tense, its hand moving to grab a weapon that is not on him.
The handle turns, the door opens.
And she steps through, with a big plastic shopping bag in hand.
The relief is so overwhelming it's almost painful. The tightness in its chest releases all at once, and it has to grip the edge of the mattress to keep itself from lurching across the room toward her.
She came back.
She's here.
"Hey," she says, slightly breathless, closing the door behind her. "Sorry, the line was longer than I thought. But I got-"
She stops mid-sentence because Soldat is moving now, crossing the space between them in three long strides.
It doesn't know what it's doing. Just knows it needs to be closer, needs to confirm she's real and solid and not some hallucination its fractured mind conjured up.
Its arms wrap around her before it can stop itself, pulling her against its chest. The shopping bag crinkles between them, but it doesn't care. Just buries its face in her hair and breathes.
Brown sugar, yeast, and omega.
Real. Here. Safe.
"Alpha?" Her voice is muffled against its chest, surprised but not afraid. "Everything alright?"
It doesn't know how to answer that.
Doesn't know if "alright" is something it's capable of being. Just tightens its grip fractionally and tries to remember how to breathe.
She pulls back slightly in its grip, not trying to escape but making space to look up at it.
"I'm back," she says softly, one hand coming up to rest on its chest. "See? Just a few minutes."
It nods, still not trusting its voice.
She smiles, small and reassuring, then shifts the shopping bag between them. "Come on, let me show you what I got."
Its arms loosen reluctantly, letting her step back, and she moves to the bed, upending the bag onto the mattress. Fabric spills out. Gray, black, and dark blue. Soft-looking materials that don't resemble tactical gear at all.
"Okay," she says, organizing the pile. "I got you socks, boxers, a couple of long-sleeve shirts, and sweatpants. I didn't want to risk jeans because I wasn't totally sure about your size, and these will stretch more anyway."
It stares at the pile.
Normal clothes. The kind normal people wear. The kind it hasn't worn since… the thought fractures before it completes. It doesn't remember wearing anything except uniforms. Combat gear. Things designed for function, not comfort.
"And these," she continues, pulling out a pair of slide sandals. Cheap rubber things. "Just so you have something for your feet. I'll get you actual shoes when I can, but this is a start."
She looks up at it, expectantly. Waiting for some kind of response.
It doesn't know what to give her. Its gaze drops to the clothes again. They look soft. Warm. Like something a person would wear, not an asset.
"Try them on," she says gently. "See if they fit."
It reaches for the boxers first, then the sweatpants. The fabric is... strange. Fleece-lined, warm against its skin, nothing like the rough pants it's used to. The waistband has a drawstring. It tugs it tighter and ties it.
Then the shirt. Long sleeves, black, soft cotton that smells like store packaging and nothing else. It pulls it over its head, and the fabric feels like something foreign against his skin.
Not precisely uncomfortable, but different. It stands there, dressed like a normal person, and doesn't know what to do with its hands. Then, something white catches its eye on the floor. A piece of paper that must have fallen from the bag.
It bends down, picks it up.
The receipt.
Its eyes scan the numbers automatically. Line items. Prices. Total at the bottom.
$47.83.
The number feels like a dead weight.
It knows what things cost and the value of money. Has always had to know. Forty-seven dollars for clothes that don't deserve. Money that she probably doesn't have much of, given the size of this apartment.
The guilt is immediate and visceral.
She shouldn't have to spend money on it. Shouldn't have to take care of it. Shouldn't have to do any of this because it showed up uninvited and broke her life apart. Alphas don’t do that; alphas provide and fix, take care of their mate-
"Do they fit okay?"
Her voice pulls it back. It looks up from the receipt, and she's watching it with those warm eyes, head tilted slightly.
It nods.
"Good." She smiles. "You look-" She pauses, something shifting in her expression. "Good, alpha. Like an average person."
The words shouldn't hit as hard as they do.
Like a person.
Not an asset. Not a weapon. Not the Soldat.
Its throat feels tight. It looks back down at the receipt still clutched in its metal hand.
"Too much," it manages, voice rough. The words feel clumsy in its mouth, but it forces them out anyway. "Cost too much."
Her brow furrows. "What?"
It holds up the receipt. "The money. You... spent."
Her gaze fixes on him with something that looks almost like pain.
"Alpha," she says softly, crossing to it. Her hands come up to frame its face, thumbs brushing its cheekbones. "Don't. Don't do that. It's not too much. It's clothes. You need clothes."
It wants to argue. Wants to explain that it's not worth forty-seven dollars, not worth her time or money or care. She doesn’t know what it is, what it has done. That she should have screamed and fought him instead of letting it touch her.
But the words won't come.
Just the guilt, mixing with the relief that she came back, and the confusion of wearing soft civilian clothes that smell like nothing except fabric and detergent.
"You're worth it," she says, like she can read its thoughts. "Okay? You're worth it."
It doesn't believe her. But doesn’t have the heart to tell her.
----
She lets her hands drop from his face, giving him space to process, and turns her attention to her empty stomach.
"I don't know about you," she says, "but I'm starving. It's too late for breakfast, so we should probably just do lunch." She then moves toward the small kitchen area, opening the freezer. "I have some vareniki in here. They have ricotta inside."
When she glances back at him, his head is tilted slightly, brow furrowed. Like he's trying to grab onto something just out of reach.
"They're a kind of pasta," she explains, pulling out the package. "I buy them from this lady who makes them at home to order. They're really good."
He doesn't respond, just stands there looking lost.
She waits a beat, then realizes he's not going to tell her if he wants them or not. Can't tell her, maybe. The choice is too much, too open-ended.
"I think you'll like them," she says, deciding for him. "I'm going to make them with butter and some grated cheese. Okay?"
A nod. Small. Certain now that she's told him what's happening.
She fills a pot with water and sets it on the stove, turning the burner to high. While she waits for it to boil, she gathers the butter from the fridge and the cheese grater from the drawer.
She can feel his eyes on her.
When she turns, he's still standing exactly where she left him. Not at attention, but close. Back straight. Hands at his sides. Like he's waiting for orders.
"You can sit down," she offers, nodding toward the small table.
He moves immediately, pulling out a chair and sitting. But even seated, she can tell he is not relaxed or comfortable. Just... compliant.
She turns back to the stove, checking the water. Not boiling yet.
She glances over her shoulder again.
He's watching her. Not staring, exactly, but his gaze is fixed on what she's doing. Tracking her movements as she grates the cheese, watches the water, and adds salt.
There's something almost... analytical about it. Like he's cataloging every action, filing it away. Or maybe he just doesn't know what else to do.
"You okay over there?" she asks softly.
"Yes."
The answer is immediate. Automatic.
She's not sure she believes him, but she also doesn't know what else to ask.
The water finally boils, and she drops the vareniki in, stirring gently to keep them from sticking. They'll need about five minutes.
She turns to lean against the counter, facing him properly now.
He's still watching. Those pale blue eyes fixed on her with a focus that should probably make her uncomfortable, but doesn't.
"You can come closer if you want, alpha," she says. "I told you about sitting because I thought you would want to."
He stands immediately -too quickly- and crosses to her.
But he doesn't stop at a comfortable distance. He comes right up to her, close enough that she can feel his body heat, and just... stands there.
Watching.
She tilts her head up to look at him. "You want to see what I'm doing?"
A nod.
"Okay." She turns back to the stove, and he shifts with her, positioning himself slightly behind and to the side. Close enough that his arm brushes hers.
She stirs the vareniki, watching them bob in the boiling water. "They're almost done. They float when they're ready."
He doesn't say anything. Just watches. His presence is solid and warm beside her, and she can smell him now: clean, finally, underneath the faint scent of alpha that makes her inner omega content.
The pasta floats to the surface, and she fishes it out with a slotted spoon, draining it before transferring it to a serving plate with melted butter. He's still right there, watching every movement like this is the most fascinating thing he's ever seen.
Maybe it is.
The thought makes her chest ache.
"Go sit down," she says gently, nodding toward the table.
He moves immediately, pulling out a chair and settling into it with that same stiff posture.
She carries the serving plate to the table, setting it on a folded dish towel to protect the wood. Then she gets two regular plates and forks, setting one in front of him.
She serves him a generous portion. He's a big man, and she has no idea how much he eats. The vareniki gleam with butter as she arranges them on his plate, then sprinkles a generous amount of grated cheese over the top.
Then she serves herself and sits down across from him.
For a moment, they just... look at each other.
He's dressed. Clean. Fed. Safe.
Hers.
And she has absolutely no idea what she's doing.
"Go ahead," she says softly, picking up her fork. "Try it."
He picks up his fork and spears some food, bringing it to his mouth.
She watches him chew, his expression for any sign of reaction.
Nothing. Just methodical chewing. Swallowing.
Then he takes another bite. And another. Not desperate, but consistent. Like eating is just another task to complete.
"Do you like it?" she finally asks.
He pauses mid-bite, looks at her, then down at his plate. Like he's trying to determine if he's supposed to like it.
----
"Yes," he says finally.
It's the truth, as far as it can tell. The food is... good. Warm. The cheese is salty, the butter rich, the pasta soft in a way that's completely different from field rations or the nutrient paste they sometimes fed it through a tube to save time during mission prep.
It doesn't remember the last time it ate something that wasn't designed purely for function. Something that had flavor beyond the metallic tang of whatever vitamins they pumped into its system.
It likes this.
But the words to express that don't come. No one has ever asked for its approval on anything, least of all something as mundane as food. Its preferences have never mattered. Its sustenance was just another logistical concern, handled efficiently and without consideration for comfort.
She nods and returns to her own plate, and it watches her take a bite, chew, swallow.
There's something in her expression. A flicker of something that might be disappointment, though it's not entirely sure it's reading her correctly.
Did it insult her?
The thought sends a spike of anxiety through it. She spent food reserves, and not even normal ones, but the kind she had to order specially, to cook for it. And all it could give her was a flat "yes".
It needs to fix this.
It picks up its fork and takes another bite. Faster this time. Then another.
The problem is that it's already full.
Its stomach has spent decades being fed the bare minimum to function. Caloric intake calculated to maintain muscle mass and operational capacity, nothing more. The portions have always been small, controlled, and its body adapted.
Three vareniki in, and it can feel the pressure in its abdomen. Uncomfortable and unfamiliar. But she cooked this. She made it for it, and not finishing would be… what? Ungrateful? Disrespectful? A waste of the money she spent on ingredients?
It can't do that to her.
It forces another bite down. Chews mechanically. Swallows past the growing discomfort. Then another, and keep going.
Even though its stomach is protesting. Even though each bite is getting harder to swallow. Even though every instinct that isn't about pleasing her is screaming to stop.
It's halfway through the plate when her voice cuts through its thoughts.
"Alpha."
Its head snaps up, fork frozen halfway to its mouth.
"I'm sorry," she says, and there's genuine apology in her voice. "I should have made more. I'm watching you eat, and I'm thinking you're going to still be hungry."
If she only knew.
It shakes its head immediately.
"Are you sure?" she presses with concern. "Because I can make something else if-"
"Da." The word slips out before it can stop it, but it corrects itself quickly. "Yes. I’m sure."
She studies it for a moment, like she's trying to determine if it's telling the truth, then nods slowly.
"Okay," she says. "But if you get hungry later, tell me. We have more food."
It nods, relieved. She's not going to make it keep eating. Not going to force more food on it. She's just... accepting its answer.
She returns to her own plate, and it oblige his body to keep swallowing. Once it finishes the plate, it isn’t sure what it is supposed to do now.
Wait for her to finish? Clear the table? Stand at attention?
The uncertainty must show on its face because she glances up.
"You can relax," she says gently. "You don't have to just sit there. If you want to get up, you can."
Permission again.
It doesn't move. Not because it doesn't want to, but because it doesn't know where to go or what to do.
So it stays. Hands in its lap now, fork set down. Watching her finish her meal.
----
She finishes her plate and stands, gathering the dishes. "I'll wash these real quick, and then we can watch something. Or just cuddle on the couch if you want. You look tired."
It nods because it doesn't know what else to do.
She moves to the sink, running the water, and it sits there listening to the domestic sounds of dishes clinking, water running, her humming softly under her breath.
Normal sounds. Safe sounds.
And then its stomach clenches.
Hard.
The discomfort it had been ignoring suddenly becomes impossible to ignore anymore. A sharp, twisting sensation that makes its breath catch.
It stands abruptly, and the chair scrapes against the floor.
Bathroom. It needs to get to the bathroom.
It moves quickly, but not quickly enough.
Halfway across the small space, its stomach rebels violently. It doubles over, and everything comes up splattering across the floor in a grotesque puddle.
No.
No.
It hears her footsteps, hears the sharp intake of breath, and the shame is immediate and devastating.
"Oh, hey- it's okay-"
She's there in a second, the mop bucket from beside the sink suddenly in front of it, and it grips the edges as another wave hits it.
More comes up. Its body convulsing, emptying itself while she holds the bucket steady.
The thoughts spiral:
Unacceptable. Weak.
It made a mess on her floor. Ruined the clean space she maintains. There's also vomit on the new clothes -it can feel the wet warmth on its shirt- clothes she spent money on, clothes it doesn't deserve, and now they're ruined too.
Pathetic. Can't even eat a normal meal without failing.
She made food. Went to the effort of cooking, of feeding it like it's worth the care, and it couldn't even keep it down. Couldn't perform this one simple biological function without making a spectacle of itself.
Seventy years as Hydra’s fist, and it can't even-
"Alpha, breathe," her voice cuts through the spiral. Soft. Steady. "Just breathe. It's okay."
It's not okay.
Nothing about this is okay.
Another heave, but nothing comes up this time. Just painful dry retching that makes its eyes water and its throat burn.
"That's it," she murmurs, one hand on its back now, rubbing slow circles. "Get it all out. Don't fight it."
It wants to pull away. Wants to hide. Wants to be anywhere but here, hunched over a bucket while she watches it fall apart over something as stupid as food. But it can't move. Can only grip the bucket and try to breathe through the shame that's threatening to drown it.
Another dry heave shakes its body, but nothing else comes up.
She keeps her hand on its back, steady and warm, and her voice stays calm. "Okay. I think you're done. Just breathe for me."
It tries. Shaky inhales that burn its raw throat. The bucket is still clutched in its hands like a lifeline.
"Let me take that," she says gently, tugging at the bucket.
It releases it reluctantly, and she sets it aside, out of the immediate splash zone.
Her eyes scan the floor, the mess, then back to it. There's no disgust in her expression or anger. Just concern.
"Are you okay?" she asks. "Does your stomach still hurt?"
It can't answer. Can't form words past the shame clogging its throat.
She frowns slightly, biting her lip. "Maybe the filling was off? Or..." Her hand comes up to touch its forehead, checking for fever. "Are you getting sick? Do you feel feverish?"
It shakes its head. No fever. Just failure.
"Okay," she says, clearly trying to figure this out. "Could be a bug. Or maybe the cheese didn't agree with you."
She doesn't know.
Doesn't realize it forced itself to keep eating. Doesn't understand that its stomach has been starved down to nothing for decades and can't handle normal portions anymore.
She's trying to find an explanation that makes sense -bad food, illness, anything- because the truth wouldn't occur to her.
That it's just broken.
"Come on," she says, helping it straighten up. "Let's get you cleaned up first, then I'll deal with the floor."
It looks down at itself. The new shirt has vomit splattered across the front. Dark wet stains that reek of bile and failure.
The shame intensifies.
"Alpha," she says softly, catching its gaze. "Stop. I can see you spiraling. It's just a shirt. It'll wash."
It's not just a shirt. It's the evidence of how completely useless it is. How it can't even be trusted with basic things like eating without fucking it up.
She guides it toward the bathroom, her hand gentle on its elbow. "Let's get this off you and rinse your mouth out."
It follows because it doesn't know what else to do.
In the bathroom, she helps it pull the soiled shirt over its head. The movement makes its stomach clench again, but there's nothing left to come up. She tosses the shirt in the sink and turns on the tap, rinsing it quickly before wringing it out.
"Here," she says, handing it a cup of water. "Rinse and spit. Your mouth has to taste awful."
It does. The water is cool, soothing against the burn in its throat. It rinses and spits into the sink, then rinses again.
"Better?" she asks.
A small nod.
She's watching it carefully, and it can see the wheels turning in her head. Trying to figure out what's wrong, why this happened.
She's not going to figure it out unless it tells her.
And it doesn't know how to tell her that it's fundamentally broken. That decades of abuse have left it unable to function in even the most basic ways.
"Go sit on the couch," she says gently. "I'm going to clean up the floor, and then I'll bring you some ginger ale or something, okay? Something gentle for your stomach."
It wants to argue. Wants to clean up its own mess, but she's already guiding it out of the bathroom, her hand firm but kind on its back.
"Go," she insists. "Sit down. Let me handle this."
So it does.
Because she told it to.
And obeying is all it knows how to do.
----
She works quickly, mechanically. Paper towels first to get the worst of it, then the mop with disinfectant.
Her mind is racing. She ate the same thing he did, but her stomach feels fine. No nausea. No cramping. Nothing.
So it's not food poisoning. Is he sick? Coming down with something?
But he doesn’t seem to have a fever. His skin was cool when she touched his forehead, maybe even a little cold.
So what is it?
She scrubs harder at the floor, frustration mixing with concern. She needs to fix this. Needs to figure out what's wrong so she can help him, but she doesn't have enough information.
And he's not going to tell her. Not because he's being difficult, but because he probably doesn't even know himself what's wrong.
Or worse, he knows and doesn't think he's allowed to say.
The thought makes her chest tight again.
She finishes with the floor, dumps the dirty water in the toilet, rinses the mop and bucket, and washes her hands thoroughly. Then she goes to her purse on the counter.
There's a small tin of mints in the side pocket. Cherry flavored. She pops one out and grabs a clean dish towel from the drawer.
When she enters the living area, he's exactly where she left him. Sitting on the couch. Shirtless. Back straight. Hands on his thighs.
Waiting.
His eyes track her as she approaches, and she can see it immediately, the distress. The smell of shame radiates off him in waves, even though his expression is carefully blank.
"Here," she says softly, holding out the mint. "For your mouth."
He takes it without question, placing it on his tongue.
She sits down next to him, close enough that their thighs touch, and drapes the dish towel across his bare chest.
"Just in case," she explains. "If you feel sick again."
He nods stiffly.
She shifts, tucking herself against his side, her head resting on his shoulder. One arm wraps around his waist, and she can feel how tense he is.
Like he's bracing for something.
"Alpha," she murmurs. "It's okay. You just got sick. It happens."
He doesn't respond.
She cuddles more against him and starts to purr.
Low and steady, the sound rumbling in her chest. It's instinctive, her omega nature trying to soothe her distressed alpha, trying to calm whatever storm is raging inside him.
She feels him go even more rigid for a moment, like he doesn't know what to do with the comfort she's offering.
Then, slowly, incrementally, he starts to relax.
His shoulder drops slightly. His breathing evens out. The tension in his frame bleeds away by degrees. But the distress doesn't fully leave. She can still smell it on him, acrid and sharp underneath his natural scent.
This isn't just about getting sick. She knows that instinctively, even if she doesn't understand why. This is... something else. Something significant enough to send him spiraling.
She keeps purring, keeps holding him, and wishes desperately that he could just tell her what's wrong.
But he can't. Or won't. Or doesn't know how.
So she does the only thing she can: stays close and purrs and hopes it's enough.
His arm comes up slowly, carefully, and wraps around her shoulders. Holding her against him like she's the only thing keeping him tethered.
"I've got you," she whispers against his chest. "Whatever it is, I've got you."
She feels him nod. Just barely.
And his grip on her tightens.
----
They stay like that for a while. She's not sure how long, but long enough that the mint has dissolved completely in his mouth. Long enough that his breathing has returned to something approaching normal.
He seems okay physically. No more nausea, no signs of fever or illness. Just that lingering tension that hasn't fully released, like he's waiting for the other shoe to drop.
She understands now, in a way she didn't before, just how broken he is. How careful she's going to have to be. How slowly she'll need to move.
Their relationship didn't start with a conversation. It started with scents through a bakery vent. With biology and instinct, and something neither of them could control or explain.
Maybe that's where she needs to go back to. Not words, he doesn't have those, or can't access them, or doesn't trust them. But touch. Scent. The things that bypass language entirely.
Her hand slides up from his waist, tracing along his side. Up higher, to where the metal meets flesh. The scar tissue is thick, raised, and angry, even if it seems this was inflicted long ago.
She traces it gently, following the line where the metal bolted into living tissue.
"Does this hurt?" she asks softly.
"No."
His voice is rough but certain.
She nods and shifts, rising up slightly on the couch. Her lips press against the scarred tissue, feather-light. A kiss to the damage someone else inflicted.
His breath hitches.
It's subtle -just a small catch in his breathing- but she feels it. Feels the way his body goes very still under her mouth, like he's trying to process a sensation he doesn't have reference for.
She does it again, and this time, his exhale shakes.
And his scent shifts.
It's not dramatic, but it's there. The edge of distress that's been clinging to him since he got sick starts to fade, replaced by something warmer. Deeper.
Alpha.
Not the stressed, broken alpha smell. The real thing underneath. Leather and gunmetal and that bass note that makes her inner omega drool.
She keeps going. More kisses, tender and purposeful, mapping the border of his trauma with her mouth. Working her way across his shoulder, and with each press of her lips, his breathing gets a little heavier. A little less controlled.
The angle is awkward -she's twisted sideways on the couch, half-kneeling to reach him properly- so she shifts, swinging one leg over his thighs, settling into his lap so she can reach his shoulder, his neck, without straining.
The position puts them chest to chest, and she can feel it immediately, the way his breathing stutters when her weight settles fully on his thighs.
His hands come to her waist automatically. Steadying her. Holding her.
She presses kisses up the side of his neck now, following the line of his throat, and his pulse is racing under her lips now; she can feel it, fast and hard and alive. And his scent is getting stronger now, filling her lungs with every breath.
Her body responds before her mind catches up.
Warmth low in her belly. A flutter of arousal building between her legs. The beginning of slick, just a hint of wetness that has nothing to do with conscious thought.
She tries to ignore it. This isn't about sex. This is about comfort, about showing him that touch can be gentle, that-
A sound rumbles out of him.
Low. Subvocal. Vibrating against her lips where they're pressed to his throat, and she can feel it in her chest too, where they're pressed together.
He's purring.
The realization makes her still for half a second, and then she's moving again, drawn by instinct. Her mouth finds his scent gland, and she opens her lips against it.
Just a gentle press at first. Testing.
His whole body shudders beneath her.
Not a small tremor. A full-body shake that she feels everywhere they're touching, and the purr stutters, breaking into something rougher. More desperate.
His metal hand slides up from her waist to cup the back of her head. Not forcing, but holding her there. Like he needs this contact, needs her mouth on his gland more than he needs to breathe.
She seals her lips over it and sucks.
Gently. Carefully.
The reaction is immediate and devastating.
His scent explodes.
It floods her system -thick and overwhelming- hitting the back of her throat, her lungs, soaking into her skin. Leather and gunmetal and musk, and underneath it all, something that's just him, raw and unfiltered and so intense she feels dizzy with it.
Her vision blurs at the edges.
The hand on the back of her head tightens, metal fingers fisting carefully through her hair, and she can feel him trembling. Actually trembling, like he's coming apart under her mouth.
"Omega," he rasps, and his voice is wrecked. Barely recognizable.
The word sends a bolt of heat straight between her legs.
She's slick now. Properly slick. Can feel it coating her inner thighs, soaking through her underwear. Her body responding to his scent, to his need, to the broken way he's naming her like she's the only thing in the world that can fix him.
And maybe she is.
Her own breathing is getting ragged now. Her heart is pounding. The hand not holding his shoulder slides down to his chest, and she can feel his heart racing under her palm, matching hers beat for beat.
She sucks harder at his gland, and he makes a sound, broken and needy and so fucking desperate it makes her inner omega keen with the need to soothe, to provide, to give.
His hips shift beneath her. Just slightly. An involuntary rock upward, and that's when she feels it, his thick cock pressing against her through the thin fabric of his sweatpants, hardening with every second her mouth stays on his gland.
The friction sends a spark of pleasure through her, and she can't help the small roll of her hips in response. Seeking more of that pressure, more of that contact.
He groans against her hair, and the purr has morphed into something else now. Something between a purr and a growl, possessive and needy all at once, and it vibrates through both their chests where they're pressed together.
----
The kiss deepens, and the chaotic thoughts that have been spiraling since it threw upstart to fade, pushed aside by something stronger.
Instinct.
Alpha instinct that knows what to do even when its conscious mind doesn't. That knows how to touch her, how to hold her, how to make her feel good. This, at least, it can do.
This, it didn't fail at.
Her hips shift in its lap, grinding down, and the friction sends a bolt of heat straight through it. Its cock is fully hard now. Its hands slide down to her waist, gripping, and it can feel the softness of her through the thin fabric of her shirt. Warm. Yielding.
Omega. Mine.
She pulls back from the kiss just enough to catch her breath, her lips swollen and wet, and the sight makes its chest constrict.
"Alpha," she breathes, and the word is laced with need.
It can give her this.
Can make her feel good. Can use its body for something other than violence and destruction. Can be worthy of the care she's given it.
Its mouth finds her throat, licking over her scent gland, and she gasps. Her fingers tangle in its hair, pulling, and it growls softly against her skin.
The sound is possessive. Territorial. Pure alpha.
And she responds to it. Her hips rolling down harder, seeking friction, seeking it.
"Please," she whimpers, and that word -that desperate plea- flips every remaining switch in its brain from think to act.
Its hands slide under her shirt, palms against bare skin. She's so warm, so soft, and it can feel her pulse racing under its touch. It drags the fabric up and she helps, lifting her arms so it can pull the shirt over her head.
The shirt hits the floor, and it just stops and stares.
Its gaze drops to her breasts, and something primal and hungry coils in its gut.
Pretty. Perfect.
The thoughts are simple, base-level. No complex analysis, just pure aesthetic appreciation mixed with possessive satisfaction.
Mine. All mine.
Its metal hand comes up slowly, cupping one breast, and she shivers at the cool touch of the plates. The flesh hand mirrors it on the other side, warmer, and it just holds her for a moment. Learning the weight, the softness.
Then its thumbs brush over her nipples, watching them harden under the touch, and she makes a small sound that goes straight to its cock.
It wants its mouth there. Wants to taste.
It leans forward, closing the distance, and seals its lips around one nipple. Her hand flies to the back of its head, holding it there, and it sucks at the bud.
Her reaction is perfect. Back arching more, pushing her breast further into its mouth, a breathy moan escaping her throat.
It switches to the other side. Licking, sucking, feeling her nipple harden against its tongue, and her hips are moving restlessly in its lap now, grinding down shamelessly against its cock in a rhythm that's making it hard to think.
Need her. Need to be inside her.
It lifts her suddenly -hands gripping her ass, standing from the couch with her legs wrapped around its waist- and crosses to the bed in three strides.
The bed where it knotted her days ago. Where it learned what it felt like to be something other than it was. It lays her down carefully -always careful, because it could hurt her so easily- and follows her down, covering her body with its own.
She's reaching for it immediately, pulling it down into another kiss, and this one is hungrier. More desperate.
Its hands map her body with growing confidence. Over her sides, down to the waistband of her joggers. It hooks its fingers in the fabric and strips her swiftly -joggers and underwear gone in seconds- and then she's bare beneath it, legs falling open in invitation.
The scent of her arousal hits it like a drug. Sweet and thick and unmistakably omega.
Its mouth trails down her body -throat, collarbone, between her breasts- following instinct more than conscious thought. It pauses there, unable to resist, taking one nipple back into its mouth while its hand palms the other breast.
She whimpers, her hips lifting off the bed, seeking friction.
Lower.
It kisses down her stomach. Her hips.
And then between her thighs. It doesn't hesitate. Just buries its face between her legs and tastes.
Her reaction is immediate. Back arching off the bed, hand flying to its hair, a broken sound escaping her throat.
Good.
She feels good.
This is what alphas do. This is its purpose.
The thoughts are simple. Clear. No room for shame or failure or worthlessness.
Just its tongue on her clit, her taste flooding its mouth, her thighs shaking on either side of its head, and the sounds she's making that tell it it's doing this right.
For once in its miserable existence, it's doing something right.
And it's not going to stop until she falls apart.
Its tongue drags through her folds slowly, and her taste floods its system. Salt and sweet and omega, the slick coating its tongue, sliding down its throat.
She wants this. Wants it.
Its mouth seals around her clit and gives it a firm suck, and her hips buck up off the mattress. The hand in its hair tightens, pulling, and it growls against her, a deep, possessive sound that vibrates through her core.
She cries out, thighs trembling, and more slick floods out. It can smell it, thick and heavy in the air, mixing with its own scent until the entire room reeks of them.
Alpha and omega. Mated. Mine.
It pulls back just enough to look at her. Chest heaving, eyes glazed with need. It wants to remember this, wants to keep it when everything else is fractured and scattered.
Its fingers slide through her wetness, feeling how ready she is. How open. Her body yielding for it, welcoming it.
This isn't blind instinct anymore. It knows now. Learned her body those first frantic days: what makes her gasp, what makes her whimper, what makes her come apart completely.
And it plans to use every bit of that knowledge.
Because right now, making her feel good is the only thing it's certain of. The only thing it hasn't failed at.
Two fingers slide inside her, and she keens. Her back arches, head thrown back, and the scent of her arousal intensifies.
It watches her face as it curls its fingers, finding that spot inside that makes her whole body jolt. There. It strokes deliberately, and her thighs start to shake.
"Alpha-" Her voice is wrecked. Desperate. "Please-"
Begging.
Its omega is begging for it.
It is drunk with primal satisfaction.
Its mouth returns to her clit, tongue circling while its fingers work inside her. The dual sensation makes her cry out, hips rolling desperately against its face.
It can feel her tightening around its fingers. Getting close. Her slick is coating its hand now, running down its wrist, and the scent is so thick it's almost overwhelming.
Perfect.
She's perfect.
It sucks harder on her clit, fingers stroking faster, and her entire body goes rigid.
Then she shatters.
The sound she makes is broken and beautiful. Her walls clamp down on its fingers, pulsing, and fresh slick floods out as she comes.
It doesn't stop. Keeps licking, keeps stroking, drawing out her orgasm until she's trembling and oversensitive and trying to push its head away with shaking hands.
Only then does it pull back.
Its face is wet. Its hand is soaked. And its cock is so hard it hurts, straining against the sweatpants.
She's still panting, still trembling, but her eyes are on it now. Watching as it rises up on its knees between her spread thighs.
"Alpha," she breathes.
Its hands go to the waistband of the sweatpants. It shoves them down just enough to free its cock, and the relief of pressure is immediate.
It's leaking already. Has been since it first tasted her. The head is flushed and wet, and it wraps its flesh hand around the base, positioning itself. The head of its cock slides through her folds, coating itself in her slick, and they both groan at the contact.
Then it pushes inside.
Slow. Controlled. Watching her face for any sign of discomfort.
And then it realizes: this is the first time.
The first time it's taken her like this. Face to face. Looking at her while it pushes inside.
Those frantic days were different. Needed to mount her from behind, needed to claim and breed and lose itself in pure instinct. Couldn't think, couldn't see, could only feel.
But this is different.
It can see her face now. Can watch the way her mouth falls open as it sinks deeper. Can see her eyes flutter closed, then open again to meet its gaze. Can watch her head tip back slightly, throat exposed, as she tries to take all of it.
And it likes this.
Likes seeing the pleasure written across her face. Likes watching the exact moment when it bottoms out and her breath catches. Likes the way her hands come up to grip its shoulders, nails digging in slightly.
"Alpha," she breathes, and her voice is already wrecked.
It pulls back slowly, almost all the way out, just to watch her expression change. The loss registers on her face, a little furrow between her brows, her hips shifting up like she's trying to follow.
Then it pushes back in. Steady. Deep.
Her mouth opens in a gasp, and her head falls back against the pillow.
This. This is what it wants to remember. Not just the feeling -though fuck, the feeling is incredible, tight heat and slick and home- but the visual. Her face. The way she looks when it's inside her.
It does it again. Slow withdrawal, watching her react. Watching her body arch slightly, seeking. Then the slow push back in, filling her completely, and the way her eyes roll back slightly when it hits deep.
Its gaze drops lower. Watches where they're joined -its cock disappearing into her, slick coating the shaft- then up to her breasts.
They move with each thrust. Gentle sway, nipples still hard and wet from its mouth, and it can't look away.
Beautiful.
It wants to touch, but its hands are occupied -one braced beside her head, the other gripping her hip- so it just watches. Mesmerized by the movement, by the visual proof of what it's doing to her.
Making her body react. Making her shake and gasp and take its cock.
"Look at me," it rasps, and it's surprised by its own voice. The command in it.
Her eyes snap open, locking onto its.
And it moves.
Still slow. Still controlled. But purposeful now, each thrust measured and deliberate. Angling to hit that spot inside that makes her gasp.
But it's not enough. Not deep enough. It needs-
Its metal hand releases her hip and slides down, hooking behind her knee. It pushes her leg up and out, bending it toward her chest, opening her wider.
The angle change is immediate and devastating.
It sinks deeper -so much deeper- and she cries out, back arching off the bed.
"Fuck! Alpha-"
Yes. This.
It does it again, pulling almost all the way out and driving back in at this new angle, and the sound she makes is perfect. Broken and desperate and so full of pleasure it makes something fierce and possessive burn in its chest.
Its gaze drops again, watching its cock slide into her at this angle, watching her body stretch to take it, watching the way her breasts bounce with each harder thrust now that it's found the right position.
The visual is almost too much. Her leg pushed up, held in place by its metal hand, opening her completely. Her hands gripping the sheets, knuckles white.
Taking everything it's giving her.
Mine.
The thought is absolute. Possessive. This omega, spread open beneath it, taking its cock, making those perfect sounds… all mine.
It hooks her ankle over its shoulder, and its hand slides between them, finding her clit.
The reaction is immediate.
She clenches around it, walls fluttering, and her whole body tenses.
"Alpha-fuck-I can't-I'm-"
It circles her clit in time with its thrusts, watching her face the entire time. Watching her pleasure build. Watching her breasts move with each impact of its hips against hers. Watching her get closer and closer to the edge.
Its thumb presses down on her clit, and that's all it takes.
She breaks.
Clenching down hard, her back arching off the bed, a broken cry escaping her throat. It can feel the rhythmic pulse of her orgasm, feel the fresh gush of slick, and it feels so fucking good-
Its own control fractures.
The measured thrusts become harder, faster. It grips her hip and the back of her thigh, holding her in place while it drives into her, chasing its own release while she's still coming, still squeezing around it.
When it comes, it's with its eyes locked on her face, watching her watch it fall apart. Its hips jerk forward, driving deep, and it barely manages to keep its arms locked so it doesn't collapse its full weight onto her.
The pleasure rolls through in waves, each one making its cock pulse inside her, and it can't look away from her face. Can't stop watching the way she's looking at it, eyes heavy-lidded, satisfied, something soft in her expression that it doesn't have words for.
Its hips give a few more shallow thrusts, riding out the aftershocks, and then it stills. Panting. Overwhelmed.
It starts to shift, pulling back, preparing to roll to the side, and her arms immediately wrap around its neck.
"No," she says, breathless but firm. "Stay."
It freezes, uncertain. Its weight is resting on her. Not all of it, its forearms are still taking most of the load, but still. It's heavy.
Her legs lift, wrapping higher around its waist, and the message is crystal clear:
Don't move. Stay exactly where you are.
"Please," she adds, softer now. "Just... stay like this for a minute."
It doesn't understand why she'd want this. Why she'd want its weight pinning her down, its softening cock still buried inside her, its sweat-damp skin pressed against hers.
But she asked.
So it stays.
Carefully, it lets more of its weight settle onto her and she makes a small, satisfied sound. Her hands slide from its neck into its hair, fingers combing through the damp strands.
"Better," she whispers. Then- "You okay?" she asks quietly.
It nods. Then, because that feels insufficient: "Yes."
Her thumb brushes across its cheekbone. The touch is gentle, reverent, almost.
"You did so good," she murmurs. "Made me feel so good."
Good.
Its throat feels tight. It doesn't know what to say, how to respond, so it just... stays as it is, letting her hold it. Letting her touch its face, stroke its hair, murmur soft praise that it doesn't know how to accept but desperately needs.
The chaos in its head is quiet now. Not gone, probably never fully gone, but... manageable.
HYDRA is gone. The handlers are gone. The structure that told it when to move, when to eat, when to breathe… all of it, gone.
And somehow, that's more terrifying than any mission it was ever sent on.
"Alpha," she whispers after a while, when his breathing has fully settled. "I'm glad you came back home."
Home.
The word lands strangely. Foreign. It tries to process it and can't quite make it fit.
Not base. Not safehouse. Not operational location.
Home implies... permanence. Belonging. Things it doesn't know how to conceptualize beyond the pull of the bond that says mine, stay, protect.
Her fingers card through its hair, gentle and soothing.
"We're going to have to talk eventually," she says. "Really talk. I need to understand you, and you need to understand me.
It nods against her shoulder because she's right.
The bond is real, undeniable, biological, absolute. But she's also a person, with thoughts and history and a life it knows nothing about. And it is... what?
Not a person. Not really.
Except-
The scene surfaces suddenly in his mind. Sharp. Unwelcome.
The man on the bridge.
Who said a name like it should mean something. Like the Asset was someone worth calling by name. The memory -if it even is a memory and not a construct of his fried brain- is fragmentary. Unreliable. Could be nothing.
But it knows what she said is true.
Eventually, she's going to need more. Need answers it doesn't have. Need it to be something it doesn't know how to be.
And it's terrified of what could happen when it can't give her that-
"Alpha?" Her voice cuts through the spiral, soft and concerned. "Where did you go?"
It shakes its head against her shoulder.
She doesn't push. Just holds it tighter, one hand rubbing slow circles on its back. Careful, always careful, lets itself sink into the warmth of her body, the rhythm of her breathing, the beat of her heart on her throat.
The future is uncertain, terrifying. Full of questions it doesn't have answers to.
It doesn't have commands anymore.
Just her hands in its hair. Her voice saying stay. And the pull of the bond that bypasses every fractured synapse in its brain.
favorite thing about tumblr is having a fandom in law. no i haven't watched this show and i'm not planning to. but my moot is having fun!! look how much they love it!!! i'm supportive from the sidelines!
Pairing | Winter Soldier x Hydra Weapon!Reader
Summary | Hydra hosts a game each year—asset against asset—for the entertainment of operatives and investors. This year, investors want more blood, a higher production value, and more drama. You and the Winter Soldier have to fight to the death to prove yourselves. With addled minds and an unmistakable pull towards one another, the game might not be as easy as you think. (Hunger Games AU)
Warnings/Tags | MDNI (18+), nsfw, dual pov, cannon-typical violence, blood, gore, injuries, hurt/comfort, Hydra torture, trigger words, enemies to lovers (if you squint), slow-burn, cursing, so much angst (sorry, not sorry), panic attack, choking, flashbacks, death of an animal, soft!Bucky, smut, kissing, fingering, oral (f receiving), multiple orgasms, breast play, p in v sex, unprotected sex, rough sex, dacryphilia, emotional sex, pet names (darlin', baby, sweet thing, pretty girl), no use of y/n
Word Count | 17.8k
A/N | Happy Stan-O-Ween! This is my piece for the Stan-tastic Association collab. I'm excited, but also hella nervous to post this. This is the longest fic I've posted, and I'm hoping y'all like it, but if you don't, I understand (please like it, i constantly seek validation). I might write a part two (if you beg hard enough). Just a forewarning, grab some tissues for this one:) Also, sorry if the Russian in this isn't translated correctly. I want to thank @wint3rbarnes for suggesting the name of the game (i love you)! Hope y'all enjoy:)
(i made a playlist for this fic, if you'd like to listen while you read)
Read on AO3:)
Screams, so loud the lights flickered. Sharp pain in the sides of your head. The smell of burning flesh filling your nostrils. Then, black.
Притяжение [Attraction]
Мрачность [Gloom]
Ночь [Night]
You woke up with a start, your brain feeling like it had just been put through a blender. Had you fallen unconscious? There was so much pain. Why was your head pounding relentlessly?
Those words being spoken finally registered, but it seemed your mind caught up before you fully did. Had you heard these words before? What did they mean? And why did you feel cold to the touch?
You felt a bone-deep icy sensation, spreading through your body. Or had it always been there? Your skin felt too tight. Your flesh stretched too thin across your chest as it rose and fell with shallow breaths.
The fluorescent bulbs seemed to let out a low buzzing sound, making your head feel like it was splitting open. Someone’s grimy fingers were poking and prodding at the ridges of your brain, rewiring your short-circuited mind. Your face felt numb like a thousand bees were stinging your forehead and cheek.
Спичка [Matchstick]
Двенадцать [Twelve]
Поверхность [Surface]
Your eyes shot open as if on instinct. The blinding bulbs overhead made you squint, hissing at the bright lights clouding your vision. You blinked a few times, adjusting to your bleached surroundings. The color was almost snuffed out; everything seemed too dull in this unfamiliar space. Like all the joy was sucked out of the room, taking the vibrancy with it.
Now that you were getting a clear view from where you sat, something inside you was screaming that you did recognize this place.
Семь [Seven]
A man in uniform came in from your periphery. A little red book rested in his palm, like a Bible, and he a priest, reading to the masses. You didn’t fully comprehend why the gears in your head seemed to click into place at each word uttered from the stern-looking man. It felt like latches on a cage, trapping your brain in a hold like it wasn’t even yours to begin with.
Тележка [Trolley]
Бассейн [Basin]
Two more words. You twitched, your body seemingly rejecting them. You felt a fire ignite within you, boiling your insides like a furnace despite the chill coating your skin.
Сигнал [Signal]
Just like that, the flame was extinguished. Every muscle in your body tensed, your spine going rigid. Any sign of a voice in your head telling you to resist vanished in a blink, diminishing to a weak whisper. Your head snapped in the direction of the man with the words dripping from his sinister tongue—your handler.
“Тень?” [Shadow?]
”Я готов отвечать.” [Ready to comply.] Your own voice felt foreign to you. The words felt too heavy on your tongue. Thick accent with no emotion in your tone. But none of your thoughts mattered anymore. You’ve given yourself completely over to the one who controls you.
You stared at him, eyes transfixed on the man in uniform. You—a model of a perfect little soldier awaiting orders.
A slow, menacing smile crawled up his face like a creeping spider. “Она готова.” [She’s ready.]
｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆
Days passed, and it somehow felt like weeks, the way Hydra was working you to the bone. You had to be quick and precise, and the only way to achieve that was sleepless nights spent training for the big day.
They referred to it as the Hydra Initiative—an event that united operatives and investors alike. Hydra aimed to expand their reach, and to achieve that, they required funding. What better way to attract more money than by appealing to the general public?
Americans were their targets. Stupid and wealthy, just how they liked their investors. They planned it around a holiday best suited for violence, gore, and an eerie atmosphere. Halloween came to mind. Though it wasn’t widely celebrated in Russia, it was a great way to advertise it to rich Americans.
So, they did their due diligence by promoting it discreetly among underground establishments and subtly drawing the attention of the wealthiest people. After that, all they had to do was put their two best assets in an arena and sit back and enjoy the show. Easy enough to do.
Except this year was different than the previous ones. Of course, they weren’t going to put their flawless weapons against each other and ask them to draw blood. They were too important to waste on a foolish game. So, the two assets were told to act. Act the part. Make it look realistic.
However, the investors got smart. They asked for more: a higher production and a reigning champion. And in turn, Hydra requested additional funds. After some back and forth, they got what they wanted.
So, there you were, putting on a dark tactical vest and cargo pants to appease your audience. You don’t remember years past when you were forced into this game. You never did. They made sure to wipe you once they woke you up from your cryo chamber. So, the only thing on your mind was to win this year.
Whoever was on the other side of this fight was getting the best version of you. You worked best in the dark, where no one could see you coming—hence the name you were given, Shadow. You were determined to find a unique strategy to outmaneuver your opponent, even if you were unfamiliar with the terrain.
Though you were compliant, you were being hauled out of your cell like a wild animal about to snap. The operatives guided you through Hydra’s facility, opening a set of doors for you to step through. A giant spotlight shone on you in the cramped space. A wide glass window showed individuals conversing.
The doors shut behind you with a loud click. The people beyond the glass turned, studying you. You were lowered to a simple object to be gazed upon. Some approached the glass. The crowd seemed to ooze value, as if the money was practically dripping off them in expensive, studded watches and floor-length gowns.
These were the people who would place bets on you. Tell you your worth, if you were even worth their time.
Your handler came into view, pointing at you as he spoke. The glass swallowed the sounds; you could only make out their expressions. Some wrinkled their nose in disgust, others nodded along, actively listening.
Their eyes felt too heavy on you, like they were looking in all the wrong places, mentally noting all the things that didn’t fit their standards. You felt like a dull painting in a room full of elegant masterpieces. It was overwhelming, but you managed to compose yourself enough to stand still and keep your eyes forward as theirs continued to bore into your very being.
When the crowd dispersed, you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. Your gaze flicked around the space past the glass. Screens lined the walls, displaying various forms of scenery: a forest, a grassy plain, and a body of water with waves rippling onto the sand. They were going to monitor your every move; two rats in a maze being observed by onlookers for their own amusement.
Your attention was pulled in the direction of another window across the room. Dark eyes, they could almost be perceived as black, which matched the mask donning his mouth. And, well, everything else, except the stark contrast of his left arm. Silver-plated with a scarlet star. A stranger in a glass house, just like you. Your opponent.
When you locked eyes with him again, your breath hitched. You could see the hint of icy blue swirling with the black. You’ve seen those eyes before. Hadn’t you?
“Eyes deeper than the ocean,” a voice echoed in your skull. Her tone was sweet like syrupy honey. Was your mind playing tricks on you, or had you uttered those words before in a voice that wasn’t the rough, monotone one you’ve familiarized yourself with?
You felt a tug in the center of your chest like a string pulling taut between you and the soldier. He seemed to detect the same pull because those once sharp eyes went wide with…recognition?
Then, the patrons were gathering around him, the soldier consumed by the crowd. The gears in your mind locked once more, no longer concerning yourself with something that didn’t make sense. How could you recollect someone you’ve never met?
｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆
The room was dark. It smelled faintly of rust and dried blood. The soldier was waiting, always waiting. He waited for instruction. For punishment. For a safe haven. He didn’t know if he’d ever get that last one; it seemed like too much of a pipe dream while in this hellhole.
His brain whirred like a computer running a diagnostic. He imagined your face again, too pretty to be the same thing as him. Although your appearance fit the bill, with the dark clothing and the statue-like stance, your eyes didn’t quite match. They were soft, like wispy clouds.
And that pull. It was undeniable. But why? He’d never met you, and now he was being ordered to kill you. He would carry out this mission without hesitation. He had never failed a mission before, and refused to fail this one, no matter how intense the sensation in his chest was.
The doors slid open with a hiss. The sun immediately blinded him, causing him to blink a few times before his eyes adjusted to it. The world around him was gloomy, despite the sun. It almost felt like it was setting the tone for what was about to come.
A dense forest surrounded him. Everywhere he looked, there was lush greenery: towering trees, thick bushes, and scattered fallen branches. The air was coated in a heavy fog. To an untrained eye, they might not be able to see through it. But he had sharp eyes like a cheetah, and he was hunting for prey.
He stepped out, leaves crunching beneath his heavy boots. He was already sniffing you out like a dog on a scent trail. His gaze drifted over his surroundings for any sign of his opponent. His mind was already reeling with calculations. With the bit of time that he saw you, he was trying to drill into those gentle eyes and find the information he needed. Where you might go first? What was your choice of weapon? Would you take high or low ground?
The gears were turning, but he decided to go with his gut. He trudged through the forest, low-hanging branches brushing against his tactical gear. Sticks cracked and splintered off as his boots moved. He was scanning the treeline for any other sign of life, specifically you. However, his handlers had instructed him to be equipped for anything, so if there were anything else in his way, it’d be gone too.
As he ventured deeper into the woods, his body became increasingly sticky with sweat, a thin sheen coating his neck and forehead. After what felt like an hour of trudging through the underbrush, he finally spotted a cliffside. He swiftly prepared to reach the top and set up his sniper nest, waiting for you to cross his path. With each step, his strides grew wider as he approached his destination. He knew he had to move quickly and cleverly, wanting to outpace you before you discovered his location.
Once he reached the summit, he pulled the strap of his gun from its position, which was loosely draped across his shoulder—always close beside him. He crouched low, eyes darting across the scenery like you might pop out at any time. His stomach hit the rugged ridge of the rock as he lay down, propping the gun against his body. The blunt end of the sniper rifle dug into his collarbone as he gazed through the scope with practiced precision. He wouldn’t fuck this up; you weren’t worth the punishment if he just so happened to fail this.
Minutes turned to hours, but the soldier was secure in his location, eyes never drifting from the crosshair. The reticle swept back and forth over the forest, but he hadn’t caught sight of you.
He almost considered moving from his spot on the hill until he noticed a figure dressed in black. Your tactical gear stood out like a sore thumb against the green backdrop. You were sprinting, weaving around the thick trunks of the trees. Your eyes darted around, glancing over your shoulder frequently. He caught a glint of sunlight reflecting off the steel as you crept deeper into the woods. You held a knife, its stark black handle and sharp blade pressed close to your stomach as you ran.
So, that was your weapon of choice—something brutal, something that requires confidence to wield the small weapon. You would need to get up close and personal if you were to use it on him. And you realized that all too well; otherwise, you wouldn’t be carrying it like a hunter ready to pounce at any sudden movements.
He had the shot; he’d had the shot lined up ever since he spotted your form. But he made no move to pull the trigger. You were right there, fresh for the taking. The red circle lined up perfectly on your skull. All he had to do was shoot, and you’d be on the forest floor, blood pouring out and painting the leaves a shade of brighter red.
He couldn’t. His brain was telling him not to, screaming actually. It was like a high-pitched ringing in his ears. The soldier had never had an issue putting down his target, so why was he having a problem with you? Even with the distance, he saw that softness in your eyes from before. Your fist was clutched around the blade like a lifeline. You were ready. You’d kill him without hesitation, so why wouldn’t his fucking pointer finger budge?
You stopped your solo race, leaning against a tree, chest heaving from exertion. You seemed as tired as he felt. Worn out from the long days of training. The wakeful nights left on standby. Or when he did get the opportunity to sleep, he couldn’t. It felt like any time he closed his eyes, something was trying to claw to the surface. A thought? An idea? A…memory?
He gritted his teeth, grinding his molars against each other. Hate roiled in his stomach. Pure disdain was reserved only for you, because you were the first person he had any delay with. He’d end up bloodied and bruised for not listening to his handlers. For not killing you, the first glimpse he had.
The soldier’s icy blue eyes traced the dips and contours of your figure through the scope. Though battle-worn, your skin seemed delicate like petals of a flower. He wanted to feel it under his calloused knuckles—soft against rough. He wanted to be the one to make your chest rise and fall like that while you sighed in his ear-
“Shit,” he muttered under his breath. What the hell was his mind doing? He was supposed to kill you with his eyes, not fuck you with them.
Your gaze shot upward, locking with him. You practically spotted him immediately, no doubt catching the lens reflecting off the sunlight. Again. Shit. Your eyes went wide, instantly ducking for cover on instinct. But he was quicker.
He finally pulled the trigger. Bang.
｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆
Searing pain shot through you, literally. The bastard fucking shot you. There was blood—so much blood—seeping through the cracks between your fingers as you clutched your right shoulder. You grunted in agony. The deep crimson flowed down your knuckles, giant droplets of blood hitting the already red leaves. You’ve been shot before, many times, but it never got any less painful.
Despite this, you were running, darting past tree branches like your life depended on it. Well, because it did. You didn’t know if he followed you. You weren’t about to lose all that distance you gained by glancing over your wounded shoulder. So, you bounded full speed ahead until you stumbled across a body of water. You dropped to your knees at the edge of it, where it rippled, water lapping at the sand.
You honestly didn’t care if he had been chasing you this whole time; you could no longer endure running in pain. Carefully, you unzipped your vest, taking care not to injure yourself further. You slid your arm through the neckline of your long-sleeved shirt, exposing your wounded shoulder to the cold air. A sharp hiss escaped your lips as the pain surged. Glancing down, you saw the bullet lodged just by your collarbone.
Taking a steadying breath, you dug your fingers into the gunshot wound. You bit your lip so hard that you likely drew blood, but you couldn’t risk him hearing you scream. Your fingers slipped from the bullet multiple times before you finally found your leverage.
With a sudden jerk, you tore the bullet from its resting place between your bones. A groan escaped you as your head fell between your shoulders, your chin hitting your chest. The bullet came loose, and your fingers were coated with your own blood.
You dipped your hand into the water, cupping it to gather a generous amount. Bringing it to your wound, you soaked it, washing the blood from the puncture. The sting was intense, but you managed to endure.
With your super soldier strength, you ripped the bottom part of your shirt, practically turning it into a crop top. To put pressure on the injury, you wrapped it around your shoulder and under your armpit, tying it in a knot with your teeth and your hand. You finally released a breath, settling into the sand below.
You eventually scanned the area for any indication that the soldier was near, but you came up empty. He could be hiding anywhere; you obviously missed his presence before.
You were exhausted. You’d dashed out as soon as the door opened to the bright world beyond the dark room where you were stashed. You had stopped for a second. How could you be so stupid as to take a break right where his sniper nest was set up? You were off your game and had no idea why.
You realized this wasn’t the best place to stay. Even though it was where you had been shot, you understood that the woods were your best option for concealment. With a huff, you stood, brushing the miniature rocks from your cargo pants. You weaved your way back into the forest, a hand resting steadily on your shoulder, searching for a place to lie low while you regained some of your strength.
｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆
The soldat had lost sight of you immediately, too caught up in what he had done. You’d scurried off like an injured fawn. He flew down the cliffside, catching speed from the downward momentum. He tracked your sporadic blood trail and hoped he’d find you sprawled out in the grass, bleeding out, and on the brink of death. But he was going in circles, checking and rechecking places he already had.
When he eventually found where you had been—the world around him beginning to darken—you were long gone. Only the bullet in a puddle of blood and your tactical vest thrown haphazardly indicated you’d been here.
He was going to find you, finish what he started. So, he turned on his heel and headed straight back into the forest.
Grabbing the black mask on his face, which could be better described as a muzzle, he threw it to the ground. Of course, he would get scolded for that simple action, but he needed to breathe, and it was too restricting to get any real air in his lungs.
He stalked forward, at an unhurried pace this time. He needed to clear his head, think cleverly, but his mind was clouded. It felt like your nails had dug into the ridges of his brain and tugged. Guilt and affliction lacerated his rib cage, an untamed animal rattling his bones. He wasn’t trained to have feelings. Hydra had destroyed them along with his humanity. But those were the only words that could describe this feeling that clawed at his chest.
As he ventured forth, he noticed a small green cloud of smoke from his periphery. Then, it doubled, tripled in size, whirling around him like steam from a sauna. He breathed it in before he thought better of it. The toxic cloud filled his nostrils, a musty smell that pricked his nose hairs, heading straight for his brain.
His hand flew to cover his nose, but it was too late. He instantly felt lightheaded; his head was spinning, and he stumbled forward. His metal arm shot out to catch himself, stabilizing him against the bark of a tree.
The soldier blinked; he couldn’t figure out what this mind-altering drug was supposed to be doing to him besides make his head pound.
A few minutes passed, and he figured the worst of it was done with, so he pressed on. Prowling onward, he noticed that the effects started to subside.
Almost like a strike of lightning, he clutched his head in pain. Sharp stabbing to his skull, his eyes squeezed shut, and he was on his knees in an instant. He clenched his jaw in a tight-lipped scream.
Even over the thumping in his head, he heard a noise from a distance. And then closer. His head jerked up, surveying the surrounding area.
Then, he spotted him. A boy. He couldn’t be more than ten. The boy sat with his knees to his chest by a cluster of shrubbery. When he glanced up, locking eyes with the soldier, it was steel blue eyes meeting steel blue eyes. One and the same, but so different. A familiar face from an unfamiliar timeline.
“‘M scared,” the child sniffled, tears forming in his innocent eyes, “Where’s Becca? We gotta protect our lil sister.”
The soldat cocked his head, eyes narrowing. Who the hell is Becca, and how is this possible? Was he losing his mind?
The bushes to his left rustled, and another figure appeared. This one was much older than the boy. Maybe in his late twenties. Another version of himself, he doesn’t remember. But compared to the child, this one looked like he’d been through hell.
His short hair was disheveled, and deep sores were on his face; sweat and dirt coated his skin. His eyes went wide, glancing down at his body. “They put somethin’ in us. I can feel it,” his younger self mumbled, voice trembling.
The soldier gripped the sides of his head once again, squeezing it. He had to shake himself out of this drug or whatever was fucking with his brain.
“'S gonna be alright,” a hand rested on his shoulder, “We just gotta finish out the war, then we’ll be home free.”
The soldier jerked back, crawling backwards in the grass. When he gazed upward, it was a new form. Yet, another version of himself. Even more unrecognizable.
This one seemed younger than the last one, but not by much. He had on a military uniform and a green hat on his head. His hair was quaffed under the cap. He looked clean-shaven, and his eyes were kind—a stark contrast to himself.
“What war?” The soldier asked, voice rising into anger. “What the fuck is going on?”
He closed his eyes tightly, trying to wish away these eerie versions of himself. Why can’t he remember looking like any of them?
“James,” a sweeter, more pleasant voice came, but this time it was a woman’s. His head shot up, glimpsing up to match the voice to a face.
It was you, but different. Less rigid, less on edge. You smiled sweetly, hand reaching out to cup his jaw. He flinched backward, but you nodded as if to say, I’ll be gentle, I promise.
“Who’s James?” He tilted his head, meeting your gaze.
You let out a low snort, “You, silly. Don’t you remember?” You cupped his jaw, your cool hand contrasting against his clammy skin. Your thumb gently swept back and forth over the flushed pink of his cheek.
It was soothing in a way, though he realized he should probably pull away; after all, you were the enemy—or at least that’s what his handlers had told him. But if it was all just an illusion, what did it matter when your touch felt so good against his skin?
He shook his head, but leaned into the softness of your touch. Was this a mirage, or a memory? “It’s alright. I’m here. We’re gonna get out of here, okay? Just a little longer,” you assured him.
“How long have we been here? I don’t remember,” he admitted, his brain feeling too fried to give it any thought.
“Don’t worry about it,” you murmured. You moved your hand, running your fingers through his sweaty hair as you stared into his eyes. “Deeper than the ocean.”
“Huh?”
“Your eyes. I always say that to you, remember?” You rolled your eyes playfully. “Oh, please, tell me you remember that at least.”
“I don’t, sorry,” he apologized, nuzzling into the hand you had in his hair.
“It’s okay, James. Just stay here with me, yeah?” Your opposite hand came up to push at the middle of his chest, encouraging him to lie back. He obeyed, leaves crunching under the weight of his head. “There we go,” you praised.
You laid down beside him, cheek squished against the ground. “Close your eyes, James. I’ll be right here when you wake up.”
The soldier did what you asked of him, his vision fading to black as his breathing gradually steadied. Your hand continued to run through his hair with a gentle precision. It was the kindest feeling he had ever experienced, and he craved more. He didn’t want it to ever end.
Just like that, you lulled him to sleep, breath going soft.
｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆
Your head was an aching mess. Pounding, throbbing, and it sounded like screaming in your skull. You’d been leaning against a tree, forehead pressed against the bark to calm your rushing mind. Not only were you dealing with excruciating shoulder pain, but now your head felt like it might explode.
You’d breathed in some kind of putrid smoke. It felt like it was single-handedly altering your brain chemistry. You tried to shake yourself out of this loopy feeling, but it wouldn’t relent.
“Momma?” A little girl’s voice came. You scanned the area, spotting the little one immediately.
“Where’s my momma? She said she’d be here. She said she’d always be here,” her voice wobbled, tears coming down her round, chubby cheeks.
You stumbled forward, despite the ringing in your head. “Hey, sweetheart.”
The little one turned, and you saw it instantly. It was you—yourself, but younger, maybe around six. You could see the fear in your own eyes, and it resonated deep within you. Even though you weren’t supposed to feel anything, it wasn’t allowed, not with Hydra.
Yet, you were familiar with that feeling. It haunted your dreams. It stalked you in the daylight. It was all around you, an all-consuming snake wrapping around your lungs and taking your breath away.
The girl ran to you, arms spread and bumping into your stomach like a force. You huffed at the intensity of the strength behind her embrace. You hesitantly wrapped your arms around her as she hid her face in your midsection. Tears soaked your shirt, or what you had left of it.
“It’s alright. I’m gonna get you out of here,” you promised, patting her back gently. It felt so strange, holding yourself. Someone you couldn’t even begin to remember, but you recognized your own face regardless.
“Don’t lie to her,” another, rougher voice came from behind you. When you turned, you saw another version of yourself. She looked like destruction in human form, as if she were on her last leg.
Her hair was slightly shorter, messier with tattered clothing. There wasn’t a place you looked that didn’t have bruises on her. She was utterly beaten to shit.
“We’re never getting out of here. We’ll die here,” she added, voice stern like nothing was going to change her mind.
You ignored her, covering the ears of the girl in your arms. “What happened to you?” you inquired, examining her figure.
She glared at you as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, and you were the only one out of the loop. “What do you think?”
You didn’t respond, still staring blankly at the woman who mirrored you. She rolled her eyes, a hint of malice flickering behind them. “Hydra, of course. Don’t you remember? It was the worst day of our lives. Unless we don’t make it out of here, because James doesn’t remember us either.”
“James?” You quirked a brow, wracking your brain for where you might’ve heard that.
“The soldier who’s trying to kill us. Keep up,” she muttered angrily.
“I don’t understand. Why don’t I remember?” Your voice dipped into something sorrowful, as if all this new information was overwhelming, and you couldn’t bear the not knowing anymore.
“Like I said, Hydra. They wipe you and stuff you in an ice cube until they need you again. And the only reason they need you now is to entertain.” She raised her head, glaring at the clouds like they personally offended her. She let out a vicious scream, “Are you entertained?”
You shivered; you knew you were here to entertain, but everything else that she spoke of was bouncing around in your skull like a hefty bowling ball. Too big for the tight space of your brain cage.
You squeezed your eyes shut, clenching your jaw so tight you thought you might break a tooth. When you opened them again, the two versions of yourself were gone, leaving only the cracked, barely-human version of you.
You turned, your back hitting the tree harder than you intended. You slid down its trunk, the bark chipping off and falling around you like chunks of old paint as you settled into a sitting position. You pulled your knees to your chest and buried your head in your arms.
“Darlin’,” a man rasped. Your head swiveled to connect the dots—a voice and a face.
It was him. The soldier, but he was so incompatible with the one from earlier. He appeared to be wearing similar clothing to the version that shot you, but everything else was inconsistent. His eyes weren’t violent; they were almost amiable. His usual stern face—all sharp lines and harsh expression—was subdued in comparison.
“Been waitin’ for you,” he murmured, sitting down beside you. He tilted his head in concern. “Y’alright? You seem spooked.”
Your eyebrows scrunched together. What was happening? Was this a part of the game, or was it real? You couldn’t tell, but you answered anyway, “Do you know what’s going on? There were people who looked like me, but weren’t.”
He smiled at you—you’d never seen that. It was stunning, like a piece of a lively sunset. He nodded, then glanced around until his eyes landed back on you. “I know you’re scared, but everythin’s gonna be just fine. We’re gonna get outta here soon enough.”
“How do you know that?” you exclaimed, worry making your voice rise. You knew this wasn’t real; it couldn’t be. But he was looking at you with those earnest eyes like he was ready to listen to your every word, so you had to speak your concerns aloud.
“Trust me,” he leveled his gaze at you, metal hand coming up to move a rogue hair from your eyes and tuck it behind your ear. “You remember what we told each other?”
You tried to get the gears to turn in your head, but they wouldn’t budge. You shook your head, and he sighed in response. His head fell back, resting against the tree behind him. “Nothin’ to worry about when we’re together, darlin’,” he replied.
Tears pricked your eyes. You hadn’t shown emotion like this in who knows how long, but here you were on the grass, almost to tears over those simple words that practically held no meaning. But, at the same time, they meant so much.
You couldn’t begin to think of a timeline where you knew this man, but it was that pull again, like from before, when you stood behind glass and watched him from afar. It made your chest ache with something raw, unfilitered, unlike what Hydra made you into—a statue of emotions. The man, or “James’”, head moved to look at you once again, and his expression flickered with alarm, noticing your distress.
“Hey,” he said, and without warning, he took your shoulders and wrapped you in a tight hug. He rubbed soothing circles into your back, fingers moving up and down your spine. “Don’t cry, I’ve got you.”
Your body trembled, shoulders shaking from the weight of your despair. Almost like it was always supposed to, your form relaxed into his, burying your face in his neck, and breathing in his scent like it might soothe you. Your breathing began to even out once more, body going heavy in his arms.
“Shh,” he muttered, “Get some rest. You’ve been through a lot today.”
Almost on command, your eyes fluttered closed and you fell into a restful sleep.
｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆
The soldier startled awake, sweat coating his body along with random twigs and stray threads of grass. Was he dreaming, or were you actually here? Well, you weren’t anymore. You were gone with the rise of the sun. How long had he been out for?
His brain felt fried. Was this the kind of game you were playing? Intoxicating him with some sort of smoke and throwing him off his game? The other versions of himself fucking with his mind, and then you—all soft touch and sweet voice.
He was pissed; his chest heaved with heavy breaths, and his jaw ticked. You weren’t getting away that easily. He sat up, pulling himself up to stand.
Journeying through the woods once again, he stalked forward with a vengeance, with a hunger for blood. He was a wild animal that had his cage rattled one too many times.
Again, the forest angered him, throwing branches in his path and mud too slippery to find a sound footing. As if he were just an eager hunting dog, he swore he picked up your scent. An open space in the woods between cliffsides, dipping into a compact canyon where he stood, eyes searching.
He smelled blood, and he didn’t know if it was how heightened his senses were or if you truly were bleeding out. It wasn’t until copper stung his nose that he realized something was off. His scuffed boots slid across the terrain like it was raining and he hadn’t even noticed it yet. But no water droplets were falling from the sky, so why was it so hard to walk in this part of the woods? Each step elicited a squelch from under his black boots.
He realized way too late what was happening until the heel of his shoe was surrounded by a puddle of blood, and it wasn’t just where his feet were planted, but everywhere his eyes wandered.
His brain caught up entirely, and then his feet were moving beneath him, sprinting, but he barely made it anywhere. His boots disappeared into the thick liquid, and any step he took was too slow in his endeavor to get to higher ground.
The red floated up to his calves, making his tactical pants stick to his flesh. His mind was a snowstorm of thoughts; his brain was scattered, trying to find the best course of action.
Was he still in a dream? A nightmare?
His feet kicked and pushed forward in a weak attempt to get away from the unrelenting waves of crimson. He felt like he was dying; this was his own personal hell coming to devour him.
He didn’t know how to extricate himself from this. The space was filling quickly. He blinked, and it was up to his thighs, threatening to swallow him whole.
He wanted to scream for help. Ask his handlers to have mercy on him for once, but it was no use. They wouldn’t bother helping. This was most likely their doing; you didn’t have the tools to do this.
He propelled forward, trudging his way through it now. The liquid sloshed around his hips, red rippling around him like a sick joke.
Why did he feel like he’d been here before, drowning in someone else’s blood? Red slick coating his fingers, weaving into the creases of his knuckles like a brand.
His brain flashed: dead bodies, a gun in his hand, people pleading for their lives. He had killed before; he knew that much, but what was his body count by now? Because with the way his mind was racing, it seemed like dozens.
He was nearly swimming now, arms stretched to push him farther through the liquid. Then, he heard a grunt—a sound of frustration. He swam quickly, peeking around the tall rock formation.
He detected you like an ultrasonic radar. You struggled to stay upright. The blood splattered and splashed onto your clean face, marking you with the mess.
Your arms flailed, trying to find your footing, but you were short—shorter than him at least. Your form bobbed as you attempted to steady yourself against the cliff. The soldier was moving slowly so as not to alert you, but, of course, you had the same abilities as he did. You heard him, and your head whipped in his direction.
You weren’t struggling against the blood anymore; you were embracing it. You used it to your advantage, flicking your legs up and down to generate momentum. You lifted your arms, pushing off with them, striving to get away from the Winter Soldier.
He followed right behind you; he wasn’t willing to let you go this time, not after the little drug stunt you pulled. He waded towards you, catching speed. You were glancing behind you, which was stupid because every time you did, he got closer.
In his attempt to catch you, the gun draped around his shoulder came loose. He felt the shift immediately, the weight on his left becoming lighter. It plunged beneath the liquid, and he instantly slowed. He turned, hands reaching beneath the blood, but he felt nothing. And forget about seeing anything through it, because everything was red in his vision.
He gave up when he glanced forward, seeing you get further away. He could easily kill you with his bare hands without breaking a sweat. He dove forward, spraying blood onto his tension-stained face. He kicked and swung his arms up and over, until he was only feet behind you.
A wave came, crashing against the surrounding rock, painting it ruby red. More were rising, threatening to pull you both under. He wasn’t fazed, swimming faster as your movements began to stutter.
He reached out when he had eventually closed the distance. His metal hand felt for you under scarlet water. Your foot kicked outward, hitting him as you ventured forth. You glanced over your shoulder, spotting him and his closeness.
On you like a moth to a flame, he grabbed your ankle with ease. He yanked you towards his chest, pulling your head under in the process. When you surfaced, you coughed and sputtered, trying to get your breath once more.
You jerked in his hold on your ankle, your heel connecting with the middle of his chest. When that didn’t work, you flipped on your back. Your free boot came up, hitting his chin with a force. His head snapped backward with a crack of his jaw.
His eyes flashed as his head came back to glare at you. He was through with the games; you were dead. Both hands were on you like a vice, hauling you closer. Flesh and metal moved like he was tugging a rope to his chest. Fingers wrapped around your calves, then hips, until they were firmly planted on your waist.
You thrashed; hands shoving at his shoulders and legs frantically driving against any body part you could reach. The front of your boot knocked against his inner thigh as your other leg moved to knee him in the gut. All the while, you both continued to flounder down the current of viscous blood.
The soldier’s hands gripped and tugged your waving arms to your sides, but still, you fought him.
“The more you fight, the more satisfyin' it’ll be when I kill you,” he seethed. “You think ’s funny to drug me and then flee?”
You resumed your struggle, but faltered for a split second. “I didn’t drug you,” you insisted, voice strained from your panic. “Hydra did. They drugged me, too.”
He let out a dark chuckle, getting closer to your face. “Cut the shit. I know you did it because you were there,” he murmured, eyes shining with revenge. “You think you can win this with a sweet voice and a pair of delicate hands. This’ll only ever end in me takin’ the breath from your lungs.”
Your one-sided brawl ceased, and your eyes went wide, but not with fear, with realization. “You saw me?” Your tone was soft, almost imperceptible.
His eyebrows pulled tight, confused as to why you weren’t fighting anymore. “Yeah,” he confirmed, scornfully. “You were right in my face. How could I miss you?”
You shook your head, “No, I-” you cut yourself off, locking your gaze on him with something he couldn’t quite place.
“I saw you, but not this you,” you finally spat out. “And versions of myself…I didn’t recognize. Did you see the same?”
This time, the soldier’s eyes widened in surprise. He no longer felt like you were lying to him. The truth in your gaze was radiant, undeniable.
Still, his grip never relented, so you added, “I don’t want to kill you. Hydra’s the enemy, not you. But I won’t hesitate to put you down.”
Tilting his head in a cocky manner, a sharp laugh escaped his throat. “I think you’re forgettin' who’s got who, darlin’,” the nickname rolling off his tongue like he said a million times.
Though he meant for it to sound venomous, it came out tender. He shook himself out of his initial shock from the way that pet name felt in his mouth, and pressed on, “I could’ve killed you already.”
You squirmed in his clutches again, boots searching for ground that was nowhere near the heels of your feet. “Then, why haven’t you?” Your voice dipped into a challenge.
He scrambled for a response, but came up empty. Honestly, why hadn’t he? With the sniper aimed at your skull and, now, holding you forcibly without making any move to actually harm you.
While in his distracted state, you came forward, head-butting him hard. Groaning, his hands feel away on instinct, reaching up to grab at his nose where the blood flowed. He wasn't sure if it was the pool around him, splashing onto his face, or from his likely broken nose.
With your open opportunity, you planted your boot right into his stomach with a power that left him gasping for air. You scurried off, treading the sea of blood with a newfound energy. He recovered rapidly, plunging forward to grab you once again.
You swam towards a lower rock formation, aiming to get out of the thick blood river you were drifting down. The soldat closed the gap as soon as your palm outstretched to grab the ridge. Your fingers wrapped around it, hauling yourself out of the scarlet liquid, but he was snatching your leg again.
You wiggled out of his grasp, flinging your leg up to kick the side of his skull—piercing pain shot through him. Thrown off balance, he flew into the rock, the other side of his head hitting the jagged edge with a loud thud. Without much fight, he fell unconscious.
｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆
With the freedom you had, you climbed up on the cliff with little effort. When you glanced down, you spotted his limp form, floating in the blood like a fish bobber. He was sinking, his large frame being dragged under like tiny sets of red hands were pulling him to his death.
You watched with bated breath, as if you weren't sure if you wanted him to wake up and resurface or drown completely. You inhaled a shaky breath when the pool of crimson rose to his lips, staining them with rouge. When his head dipped under, his figure disappearing under the liquid, your heart began to crack. The ache in your chest felt too heavy, dragging you to the ground, dropping to your knees.
You knew him. You didn't know how or why, but somewhere in your chest, you knew that statement rang true. He was woven into your veins, like a tattoo you couldn't quite see, but all the same, he was there. Somewhere in your scrambled brain, you had made memories with this man.
Without further deliberation, you leaped from the cliff's edge. You dove under, eyes going dark as the world around you seemed to go black. Then, you were blindly feeling for something—anything. Your chest was constricting fast, too fast as your arms outstretched for his figure. It was like the blood had already woven its way into your chest—an elephant sitting on your ribs and piercing your lungs with an intensity that took your breath away.
You swam back up, gasping for breath as you coughed out some of the blood that found its way between your tightly pressed lips. You took a couple of deep, steadying breaths before diving back under. Your arms whipped this way and that until, finally, your fingers brushed something firm.
You wrapped your fingers around his wrist, pulling him towards you. You managed to hook your arms under his armpits and push up, legs kicking aggressively as you felt the air slipping from your lungs again. You fought your way to the top, his body heavy in your arms, despite your super soldier strength.
You took a sharp intake of air as you breached the sea of ruby, sputtering as the wind hit your clogged throat. You tugged him towards the massive rock, fighting against the current as you wrapped your arms snuggly around his chest. You lifted him, adrenaline propelling you to get him safely on dry land.
You eventually managed to push him up and onto the cliff, his limbs dangling off the side. You followed after, hauling yourself up. You felt weighed down by the sticky mess coating your clothes and body. Blood was already crusted on your cheeks. Your lashes were tinted, making your vision scarlet, as if you had rose-colored glasses on.
You took the soldier by the wrists, dragging him away from the edge. You dropped to your knees, wiping the blood from his face with a gentleness even you didn't recognize. You leaned forward, tilting his head upward to listen to his breathing. It was faint—a barely there exhale.
You immediately pressed your hands into his chest, one hand resting over the other, and began chest compressions. You didn't use all your strength; you'd end up breaking his ribs if you did.
You eased off, checking his breathing once more. It remained the same, so you grabbed his nose with your thumb and forefinger, and lowered your mouth to his. You breathed air into his lungs, your cheeks puffing out as you did so.
As your lips brushed, you felt it—a shift. But not in his body, yours. Almost like the world righted itself—two bodies aligning themselves with one another once again. You broke away after the second puff of air sent to his lungs.
Your body was a jittery mess, your hands shaking as you placed them against his chest to continue your attempt at CPR. Your vision flared like a flashlight being shone directly into your eyes—splotchy and static, floating around in your pupils. Your head pounded as everything started to click into place.
You were no longer in the arena, but somewhere oddly familiar. Trees danced in your eyeline, swaying to and fro. You felt a presence from behind you and whipped around.
It was the soldier, James. He stared into your eyes, the corner of his lip quirked. This version of him reminded you of the one from the forest—the one that held you as you cried.
He stepped forward, and you realized he was no longer looking at you, but through you. You turned, spotting a woman with arms crossed over her chest, and her shoulders were slightly slumped forward.
He stood next to her, letting out a heavy sigh as he slid his hands into his pockets. She didn't acknowledge him, just continued to stare blankly at the branches waving in the wind.
He nudged his shoulder into hers, and she nearly jumped out of her skin as she faced him with shock written all over her expression.
"Fuck, James," she scolded, "do you want to give me a heart attack?"
You knew that voice; it was yours. The lively one that bounced around in your skull from before.
James snorted, grin widening as he got a glimpse of your appearance. "Sorry, darlin'. Thought you heard me comin'. You have enhanced hearin' for a reason. Where'd all that trainin' go?"
She, or you, rolled your eyes, focusing back on the scenery. His smile faded, turning to a frown. "Hey, what's goin' on?" He asked, concern dripping in his tone.
You shook your head, dropping your hands to your sides to ball them into fists. "What if they find out? I know this," you gestured between the two of you, "won't last anyway, but I just can't stop thinking about what they'll do if they do find out. Wipe us and separate us for good, or worse?"
You scoffed, but it sounded broken like you were trying to hold it together. "I can't go on with that hovering over my head. They take and take, and soon enough, there won't be anything left to take. We'll be empty versions of ourselves," you rambled on, your frustration getting the better of you.
James took your wrist, pulling you into his chest as his other hand reached up to cup your cheek. "You can't think like that," he muttered. He shushed you in a calming manner, coaxing those tears not to slip down your face or onto his thumb that was sweeping over the swell of your cheek.
You wouldn't look him in the eyes, so he added, "We're gonna find a way outta here, you hear me? Just gotta keep actin' the part. Keep obeyin' whatever order they give you, carry out whatever mission they put in front of you, and we'll be outta here soon."
Your sad, tired eyes locked with his. "You don't know that," your voice was small, shattered.
He shook his head, "I don't, but I'll tell you what I do know. Nothin' to worry about when we're together."
You seemed to relax at those words, like a balm to an internal wound. You nodded, leaning into his touch as if to savor it.
"Sorry," you apologized weakly. "We're finally away from watchful eyes, and the first thing I talk about is shit that doesn't matter right now."
"Ain't nothin' to be sorry about." He drew you closer before asking, "Can I kiss you?"
You giggled, a light and airy sound you'd never heard before; It was jarring, but you continued to observe yourself and the soldier.
"Do you even have to ask?" You responded, a grin forming on your lips.
"Always wanna give you a choice, darlin'," he said softly. "Don't get a lotta those these days."
You hummed in agreement, but he appeared to still be waiting for an answer. "Yes. Kiss me, James," you confirmed, grabbing the back of his neck.
He inched closer, capturing your lips in a sweet, tender kiss. You sighed against his mouth, melting into him. He kissed you as if he were memorizing the shape of your lips, his lips lingering in gentle brushes.
When the two of you parted, his forehead rested against yours. "I…I," he stuttered, eyes squeezed shut.
"I know," you whispered, "I do, too."
A loud, choked cough, and you were pulled right back to the present. You didn't realize how long you had been pushing on the center of his chest, but he retched, blood dribbling out the side of his mouth.
You stumbled backwards as you watched him cough up the crimson clogged in his throat. His head rolled to the side. He was still unconscious, but breathing.
You wanted to stick around, make sure he was okay, or wash the dried blood from his hands; he didn't deserve the weight of that anymore. But this wasn't the man from the vision you just had, and there wasn't a way to show him the clarity your mind brought you. So, without another word, you left.
｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆
Palms scrubbed at the caked-on blood, washing your body thoroughly. The sea of red was long gone by now, drained by Hydra. It markes the end of the first trial of the Hydra Initiative. No wonder they said to be prepared for anything, you just hadn't expected that.
You had found a waterfall off the cliffside, jumping off the ridge to meet the pool that formed at the end of it. You rid yourself of your stiff clothing and shoulder wrapping; you didn't care how many cameras were on you. You couldn't stay in them for one more second.
That logic didn't make sense to you either. Hydra had never cared about your cleanliness, and in turn, neither did you. Yet here you stood, washing the blood from your clothes and skin as if it were second nature. With every moment you spent in this arena, you felt yourself shedding the layers of training they had drilled into your mind. The illusions, the visions, and the pull you felt towards the soldier all weakened you in terms of your own humanity.
You swam to the stream of water. You took a sigh of relief when it was distinctly different than swimming in the viscous liquid from before. Your body glided through the pond, waves rippling behind you as you dipped your head under the waterfall. The water cascaded down your hair and over your shoulders. You hissed as the liquid washed over your injury, but instantly relaxed into the feeling. It still appeared to be red and irritated, but it was healing.
You let yourself enjoy the simplicity of cleaning your body. No missions, no orders, no soldier trying to kill you, or vice versa. You couldn't remember the last time you had a moment to breathe.
Once you were finished with your makeshift shower, you returned to your clothes. You had laid them out in the sun to dry quicker. They were still damp, but you slid into them anyway.
As you dressed, you heard a noise from somewhere beyond the wooded area. Leaves rustled, then the forest filled with an eerie stillness. It made you pause, scoping out your surroundings. You didn't know how the soldier could've found you so easily. Maybe you trailed blood on your way down here?
But your suspicions were cut short once you heard a low growl. You scrambled, putting on the rest of your clothes, slipping your ripped-up shirt over your head, and shoving your boots on.
You crouched, ambling forward. You tried to conceal yourself by hiding in the bushes that were low to the ground. You didn't hear any more noises until it was too late. A wolf with sharpened, keen eyes stared into your soul as if he were already feasting upon you. Another trial, you thought.
You could take a normal wolf, probably outrun them, but this wasn't a regular one; this was a towering beast. Probably one mutated by Hydra or some other sick person. You imagined it most likely stood at eye level to you, though you were still in your slouched position. The wolf prowled towards you, one paw slowly stepping in front of the other. It bared its teeth at you, eyes glowing gold.
You backed off slowly as if to say, I'm not your enemy, but he continued to move. Every step backwards from you was a step forward for it. Your back hit something hard, the wolf now pinning you with his gaze. You didn't think; you sprinted. Fleeing back the way you came, you climbed up the rock, hand catching on the edge as you hauled yourself upward. You instantly heard the beast respond, growls emanating from its mouth as it caught up to you.
It snapped at your dangling feet, drool spilling from its mouth as it tried to bite you. You pushed up onto the cliff, boots kicking downward in an attempt to get him off your trail. Once you got onto your feet, you ran. You heard the beast hop onto the edge, small rocks hitting the water below as it clambered up the side to continue its chase. It seemed like it was already gaining on you; its speed matching yours.
The woods were the first thing that came to your mind as you retraced your steps. You acknowledged that it was dangerous, but you needed a place where you could easily cover yourself. Although you understood that the soldier might still find you, you couldn’t afford to think about the consequences at that moment. All you could do was hope he would let up on you because you had saved him.
You darted through the trees, weaving your way past rocks and greenery until you spotted a cave a ways off, hidden by a cluster of trees. You picked up your pace, but it was no use. The wolf lept forward, its claws digging into the flesh of your back, where the shirt wasn't covering. You yelped in pain as it tackled you to the grass. You unsheathed the knife at your hip, rapidly flipping yourself over to cut at the beast.
You sliced across its open maw as it loomed over you. A long, jagged gash appeared on its jaw from the blade of your small weapon. It howled, head jerking backwards to get away from your slashing knife. Then, he surged forward as you tried to aim somewhere more vital. But you didn't have time to take another stab at him as his snout closed in on your face.
Your forearm shot out, effectively stopping it from ripping your face clear off. He fought with you, strength against strength, but you held firm. Your forearm was locked to hold it in place as you tried to free your weapon with your other hand. As soon as you had it in your grasp, fingers wrapped around the blade, the beast lunged forward, causing you to drop the knife.
The sound of steel clattering to the ground echoed through the forest like a reminder of how deeply fucked you were. Your free hand grabbed at its snapping jaw, pushing up and away from your face. Drool came down in trails and directly onto your face. The wolf came loose once more, and you knew you were dead already. You closed your eyes, accepting your fate.
｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆
It didn't take long for the soldier to gain the upper hand in the fight against his own beast. Its carcass sprawled out on the dirt, echoes of its last breath still replaying in his mind. That wolf was like him in a lot of ways, and he had murdered it without a second thought. But, then again, wouldn't he want the same mercy?
It was a Hydra weapon just like him. Snapping jaws and piercing eyes were the prominent features of Hydra's creations. However, he couldn't say the same about you.
You saved him from drowning, from the blood threatening to choke him to death. Perhaps you hesitated, but the outcome was the same. The only reason he knew you saved him was because his eyes had fluttered open as you walked away, dripping blood as you left.
After washing the blood coating his skin and clothes, he heard leaves crunching not too far from his location. He knew right away it was the start of another trial, and he was prepared for anything. It only took a little tussle with the feral animal before it was dead on the ground.
Standing in the middle of the forest, he heard a noise from afar. He immediately recognized it as a howl—a beast exactly like the one he fought. No doubt, you were fighting your own. He contemplated staying put, letting it take your life instead of himself. That'd be one less death on his conscience. But he knew the punishment would be greater if he didn't do anything.
So, he stalked towards the woods, following the sound of your brawl. He eventually stumbled across the pair of you—you in the grass, struggling as the beast above you nipped at the air, trying to bite you.
He sprinted, closing the distance as he pulled the dagger from his hip. The soldat raised the knife above his head and slammed it down into the back of the monster. The wolf wailed and stumbled to the right, falling to its side. You hadn't recognized what had been done until the beast whined. You focused your attention on the dying wolf and then up at the one who killed it.
There was a flicker of appreciation in your eyes, and like a flame, it was instantly extinguished. You caught the hint of vengeance in his gaze, making you scramble to your feet, finding your weapon in the process. You held the knife out in front of you, boots firmly planted to the ground as if you were ready to fight.
"You're mine to take," he growled.
You narrowed your gaze at him, teeth clenched tight. "I could've let you drown, soldier. Don't make me regret that," you hissed.
He snorted, his jaw ticking. "Should've lemme die. That's on you for bein' weak," he snapped, stepping closer. His knife was held tightly in his right hand, knuckles going pale.
"You're really going to kill me after all that Hydra put us through?" you asked, hurt written all over your face. "We knew each other, whether you believe me or not."
He shook his head, brow furrowed. "The only reason I know you, the only reason I'm drawn to you, is because I was given an order and I will follow through."
He lunged, slashing out with his blade. You bent backwards, dodging the blow. You began to circle him, and he followed your lead, stepping in perfect time with you.
"You have shit aim, you know that?" you muttered, nodding in the direction of your injured shoulder. You were baiting him, trying to throw him off balance; it was a smart move.
"I never miss," he mumbled, so soft you barely caught it if it weren't for your magnified hearing.
It seemed like that statement hit you right in the gut. Like you were contemplating whether he meant to miss because he was in it for the chase, and shooting you in the skull was too easy, or if he didn't want you dead. He would never admit that it was the latter.
"You feel it too, don't you? That pull. In the center of your chest, like a string," you accused.
"I dunno what you're talkin' about," he lied, reaching out to take another stab at you. The blade whoshed through the space as if it were slicing the air. You ducked out of the way once more, entirely focused on his every action.
"You do," you corrected. "You just don't want to admit that you feel it, too."
The soldier's heart stuttered in his chest as if on cue. It was a throbbing ache like a calling towards you. Breath hitching, he was momentarily distracted by your statement.
You dove, knife gliding through the air and carving directly into his shoulder. It cut straight through tactical gear and black fabric, right into flesh. A gnarly gash unfurled on his shoulder, blood spilling over and dampening his clothing.
The soldier groaned, staggering backwards. Blood pooled, spreading quickly. Red darkened his palm as he tried to stop it.
You stared him down, a glimmer of suffering in your pupils like it physically pained you to hurt him. Your throat worked before you spoke, "Now we're even."
That couldn't be farther from the truth; he obviously caused more damage to your shoulder, and his would heal in a day or two. You'd shown him mercy when he showed you destruction. You were supposed to give him your all, but instead, you were holding back.
He resented you for that, for being able to disobey orders so easily. He had super soldier strength, and he wasn't even strong enough to do that.
He charged, stuffing the knife back in his holster. He struck your wrist, leaving your weapon to clatter to the dirt.
His hands outstretched to wrap around your neck, slamming you against the nearest rock. You gasped as your skull hit it, but the sound got caught in your throat as he squeezed, stealing the breath from your lungs.
The metal plates of his hand dug into your smooth skin, creating little red marks. You clawed at the hands around your neck, trying to pry his fingers off.
You lifted your leg, attempting to knee him in the gut, but he kicked it out of his path. His boot stomped down onto yours, pinning it to the ground.
You yelped, eyes wide with fear. He'd been on the other side of that stare one too many times. Blue, green, brown, hazel, all the irises of the victims he'd had in this exact hold flashed in his mind's eye.
"J-James," you squeaked, voice barely audible.
Now, he was envisioning something entirely different. You, on a creaky bed with your hair splayed across flat pillows. His hand was still across your throat like it was now, but it wasn't to choke; instead, it was to hold you in place. It was a light pressure that had your eyes glazing over in pleasure.
"James," you were moaning in the vision as his hips jerked forward to meet yours.
He mentally slapped himself, honing back in on the present you. "What the fuck did you just say?" The soldier snarled, leaning into your space. He eased off your throat to hear you more clearly.
"James," you repeated in a raspy tone. "It's your name."
As if he were a machine, the soldier's brain short-circuited. Wires severed and rewired as his head thumped with too many memories. He released his grip on your neck, grabbing his head in pain as he hollered.
The eerie calm of the forest turned into the sound of a barrage of bullets whizzing past his ears. He was on the ground, clutching his chest as maroon flowed from the wound where a bullet had nestled into layers of flesh.
"Soldier." He glanced up, and you were screaming at him, an AR-15 propped against your shoulder as you fired bullets across the space.
You took a peek at his condition before focusing back on the fight. "Soldier, get up," you ordered in a commanding tone.
He didn't move, grip loosening on his chest as his vision began to blur and his head lulled to the side.
"Fuck," you blurted out, dropping to your knees. You swung his arm over the back of your neck, your free arm enveloping his back. "Help me out here."
His hooded eyes flitted to you as he tried to get himself off the muddied ground to comply with your words. You let him lean his weight on you as you assisted him to safety. You volleyed bullets behind you as you guided him, muttering, "Stay with me. I'm gonna get you to the safe house."
When the memory flickered, he was in a cramped, dark room. Only a single buzzing light bulb cast a subtle glow over the battered furniture.
He sat on a rickety bed, sheets askew, with a hole in the mattress. Stuffing spilled out from the opening, like even it didn't want anything to do with this place.
He could see the entirety of the shack from where he was perched on the edge of the bed. The tiny table that stood on wobbly legs, the squeaky, iron wood-burning stove in the corner, and the drooping loveseat against the wall.
You were cleaning and wrapping his bare chest with such care he could've mistaken you for a nurse. You patted his shoulder as you finally fixed your gaze on his. "How does that feel, soldier?" You asked, almost methodically, as if still in the presence of your handlers.
"James," he corrected. He didn't know why he said it; maybe it was from the amount of blood he lost. Your eyebrows drew together in confusion, so he continued. "I think 's my name."
He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, and his hands loosely folded in front of him. "I found a file in Hydra's log. The man in it looked kinda like me," he added.
You nodded slowly as if you were agreeing with an insane person. "Okay," you drew out the syllables. "How does that feel…James?"
He couldn't help the way that made his chest tighten, like it felt right hearing it on your tongue. He stretched, straightening his back and rolling his shoulders to test the bandage. "S'alright."
You gave him a tight-lipped smile, putting all the medical supplies back in their proper bag. You turned, but before you could leave, he grabbed your wrist. You glanced down, staring at the flesh fingers wrapped around you.
"What are you doing?" You inquired, quirking a brow.
He sighed, "I dunno. Guess I need somethin' to hold."
He didn't loosen his grip, just held you there. The soldier seemed like a lost puppy in need of any kind of attention, good or bad.
"Did you hit your head on your way down?" You barked, wiggling from his grasp.
He freed you, as if you physically burned him. His flesh hand shook as it fell to his side. He balled it into a fist to stop the trembling. His chest heaved, squeezing his eyes shut as he tried to steady himself.
"Soldier, stop," you snapped, but it was a weaker demand than your earlier ones. You ceased in your attempts to control him. Instead, you shook your head and bent low, trying to get eye level with him.
"Hey," you cooed, softer this time. "Look at me."
He opened his eyes, aiming them at you. He looked worn out and overworked, like he hadn't slept in days—not so dissimilar to you.
You hummed, a smirk growing on your face. He hadn't seen that before, but you were unfolding for him. "Hmm…I hadn't noticed that," you whispered as if it were a secret between the two of you.
"Huh?" He said, though a bit unstable, with the way he was still quivering.
"Your eyes. They're a deep blue," you observed, cocking your head. "Deeper than any ocean I've seen."
The soldier seemed to calm down from that. The tension in his shoulders slackened, and his fist unfurled. With a still trembling hand, he reached for your face, cupping your cheek.
You stiffened, smile fading as you felt the weight of that simple touch. He glanced down at your lips, his lust getting the better of him.
"James," you breathed. "We shouldn't." Despite your words, your gaze drifted down to his parted lips.
"Why not. There's no one here," he countered. "Just us, darlin'."
You opened your mouth to argue, but you couldn't come up with a good response. So, to coax you further, his metal hand pulled you in by your waist. You conceded, inching closer before your lips hovered near each other. You stood there breathing in one another's air until—finally—his mouth closed around yours.
It was delicate at first, the nerves getting the better of both of you. It was like relearning the rules of intimacy. Like a subject in school you had neglected, and needed to be taught all over again.
You shifted, one leg kneeling on the edge of the bed, then moved your opposite knee to straddle him. That's when he turned more confident; he gripped you tighter, refusing to let you slip away. He'd lost so much—even if he couldn't remember what exactly—he wasn't about to lose you, too.
His kisses turned firmer, dragging your hips down, so you were settled fully on his lap. Your fingers wandered gingerly up his bare sides. As touch-starved as he was, he shivered from your soft touches. Your hands found their way to his jaw, deepening the kiss.
Your hips twitched, and he groaned into your mouth at the sensation. His digits dug into the material of your pants, fighting to hold you steady. He broke the kiss, panting with heavy exhales. "Think 's been a while since I've done this," his voice wavered.
You'd never heard him so unsure; he was always solid, knowing precisely what to do when he was told to do so. He seemed soft in this lighting: his features weren't as sharp, his eyes were more gentle, and his hands—though his grip was secure—he was careful not to hurt you.
You huffed air through your nose in amusement. "It's been-" you cut yourself off in thought as your hand carded through his damp hair. "Well, I don't know how long it's been."
He sighed, his hands gliding up and down your form in comfort. You shifted your hips, lightly grazing over his bulge. "We can take our time. I'm not going anywhere," you promised.
He inhaled sharply at your teasing movements. He was smirking, though it felt too rigid, as if it were a foreign expression to him. But, either way, you seemed to enjoy the way it looked on him because you were grinning right back.
Before you could even blink, he had flipped you on your back. You hit the mattress with the sound of springs squeaking under you. He crawled over you, injury long forgotten as he pressed you into the bed. "Oh, I'll be takin' my time, darlin'," he rasped.
｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆
You rubbed at your neck, taking your time to catch your breath as oxygen filled your lungs once again. The soldier was still clutching his head, bent over in agony. You stepped towards him hesitantly, your tone soft as you spoke, "James?" You put a hand on his shoulder, leaning into his ear.
He spun, eyes full of rage and ruin. He seized your neck for a second time, pushing you back to your original position against the rock. This time, he wasn't using that leverage to drain the life from you, but he was letting you know he could do just that.
"Don't fuckin' call me that," he warned. He no longer appeared to be as intimidating as he was before. Rather, his eyes gleamed with panic as if he saw a ghost.
"Okay, okay. You obviously just saw something that scared you, or maybe confused you. Do you want to talk about it?" you offered, raising your arms in surrender to tell him he was in control of the situation.
"No," he barked, clutching tight on your throat. "'M endin' this. Now."
You were done with this game; the back and forth alone was killing you. One second, he was a broken man with a mind as addled as yours; the next, he was a murderous, wild brute who would harm anything in his path. You couldn't blame him, but that didn't make it any less maddening.
Your arms dropped to your sides, but not in surrender, instead to discreetly withdraw the blade that was holstered to his hip. You feigned a frightened state as your fingers fumbled for purchase on the weapon. Your palm wrapped around the dark handle, eventually. You unseathed it, instantly plunging it into his side.
He grunted, staggering slightly as he glanced down at the knife lodged in his side. It was a shallow stab wound; you barely got the blade halfway in before he yanked away from you. The Kevlar was immediately met with copious amounts of blood, soaking the material.
He didn't pause; he ripped the knife from its place, scarlet spraying from the laceration upon removal. That blade, dripping blood, was headed straight for you. Eyes flared with fury as he raised the weapon above his head.
Your leg abruptly flung upward. You roundhouse kicked his wrist, sending the blade flying and landing within the mouth of the cave. You didn't even spare a glance in his direction, just sprinted towards the only available weapon in sight.
He was on your tail in an instant, striving to push you out of the path. Your elbow shot out, jabbing him in the ribs to throw him off balance. He was barely fazed, still hot on your heels.
You pounced, landing hard on your stomach as you snatched the knife. The soldier was right behind, but too late. You turned, ambushing him and throwing him to the stone flooring. The cave echoed with your scuffle as you moved to straddle his stomach and lift the blade into the air.
You drove the weapon downward, but he caught your wrists. Still, you pushed, using every last inch of your strength that you'd been holding back. The razor-sharp edge got closer and closer, even in your struggle. You pressed until the tip of the knife hovered directly above his eye.
Terror etched itself into his features, yet he seemed to relax as if he was prepared to die. In the face of death, all he could do was close his eyes like he was praying you'd make it as painless as possible. It made your heart ache, and you felt your throat closing up.
You relinquished the blade, tossing it to the opposite wall of the cave. The clink resonated throughout the tight space. His eyes blinked open as you rose to stand above him.
"I told you, I don't want to kill you," you restated. "If it's what you must do, I surrender. Put me out of my misery, James." Tears welled up in your vision, your surroundings turning to a blurry blob of color.
He scrambled, pushing up to stand adjacent to you. Your lip wobbled as you stared at him—a man you felt such intense feelings for. Though you could hardly recollect anything from your time spent together, the pang in your chest was hard to ignore.
He marched towards you; every stomp of his boots against rock felt like a beat to a chilling melody—a sickening bass in salute to your departure. He bridged the gap, hands reaching out to cup your jaw. All that rage disappeared, replaced by…longing?
His breath came out in hefty pants, air fanning across your warm skin. His expression softened for a moment before he was on you. His lips captured yours in a heated, desperate kiss. Like he'd been thirsty and you were water, like he'd been hungry and you were sustenance, like he was drowning and you were air to breathe.
You gasped, and he devoured the noise, mouth moving against yours eagerly. He walked you backwards, spine hitting the cool stone. You groaned, the claw marks in your back still fresh. Then, you were moaning for an entirely different reason as he slotted his knee between your thighs, pinning you in place.
His mouth felt both familiar and brand new—a striking contrast. Yet, it ignited a series of fireworks in your mind. Every brush of his lips sent a spark that kindled anew. His lips pressed forcefully into yours before he pulled away, scanning your face. You breathed in tandem; every deep breath in for you was a puff of air out for him.
"I know you," he finally said, caressing your face like you were something fragile.
He took your wrist and lifted your hand to the top of his head. "But not here," he mumbled, transferring your hand from his hair to right over his heart. "I know you here." The organ pounded against his chest, and maybe your head was still spinning from the kiss, but it felt like it was beating in time with yours.
You grasped his flesh hand that was on your jaw and placed it over your heart. "I know you there, too," you whispered.
He let out a rough exhale, gazing down at you with upturned eyebrows. His eyes flicked down to your wounded shoulder. His right hand tenderly traced over the already forming scar as if seeing it for the first time through crystal clear vision.
"Fuck," he grumbled. "'M sorry. 'M so sorry." He lowered his face, planting a kiss to the injury.
Your heart cracked at the sight of him so broken over something that seemed so insignificant at a time like this. You took his face in your hands, elevating it to look into those steel blues.
"Not your fault," you assured him, thumb brushing over the flush of his cheek. "You did what you were ordered to do."
"You didn't," he replied. "'M a coward. Should've fought it. Should've fought for you, instead of with you, darlin'."
Hearing that pet name in this context made a shudder roll through you. You grinned, despite the pain emanating from your chest.
"I don't know, I got you pretty good in the side," you teased to hopefully lighten the mood, seeking out the smile you saw in your visions from before.
The soldier snorted, a smirk peeking from the corner of his lips. "That hurt like bitch," he taunted back, brushing a loose hair behind your ear.
You leaned into his touch, relishing in the feeling of his calloused fingers against your velvet skin.
"I don't wanna hurt you anymore," he added, more seriously. "Lemme make the pain go away. Wanna make you feel good."
"You have nothing to make up for," you reiterated. Yet, his eyes continued to linger, waiting for a direct answer. So, you nodded. "Okay, James. Make me feel good."
It didn't take much convincing because he immediately leaned down to your faintly bruised neck, and trailed kisses from the center of your throat to the crook of your neck. You hummed, resting your head back against the rock to give him more access.
His flesh hand drifted down your body, stopping at the button of your tactical pants. He fidgeted with it until it came loose. He followed it by pulling the zipper down, fingers slipping under the waistband of your underwear.
Your breath hitched as two fingers found your pussy, sliding them through your folds. "So wet f' me," he growled into your skin.
His fingers moved back up to rub sensual circles into your aching clit. Your hips jerked, back arching against stone. "James," you gasped.
"That's right. Sounds so sweet from your lips. How could I ever forget my name when you're sayin' it like that," he cooed in your ear, nipping at your earlobe.
The revelation made your gut churn—he forgot something as precious as his name—but he soothed the twinge with another swirl of his digits around your bud. You grabbed at him; your arm encompassing his shoulders to pull him closer while your other hand snaked through his long locks.
Fist closing around his hair, you gave him a gentle tug. He moaned, the touch only spurring him on. He bit down on your earlobe, giving it a soft yank, before soothing it with a kiss.
His fingers continued to move, picking up the pace. You whined and held on tighter to his figure as he stuck out his tongue to taste you, lathering you in his saliva in the process.
"Gotta taste you. If you're skin tastes this good, I can only imagine how sweet that pussy tastes," he murmured, inclining back to gauge your reaction. You nodded frantically, eager to feel him everywhere.
He pulled his hand out of the confines of your panties, bringing them to his lips. He licked the digits, then pushed them past his lips to suck them clean. You bit your lip, watching his eyes darken with desire at just that small sample.
Without warning, he grasped both sides of your cargos along with your underwear, sliding them down the length of your legs. Stabilizing yourself against his shoulder, he helped you out of the pants, making sure to slip you out of your boots first. He bent down to free one leg out of your pants, followed by the other, and tossed the two articles of clothing somewhere in the cave.
Dropping down to his knees, he hooked one of your legs over his shoulder. James licked his lips at the delicious sight of you on full display.
"Such a pretty pussy," he complimented, looking up through his eyelashes at you. He turned his head to press a kiss to your inner thigh. He inched closer, each kiss leading closer to where you needed him most. He inhaled your scent, practically growling as he breathed you in.
His tongue darted out, flattening it as it skimmed through your center, gathering your juices. He hummed in delight, eyes rolling back. "Best damn thing I've tasted."
You shivered, knees already giving out at the light pressure. He gave little kitten licks to your clit before diving back in. The length of his tongue lapped at you, causing you to fist his hair and lean your shoulder blades back into the wall.
His lips closed around your sensitive bud, alternating between sucking hard and swirling the tip of his tongue around it.
"Mmm…feels good," you praised.
He chuckled against your cunt, sending vibrations through you. "I've just started, darlin'. Gonna make you feel so much better."
With that, he raised his hand to your entrance, fingers circling your hole to tease. The pads of his fingers made air catch in the back of your throat, but it quickly turned to a whimper as he pushed the pair inside, stretching you open for him. He was knuckle deep, but he kept going as his tongue worked on you.
"Ooh, so tight," he muttered. "Gotta work you open, don't I? If you ever want me to fit, 'm gonna have to."
His digits slid out and pumped back in. Slowly working in and out until it was easier for him to thrust them inside.
Your walls clenched, your body not used to good touch like this—touch you wanted. Somehow, you knew it always felt this good with him, like even if your brain didn't fully remember, your body did.
His fingers picked up speed, along with his tongue. It was overwhelming the way his tongue danced and his fingers curled into your plush walls. Your hips wiggled, jerking this way and that as the tension in your stomach built.
His metal hand closed around your ass, squeezing the cheek and ceasing your movements. "Stay still f' me. Lemme get you there," he spoke around his tongue.
You squeaked, trying to keep your hips still as he worked in time with his unrelenting fingers. He curled his fingers, caressing your walls. His teeth grazed your clit before he flicked his tongue over it. His wrist jerked rapidly upon feeling you squeeze his fingers. You whined, grinding your hips down on his tongue; you couldn't help it.
The coil that was tightening in your stomach burst as you came on his hand with a strangled cry. He worked you through it, fingers driving in and out of your weeping pussy. His tongue lapped around where his fingers were being compressed to get every last drop of your wetness.
You collapsed into the rock, body slumping from the orgasm he just gave you. He slipped his digits free from your still throbbing cunt. After, he removed your leg from its position on his shoulder, stabilizing you as he pulled you down to where he knelt.
You complied, and he helped you lie down on the floor of the cave. A chill ran through you as the cold stone touched your bare skin. He shifted you, grabbing the undersides of your knees and dragging you closer. He hovered over you, hands splayed on either side of your head.
He smoothed your hair back with a smirk plastered on his face. "So pretty. My pretty girl."
Your hooded eyes honed in on him, arm outstretched to cup his cheek. "Yours, huh?" you inquired, and his smile only widened. "I think I like the sound of that."
"Good, because 'm not lettin' you go this time," he vowed, his voice so firm that you almost had to believe him. His hands glided up your sides, mapping out your body. Every curve and dip was being stored away in a part of his mind like a file.
James' hands grabbed the tattered edges of your shirt and tugged. You lifted your arms for him, and the material came loose, exposing yourself wholly. He was gawking at you, his eyes clouding over with hunger.
"Damn," was all he could get out before his head dipped. His mouth met the valley between your tits, trailing kisses down your sternum, then making his way back up. His lips traveled up the swell of your breast, lips catching your nipple. He sucked it into his mouth, his cheeks hollowing out. You mewled, spine bowing as his tongue spiraled around the bud.
"Fuck, James," you crooned. He let go with a soft pop, migrating to the opposite breast while his warm hand met the one he was just giving all his attention to. He cupped your tit, feeling the weight of it in his hand until he was massaging the pliable skin. He mouthed at your other one, lightly biting your nipple in the process.
"Please," you begged, squirming beneath him. The heat in your stomach was swirling again, practically pleading for relief. He raised his head, and his face was all smug. You couldn't help but grin at that cocky look on his face.
"Need me that bad, huh?"
"Yes," you admitted. "Please."
James inclined back, yanking at the buttons on his chest until they came undone. He unzipped the leather, shrugging out of it. He lingered over you, scared chest on full display. Your delicate fingers ran over the scarring on the place where the metal met flesh. Jagged, deep cuts and red raised marks littered his skin.
You leaned up on your elbow to get a closer look—eyes scanning over the pain he's lived with since Hydra turned him into a weapon. You put your mouth over the scars, kissing every place your lips could reach.
You pulled back, gazing up at him with warmth swimming in your eyes. "You're perfect."
It was simple, but the words held so much truth. Despite everything he'd been through, he was still James, and he was still perfect.
He shook his head, but didn't argue with you. Rather, he stole a kiss, pushing you backwards with his lips, so you were laid out before him once again. They moved languidly against yours as his tongue swept across your bottom lip, requesting access. You parted your lips for him, and his tongue delved into your mouth. It prodded into the opening; every crevice was his to explore.
The soldier's hips moved, dragging his clothed dick over your soaked pussy. You sighed into his mouth, wrapping your legs around his waist. His hands fiddled with his tactical pants and slipped them down his thighs until his cock sprang free. He gripped the base, pumping it a few times, precum leaking from the slit.
He positioned himself at your entrance, rubbing the head through your wet heat. You gasped against his lips, and he broke the kiss to focus on your expression.
"Ready for me, darlin'?" he breathed, hot air fanning across your kiss-swollen lips. You dipped your head in acknowledgement, and he didn't waste any more time.
The head of his cock, pressed into your tight cunt. You moaned, head tipping back against the stone, his dick stretching you out more than his finger ever could.
"Ah ah," he tutted, grasping your chin between his thumb and forefinger to force your gaze back down. "Lemme watch you as it goes in, sweet thing."
You obeyed, eyes trained on his as he pushed in further. Inch by aching inch, he gave it all to you. He let out a strained groan, the veins in his neck sticking out as he held back. His hips jerked, the last inch shoved into you too quickly as you whimpered. You were pelvis to pelvis as he bottomed out inside you.
Your head reeled from the fullness of your pussy. Your walls secured around him like a vice, like you were holding on and never wanted to let him go.
After you adjusted to his length and girth, he eventually gave you what you needed most. He pulled out to the tip and slammed back into you. You quivered at the intensity, mouth wide open in a silent scream. James did it again, thrusting into you hard, causing you to dig the heels of your feet into his ass.
He grunted, his hips moving sloppily as he fucked you. Your eyes rolled back, only the whites visible. His tip bumped your cervix, and you wailed. "James. J-James," you stuttered.
"Tell me, baby," he coaxed.
You clutched the sides of his face, tears pricking your eyes. "We can-" you couldn't get the rest of the sentence out, another loud moan cutting off your train of thought.
He slowed, his hips faltering as he tried to catch what you were trying to say. He brushed the hair from your face, locking eyes with you.
"What is it?" he said, concern laced in his tone.
You took a moment to return to reality. "We can take our time," you panted, a playful smile gracing your face. "I'm not going anywhere."
His chest constricted; that was the same thing you said in the vision he had. He grinned, but it promptly faded once he realized what you were saying. "Shit, did I hurt you?"
"No," you blurted, waving him off. "I just want this to last. Just slow down a little, okay?"
He nodded against your hands that were still framing his face. He rolled his hips, testing. You let out a sweet moan, and he decided right then and there that he needed to hear more of that. So, he slowly drew his hips into you, grinding when he met your pelvis.
Your eyelashes fluttered, keening as his thrusts deepened. "How does that feel?" he asked, keeping a steady pace.
"Good. Really fucking good," you commended.
He eased in and out of you unhurriedly, gazing down at you like you just hung the stars. You ran your fingers through his hair, a glint in your eyes. "What is it, James?" You cocked your head, hair rumpled from the gesture.
He opened his mouth, but he could only groan in pleasure. The soldat's head was a jumbled-up mess, but one thing was plain, but it felt too difficult to put into words. Yet, three little words flashed in his mind like an open sign.
"I-I," he stumbled over the simple word like it had fifteen vowels instead of just the one. It didn't help that he was using all of his focus to hold back from railing you into the ground. A deep rumble came from his chest, frustrated with himself for being so tongue-tied.
Your knuckles brushed over his cheekbone, tears threatening to spill over onto your cheeks.
"I know. I do, too." You didn't know whether you were repeating the words from the vision like a script, or if you'd said it so many times that it was muscle memory.
James turned his face, pressing a kiss to your palm before snapping his hips into yours. He hadn't sped up much, but all the same, you let out a throaty moan.
"Just like that-fuck-" the words spewed from your lips like a sprinkler.
"Yeah? Lemme hear you, pretty girl."
You didn't hesitate; you let him hear every sound, the erotic noises being ripped from your throat with every twitch of his hips. You were falling apart under him, the tension sharply rising.
He changed the position, unwrapping one of your legs by the underside of your knee. He pushed it up, folding it up into your stomach. You squeezed your eyes shut at the new sensation, the tears leaking from the corners. The head of his cock was bumping your sweet spot repeatedly while you continued to wail.
"James, can't-" you whimpered.
"You gonna come, darlin'?" He lowered his head, closing the distance. "Come for me. Need to feel that pretty pussy come all over my cock."
It didn't take much convincing, your cunt clenching tight around his length while your eyes glazed over with pleasure. The foundation cracked, floor crumbling under your feet as you came with a sob of his name. Your pussy fluttered around him, orgasm washing over you in giant waves.
His dick was still ramming roughly into you, mesmerized by how perfect you looked while your release took over your body. You were gasping for air as you tilted your head back in your blissed-out state.
"Shh," he soothed. "Breathe, baby. There ya go. I got you." Every honeyed word dripped onto your ears, working you through your climax.
Your walls squeezed, making his dick twitch. He clutched the underside of your knee in a desperate attempt to make this last, but you felt too good.
James slammed in deep, spilling into you with a low grunt. He unloaded, hot spurts of cum filling your pulsating pussy.
He shivered above you, metal arm planted firmly on the rock flooring, so he wouldn't collapse on top of you. Your body trembled, still floating on a cloud of ecstasy as you finally relaxed.
Your eyelids felt heavy, exhaustion creeping into your form. He pulled out with a hiss, milky release flowing from you and coating your inner thighs with the mess. Your head lulled, eyes blinking slowly.
He tugged his pants back up, cautious enough not to disturb his sensitive cock. Though he could've gone for a round two—keep you full of him and begging for recovery time. But you were already drunk off the pleasure he gave you; maybe that could wait for another time.
He slid his hand beneath you, scooping you up into his arms. He shifted to lie down, guiding you to rest on top of him. Your naked body curled into his, face nuzzling into his bare chest, and legs draped over his midsection. You hummed, and maybe it was because you were content in his arms, but you hadn't said anything.
"You okay, darlin'?" he questioned, hand wandering into your hair as he smoothed back some of the strays. "You in pain?"
You shook your head against his peck. James still didn't delay in giving your shoulder a lingering kiss in a silent apology.
"What's goin' on?" he pressed, determined to get the truth out.
You were shaking in his arms now, and it wasn't from the chill, nor the aftershocks of your climax. "What if they find us?" Your voice wobbled, anxiety getting the better of you.
He'd had the same fears even if he didn't voice them aloud. Regardless of his worries, he needed to put yours to rest. "When they do, we fight, huh? We use the very thing they instilled in our bodies to fight back."
Your figure continued to tremble, so he added, "'M gonna keep you safe, I promise. I won't let anythin' hurt you."
He buried his nose in your hair, breathing in your scent. "Nothin' to worry about when we're together, darlin'," he muttered.
You inhaled a deep breath, calming yourself as you relaxed into him, your stiff form going limp against his. Your breathing started to even out, air coming out in gentle puffs across his chest. You were melting into his arms, without any concern for what tomorrow might bring.
He lay there staring at the ceiling as his flesh fingers drew idle patterns into your soft skin. He wasn't going to rest tonight. He was set on watching over you while the Earth resumed its rotation. Like that of the Earth, his world revolved around the sun—you.
James planted a kiss on your hairline, finally getting the courage to whisper, "I love you."
｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆
The soldier yawned; he must've fallen asleep in his attempt to observe your sleeping form. He felt around, patting his chest, eyes remained closed as he searched for you. When he came up empty, he blinked his eyes awake.
His stomach dropped; he felt sick, his gut churning.
You were limp in a Hydra soldier's arms, neck craned back as he didn't care enough to support your head. Your chest rose and fell with tiny breaths as if you were still sleeping, but he knew better than that.
"Oh, good. You're awake," a deep voice came from his left, but James' eyes were still locked on you. He jolted, sprinting full speed to tackle the one who had you, consequences be damned.
"Sieze the mut," that same voice ordered.
In an instant, soldiers swarmed him left and right, but he kicked and clawed at them like a wild animal, like that mutated wolf from the forest. His metal fist connected with one man, while another got a faceful of his boot. He had five down in a matter of seconds, but they kept coming.
He had one by the throat, ready to snap his neck, but his arms were being yanked like a game of tug o' war. One operative came up from behind him, a sharp pain poking into the soldat's neck. He instantly realized it was a needle when his limbs became too heavy to carry on his own.
Still, he swung his fists in a weak endeavor to get you, even in his drugged state. A kick was sent to the back of his knees, causing him to drop to the ground. A second later, the soldiers had him in a hold. He squirmed and jerked his body, but their hold remained steady.
"You put on quite the show." When the soldier eventually turned his head to note who was talking, he recognized this to be Alexander Pierce. The man's demeanor was solid, but James caught the hint of stress glistening in his intense gaze.
"'M gonna kill you," the soldier hissed. "Don't you fuckin' touch her."
"Cute," Pierce said sarcastically. "Sweet, really."
The strawberry blonde man stepped closer, rocks crunching under his shoes. "Y'know, I thought the Hydra Initiative was done for after the little stunt you two pulled," he began.
"But turns out sex sells, and the investors loved it, even though we couldn't see much. I wasn't clever enough to put cameras in the cave." He tapped a finger on his head, a terrifying grin on his lips.
"Boy, you two went at it like a pair of rabid bunnies," he chuckled darkly. "Oh, and the wives, they ate that shit up. Rambled on and on about how romantic it was that you found love in a place like this."
"Too bad, I'll have to wipe you and start all over again," he shrugged like it was inconsequential.
James clenched his jaw so tight that he felt a headache forming behind his forehead. He writhed in the operative's clutches, trying to break out, but the drug was weakening him exponentially.
"Okay, let's move," Pierce's gaze flicked to the other Hydra members. "Get back to base, and put them back under."
A symphony of "yes, sir's" filled the cave as they agreed to their orders. They dispersed, and that was a sign for operatives to grab James and haul him upwards. They walked him out like a dog on a constricting leash, and he was choking on it.
You came into view once again. You were being carried away like a rag doll, your legs swaying with every step of the soldier moving you. The man walked you to one of the trucks parked outside the cave. You were being tossed into the bed of the vehicle, your body hitting the metal with a loud thud.
His heart shattered, his breath catching as he watched you—an unclothed mannequin being sent away to storage. He struggled to get back to you, arms flailing and legs driving forward.
He just needed to hold you one more time. He needed to tell you he was sorry for not keeping his promise by protecting you. He failed you. The only mission he ever cared to succeed at, and he fucked up. He should have run away with you last night, found a place out of this hellhole, but it was too late now.
The two of you were being wiped again—a nightmare coming true. He felt like he was dying, but this seemed like a fate worse than death. He was losing you all over again.
His legs trembled on the unstable ground, and his vision blurred. The drug was fully taking effect, and there was nothing he could do about it.
With the little strength he had left, he whispered into the windy air. He prayed you could somehow hear him over the whistle of the breeze. "No matter how many times they make us forget, I will always find my way back to you. I will love you in every lifetime, my pretty girl."
Then, his legs gave out, and he fell to the dirt. James' eyes were still locked on you—the woman whom his heart belonged to—as he faded into his unconscious state.
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